Рита Браун - Cat's Eyewitness

"If we ask the other brothers whether they've seen him, we break the vow of silence imposed by Brother Handle," Brother Andrew whispered.

"Let's go to Brother Handle."

The two knew they'd find him in his office, books and papers piled high, his computer screen blinking. If they were lucky maybe the TV would be on. It was turned only to the news. He glanced up, not at all happy to be disturbed from his work— scheduling, which he loathed doing.

"Forgive us, Brother."

Brother Handle glared at Brother Frank. "What is it?"

"We can't locate Brother Thomas."

"Look in the carpenter's shop."

"He wouldn't be there, Brother Handle. He'd be in the chapel or at private prayer in accordance with your orders."

Remembering his recent order, Brother Handle's expression changed. "Where did you look?"

"In the infirmary. I counted heads at table. Brother Andrew, whom I forced to speak"—for this Brother Frank gained Brother Andrew's favor—"informed me that no one has been there for two days and the only case he or Brother John have seen within the week was a nasty cut on Brother David's forearm."

A long silence followed. "It's not like Brother Thomas to be disobedient or frivolous. He must be here somewhere."

"We can't find him." Brother Andrew spoke at last.

Brother Handle knew that Brother Thomas, despite his strong constitution, would most likely meet his maker before the other monks. Worried, he rose. "Brother Andrew, if he suffered a heart attack but not a fatal one, might he be disoriented?"

"Yes. We must find him."

Brother Handle said to Brother Frank, "Ring the bell, gather the brothers."

Within ten minutes all the brothers sat on benches in the great hall. Meetings were conducted there, not in the chapel. After lifting the ban on silence, Brother Handle asked if anyone had seen Brother Thomas.

The last time anyone could recall seeing the elderly fellow was the night before at chapel.

"Each of you go to your place of labor. See if, by chance, our brother is there, if he needs assistance. Brother Prescott, divide the remaining brothers into teams, give each a quadrant, and search the grounds. Oh, give them a whistle, too. You know where they are."

Twenty minutes later, those outside in the cold and the dark heard a shrill whistle rise above the stiff wind. All the monks outside hurried to the call.

When they reached the statue of the Virgin Mary, they found Brother Thomas. Brother Prescott had found him first. He had a hunch that the older man might have come to this place, a favorite place of his, so he took this quadrant along with Brother Mark and Brother John. Brother John was ministering to Brother Mark, who had passed out at the sight.

Brother Prescott quietly recited First Corinthians, Chapter 15, Verse 22: "For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive."

13

Dead as a doornail, Harry called to Fair as she hung up the phone.

"What?" He stuck his blond head in the tackroom.

"The monks found Brother Thomas dead in front of the statue, which is still crying blood. That was Susan."

"Poor Susan." Fair worried that Susan was on emotional overload.

"She's sad, of course, but he was eighty-two and she said he had a premonition. I think she's okay."

Mrs. Murphy pricked her ears. "So that's who it was."

Tucker grimaced. "Poor fellow. Frozen like that."

Pewter helpfully remarked, "Freeze-dried. You know, there are people who freeze-dry their pets or deer heads. It's an alternative to taxidermy."

When both Mrs. Murphy and Tucker stared at her, she turned her back and licked her paw.

"Think it hurt to die like that?" Harry wondered aloud.

"How does it feel when you get cold? It stings, throbs. Yes, it hurt, but maybe by the end he was so disoriented he didn't feel much." Fair hoped that was what happened, as he brushed hay off his sleeves. "Why would he go out there in this weather?"

"Because of the tears. He wanted to see it again." Harry finished wiping off a steel bit, the chamois soft in her hands.

"I guess." Fair pulled his leather gloves off, revealing red fingertips.

"I'm going back up there."

"Now?"-

"No, daylight. After all, I saw the tears first."

"Stay out of this."

"Aha!"

"What? Aha what?" He blew on his fingertips.

"You think it wasn't a natural death."

He clapped his hands together, the fingers stinging. "For God's sake, Harry."

"You told me to stay out of it. You only say that if I'm, uh..." She groped for the word.

"Nosy."

"I prefer curious."

"Call it what you will; you stick your nose in places where it doesn't belong. This is one of them."

"Now, Fair, Susan, and I did see the apparition. The cats and Tucker saw it, too. It was unnerving."

"Couldn't smell, though. Too cold and too high up." Tucker heard that tone in Harry's voice and knew nothing would stop her.

"I'm sure the testimony of Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker will comfort the monks greatly. You keep away from Afton. For one thing, Harry, they've suffered a loss, and you don't go snooping in those circumstances."

"There will be a service. They'll have to blast the ground out. Frozen solid. Guess they'll have to thaw him out, too, or bury him in a kneeling position, which isn't so bad."

"Harry, you think of—"

"Practical things." She completed his sentence.

"Graphic."

"Fair, do you think I think like a man?"

Accustomed to these abrupt shifts and the land mines that usually accompanied them, he stalled. There are some questions a woman asks that can't be answered by a man, no matter how he answers them, without a fight or a fulsome discussion. "Why do you ask that?"

"Susan said that to me. Actually, I've heard that since I was a child. You know that."

He rubbed his hands together. "You think logically. That's not specific to gender, despite cultural stereotypes."

She was relieved. "It doesn't bother you that I'm not... oh, you know."

"What?"

"I'm not frilly or gushy."

"If it's never bothered me before, why would it bother me now?"

"Good answer." Mrs. Murphy giggled.

"She wants more than that," Pewter wisely noted.

"Well, BoomBoom is feminine. Her body is very feminine. Mentally she's not really girly. Kind of middle of the road."

"Harry, I'm not going there."

"All right. All right. I will say for BoomBoom that she's no coward, that's for sure." Harry put another bridle on the four-pronged hook hanging from the ceiling. She rubbed it. "Wonder what it's like for her to have someone in town as beautiful or maybe even more beautiful than she is."

"Alicia?" He placed a bridle on the opposite prong, then reached for a sponge. "There's close to twenty years between them—fifteen or twenty, I guess. They get on like a house on fire. Maybe the age difference lowers Boom's natural competitiveness."

"I really like Alicia."

"I do, too." He smiled. "I liked her when I was in grade school. She didn't put on airs, she spoke to me as if I was an adult."

"I know why you like her," she teased.

"Only you, Skeezits." He called her by her childhood nickname.

"Really?"

"Really." Why did he have to keep proving himself to her? he wondered. But, then, most guys wondered the same thing, so he didn't feel alone.

"Miranda brought over her chicken corn soup. Want some when we finish the chores?"

"Did she bring over corn bread, too?"

"She did."

"Call her and see if she'll come out and have dinner with us; after all, she made it." He laughed.

"Date with Tracy."

"Tell you what, I'll make brownies." He glanced at the old large clock on the wall. "Half an hour."

"That's a deal." She loved brownies—anything chocolate.