by Nic Saint
“You didn’t have to do this, Max,” he said.
“Of course I did. You think I’m going to let you languish at this horror clinic alone?”
He gave me a startled look. “Horror clinic?”
“Sure. Aren’t all clinics horror clinics?”
He conceded my point. “Do you think Vena does all kinds of weird experiments?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me one bit.”
A sudden sense of foreboding stole over me. I was at an animal clinic. A clinic for animals. Who knew what went on here when visiting hours were over? My flesh crept and flashes of a horror movie I’d once seen with Odelia returned to me. It was about a man who liked to experiment on the dead. Re-Animator, the movie was called, and scenes from the movie still creeped me out to this day. Particularly one disturbing scene where the doctor in charge of the proceedings reanimates a dead cat by injecting it with reanimator reagent.
Just then, Vena entered the room, and carefully closed the door behind her until it clicked into its lock. She was holding a huge syringe in her hand, and a strange and oddly disturbing expression on her face. Then she held up the syringe and pushed on the plunger, squirting some clear liquid from the needle. As she approached, she grinned ominously, syringe poised over her head, and then she grabbed for me. “Who’s a good kitty-kitty?”
Both Dooley and I screamed, memories of Re-Animator returning in full force.
Barbara Crampton might be the scream queen, but we are definitely scream cats!
Chapter 30
Odelia arrived at the police station just in time to see her uncle walk out with Tracy Sting on his arm. For a moment she thought she was seeing things. But then her uncle escorted Miss Sting to his pickup and gallantly opened the door for her and helped her in.
“Uncle? What’s going on?”
Alec looked up, and so did Miss Sting. “Oh, hey, Odelia. May I introduce you to Tracy. Tracy, this is my niece Odelia.”
“Hi, Odelia,” said Tracy, getting out of the car again. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Odelia had trouble keeping her jaw reeled in. “But I thought—weren’t you—didn’t they—”
Alec smiled. “Oh, that was just a misunderstanding. All cleared up now I’m happy to say.”
Odelia automatically shook Miss Sting—Tracy’s—hand. “But… Burt Goldsmith…”
“Another little misunderstanding,” Tracy said. “I explained all that to Alec.”
“And once I explained it to Chase, he understood,” said Uncle Alec.
“Understood what?”
“That I would never harm a hair on Burt’s head,” said Tracy. “After all those years on the road, staying in hotel rooms and traveling the country, Burt and I had become thick as thieves.”
“Thick as thieves,” Alec stressed.
“So you see, Miss Poole—”
“Odelia,” Alec offered.
“Odelia, I would never hurt Burt. And I do hope you catch whoever is responsible.”
“Oh, we’ll catch the bastard,” Alec assured her. “Just you wait and see.”
Tracy placed a hand on his ruddy cheek. “I know you will, you handsome chief.”
Odelia had heard her uncle be called many names but never this. And seeing him all loved up like this frankly astounded her. Furthermore, she wasn’t as confident as he seemed to be that Tracy Sting wasn’t the person they were looking for. She certainly was one tough baby, as far as she could determine. “Do you… have plans?” she asked, gesturing at the car.
Alec smiled at Tracy. “We’re going out. Dinner and a movie. Isn’t that right?”
“Something romantic,” said Tracy. “The Rock has a new movie. Some Die Hard clone.”
“I love Die Hard,” said Alec. “One of my all-time favorite movies.”
“Me too!” Tracy cried. “Another thing we have in common.”
“Very romantic,” Odelia agreed. She’d never seen her uncle look like a lovesick puppy before, and she decided that was just what he looked like right now. Well, maybe not a puppy. More a lovesick bulldog. “Just be careful, will you?” she said, not hiding her worry.
“Oh, we will,” he said. “I’m always careful when I’m traveling with precious cargo.” He gave her a wink, then practically raced to the other side of his pickup, a skip in his step, and hopped in, limber as a foal. “Ready, Tracy?”
“Ready when you are, Alec,” Tracy said, and gracefully placed her shapely legs in the footwell of the truck before closing the door. She cranked down the window a few inches. “I’ll take good care of your uncle, Odelia,” she said with a purr to her voice. “Don’t you worry.” Then she gave her a wink and a smile and the odd couple were off at a healthy clip, Uncle Alec gunning the engine a few times for good measure. Like a young Bruce Willis.
Odelia stood staring after them, conscious of her head moving from side to side of its own accord. Moments later, she became aware of the presence of Chase next to her.
“We had to let her go,” the cop announced somberly. “Alec insists she’s innocent.”
“He might be biased.”
“You think?” He shook his head. “The woman has cast a spell on him.”
“And he fell for it.”
“Hook, line and sinker.”
They stared after the chief’s car as it disappeared around a corner with squealing tires and smoke pouring from the muffler. This wasn’t good. “What if she blows him up?”
“She won’t.”
“She might.”
“He’s a grown man, Odelia. What do you want me to do? Tell him he can’t go out with that girl? Tell him he’s grounded and take away his phone and internet privileges?”
“Maybe we should tail them? Make sure she’s not up to more funny business?”
“He’d spot us five minutes in. The man is a seasoned cop.”
“I don’t like it, Chase.”
“I don’t like it either, Odelia, but there’s nothing we can do.”
He was right. Just then, the cop’s phone chimed. He put it to his ear, listened for a moment, then locked eyes with Odelia. He disconnected and put his phone away. A grin spread across his face. “I think we just caught a break, babe.”
“What?”
“Crime scene people pulled a partial print from a bottle retrieved at the scene.”
“And?”
“Curt Pigott.”
Chapter 31
Turns out Vena wasn’t The Re-Animator, nor was she The Exterminator or The Terminator or some other dastardly creature. Instead she was worried we wouldn’t sleep well, what with being forced to spend the night in an unfamiliar environment, and had given us a mild sedative to make us relax and rest while Dooley recuperated from his ordeal.
And I might add that it worked. Soon after the terrible moment had passed—I hate shots, don’t you?—I’d fallen into a deep and healing sleep and so had Dooley. When I woke up again it was because some altercation had occurred somewhere in the small clinic.
Vena’s clinic is a modest affair. Two rooms and that’s it. Dooley and I had gotten a nice comfy microfleece-lined perch to rest and recuperate on, accompanied by some of her other patients. I counted at least six: a puppy with mumps, a hamster with tendinitis of the elbow—those hamster wheels are a health hazard, I’m telling you—a parrot suffering a vocal issue, a parakeet with a beak sprain, a rabbit with toothache, and a pet mouse with pink-eye. Not that I could see the difference. As far as I know all mice have pink eyes. But I digress.
As I said, I was resting peacefully when all of a sudden I was awakened by the arrival of Vena with a fresh patient. It was another cat, this one of a more raggedy appearance. For a moment I thought it was Clarice, but when Vena finally left her modest ward, I saw it was a ginger cat, smaller and more diminutive than Clarice. When she caught me glancing over, she said, “Oh, hi. So nice to make your acquaintance. My name is Shadow. What is yours?”
I won’t deny that I was stunned. For what felt like day
s we’d been searching high and low for this elusive Shadow, and now, through some strange twist of fate, here she was!
“Do you by any chance go by the moniker Most Fascinating Cat in the World?” I asked, holding my breath.
“I do, sir, yes. That’s me. I’m the Most Fascinating Cat in the World. At least,” she added, sagging a little in the soft and plush bed Vena had put her in, “I used to be. Before my human was blown to bits. Sad story, sir. Very sad story, indeed. Shall I tell it to you?”
“I think I know the story,” I said. “Burt Goldsmith, right?”
“Best human a cat could ever hope to adopt. Bar none. Though I have to admit I also spent a lot of time with his grandson. Philippe Goldsmith. Have you made his acquaintance?”
“I have—though we were never formally introduced.”
Next to me, another patient stirred. “Who is she, Max?” Dooley asked sleepily.
“Dooley, meet Shadow. Shadow, this is Dooley, my friend and housemate.”
“And what is your name, friend?” asked Shadow.
“Max. Not the most original name, perhaps, but better than Princess at any rate.”
“I used to know a Princess,” said Shadow musingly. “Most Compelling Cat in the World. Though not a very nice one, I’m afraid. If you ever do meet her, try to steer clear.”
“We met,” I said, “and I have the scratches and bites to prove it.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Shadow,” said Dooley. “We’ve been trying to solve your human’s murder, but so far we haven’t been able to.”
“We got sidetracked,” I admitted. “Some family drama that cropped up.”
“Family drama will always crop up,” Shadow agreed. “It did in my family, too. Like the time Philippe accused his grandfather of hogging all the attention and blocking his own rise to fame as the next Most Fascinating Man in the World. Or the time when Burt threatened to cut Philippe out of his will if he didn’t stop annoying him with his constant nagging about taking retirement and allowing his grandson to take over his crown.” She smiled. “Burt used to tease Philippe about being the Most Annoying Man in the World. Philippe didn’t think it was funny. These things happen in every family,” she assured us. “Best not to linger on it too much.” She sighed. “Remember the golden nuggets and forget the darker moments is my advice. Before you know it your human is gone. Blown to bits by an exploding bottle of beer.”
“You know about that?” I asked, surprised.
“I heard about it. You’d be surprised by the things one picks up when sleeping rough.”
“You’ve been living on the street all this time?”
“I have. After what happened I was afraid to return to the hotel. When people start blowing up your human it’s best to stay away. I don’t enjoy the prospect of suffering the same fate, you see. I have this phobia about being blown up.” She shuddered visibly.
“I think we all have a phobia about being blown up. Unpleasant experience.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Where were you when it happened?”
“Sleeping peacefully underneath the bed. Normally I sleep on top of the bed, but I like to change things up from time to time and that morning I’d opted to sleep underneath it. And a good thing I did. Suddenly the whole world seemed to come apart at the seams.”
“How did you get out?”
“The connecting door had been blown off its hinges. I hid in there for a while, then out into the corridor the moment Philippe returned, and out through the fire escape.”
“Philippe and his grandfather occupied connecting rooms?”
“Yes, they did. Philippe insisted on it. Said his grandfather was so old he needed to be nearby. In case something happened with his ticker. Not that Burt was fond of the idea. Said it cramped his style. Told his grandson that if he wanted to bring a couple of birds up to his room it was none of Philippe’s damn business. Not that he ever did invite a couple of birds up to his room mind you,” she added with the air of one harboring a secret regret.
“I think when he said birds he probably meant girls,” I said.
This was news to Shadow. “Oh? Why? There’s not even a remote resemblance.”
“Humans,” I said, and she nodded knowingly. So did every other animal in the room.
“Humans,” they all echoed, and gave themselves up to silent reflection on the utter strangeness of the creatures that had adopted them as their pets.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand, though,” said Shadow.
“Oh?”
“I saw that bottle of beer. I was there when it was brought in. And it smelled like beer. Being around Burt all those years I know what beer smells like, you see.”
“I thought Burt didn’t like beer? At least that’s what my human said.”
“He didn’t. But you can’t be the most famous beer salesman in the world and not sample your fair share of the brew over the course of all those years. And the beer that was brought in that day was beer. I remember peeping my head out from under the bed and taking a sniff, then retreating again. Moments later the door opened again and a powerful whiff of something else pervaded the room. It smelled like…” She wrinkled up her nose in distaste. “Burned sugar.”
“Burned sugar?”
“I remember thinking, why would Burt burn sugar?”
“That must have been the nitroglycerin. You said someone else came in?”
“Yes. Unfortunately I didn’t take a peek that time. And then Burt came walking in from the bathroom, mumbled something and that’s when my whole world collapsed.”
“And to think we thought we had it bad,” said Dooley commiseratingly.
“Why don’t you go back to Philippe?” I suggested. “He seems like a nice person, and I’m sure he’s been looking for you everywhere. I know Odelia would if we went missing.”
“Oh, Philippe is nice enough,” Shadow admitted. “But he’s not Burt. I liked Burt. Burt was fun. He always made me laugh by tickling my tummy and making funny faces.” She smiled at the memory. “Philippe is different. He’s a little grumpy. He doesn’t make me laugh. I think it’s because of all those headaches.”
“Headaches?”
“He suffers from terrible migraines. Says it comes from his job as a teacher.”
“He’s a teacher?”
“A chemistry teacher. He loves his job but all those fumes he’s inhaled over the years must have affected him adversely.”
Shadow’s words gave me pause. They seemed to stir a memory, but I couldn’t quite catch it. Someone in the recent past had told me something about headaches. But who? And what? I shrugged it off. If it was important, it would come to me. For now I was content shooting the breeze with Shadow, who was possibly the most fascinating cat I’d ever met.
Chapter 32
The movie had gone down big with both Alec and his date. The Rock was a cop invited by accident to join the maiden flight of a billionaire’s space ship because his ex-wife—The Rock’s, not the billionaire’s—now worked for him—the billionaire, not The Rock. But then a group of terrorists had interrupted the fun and killed the billionaire and taken his guests and the ex-wife hostage so The Rock had to fight his way through at least a dozen terrorists with a funny accent—the terrorists, not The Rock—before a sleazy reporter had exposed his wife—The Rock’s, not the reporter’s—to the terrorists and things had sort of deteriorated from there. Explosions, fist fights, gunfire, a lot of dead terrorists and of course the happy reunion. Alec was feeling on top of the world, and Tracy Sting evidently was, too, judging from the way she’d returned his heated kisses while the credits finally rolled.
“Wanna go back to my room for a nightcap?” she croakily asked when they walked out of the cineplex, fingers entangled.
“I sure do,” he said just as croakily, though his croak was from emotion, not genes.
And they’d just stepped into her room and he’d pressed her up against the door, clothes magically dropping to the f
loor as if repelled by their heaving and grinding bodies when a knock on the door elicited annoyed groans from the both of them.
“Room service,” a youthful voice announced.
Tracy yanked open the door. “What?!” she growled.
The pimply youth stared at her, and stammered, “N-n-nuts.”
“Nuts?”
He thrust out a small glass dish of nuts. “N-n-nuts.”
Tracy took it. “I didn’t order no nuts.”
“To go with the b-b-beer,” the youth managed, before quickly retreating into the safety of the corridor.
Tracy slammed the door shut and stared at the nuts. “Weird. Did you order these?”
“Nope. Probably the same person who ordered those bottles of beer did,” said Alec, gesturing at the amber bottles placed on a side table. They’d been there a little while, as they’d created a puddle on the table, condensation still producing droplets on the glass.
They both stepped up to the bottles and Tracy picked up the note that lay next to them. “Enjoy some real beer for a change,” she read. “Taste the world’s best brand. Signed Curt Pigott.” Her brow furrowed. “Horrible little man,” she grunted. “Can’t stop taunting me.” She picked up the bottles by the neck and prepared to dump them into a nearby trashcan.
“Hold on a minute,” said Alec. “Let me take a whiff of those.”
She handed him the bottles and he sniffed. “Doesn’t smell like beer,” he said finally.
Tracy, too, took a sniff. “More like… burned sugar,” she said.
Their eyes met and Tracy carefully replaced the bottles on the table, then they were both backing away slowly towards the door.
Curt Pigott had just sent them two bottles of nitroglycerin!
Chase pounded Pigott’s door. “Police! Open up!”
Moments later, the World’s Most Compelling Man appeared, his hair sticking up, his sleep mask askance on his brow, and one ear plug still sticking out of his ear, the other in his hand. He was looking slightly disheveled, trying to hold his robe gathered around his frame. “What’s going on? Has there been another attack? I must have slept through it.”