Eyes wide, Green Heron hurried off.
“You made a deal with Alison,” I said, judging it best to go on the offensive. “She trusted you. You lied to her. You never had any intentions of waiting until Saturday.”
“Damn that blabbermouth,” Judith said heatedly.
“Never mind,” Liz said. “She couldn’t have blabbed much because she doesn’t know much. I learned that from Alison,” she told me, twisting her lips in an unpleasant smile.
I decided that for what it was worth, I was going to play this straight. “Why not stop this silly competition?” I asked. “Isn’t that what this is all about—one-upmanship? Why not ask Alison to consider, just consider, the kinds of things you have in mind. The action-oriented things. But be straight with her. I can’t believe there isn’t a place for you in Ninth Life. They need activists—I completely agree with you. But you need the background on the local companies, and the legal and administrative help that a national organization could provide. You could be a very effective team.”
“No,” Liz said flatly.
I felt exasperated. “Just no?”
“That’s right. You don’t understand a thing about this, Miss high-and-mighty Detective Caitlin Reece,” she said scathingly. “Why don’t you stick to finding lost dogs or spying on cheating husbands or whatever it is you do?” She snorted a little in laughter. “How could someone like you possibly understand what we’re trying to do? What have you ever believed in, put your head on the chopping block for? You’re nothing but a whore. Someone for hire.”
“Oh I am, am I?” I replied, stung by her insults. “The only difference between your victims and mine is that yours are animals and mine are humans.”
She hooted with laughter. “What a pile of crap. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Dammit, Liz, you know exactly what I’m talking about. We’re doing the same job.”
She frowned ferociously, but didn’t interrupt. Was it possible that a seedling was taking root in the granite boulder of her mind? Finally she looked away. “Maybe so,” she said. “But we’re on different sides this time.”
“But why?” I wanted to shake her. As I saw it, only her ego prevented her from delivering this activist organization to Alison where it could be sensibly incorporated into Ninth Life’s plans. CLAW, it seemed, was her brainchild, and she was not going to give it up. “If your group and Alison’s teamed up, I’d even throw in my time and expertise to help you get the goods on Living World,” I offered. “Wouldn’t you like to see things done properly? I know people in the television business. The Crown Prosecutor’s office, too. You could get real media attention. Responsible coverage of a real issue. And you could nail Living World for violations of laws that are already on the books. Why not do things the right way?”
For a reply, she glared at me. Man, was this tough. She was about as impenetrable as an iceberg. I wondered suddenly if this was purely an ego thing with Liz or if there was something more to it. Something, say, between Liz and Alison. Something Alison hadn’t told me about. Or something else altogether. There had to be some very compelling reason for her to be so adamant, and I was beginning to doubt that the spurious glory of heading an animal liberation cadre was all of it.
I had one card left, and I decided to play it. “What about Mary?” I asked, knowing it was a low blow. “Mary might have died for this cause. She was your friend—or at least a coworker in a common endeavor. Don’t you want to see this handled right? For her sake?”
Judith made a strangled noise and lunged for me. To my surprise, Liz grabbed her arm and stepped between us. She took another step toward me so we were standing literally toe to toe. The proximity made me uncomfortable—I hate close work. But I was pleased to note that Liz had to tilt her head back to look at me. Height hath its advantages.
“You’re lucky I don’t have some of the guys throw you out of here,” she said in a low voice. “But I have more important things to do than mess with you. So I want you to turn around and walk out. Quietly. No fuss. No more crap about principles or joining Ninth Life.”
“You know, you’re one unreasonable lady,” I told her. “If I go quietly—don’t make a fuss so your followers won’t start asking questions—what do I get in return? As I see it, you’ll owe me.”
“What do you get in return?” she asked incredulously. “Nothing. Why should I give you anything?”
I shrugged. “Somehow I thought we were all in this together. You, Alison, me. That we had a common enemy—Maleck.”
She breathed heavily, opening and closing her fists.
“Silly me,” I told her. Then I did what she wanted. Quietly, without a fuss, I turned and left.
“That was masterful,” I told myself aloud in disgust as I drove out the Saanich Highway to Emma’s. “You really didn’t learn much, and you let that egomaniacal little twerp walk all over you.”
I couldn’t disagree with myself, so I clammed up. But I had learned one extremely useful thing—that CLAW intended to do its dastardly deed on Friday night. So I had one less day to bring down the walls of Jericho. Let’s see—this was Tuesday. Lester and I were due at Living World tomorrow. I’d certainly better have a bright idea in the next two days. I knew what I wanted to accomplish—to present Val with a videotape of what was really going on at Living World. But I wasn’t at all sure how I was going to get that tape made. And certainly not in the next two days. In order to defuse CLAW, I had to get the tape to Val by Friday so it could air Friday night. Not Saturday night.
Then I thought of something that made me snort in disgust. Did I really believe that Liz would keep her word? Did I really believe that once I got something concrete on Living World, something that we could air Friday night, something that Ninth Life could use in court, that Liz would see to it that CLAW behaved itself? That she would call off whatever shenanigans she had planned for Friday? Fat chance. She seemed to be the sort of person to whom oath-breaking was of no consequence. And lying to me evidently didn’t seem to rate with her as one of the seven deadly sins. But what about lying to Alison? What was going on with Liz, anyhow? For Alison’s sake, and Ninth Life’s, too, I decided I really ought to find out.
Chapter 9
“Depressed?” I shouted at Emma Neely. “How can he possibly be depressed? He’s a cat! One of God’s chosen creatures. A day of tests, a hundred and eighty dollars in bills, and this is your diagnosis? Depression? Give me a break! I could have consulted a witch doctor for less. And maybe gotten the same results. I’ll tell you who’s depressed—I’m depressed!”
The patient favored me with a pernicious yellow gaze. Emma looked at me reproachfully. Ginny gave me a smoldering stare she probably saved for animal abusers. All this combined disapproval worked. I felt like a worm.
“Caitlin,” Emma said soothingly, “believe me, I know what I’m talking about. There’s not a thing wrong with him, physically.”
“But . . .”
“But logic dictates that there’s a reason for his aberrant behavior.”
“Hmmph,” I opined. “It could just be feline perversity, couldn’t it?”
“There’s no such thing,” Ginny said hotly. “There are only dumb feline owners.”
Emma gave Ginny a “better humor the client” look, and she subsided.
I didn’t understand. “Are you saying that Repo’s gone around the bend? Emma, cats just don’t get depressed.”
Repo did not dignify these remarks with so much as a twitch of a whisker. I noted, however, that he did arrange his ears in Stealth Bomber configuration—a sign of incipient bad humor. Not a good omen. I could now look forward to a really enthusiastic feline manicure performed on the back of my armchair.
“Take Repo back to his cage, why don’t you, Ginny?” Emma suggested. With a flounce of her braids, Ginny scooped Repo up and marched into the back room, doubtless to commiserate with him about the mental capacity of his owner.
“Ginny will take care of Repo,�
� Emma said. “C’mon into my office. We’re closed, so we can chat a little. And not about Repo, either. About you, and why I only see you once a year.”
I followed Emma’s white-coated shape into her office—a cubbyhole only big enough to contain her battered, secondhand desk and filing cabinet. She opened the filing cabinet and began to stuff manila folders inside, giving me time to compose my answer.
Why did she only see me once a year? I stood morosely, hands in pockets, looking out the window at the dark autumn sky. It was just eight o’clock, but all the light was gone from the day. Now it seemed as though we were in limbo, trapped in an eerie slate-colored world which was neither day nor night. The rain which had threatened since afternoon had finally begun in earnest, and slipped down the glass like separate streams of tears.
“It’s not just you, Em,” I told her, deciding on the truth. “I’m no good at . . . continuity. I don’t get around to seeing people as often as I should.”
She took off her white vet’s smock and hung it on a coatrack, then took a seat in the chair behind her desk. Running a hand through her curly hair, she looked at me levelly. “Well, I think it’s a damned shame. What’re you afraid of?”
Opening a drawer she plunked a bottle of Chivas Regal on the desk. “I’ve had a rotten day,” she said, offering me a paper cup. “Want a drink?”
“Thanks,” I said, and she poured us both healthy belts. I sniffed mine appreciatively before I drank, savoring the peaty undertones. I swallowed a mouthful, and it burned all the way down. I thought about what she had said. “I don’t want to be . . . disappointed, Em,” I told her. “People always let me down.”
She waved a hand impatiently. “Panther piss. That’s a cop-out, Reece. Nobody’s perfect—you know that. Try again.”
I sighed. “Oh, hell, I don’t know. Intimacy is a crock—it’s just too hard.”
“Better,” she said.
“Besides, I’ve been told I have serious character flaws.”
“What, you too?”
I smiled. “Yeah, me too. But seriously, Em, I’ve heard these criticisms often enough to wonder if there isn’t something to them.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I’m not a nurturing individual, for one.”
“True.”
“Hmmph. Let’s see—I wisecrack my way through life, for another.”
“Also true.”
I groaned. “Em, give me a break. I thought you were on my side.”
“I am,” she said, lacing her hands together behind her head. “Go on.”
“I act too tough.”
“Mmm, ‘too tough’ is debatable. But tough is the right adjective, all right. So, is there anything else?”
“I guess that’s it,” I said.
She sighed. “Well, life hasn’t sweetened you any. You’ve always been a non-nurturing, wisecracking, tough-talking broad. I’d add egocentric, too, if I were doing the criticizing. But that’s about it. Those aren’t hanging offenses in my books. You’re a hell of a lot of fun to be around. And all that tough stuff hides a marshmallow heart. Haven’t any of your critics discovered that?”
I cleared my throat a little self-consciously. “Um, well, no. I guess they got turned off before they discovered my redeeming characteristics.”
“Rat spit! More likely, you kicked them out of bed at the first whisper of criticism. Perseverance was never your style.”
I glared at her. “You sure think you know me pretty well, don’t you?”
She chuckled. “Caitlin, dear, you shared my house for two long years. Yeah, I think I know you pretty well.”
I took another swallow of Scotch and closed my eyes, leaning back in my chair. “You’re right.”
“So what’s up?” she asked. “Is this just non-specific middle-aged angst, or does it have a focus?”
“Nope,” I said, sighing. “No focus. Just ennui, I guess.”
“Ennui, my aunt Fanny,” she snorted. “It’s that rotten job of yours.”
I glanced at her appraisingly. Em was another one of the few people who knew what I really did for a living. I tell most people I’m a legal consultant and that does it. They must figure it’s about as interesting as being an accountant, or plumber, or an endodontist, because they never ask any more questions. “Oh? What’s wrong with my job?”
“Caitlin, be serious! The only people you ever see are people in trouble. And to get them out of that trouble, you usually end up breaking about half a dozen laws, lying, cheating, stealing, being the heavy.” She ran a hand through her hair again. “It’s bad for your self-image. Not to mention your blood pressure. And you’re always broke because half your clients stiff you—”
“Now, now,” I interrupted. “They make payments-in-kind.”
“Pig poop they do. And these clients are always under some terrible deadline—you know, find the missing family silver in forty-eight hours or else.” She finished her Scotch and tossed the cup in the trash. “It’s not a good way to live, Caitlin. Your outlook on life can’t help but be rotten.”
“So you’re saying that I have lowered expectation levels?”
“Yeah, I am. And when people live down to your expectations—you know, when they’re critical of the suit of armor you think you have to wear to hide your vulnerable side—you say ‘Ha, that’s about what I expected,’ and off you run.”
I finished the rest of my Scotch and tossed my cup after Emma’s. “What the hell, you could be right,” I told her. “How did we get into all this encounter-group falderal anyhow?”
“I just asked you why I didn’t see you anymore.”
“Hmmmf,” I said. “Are you enlightened?”
“A little.” She smiled. “You ought to give people more of a chance. Some of us might even come through for you.”
“I know,” I sighed. “I’m working on it.” I felt bad. Emma was my friend and I’d neglected her. I stood up. “I’ll try to be better, Em.”
“Okay,” she told me. “And try not to take on every client who comes and cries on your shoulder. Surely there are other people who wear white hats. Other people in the monster-slaying business.”
I tried a grin, and it felt pretty feeble. Why argue about it? Em was concerned about me. I wasn’t about to tell her that I didn’t know anyone else in the business of rescuing, thwarting, or interdicting. That I had a hard time turning people down who came to me for help—particularly women who had already been folded, spindled, and mutilated. Who were, in most cases, at the end of their resources, their prospects, and their wits. So I let it go.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll tell them to look in the Yellow Pages.”
“So, what about Repo?” she asked me. “Incidentally, you might as well leave him here tonight. Ginny will have him all settled in by now.”
“Well, all right,” I said reluctantly. “So he’s depressed, is he? Do you have some suggestions for treatment?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Uh oh. I was afraid I was about to get an earful. “Shoot.”
“I don’t think you spend enough time with him. He needs stimulation. Now that you don’t let him roam the neighborhood—which is a good thing, don’t misunderstand me—he needs something to take the place of his daily rounds.”
“Something like what?”
“Well, a neighborhood child could come in and play with him.”
“Nope. No kids in my neighborhood.”
“Okay, how about a senior citizen?”
“Emma, c’mon. I can’t run a daycare center for the benefit of my cat. My hours are too irregular. Sometimes I have to sleep in the daytime. I don’t want cat calisthenics going in the parlor.”
“Okay,” she said calmly. “You’re going to love this next suggestion.”
“I bet.”
“Get him a friend.”
“A friend? What do you mean?”
“Another cat.”
“Another cat? Oh, sure. Emma, I used to see Repo with his
neighborhood ‘friends.’ They’d arch and hiss and mince around on their toes exchanging blood-curdling insults, then they’d rip pieces out of each others’ pelts. Repo bit one of his friends’ ears clean off! No way do I want feline Armageddon in my living room.”
“Get him a kitten.”
“A what? Absolutely not. He’d have the kitten for breakfast.”
“Trust me. He wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because neutered adult cats accept kittens very well. I’ve never known one who had a kitten for breakfast.”
I stopped and considered this. “You mean they won’t fight?”
“Well, Repo will have to explain to the kitten who’s boss, but after a few cuffs everything should be all right.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “And you think this will cure Repo of his depression? Make him start eating again? Get him back to his old self?”
“I think so. But I’m not an expert in the field of cat psychology. You might do well to consult someone who is, before you take such a big step.” She fished around in her desk drawer and handed me a business card. In neat calligraphy, it read:
GRAY NG
ANIMAL PSYCHOLOGIST
The address and phone number were printed underneath.
I smiled. Gray’s reputation was spreading. “Thanks,” I said. “I might just do that. I’ll come by for Repo tomorrow.”
She walked me to the door and opened the door for me. “Hey,” she said.
I turned. “What?”
“Don’t stay away so long next time. Neither of us is getting any younger. Hell, I could even be persuaded to cook dinner.”
I raised an eyebrow. Emma’s dinners were a long-standing joke between us. A cook she was not. “You’re on,” I said. “How about next week?”
“I’ll get out my cookbooks. Bye, Caitlin.”
Chapter 10
Alison’s house in James Bay was absolutely dark. With a quick stab of disappointment, I looked at my watch—almost eleven. Had she given up on me and gone to bed? Darn, I knew I should have phoned from the highway. But I hadn’t wanted to brave the rain. I yawned, wondering if I should leave a note and go on home to bed, or get out of the car and roust Alison out of her bed.
Ninth Life Page 10