Клеа Саймон - An Incantation Of Cats

“You were coming in to speak with me?” His voice flat as a stepped-on mouse.

“Yes.” Becca paused, and Clara thought she was going to explain, then, about seeing Elizabeth—about the missing plant and Gaia bolting. Instead, she simply forged ahead. “She and I had talked about it. Her ex-boyfriend—I’d just met with him. He was worried about Gaia. He thought someone was out to get her, and I guess he was right.”

“This boyfriend have a name?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Tiger. I mean, that’s probably a nickname, but that’s what everyone calls him. Have you spoken with him? Because he thought that someone was stalking Gaia. He warned her to be careful.”

“And you’ve met this Tiger?” His voice was still soft. His eyes, dark and kind. Maybe it was the way he leaned forward or some undefinable note underlying his questions, but Clara’s fur began to rise once more.

“Yes, we had lunch and he told me that he thought that Margaret maybe, but no…” Becca shook her head, picking up on the shift in tone that was causing Clara’s unease. “I just saw her, and Tiger’s wrong, at least about Margaret and her sister. I mean, she was angry at her husband. And at Gaia, too. But she didn’t put the root in her mug. Besides, it was just asafetida, which smells awful but isn’t dangerous.”

“I’m not talking about this Margaret or any smelly root,” Detective Abrams interrupted gently, as if he were correcting a kitten. “I’m talking about you, Becca Colwin. Because before you arrived, I interviewed the victim’s friend, this so-called Tiger. And he says he hasn’t spoken to you. In fact, he says he’s never met you at all.”

Chapter 22

“That’s crazy.” Becca sat up, her eyes turning once more to the double doors at the end of the corridor. “He’s upset. Or maybe he’s pretending? He and Gaia have broken up, but our lunch was, well, I had the feeling that maybe he thought it was a kind of a date, and maybe he…”

Becca’s theory petered out under the big man’s skeptical gaze.

“Okay, then. Let’s move on to some other questions. Shall we?” The detective flipped a page in his pad. But as he did, the double doors slammed open, and a dark woman in pink scrubs came striding through.

“Is there a Becca Colwin here?” She craned her head around, and Becca stood to greet her. “Becca Colwin?”

“That’s me. Did something happen?”

“The patient has been asking for you.” The nurse beckoned, then paused, turning to the portly man at her side. “And you are?”

“Abrams.” He tilted his head, taking her in with eyes that were suddenly smaller and quite sharp. “Detective Eric Abrams.”

“Well, Detective Eric Abrams, I need Becca here to come with me. Gail has woken up.”

Becca turned to the large man. “I’m sorry, Detective. I really should go. But I will come down tomorrow and speak with you.”

“Like you were going to today?” A note of skepticism.

“Becca?” The nurse was waiting.

“Go.” The hand holding the pen rose in dismissal, while the other tucked the pad away, and Becca went.

“We’re hoping you can answer some questions for us.” As the doors buzzed, the nurse shepherded Becca through. “After you speak with Gail.”

Steeling herself against the noise and odors, Clara ducked in behind them into what looked like another hallway, with curtains sectioning off more scents and sounds than the little cat had ever encountered. Blood and other bodily fluids in excess. But also something sharp and chemical, all hard to process as a series of high-pitched beeps kept up their frantic call.

Even Becca didn’t seem immune. Her head swiveling, she took everything in, wide-eyed, even as the nurse strode ahead. She didn’t go far, though. At the fourth curtain, she stopped and short and motioned Becca, who had scurried to catch up, ahead. As Clara, unseen, pushed in beside her, she slid behind the curtain where the goth girl lay on a narrow hospital bed, her dark, damp hair pushed back from a face that was nearly as pale as the pillow she reclined on.

“Hey, Becca.” A ghost of a smile spread her bloodless lips. Her voice was so soft even Clara had to strain to hear. “I owe you. I guess Tiger was right, huh?”

“Oh, Gaia.” Becca stepped forward, but stopped herself even as she reached for the other girl’s hand. Needles and tubes extended out of her right forearm and into an IV bag suspended above. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure. I had some tea, and I started to feel funny. My lips got numb. I knew something was wrong, but, I don’t know, maybe I was too confused. Then you called…” Her eyes closed for a moment before flitting open again. “I guess just firing me wasn’t enough.”

“What?” Becca drew back.

“The tea. It came from the shop. I figure Margaret added something. Or her sister.” Her voice dropped even lower, more breath than sound. “Maybe I gave her the idea, huh?”

“But that’s crazy,” Becca responded in urgent tones. “I spoke with Elizabeth. She says she didn’t take the plant. She thought you got rid of it.”

The pale girl pursed her lips as she considered. “Who else could it be? Margaret hates me, and that sister of hers…” Gaia lay back, her eyes slowly closing once again. “My wolf’s bane…”

“That’s why I wanted us to go talk to the police.” Becca leaned in, dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “I know you faked that first poisoning and anyone else who knows might try to discredit you. But this proves it. Someone really is trying to hurt you.”

“Excuse me, miss.” A young man in scrubs had slid inside the curtain, his eyes on a monitor that pinged regularly. “She needs her rest. You have to go now.”

“Will she be okay?” The ping was accelerating, like an agitated cricket.

“Now.” Another set of scrubs pushed in front of her, and she looked around for the nurse who had brought her in. But that nurse had now joined the others, reaching for a metal tray.

“Miss?”

Becca started toward her and stopped. Hands on her shoulders were turning her. Propelling her past the curtain, through the steel doors, and back out to the waiting area.

Chapter 23

“Becca! Did you get in? Did you see her? They won’t tell me anything.”

Becca turned at the sound of her name. But even before she registered that the harried male voice didn’t belong to Detective Abrams, Clara had identified the newcomer. Panting and wild-eyed, the bike messenger had apparently rushed into the ER waiting area only moments before.

“Tiger!” Becca started back, mimicking Clara’s own reaction. Although the calico was still shaded, her presence a mere flicker of color and shadow in the busy, brightly lit room, her instincts had taken over. As she had started, stiff-legged, her back had arched and her fur begun to bristle from tail tip to head, to make herself appear larger in the face of an oncoming threat. “Wait.” Becca held her hand out, stopping the man in his tracks.

“What?” He looked like he might rush the door through which Becca had just emerged. “Is she—”

“They’re taking care of her.” Becca grabbed his arm, and he turned. But if Becca—or Clara at her feet—were concerned that the slim man could be violent, his next words put those fears to rest.

“Please,” he pleaded, taking her hand in his. “Tell me. You’ve seen her?”

“Yes. She’s in there.” Tiger pulled away, turning toward the window. This time it was Becca who reached for him. “They’re working on her now, Tiger. They just kicked me out.”

Maybe it was her voice, gentle with concern. Maybe her words had sunk in. Clara couldn’t tell, but she followed as the lean young man let himself be led to a quiet—well, quieter—corner of the room.