Carole Douglas - Cat in an Alphabet Soup

Better than you, Temple told herself. This was her first convention center job; most of the massive structure remained a mystery to her. She sat back; her stomach felt like a hollow-core door. It was not a pleasant sensation.

At six twenty-five Temple rose from her chair. She dared not show up early for her appointment with Baker and Taylor. Catching the catnapper in the act of restoration would be dangerous.

She hefted her tote bag over her shoulder and moved briskly out of the office. The high-rise heels of her shoes, a snappy pair of Weitzman sandals with multicolored straps, snapped on the hard-surface floor like firecrackers at her steps.

No sense in discretion at this late date, she told herself.

A few fluorescents shone high in the East Exhibition Hall rafters; otherwise, the exhibition floor was darkened. Booths and displays resembled huge, hunkering bears—regularly spaced but rough-silhouetted. Unpredictable.

The zebra-striped carousel figure leaped out of the darkness as she passed and the wan light tangled in its glitter-strewn mane.

Temple didn’t scream but her heart was pounding faster than her shoes. What if she got there and Baker and Taylor weren’t there? What if the catnapper had defaulted?

Or if she arrived and the catnapper was still there? Or if the catnapper was the murderer? Well, why not? She could think of no reason why he—she—should be, but Royal had been stabbed with a knitting needle—a woman’s weapon. Now a woman had picked up the ransom money.

Baker and Taylor and bears. Baker and Taylor and bears. Baker and Taylor and—uh! Temple breathed again. She backed away from a life-size cutout of Mel Gibson that promoted a series of Mad Max novels. She remembered now. Only an apocalyptic cardboard man.

The Baker & Taylor booth was just ahead. Temple stepped more measuredly, crossing onto the carpeting that defined the B & T area as soon as possible.

The silence was stunning. Her steps had hailed on the hard floor. Now, not even an echo rattled in the steel rafters above. Light reflected from the Plexiglas sides of the Baker & Taylor cat house. Temple saw indistinguishable humps within—real, or Electra’s handiwork? She edged closer, hoping, really hoping.

It was too dim to tell; her own reflection jeered back at her, an out-of-focus doppelganger. Temple leaned her face against the transparent plastic. Come on, Baker, shake a leg! All right, Taylor, do something. Twitch a whisker or wash an ear....

No. Nothing but a pair of pillows. A flicker of motion in the murky Plexiglas mirror. Something behind her—

Temple whirled. Something struck her, pushed her into the display case so hard she would have fallen if it hadn’t been there. Her stomach hurt, possibly because her bulky tote bag had knocked into her ribs with tremendous force. She couldn’t catch her breath, and then it exploded free.

Temple scrambled away, around the booth. She saw no one now, but remembered a presence caroming by, definitely human, not feline.

The carpet continued for the length of a half-dozen booths. Temple edged along on it until she could duck behind another display piece, an island of Formica in an uncertain sea of darkness and silence and danger.

She pulled off one high heel, then another, and jammed them in her tote bag. Her hand brushed the bag’s outside and stopped. Something was wrong. There was a hole in the front surface of the bag. Her fingertip circled it in the dark, the jagged place where the tough fabric had given. It was a Goldilocks kind of hole, too small for a bullet and too large for a moth, but just right for... a knitting needle!

Temple dug a shoe from the bag and held it by its toe. Its heel made a better weapon than wishful thinking.

She slowly pushed herself upright against the display unit. Playing hide-and-seek as a kid, she recalled, she’d panic as the seeker passed within inches of her hiding place. She’d also believed that if she said “invisible, disappear” often enough, fast enough, she would.

Not here.

Here she’d have to find a way out. Here she’d have to gamble on where would be safe and the best route to get there.

First, no phones on the exhibit floor. Her office? Known to whoever had left the notes. The guards? Somewhere, but where at this exact minute?

All the while thinking, Temple had been creeping in her stocking feet, tote bag over her shoulder and clutched to her side like the shield it had become, her shoe heel a sharp exclamation point in her fist.

She heard nothing but her own unavoidable rustles; the rasp of her breathing. Perhaps the person had gone. But why? She was still helpless, alone, in the dark. Only not quite alone, as Chester Royal had been not quite alone just four days ago.

He had not struggled. Perhaps he hadn’t expected a blow. Temple expected one every second. Knowledge is power, but this was a paralyzing knowledge, a knowledge of terror. Temple forced herself to keep moving into uncertainty.

She avoided the rear service areas. She would be expected there. As she plunged deeper into the dark of the convention center she rifled her mind for any memory of a way out. There was always the Rotunda reception area, but it offered no concealment.

A poster flapped not far away. Someone’s passage had stirred it. Did he see her? Was it a he? Irrelevant. The person she sensed brushing against her had seemed large, but everyone did to her. The blow had been strong, though. Tightening the grip on her tote bag, Temple’s fingertips worried the ragged interruption in the fabric. It was like picking at a scab. She could picture a thin steel needle piercing her flesh and angling up to her heart.

And then she confronted a choice. Stay here in the vast outer limits of the hall, or take the corridor that had just opened up beside her. Trap or escape route? Time would tell.

Temple put her left shoulder to the corridor wall and ran along it, feet shuffling along the floor. No slips. No sounds. No panic. Delete that. No more panic. No, stet that. Panic!

A soft sound, gentle as a muffled cough, came from behind her. The corridor offered a left turn. She took it. Where was she, damn it!

She looked back, seeing only dim shapes, and her hip collided with an obstacle. A drinking fountain by the cool, smooth stainless steel under her hands. Temple’s mouth was parched. Her tongue was sticking to her upper palate; her lips adhered to her teeth,

She moved around the fountain, then clung to the wall again. Looked back and saw a shadow growing, looked ahead to run—and saw it! The escape hatch she’d hoped for... a box on the wall.

She ran, her tote bag slapping noisily against her side. The glass door yanked open more easily than she expected. The big red bar—she had no time to squint at the instructions and get it right—was stiff, harder to move than she thought, and she had only one hand because the other held the shoe uplifted.

An overtaking shadow engulfed her just as the lever hit the backplate with a bang. Something was pressing Temple to the wall by her neck. Blood swelled and thickened to pudding in her ears. A horrible muffled clanging exploded all around. The Weitzman heel hammered down into flesh.

Footsteps were slapping in between the constant clangs. The floor throbbed. The wall behind Temple throbbed. Her head and heart throbbed in ponderous four-four time.

Then Temple was alone with the unholy clamor of the fire-alarm box, and someone wearing a billed cap was running down the hall toward her swearing vigorously.

They were the sweetest four-letter words she’d ever heard.

“I’m sorry, Miss Barr. I thought it was a prank.”