Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

With the hamper on the backseat and the two commodes on the floor, Qwilleran tooted a farewell to his hostess on the doorstep and headed the car toward Pickax. He was thankful that Yum Yum had caught her mouse at an auspicious time, saving him from an amorous slip of the tongue. He needed no more women on his trail - least of all, his former housekeeper, who was marriage oriented and tragedy prone. All three of her husbands had died violent deaths.

He drove past the Hanging Tree and across the Old Plank Bridge and then west on Ittibittiwassee Road. There was little traffic. The county had built the road - at great expense - to accommodate Exbridge's condominium development. Most motorists preferred the shorter, more commercial route, however, and the local wags called the new highway Ittibittigraft.

Darkness was falling as he passed the site of the old Buckshot Mine. It was here, he recalled, that he had suffered a serious bicycle accident a year before - a highly questionable accident.

And now... it all happened again.

-Scene Seven-

Place: A lonely stretch of

Ittibittiwassee Road

Time: Later the same evening

IT WAS LATE Sunday night, and the traffic on Ittibittiwassee Road was sparse. Westward bound, Qwilleran met no cars approaching in the opposite direction, and he drove with his country brights illuminating the yellow lines on the pavement. On either side darkness closed in over the patches of woods, abandoned mine sites and boulder-studded pastureland. Now and then a half-moon accentuated the eeriness of the landscape, then retired behind a cloud.

Eventually headlights appeared in Qwilleran's rearview mirror - country lights excessively bright until he flicked the mirror to cut the glare. The vehicle was gaining on him. Its pattern was erratic: swerving into the eastbound lane as if planning to pass - falling back into line - coming closer-swerving again to the left. It was a van, and when it came alongside, it was too close for a prudent driver's peace of mind. Qwilleran edged to the right. The van crowded closer.

He's drunk, Qwilleran thought, and he steered close to the shoulder and eased up on the pedal. The van loomed over the small car. Another inch and it would bump him off the road. He steered onto the shoulder... Easy! Loose gravel!... Skidding! Easy! Turn into the skid! Baby the brake!... And then the little car hit a boulder and flipped over... still traveling, sliding along the edge of the ditch... another jolt, another rollover, twice, before it came to a shuddering halt in the dry ditch.

There was a moment of stunned disorientation - pedals and dashboard overhead - seat cushions and roasting pans everywhere - a shower of kitty gravel.

Why was there no cry from the cats? Qwilleran unbuckled and climbed out of the door that had been thrown open by the impact. Then he crawled back into the dark car and groped for the hamper. It was lying on the upside-down ceiling, jammed under a seat cushion, its cover open, the cats gone!

"Koko!" he yelled. "Koko! Yum Yum!" There was no answer. He thought, They might have taken flight in terror! They might have been flung from the car! In panic he searched the ditch in the immediate vicinity, looking for small light-colored bodies in the darkness. He called again. Utter silence.

Then headlights illuminated the landscape as a car approached from the east, stopping on the shoulder of the road. A man jumped out and ran to the scene. "Are you okay? Anybody hurt?"

"I'm all right, but I've lost my cats. Two of them. They may have been thrown out."

The motorist turned and shouted toward his own car, "Radio the sheriff, hon, and bring the torch!" To Qwilleran he said, "Have you tried calling them? It's heavily wooded along here. They might be hiding."

"They're indoor cats. They never go out. I don't know how they'd react to the accident and unfamiliar surroundings."

"Your car's totaled."

"I don't care about the car. I'm worried about the cats." "The guy was drunk. I saw him weaving before he crowded you off the road. Seemed like a light-colored van."

The man's wife arrived with a high-powered flashlight, and Qwilleran started beaming it in the ditch and along the edge of the thicket.

The man said to her, "He had two cats in the car. They escaped or were thrown out."

"They'll be all right," she said. "We had a cat fall from a third-floor window."

"Quiet!" Qwilleran said. "I thought I heard a cry." The wail came again.

"That's some kind of night bird," the woman said. "Quiet!... while I call them and listen for an answer."

Headlights and a flashing red rooflight appeared in the distance, and a sheriff's car pulled up. The deputy in a brown uniform said, "May I see your operator's license?" He nodded when Qwilleran handed it over. "How did it happen, Mr. Qwilleran?"

The other motorist said, "I saw it all. A drunk driver. Crowded him off the road, and then skipped."

Qwilleran said, "I had two cats in the car, and I can't find them."

The deputy flashed a light around the wreck. "Could be underneath."

The woman said, "We'd better go, honey. The babysitter has to leave at 11:30."

"Well, thanks," Qwilleran said. "Here's your flashlight."

"Keep it," the man said. "You can get it back to me where I work. Smitty's Refrigeration on South Main."

The deputy wrote his report and offered Qwilleran a ride into Pickax.

"I can't leave until I find them."

"You could be out here all night, sir."

"I don't care. After you leave they may come crawling out of the bushes. I've got to be here when they do."

"I'll check back with you on my next round. We're watching this road. I nabbed four DWIs last night."

He left, and Qwilleran resumed his search, calling at intervals and hearing nothing except the night noises of the woods, as some small animal scurried through the underbrush or an owl hooted or a loon cackled his insane laugh.

He extracted the wicker hamper from the wreckage - out of shape but intact. He found the two commodes, also. The roasting pans had fared better than the body of his car. He was grateful for the flashlight.

Another vehicle stopped. "Anybody hurt?" asked the driver, walking over to view the car in the ditch. "Anyone call the police?"

Qwilleran went through the same script. "No one hurt... The sheriff's been here... No, thanks, I don't need a ride. I've lost two cats and I have to wait..."

"Lots of luck," the man said. "There are coyotes out there and foxes, and an owl can carry off a cat at night."

"Just go on your way, please," Qwilleran said firmly "When it's quiet, they'll come back."

The car left the scene, but the Siamese did not appear He snapped off the torch. It was totally dark now - totally dark with the moon behind a cloud. He called again in desperation. "Koko! Yum Yum! Turkey! Turkey! Come and get it!"... There was absolute silence. Once more he combed the ditch with the beam of the flashlight, each time venturing a few yards farther from the wreck. After half an hour of fruitless searching and calling, he groaned as another car pulled up.

"Qwill! Qwill, what are you doing out here?" a woman's voice called out. She left her car and hurried toward him. "Is that your car? What happened? Has anyone called the sheriff? I have a CB." It was Polly Duncan.

"That's not the worst," he said, shining the torch on the wreck. "The cats are lost. They may be hiding in the woods. I'm not leaving here till I find them, dead or aIive."

"Oh, Qwill, I'm so sorry. I know how much they mean to you." It was the quiet, soothing voice that had appealed to him during their happier days.

He recounted the entire story.

"But you can't stay here like this all night."

"I'm not leaving," he repeated stubbornly.

"Then I'll stay with you. At least you'll have some shelter and a place to sit. I'll turn my lights off. Maybe they'll sense your presence and come out..."