Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Whiskers

As slowly as possible, I maneuvered my left shoulder out of the way so I could lean my face closer to one of the holes. It wasn’t easy, but by pushing my shoulder down and craning my neck to one side I was able to get a view to what was beyond my little cell.

About ten feet away was a cinder-block wall, lined floor-to-ceiling with stacks of dusty cardboard boxes and old cans of paint. I moved my eye to another hole and saw a rolling bucket with a mop sticking out of it, and next to that was a big black duffel bag, about six feet long. In the middle of the wall right in front of me was a wide metal door with a frosted square window in the middle, which I realized was where the light was coming from. I could see the silhouette of someone pacing back and forth beyond it.

Just then the wide metal door swung open and I froze.

Two men walked in. I couldn’t see much above their waists, but one was wide and bowlegged, with black loafers and faded jeans pulled halfway over his belly, held up with a braided black belt. The other was taller and thin, in a dark pin-striped suit. He stepped up and knocked the front of my enclosure with the tip of his shoe two times. I smelled something acrid, like kerosene or motor oil.

He said, “Hey…”

I held perfectly still, praying with all my might for the loud pounding of my heart to stop.

He knocked again, this time louder. “Hey!”

It might have been the blood churning past my eardrums or perhaps a fan in the other room, but in the few moments that followed I thought I could hear the steady thrum of passing cars in the distance.

The voice said, “Okay. She’s still out.”

“Now what?”

“Now we search the Kellers’ house.” The man’s voice was low and growly, with a slight British accent. “But first things first.”

There was a pause, and then I heard a light tapping just over my head.

“Our little cat sitter here. I think perhaps she’s hiding something. If Paxton was telling the truth and really didn’t know where that statue is, it might be worth our while to search Miss Hemingway’s home.”

The bowlegged man said, “But Mr. Fiori, what if she don’t live alone?”

“You’ll think of something. The more important problem is we have no idea where she lives.”

A woman’s voice said, “Yes, we do.”

It came from the other room, and then I heard the tapping of heels on the floor. The whole time the two men had been talking, I’d had my eyes shut and my jaw slack just in case one of them happened to squat down and look through one of the holes, but now I squinted one eye open and peered out.

The woman was slim, in a dark skirt and high-heeled boots, and as she walked up to the taller man I heard a rustle of paper. “Her address is on Levi’s newspaper delivery list. Right here—Dixie Hemingway, Midnight Pass Road.”

“Brilliant. That bloody list is worth something after all. You stay here and wait. If she wakes up, try to convince her to tell you where it is. And if we find it, we’ll call you.”

The woman said, “Mr. Fiori, then what?”

There was a brief silence. “We’ll load her in the van with Paxton and dump them both in the bay tonight. That’s the only way out of this mess. And if we still haven’t found that statue, we’ll have to schedule a little homecoming party for the Kellers.”

The two men walked out, leaving the woman standing next to me in silence, and then I heard a door slam shut. The woman just stood there, not moving, but in a few seconds there was the sound of an engine starting and then a car rolled by outside.

The woman hurried into the other room. Now I had a clear view of her through the open doorway. I wasn’t sure at first, but I thought I recognized the long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. Then she turned toward me and I saw her black horn-rimmed glasses …

It was Daniela. I was sure of it. She was wearing the same kind of elegant clothing she’d worn in the elevator at Tom Hale’s and the Paxton gallery: a long-sleeved silk blouse with a narrow skirt and knee-high boots. She knelt down and pulled a pair of jeans, black sneakers, and a T-shirt out of a bag—the same leather bag she’d had at the gallery—and then pulled off her boots one by one and stepped out of her skirt.

Even at this distance, I could see long red lines running up and down her legs, almost as if a manic child had attacked her with a felt-tipped marker. She pulled on the jeans and then took her blouse off, and there were the same angry red lines on her forearms. I can’t say exactly how long it took me to add it all up, but by the time she’d changed her clothes completely, something clicked.

Barney Feldman …

Just then, as if to confirm what I was thinking, she reached into her bag and pulled out something about the size of a softball, wrapped in a dark red cloth, like velvet, and tied with what looked like a braided rope of long straplike leaves. I already knew what it was, but still, when she gently pulled the rope away and unfolded the cloth, my eyes opened wide as saucers.

It was Pachamama.

And not just any Pachamama. She was made of white stone, her head as smooth as an egg, her plump legs folded one over the other, her exaggerated bosom completely out of proportion with her tiny feet, which were painted a bright crimson red …

I had to hold my hands over my mouth to stop whatever noise my throat was trying to make, and the pressure made my ears pop. It felt like they’d both been loaded with tiny firecrackers, and my eyes filled with water from the pain of it.

Daniela gazed at Pachamama with such calm that I was reminded of a young mother looking into the eyes of a newborn child. She whispered something that sounded like a prayer, holding it out in front of her with both hands as if offering it up to the sky. After a moment, she folded it back together and secreted it back down in her bag. Before she zipped it closed, she crossed herself, and then hoisted it over her shoulder.

She walked back into the room, and then I heard the sound of a number being dialed on a cell phone. After a pause, she said, “It’s me. Fiori left to search the cat sitter’s place.”

I could hear a man’s frantic voice come over the line as Daniela crossed to the big duffel bag and then back to me. She said, “It doesn’t matter. Paxton will never know I was working for Fiori … because he’s dead.”

The voice rose on the phone. “What?”

“Fiori got to the gallery right after the cat sitter left. Mr. Paxton had already opened up the box, and when he showed me there was nothing inside but a jar of cornmeal, I pretended to be just as shocked as he was. But when Fiori found out, he was furious. Mr. Paxton pleaded with him, saying there must have been a misunderstanding, that Mrs. Keller must have accidentally sent the wrong box.”

She knelt down, her face inches from mine.

“But Fiori wasn’t buying it. He said, ‘I know a rat when I see one,’ and then he pulled a pistol out of his vest. Mr. Paxton tried to get away but it was too late. He shot him. And when Fiori figures out who the real rat is, he’ll try to kill me, too.”

There was a pause, and then she whispered, “But by then I’ll be home. And soon Pachamama will be back where she belongs … with her true people.”

I heard the sound of something metal, like a high-pitched shimmering, and instinctively my eyes shot open. She was still crouched next to me, and through the holes I could see she was holding a long gleaming knife. She grasped its base with both hands, and then there was a ripping sound, like tearing flesh. It started down near my left foot and flew all the way up past my head.

I gasped, but whatever sound the knife made must have covered it, because then there was the clattering of metal as it slid across the floor away from me, and then nothing but the sound of Daniela’s footsteps receding into the other room.