Моника Шонесси - The Tell-Tail Heart

"Killer?" I asked, eyeing the scrawny male. "You're a bit short in the whisker, aren't you?"

Killer objected, "My whiskers are long enough—"

Big Blue stepped between us, halting the verbal jests. "Don't underestimate my offspring, QuickPaw. What he lacks in experience, he gains in speed."

My offspring. Fiddlesticks. The tournament had just become impossible to win.

Big Blue continued, "For this trial, you will catch as many mice as you can inside the Spider." He glanced over his shoulder toward the penitentiary.

"The what ?" Either he didn't hear me, or he didn't care to explain. The tom left to speak to Bobbin, crossing the field in commanding strides.

"He means we hunt inside the prison," Killer said. "We call it the Spider."

"You've been inside the prison?"

"You don't think we spend the night out here, do you, QuickPaw?" Killer said. He left to position himself near the base of the gardening shack.

I kept an eye on Big Blue, waiting for his signal, and puzzled over the name he'd given Eastern State. Did a giant eight-legged beast stand guard inside? If so, what did it eat? Prisoners? I shivered at the thought of a man bound with silken threads, waiting to be devoured by a carnivorous spider. Then I pictured Mr. Abbott—stained cravat and all—in the same confines and sniffed with satisfaction.

"Heed my advice, QuickPaw."

"Hmm?" I turned to face Snow. She'd snuck away from the others and crouched beside me now, staying low.

"Use your ears, not your eyes to best my son."

Before I could ask what she meant, Big Blue shouted "Begin!" and set the race in motion.

Bouncing from door handle to window casing to eave, Killer sprang straight up the gardening shed and onto its roof before Bobbin rounded the corner. The grey and white blur then leapt onto a mass of ivy clinging to the prison wall, which he expertly scaled to the top of the wall. I shook off my surprise and followed his route as best I could. It took a few tries to land on the shed roof, but I persevered, reaching the ivy in good time. I jumped, grabbed for the lowest vine on the wall, and sliiiiiiid back down the stone face amid laughter. After a string of failures—some from which my pride may never recover—I hoisted my hindquarters to the top.

The vast complex of the Eastern State Penitentiary lay before me, revealing the Spider. To my relief, I found not an arachnid but a scheme of buildings resembling one. Rows of prisoner dwellings spread out from a central watchtower hub that, on the whole, looked like legs connected to a central body. A marvel of construction, indeed. Never again would I snub its tourists. I watched unnoticed as guards marched single prisoners, each wearing an ominous black hood, across the compound and into adjacent dwellings. No words passed between the men, creating a silence that unnerved me.

My opponent had already hopped onto an interior greenhouse, dropped into the complex, and was fast approaching a series of private yards adjoining the prisoner dwellings. I thought about following him but recalled Snow's advice. Had she said them to hinder or help me? While I was competing against her son, she seemed keen for Big Blue to help me. So I took her advice, listening to the swing of the doors, the rush of water through plumbing pipes, the skiff-skiff of shoes on steps. I listened for so long that the cats below likely wondered if I'd gone mad; I listened for so long that I wondered if I'd gone mad. Throughout my quiet observation, I noted Killer's routine. He would disappear into a prisoner yard, emerge with a mouse, scale the greenhouse to the top of the wall, and toss his prize to Snow. In between kills, he taunted me, calling me LazyPaw and LardBelly.

I persisted, swiveling my ears to catch any squeak, no matter how faint. Then I heard it: a scratching of rodents near the northeastern corner tower. Eureka! I scampered along the rear wall toward my destination, ignoring the jeers below. Without a doubt, the sound had come from a cast-iron downpipe that shunted rain from the tower's parapet. I hung over, teetering on the wall's edge, and examined the rusted T-joint that connected the vertical section of pipe to the horizontal. The mice had made their nest here, allowing them several points of access. Since no rain had fallen in recent weeks, they'd had time to set up house and reproduce.

The crowd cheered below as Killer added, one by one, to his growing pile. Snow may have provided this advantage, but winning lay in my paws. I swung onto the drainpipe and kicked the back wall with my rear legs, trying to break the joint that held it in place. The mice inside began to scramble, rustling the metal with their tiny claws, driving me wild. I kicked harder and harder until the rust crumbled. With a final push, I freed the vertical section and rode it down, down, down until it hit the ground with a resounding crash that rattled my teeth and scattered Big Blue's troop. Mice and nesting fluff erupted from the end of the downpipe.

Like a wild thing set free after captivity, I exploded with energy, swooping and pouncing on the mice with a precision earned through years of experience. And now that my feral instincts were back, none could best me. Once I'd caught the runners, I returned to the drainpipe to catch the small pink ones still in the nest. When it was over, I'd gathered every rodent but one, and only because his tail had ripped off during the chase.

Wheezing and smeared with blood, I collapsed near my heap as the contest ended. Somewhere beneath my exhaustion, an untamable feeling hatched deep within me. It pecked at the shell of domesticity, hardened this last year with Eddie. I hadn't felt this vital, this necessary in a long time. Maybe hunting my largest prey yet—a human murderer—would be as much for my benefit as Eddie's.

Midnight in Philadelphia

As I lay in the grass awaiting Big Blue's judgment, I cleared my throat with a good cough. It didn't take much to wind me these days. Killer, however, had fully recovered. The little saucebox hopped circles around the older sentries, batting their tails and flicking dirt on their toes. Had I ever been that young and insufferable? I coughed again as Big Blue and Snow approached, their faces solemn. I rose to greet them, still exhausted from the trial.

"I'm afraid we have a tie," Big Blue said.

"A tie?" Killer howled. He skidded beside us, shredding grass. "Impossible."

I lifted my chin. I hadn't won. But I hadn't lost.

"I counted them, son," Big Blue said. "A tie's a tie. But that makes honoring my word a difficult thing. We never discussed a draw."

"May I suggest—" I coughed again, this time harder. The hunt had taken more of a toll than I'd thought. "May I suggest we—" I lurched forward and belched a long, slender object at their feet, settling the matter.

Much to Killer's dismay, I'd won by a tail.

Snow and I strolled through Logan Square Park, intent on drawing Claw and his gang from hiding. Behind us, Big Blue and his sentries shadowed our movements along the trail, using bushes and tree trunks for cover. Most everyone had turned out for the skirmish, most everyone but Killer. He'd begged to come along, but his mother denied the request, instructing him to stay behind with Bobbin to guard the mice kills. I glanced at her. Snow's life had taken a different path from mine—motherhood, a long-time mate, unfettered living—but was it any better? Dead leaves crackled beneath our paws, filling the silence until I summoned the courage to talk. "Are you happy?" I asked.

"Very happy. I have a large family, many friends, a big territory."

We hopped over a fallen branch and crossed into a gloomy stretch of park that smelled of rotting vegetation. Shrubs and trees arched overhead, forming a tunnel of sorts that cloaked us in semidarkness and widened our pupils. Summer's leftovers—moss and fern and toadstools—littered the path. Tinged with brown, they'd begun to lose their grip on the season.