John Saul - Black Lightning

Now he could see the cat tense — but it was more than seeing; it was as if it were happening to him. He and the cat were becoming as one; he was experiencing what the cat felt, while the cat, in its turn, lived the boy’s life as well as its own.

Was that why the cat never tried to escape the yard? For the same reason the boy hadn’t, either?

The cat tensed as the boy crept closer, and now he could see not only the end of its tail twitching nervously, but its whiskers as well. As if in sympathy, the boy’s own face began to tingle, and he felt the down on his jaw stand up.

He edged closer, and saw the cat draw back. “Nice kitty,” the boy breathed, so softly only he and the cat could hear the soothing words. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a pair of thin black leather gloves and carefully pulled them on. “That’s a good cat,” he crooned. “Nice, nice, kitty.”

As though mesmerized by the caressing whisper, the cat calmed slightly, and its ruffling coat began to flatten.

The boy slipped closer to the shrubs.

His right hand reached out, winding through the foliage as silently as a serpent. Once more the cat tensed, this time rising to its feet, its back arching as every hair on its body stood on end. A thrill — like a light charge of electricity — ran through the boy, and now, like black lightning, his hand struck, his fingers closing on the cat long before it could spring away to safety. Drawing his prize from the shelter of the rhododendrons, the boy held it at eye level.

The cat’s eyes met his own, and it hissed. Then one of its forepaws shot out, claws extended, as it tried to slash his face. The boy’s other leather-clad hand closed on the paw, and the cat, as if finally truly assessing the precariousness of its position, didn’t even try to struggle.

Just as the boy had never tried to struggle.

Holding the cat, the boy stood up and started toward the house, which today was empty.

Empty, save for himself.

And the cat.

Inside the back door the boy paused. He knew he was alone, but the house still held terrors for him. Today, though, fear subsided in the face of what he was about to do.

He moved quickly now, and a moment later was in the basement. His heart pounding, he approached the workbench.

Pounding from fear, or from anticipation?

He knew the workbench well. It was as much a part of him as life itself. Always, it had been there.

Now it was his to use.

Putting the cat into a cage, the boy set to work.

Everything he needed was there, carefully prepared, as everything had always been carefully prepared for him.

The rag, the ether.

The boy felt good, knowing he would show kindness to the creature.

He soaked the rag with ether, then opened the cage and reached inside. The cat struck out again with its forepaw. This time its talons slashed through the leather of the gloves, digging deeply into the boy’s skin, but the boy felt nothing.

Inured from every pain, of every kind?

His fingers closed on the cat; his other hand pressed the ethered rag against the cat’s face. The cat struggled, but soon its struggles flagged. Then it went limp, and the boy knew it was time to begin.

Laying the cat on the workbench, he set to work, splaying its legs out, tying them down much the way the Lilliputians bound Gulliver. But if the cat was Gulliver, the boy was not of Lilliput.

He was of Brobdingnag.

He began attaching electrodes to the cat, just as his father attached electrodes to him.

He waited then, waited for the cat to wake up.

Only when it was fully awake, only when it would be able to fully experience the effects of what would happen, did the boy’s finger reach for the button that would activate the electrodes.…

Glen’s whole body jerked spasmodically and his eyes snapped open.

A heart attack — he was having another heart attack! He reached out, groping for the buzzer that would summon the nurse, but even as his thumb was pressing it down, his mind cleared and he realized his mistake. It wasn’t a heart attack at all — it was simply a bad dream.

But a dream of what?

A second ago it had been so vivid.

A cat.

Something to do with a cat. Kumquat?

He tried to remember what the cat had looked like, but the details of the dream vanished like ephemera, fading from his mind even as he tried to retrieve them. A second later the door to his room opened and one of the nurses stepped in. It was Annette Brady, whom Glen had liked from the minute he was conscious enough to know who she was, but this morning her normally cheerful smile was nowhere to be seen.

“Yes?” she asked with a curtness that was as unusual as her scowl.

Suddenly Glen understood — Annette worked the swing shift, so she must have been called in early today. “Sorry about the ring,” he said. “I just had a nightmare, and when I woke up I thought I was having a heart attack.”

The nurse scanned the monitors above the bed. “Well, it all looks normal now.” She started out of the room.

“Gonna be a long one, huh?” Glen asked.

Annette Brady turned back. “No longer than usual.”

Frowning, Glen shifted his gaze to the clock. Seven-thirty?

How could it be seven-thirty? He hadn’t even awakened until—

No longer than usual?

His gaze shifted to the window. The streetlights were already on outside, and the last evening light was rapidly fading away. Had he been sleeping all day?

Why hadn’t they awakened him for dinner? This was a hospital — a couple of times they’d even awakened him to give him a sleeping pill! He was about to ask about it when he realized he wasn’t hungry. Now he began to feel totally disoriented. Had he forgotten the whole day? But maybe he was wrong — maybe they really had let him sleep. “I was just thinking, maybe if I could get something to eat—”

Annette Brady’s eyes widened. “After what you had for dinner, you’re hungry again?” She shook her head in resignation. “Okay, let me see what I can do. But if I can find something this late, I expect you to be polite about it, at least. Okay?”

As the nurse left the room, Glen tried to make sense of it. Obviously he’d eaten, and equally obviously he’d complained about the food. But he had no memory of the meal, any more than he could remember the rest of the day.

He glanced around the room as if hoping to find some clue, and the first thing his eyes fell on was a thick file folder lying on the table next to the bed. Picking it up, he opened it, and frowned. Anne’s file on Richard Kraven? What was it doing here?

She must have been here while he was asleep, and left it. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number, but even as Anne answered, he suddenly had a thought.

He was supposed to go home in a few days — if he’d had a memory loss, would they still discharge him?

Not a chance. They’d keep him here until they were certain they knew exactly what had caused it. So when Anne answered the phone, he hesitated. And while he hesitated, she spoke.

“So you decided to call and apologize, huh?” she asked, her voice only half bantering. “Where would you like to start? With me, or Kevin?”

Glen searched his mind. He couldn’t remember having talked to Anne at all that day, but he did recall talking to Kevin on the phone that morning, and asking him to bring some magazines to the hospital. His eyes flicked back to the bed table; the magazines lay under the file.

So at least Kevin had been there, and probably Anne, too.

“I guess it was just a bad day for me,” he said, uttering the total truth, but still not admitting his memory loss. “I’m really sorry, okay?” A minute later, after he’d repeated the apology to Kevin, Anne came back on the line.