by Nic Saint
“A hunch.”
“Uh-oh. I know your hunches, Poole. They’re freakishly accurate.”
“Which is why I need you to do me a favor.”
“Of course. I’ll come over and brave Granny.”
She smiled. “Maybe later. First I want you to check something for me.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Chapter 35
“And that’s why I think time is of the essence,” I concluded my long speech.
The members of cat choir all stared at me, and so did the members of the Most Interesting Cats in the World troupe. As usual, they’d been hanging out at the park, limbering up those vocal chords, and practicing their dance moves. So when we joined them, the last thing they expected was to be treated to the kind of explanation usually reserved for the final scenes of a Hallmark Movies & Mysteries Channel presentation.
“You can’t possibly expect us to believe you,” said Princess, the first one to speak.
“I do, actually,” I said.
“Max is right,” said Shadow. “Philippe killed my human, and now he is after his next scalp.”
“You’re biased,” said Princess. “I’m not listening to you.”
“Of course she’s biased,” I said. “Her human was blown up. And now your human is in prison facing a life sentence for a murder he didn’t commit. How can you sit there and pretend to be fine with that? If Curt Pigott goes to prison your cushy life is over, Princess. You’ll spend the rest of your days at the pound. Is that a chance you’re willing to take?”
Princess gulped at this. “The pound?” she asked, her voice suddenly squeaky.
“Where all cats go to die,” Dooley intoned gloomily.
“I don’t want to go to the pound,” Princess squealed, now only audible to dogs.
“You’re not going to the pound,” said the Most Iconic Cat in the World.
“There must be someone to take care of you when your human goes to jail,” said Fat Amy, the Sexiest Cat Alive. “Someone—anyone?” she added when Princess gave her a look of panic.
“There’s Leo, Curt’s nephew, but he’s a terror. Hates cats. Hates me!”
“Don’t worry, Princess,” said Beca, the Most Attractive Cat in the World. “I’m sure you can come and live with me. Bobbie will take you in.”
“No, he won’t!” cried Princess. “Bobbie hates Curt’s guts. They all hate Curt’s guts!”
“That’s true,” said Chloe, the Most Intriguing Cat in the World. “My human hates Curt. I heard him tell his mother that Curt going to prison is karma in action. And how he hopes to take over Curt’s position as Most Compelling Man in the World. He wants to snag Curt’s crown and become the Most Compelling Intriguing Man in the World. A real first.”
“And don’t think Philippe will stop here,” I told them. “When he’s done with Chief Alec he’ll come after your humans next. He won’t stop until they’re all dead or in jail. And then he’ll be the Most Fascinating, Compelling, Intriguing, Iconic, Attractive and Sexy Man in the World and all of you will be at the pound, wondering why you didn’t try to stop him.”
It was the kind of speech designed to rally the troops and stir them into action, and I could sense that I’d hit the right note this time. Cat choir, meanwhile, was still looking at me like a bunch of lookie-loos, unlikely to be of any help to us or our mission whatsoever.
“And you,” I said therefore, pointing at Shanille and company, “how many times has Chief Alec saved your hides? How many times has he called the fire department when you were stuck in a tree? How many times did he reprimand your human when they weren’t treating you right? He’s a good man, and now he needs us to save him for a change. So how about it? Are you with me?”
I would like to say that they reared up as one cat and yelled Yes! but unfortunately they did not. As I said before, cats are notoriously self-absorbed, and I’m afraid cat choir is no exception.
“What’s in it for us?!” a raggedy tabby cried from the balcony—or, rather, a tree.
“Yeah, why would we stick our necks out for some stupid human?” shouted another.
“Free kibble for all!” suddenly piped up Brutus. “That’s right,” he added when all eyes turned to him. “If you help us out tonight there’s free kibble for all as your reward.”
“Who’s gonna pay for that? You?”
“Uncle Alec will be so happy with what we did for him that he’ll be happy to put on a feast to end all feasts,” said Brutus. “I know the guy and that’s just what he’d do.”
“What kind of kibble?” asked a suspicious twenty-something old-timer.
“Yeah, not the generic kind. I get enough of that at home,” said another.
“We want prime brand kibble or we ain’t moving a paw!” cried a third.
“These cats are driving a tough bargain,” said Brutus, blowing out a breath.
Finally I held up my paws. “Prime brand kibble for all!”
“Lifetime supply?” asked a cheeky little red cat.
“Don’t push it, Brandon,” Brutus growled.
“You cats should be ashamed of yourselves!” suddenly a voice rang out through the park. When we looked up we saw that Clarice had joined us. Perched high on a tree branch, she was looking down on cat choir, her fiery eyes shooting flame, her expression murderous.
“Clarice,” said Shanille feebly. “What an honor.”
Clarice is something of a legend in Hampton Cove’s cat community. Feared and admired. Her appearance now was akin to the return of Luke Skywalker. If Luke Skywalker were a battle-scarred old warrior, living in self-chosen exile on the edge of our world. Oh, wait, he is.
“You weak, spineless, gutless bunch of sissy cats!” Clarice now thundered from her perch. “You shapeless blobs of self-indulgence! How dare you demand prime kibble in exchange for saving the life of the man who keeps this town running? The man who keeps the riffraff out? The man whose selflessness and sense of service is the stuff of legend? Whose commitment to Hampton Cove is the backbone of this community? Its very heart? You should be honored to serve the man who serves you. Not demand your pound of flesh!”
“More like a pound of kibble,” piped up one cat, then ducked down his head shamefacedly when Clarice hissed in his direction.
“You’re right, Clarice,” finally said Shanille. “My human would say the same thing. Shame on you, Father Reilly would say. Shame on you for refusing to help a man in this, his hour of need. We need to come together as a community now and save one of our own.”
It wasn’t as effective as Clarice’s speech, but heads were bowed, tails were tucked between legs, and finally it was agreed we should do what it took to save Uncle Alec from certain doom.
At least if I was right and he was, indeed, in mortal danger.
Admittedly I wasn’t a hundred percent sure about that.
I was almost sure, though. Let’s say ninety percent.
Maybe eighty. Possibly seventy…
Definitely fifty, though.
Chapter 36
Philippe Goldsmith pulled up his collar. In spite of the late hour he wasn’t absolutely convinced the streets were deserted. They should have been, but you never know with these sleepy little towns. Some old-timer might very well be up and about before dawn to walk his ratty old canine. Or some crusty old dame might be sitting at her window, cat in her lap, spying on the neighbors. Or a bird watcher, training his binoculars on a rare spotted owl.
And so it was that he furtively checked left and right as he walked on, his head retreating and emerging from his collar like a particularly timid turtle’s. It didn’t help that he had night vision trouble. During the daytime he saw just fine, but as soon as the sun went down the world turned a little blurry around the edges. He nervously pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted into the darkness that surrounded him.
There. Was that a cat meowing? When he stopped and turned, he thought he saw a furry form scurrying behind a tree, ducking out of sig
ht. Weird. He’d never seen so many cats since his arrival in town. It was almost as if this freaky little place sported more cats than humans. They should have called it Cat Cove instead of Hampton Cove.
The weight of the cooler he was carrying hampered him in his progress. Not that it was particularly heavy, but the knowledge that at the slightest provocation its contents could blow him to kingdom come did much to make perspiration stand out across his hairline and drops of sweat to trickle down his spine.
But it had to be done. His life’s work depended on it. He might not be his family’s pride and joy, like Burt had been, but he was slowly getting there. If only the old man hadn’t been so damn selfish. Wanting to keep going until he dropped—with never a thought to anyone but himself. But Philippe had taught the old coot a lesson he’d never forget. And now he needed to finish the job and show the world what a really fascinating man was capable of.
He giggled nervously, then jumped when another cat scooted out in front of him, almost tripping him up. He kicked at it, but the horrible furry creature was too quick.
He hated cats. Hated them with all the fervor of his being. Nasty little creatures. With their weird cat eyes that seemed to stare straight into your soul. And their sharp claws, ready to dig into your legs when they jumped onto your lap. Just like Shadow. At least she’d had the good sense to run off and drop dead someplace. Good riddance. And just when he was thinking about Shadow, suddenly he thought he saw her, sitting in a tree, staring intently.
He blinked, but when he looked again, she was gone.
He shook his head annoyedly. Damn those wretched eyes.
He slunk along the sidewalk and halted in front of a row house.
The lights were doused, as they should be. Alec Lip was sound asleep.
He wondered if Tracy was in there with the corpulent chief. She’d better be.
He snuck into the small patch of front yard, checked left and right again, put down the cooler and extracted the bottle from inside and placed it on the chief’s doorstep, precariously balancing it against the door. The moment the chief opened his front door, the bottle would topple and kaboom! Bye-bye Most Fascinating Man in the World Wannabe!
He then retreated into the darkness across the street, but not before putting a note into the chief’s mailbox. The mailbox would take a hit from the explosion, but the note would remain intact inside the metal box. When investigators found the note, signed by the Most Iconic Man in the World, they would have another suspect to turn their attention to.
Across the street from Chief Lip’s house was a small patch of park, perfect for dog walkers, and he settled down behind a shrub and checked his watch. An hour was all it would take for the nitro inside the Seis Siglas bottle to defrost and become active again. One hour.
And as he prepared himself to wait, he became aware of those creepy night sounds all around him. As if nature was watching, and waiting, ready to pounce—just like he was.
And then he saw them. Cat’s eyes, lighting up all around him. Dozens of them.
He shivered. Not from the cold, but from the sensation of being watched.
What did they want with him, these freaky cats? What were they waiting for?
Then he shook off the crazy notion. Sure, cats were watching him. Of course they were. Cats were just a bunch of dumb creatures. They were probably pissed he was trespassing on their terrain. Hogging their nocturnal hunting ground. Scaring away the mice.
“Shoo!” he whispered loudly. “Get away, you horrible creeps! Go on—get!”
They didn’t move an inch, though. Just kept on staring at him, eyes unblinking and freaking him out in no small degree. Just what he needed. Bunch of cats getting on his nerves. He checked his watch again. An hour had passed. The time had come. And not a moment too soon. He got up stiffly and hurried over to the other side of the road.
Then he pressed his finger to the bell and pushed. Nothing. Not a sound.
He cursed silently. Dammit! Just his luck. The only house without a bell.
Good thing he had a back-up plan. He dashed across the street again, where the chief’s pickup was parked and gave its tires a hearty kick. Nothing. He kicked the back panel and this time he hit the jackpot. The car’s alarm started blaring so loudly it could probably be heard all the way to the other side of town.
He ducked back down behind his bushes, laying low, and watched with bated breath.
After a long moment, the lights went on inside the chief’s house.
He watched on, giddy with anticipation. Any moment now. Any moment…
Just then, there was a loud meow, and suddenly a cat came hurtling out of the underbrush and raced across the street! It was a red cat, and a chubby one at that. But it still moved with marked agility and speed. It was going for the door—going for the bottle!
“No!” he cried, getting up from behind his hiding place. “You stupid cat!”
And then the cat launched itself at the bottle and jumped right on top of it!
Probably thought it was a frickin’ mouse! Just his luck to encounter a kamikaze cat!
He ducked down, pressing his fingers in his ears. And then… nothing. No explosion.
He stuck his head out again, staring in horror and shock. The cat was kicking the beer bottle down the front yard, and the damn thing didn’t explode! How was this possible?!
But then the front door opened and the chief stepped out. And then up and down the street doors opened and people appeared, annoyed by the blaring alarm.
Time to move.
Time to get the hell out of there.
And then he was speed-walking away, putting as much distance between himself and the chief’s house as possible. They’d find the bottle and they’d find the nitro and the note and he wanted to be back at the hotel when they came to arrest the Most Iconic Man.
Just like the day when he’d blown up his grandfather. After he’d placed the bottle in the man’s room, while Burt was in the shower, he’d quickly left the hotel via the fire escape, gone down around the back, and met this annoying reporter woman out in front, giving himself a nice solid alibi in the process.
And it was then that he discovered he was no longer alone.
That fat red cat was following him, meowing up a storm!
He walked faster, and the cat moved right along, now joined by a white cat, a small tabby and a big black cat that looked like it meant business. And as he broke into a trot, more cats joined the fray, and he saw that he was suddenly surrounded by the foul creatures! All around him they moved like a mass of fur! And then suddenly one of them jumped out of a tree and landed right on top of his head, claws extended, and dug in!
“Get off me, you horrible monster!” he cried, and tried to extricate himself from the clawed menace. “Get off!” He dragged the creature off and threw it away, but more cats used him as a climbing pole and suddenly they were everywhere! On his face, on his chest, digging their claws into his back. Dozens—hundreds! Thousands!
He stumbled and fell and his world turned into a nightmare of clawing and screeching monsters pressing him down, scratching his face, his hands, his neck!
“Get away from me, you beasts!” he roared, thrashing wildly. “Leave me alone!”
This was the stuff from a Stephen King novel! Cujo: The Sequel. This time with cats!
And then he heard the sound—the terrible sound.
Sirens. Police sirens.
He couldn’t see a thing. The cats were all over him, blocking his view. Immobilizing him. Screeching up a storm. Going completely berserk.
The sirens stopped right next to him. Doors were slammed. Footsteps sounded.
And then a voice. A woman’s voice.
“Well done, Max. You got him.”
Suddenly, as if by command, the cats retreated.
When he had managed to adjust his glasses, he saw he was surrounded.
There was that annoying reporter—Odelia Poole. And Chase Kingsley, that equally annoying cop. And Chief
Alec and Tracy. And more cops. Lots and lots more. He didn’t even know a small town like this could have so many damn cops.
He gave them a feeble smile. “I was—I was out walking and I was attacked. Attacked by cats. Cats—cats gone crazy!” He emitted a laugh. It sounded shrill to his own ears.
Detective Kingsley didn’t look convinced, and neither did the others.
“Philippe Goldsmith,” said Chase in a rumbling undertone. “You’re under arrest for the murder of your grandfather and the attempted murder of Alec Lip and Tracy Sting.”
And as he was cuffed and led to a police car, an audience of cats was looking on, all along the street, sitting on tree branches and even lying on the roof of the squad car to get a better look. They were staring. Actually staring, unblinkingly. It was the freakiest thing.
And there was Shadow, giving him the evil eye as the cop tucked his head into the car.
And he could have sworn the little sucker’s face was contorted into an actual smile.
The cat’s lips moved, and before the car door was slammed shut, he thought he heard her say, “Gotcha!”
Epilogue
It was grill time at Tex and Marge’s again. This time Chase had kindly offered the good doctor Tex his professional grilling expertise, probably hoping to dig his teeth into something more tasty than a charred sausage, scorched steak or blackened chicken skewer. Marge had made her fabled potato salad and Gran had actually baked no less than three apple pies.
Not that I cared. I’m not so big on potato salad or apple pie and I like my meat raw and juicy, not grilled to the texture of leather. And since Odelia knows how I like my food, she’d provided me and my fellow cats with some excellent nuggets of actual raw chicken.
Yes, I was the hero, fêted by all, and with good reason. Like some kind of action hero I’d actually thrown myself down on top of a live bomb. On closer inspection the bomb had been a beer bottle but I hadn’t known that when I performed my act of heroism. I thought there was actual nitro in that bottle. And if Alec hadn’t replaced the bottle of nitro with a bottle of Corona while Philippe Goldsmith wasn’t looking, I’d have been dead by now.