Ник Сайнт: Purrfect Peril

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.

But I wasn’t, and anyway, cats do have nine lives, as everyone knows, so the explosion would have claimed only the one life, leaving me with eight more to regale my friends with the story of my exploits. And regale them I had. Wherever I went, cats wanted me to tell the story of how a cat had saved the day—and a couple of humans in the process.

“I’m telling you, Odelia,” said Chase as he took the barbecue tongs from Tex and gave the doctor a gentle nudge in the direction of the bowl of sunset punch. Bourbon, vermouth, ginger beer, lemon and sugar. Even Tex couldn’t mess that up. “Those cats of yours are something else. I still can’t believe Max would throw himself on a bomb! Or maybe he thought it was a fat pigeon?”

“No, I think he actually thought it was a bomb,” said Odelia, placing a bowl of apple and poppy seed coleslaw on the table. “And that he was actually saving Uncle Alec’s life.”

“And I for one am mighty grateful,” said Uncle Alec, holding up a bottle of Corona in a toast to me. I would have held up my bottle but for one thing I don’t drink beer and for another I was too busy sampling all the delicious foodstuffs Odelia had set out for us.

“I think it’s amazing,” said Chase. “Simply amazing. Did you give him some extra-crunchy kibble as a reward?”

“I gave him some extra-tasty chicken,” said Odelia, throwing another juicy sliver in my direction. I deftly managed to snatch it from the air and gobble it down. Score!