Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Sidekick. Purrfect Deseit. Purrfect Ruse [calibre 5.14.0]

“Who’s Chouchou and the others?” asked Clarice. “Some new girl band?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “Chouchou is a Maine Coon, and she’s recently gone missing, and so have a couple of other cats.”

“Missing, huh?” said Clarice, emerging from underneath the dumpster. She started to lick her claws with customary languidness. But don’t let her seemingly laid-back air fool you: she can lash out as quick as a cobra, and her nails are amongst the sharpest I’ve ever seen. Good thing she never uses them on us—and I hope she never will!

“Yeah, a woman came into Odelia’s office this morning,” I explained, “asking her to find her Maine Coon for her. Chouchou went to cat choir last night but never came home.”

“I always knew cat choir was bad business,” Clarice growled. As usual, she looked a little wild. Her mottled fur was missing in patches, and there was a fresh scratch across her nose that hadn’t been there the last time I saw her.

“I don’t think cat choir is to blame for Chouchou’s disappearance,” I said, not wanting her to get the wrong idea.

“Stay away from crowded places,” Clarice advised somberly. “That’s where you stand the most chance of being infected.”

“Infected by what, Clarice?” asked Dooley, interested in this novel theory.

“Anything! Any bug that goes around will focus on the places where plenty of cats are gathering, jump over on you the moment you set paw in those surroundings and zap!”

“Zap!” Dooley cried, jumping a foot in the air.

“It’ll hit you so fast you don’t even notice before it’s too late.”

“But… do you think Chouchou and the others got zapped by a bug?”

“Sure! They’re probably dying in some corner right now, suffering terrible pains and dying a horrible and prolonged death. That’s what you get from going to cat choir.”

Dooley gave me a look of shock, but I shook my head, wanting to convey the message that things probably weren’t as bad as Clarice was making them out to be. Clarice, on top of being something of an einzelgänger, is also a worrywart, and seems to think that the worst thing that can happen to a cat is meeting other cats in large gatherings.

“Look, can you help us or not?” I asked. Even though I always enjoy seeing Clarice, long moments spent in her company have a tendency to depress me, her world views not exactly the most uplifting ones.

“Sure I’ll help you find them,” said Clarice, “but I’m not sure if Dooley should join us.”

“Why not?” asked Dooley, blinking rapidly.

“Because when we do find them the sight will be a pretty horrible one.”

“I’m sure it won’t be as bad as all that,” I countered.

“And I’m sure it will be. Have you ever watched The Walking dead, Dooley?”

“Um… I don’t think so,” said Dooley. “Is that on the Discovery Channel?”

“No, it’s not on the Discovery Channel,” said Clarice. “The Walking Dead is a documentary about what happens when a deadly virus affects the world’s population, and turns humans into these disgusting, monstrous, homicidal, flesh-eating—”

“It’s not really a documentary, though, is it?” I said quickly. “It’s fiction, Clarice.”

“It could be real.”

“But it isn’t.”

“But it could be.”

“Okay, so let’s just find Chouchou and the others, shall we?” I suggested, tiring a little of this talk of flesh-eating whatevers.

“Suit yourself,” said Clarice with a shrug. “But when we find them, and Dooley is traumatized for the rest of his life, don’t blame me, all right?”

“I won’t blame you, Clarice,” I said.

And so we set out for the woods, in Clarice’s wake. I have to hand it to her: if anyone can find a cat, whether dead or alive… or even undead, I guess—it’s her. She’s simply more in touch with her wild side than us pampered cats—Clarice’s words, not mine!

It didn’t take us long to arrive at the outskirts of town and enter the woods that Clarice calls home, and soon we found ourselves at the little cabin in the woods where many an aspiring or even unaspiring writer likes to spend time working on their next masterpiece. It’s called the Writer’s Lodge, and provides a secluded spot where writers work on their craft in peace and absolute quiet. And while they’re at it, they enjoy the distraction of seeing Clarice roam around, keeping them company, and never cease to provide her with those precious little nuggets of food your hungry feline enjoys so much.

“Do you think they’re around here somewhere?” I asked, a little breathless, for we’d traveled uphill for the past half hour or so.

“No idea,” said Clarice, “but the dumpsters proved a bust today, and I’m starving.”

She made a beeline for a battered bowl, and when we arrived thither, I saw that it was filled to the brim with what looked like… liver pâté.

“Ugh,” she said, making a face. “Liver pâté. Again.”

Liver pâté is one of those things every cat considers a delicacy, and gobbles up without delay when given the chance, so Dooley and I gave our feral friend a look of surprise.

“You don’t like liver pâté?” I asked.

“Well, you know how it is,” she said. “When you have to eat the same thing every day it quickly loses its attraction.” Nevertheless, she still dug in and manfully ate it all.

Dooley and I shared a startled look. Odelia is probably the best human for miles around—perhaps even the best human a cat can hope to find in the whole world, but even she doesn’t give us liver pâté on a daily basis.

“You eat this stuff every day?” I asked.

She licked her lips. “Oh, sure. James Patterson is staying at the Lodge this month, and he’s always generous with the liver pâté, bless his heart. Last month John Grisham was here, working on his next bestseller, and with him it’s always beluga caviar.” She sighed. “And then next month Danielle Steel will be here, and I already know it’ll be lobster sushi rolls again, just like last year. Can you imagine? Three weeks of lobster sushi rolls?”

I would give my right paw for three weeks of lobster sushi rolls, or beluga caviar.

“I like liver pâté,” said Dooley. He gave Clarice a hopeful look. “Can I have some?”

She smiled. “Oops, sorry. I’m afraid I ate it all.”

We both took in Clarice’s skinny frame, and were probably wondering the same thing: for a cat who eats liver pâté, beluga caviar and lobster sushi rolls on a continuous basis, not to mention the contents of half the dumpsters in Hampton Cove, how did she manage to stay so thin?

“Okay, let’s go,” she said now. “Or don’t you want to find this choo-choo of yours?”

“Chouchou,” I corrected.

And then we were off again. I was a little troubled by the lack of sustenance. You see, I’m not as skinny as Clarice, and us full-bodied, big-boned types need our intake of food at regular intervals. And if my calculations were correct it had been at least three hours since I’d last had a bite to eat and I was starting to feel a little faint. Still, we’d promised Odelia we’d find those missing cats for her and that’s what we’d do.

And as we traipsed after Clarice, deeper into those woods, Dooley whispered, “Couldn’t she at least have left some for us, Max?”

“Apparently not,” I whispered back.

“I heard that!” Clarice growled.

We followed her up what looked like some kind of mountain trail, and soon had left civilization behind, an area where no man or beast dares to tread, and before long I was starting to question the wisdom of this mission. What if we encountered some wild animal preying on innocent and soft-bellied cats like myself? Then again, we were in the company of the wild animal, and as far as I could tell no other wild animal would come anywhere near Clarice.