Cat People, page 13
A small sound from another part of the house distracted her from the photographs. She turned her head to listen. There was a metallic rattling, then a squawk.
Irena followed the sound into the small kitchen. A birdcage hung in the window above the sink. Inside the cage, with sunlight spilling in on it from the window, sat a green parakeet.
The little bird cocked its head and regarded her seriously.
Irena laughed and clapped her hands. "Hello, little one. Do you have a name?"
The bird squawked at her and shifted sideways along its wooden perch.
Irena came closer. "What a pretty thing you are. Don't be afraid."
The parakeet twittered and hopped about in the cage. It was so pretty, the feathers had such a lovely shading of green—light on the little chest, darker on the wings and the back. Irena had an overwhelming desire to touch it.
She unhooked the cagc door and reached in. At once the bird began flapping its wings, beating against the wire cage.
"Calm down, little bird," Irena said. "I'm not going to hurt you. I only want to play with you a little, that's all."
She touched the downy chest feathers, and the bird hopped frantically to the far side of the cage. Laughing, Irena followed it with her hand. She stroked a finger lightly down its back. The delicate wings quivered under her touch.
Irena tickled its feet. The bird gave a high-pitched, frightened peep and beat its wings, flying hard against the top of the cage. With no way out, the parakeet seemed to give up. It dropped to the bottom of the cage with a soft plop. The tiny body shivered for a moment, then lay still.
Irena's laughter died. She cupped the small creature in her hand and brought it out of the cage.
"What's the matter, little bird? I didn't mean to hurt you. It wasn't my fault."
There was no movement from the tiny bundle of feathers. The bright little eyes were closed. The parakeet was dead.
Irena bit her lip. What a terrible thing to happen on her first day in Oliver's house. What would he think of her? The first thought that came to her mind was that she must replace the bird. She knew it would not be the same, but at least it would show Oliver how sorry she was about it.
She carried the dead bird back to her bedroom. On a shelf in a closet there she found a shoe box with crumpled tissue paper inside. She wrapped the parakeet carefully in the tissue, put it in the box, and replaced the cover. Then she hurried downstairs to find the Yellow Pages.
The shop Irena selected was called Bird World. It was located on a quiet street a block from Canal. For a minute she stood outside, getting her breath under control, then walked into the store.
A bell on a spring jingled over the door as she entered. For a moment there was utter silence, then the shop was filled with the twitterings of hundreds of birds. They were locked in cages along both side walls and in the rear of the store. Several parrots and cockatoos, and one macaw, were on freestanding perches, secured by little tethers on their legs.
A tall storklike woman approached Irena. "May I help you?"
The chitter of the birds grew louder. The macaw spread his wings in a threatening manner.
Irena set the shoe box down on the counter and took off the lid. Carefully she folded back the tissue paper, exposing the dead parakeet.
"Oh, the poor little thing," said the stork lady. "What happened?"
"I don't know. It just... died. I wonder if you have another one here like it?"
The woman prodded the dead bird with her finger. She turned it over. "I would think so. This isn't a rare species. Come along and I'll show you what we have in parakeets."
The woman started for the rear of the store. Irena came around the counter to follow her.
Immediately the birds set up a fluttering and flapping that sounded like a huge wind through loose branches. Their chirping grew shrill and urgent.
"I don't know what's got into them," the stork woman said.
As Irena followed her between the cage-lined walls, she felt surrounded by flapping, beating, screeching life. It was as though the birds were trying to break out of their cages to attack her. Or possibly they were trying to get away.
The woman stopped when they were just halfway hack in the shop and turned to Irena. "I'm sorry. I don't understand what's the matter with the birds. I've never seen them act like this."
Irena looked sharply at the woman. Was there an accusation in her tone of voice? Could she somehow know how the little bird died?
All around her the birds cried, "Killer!" A thousand bright little eyes glittered in panic. Cages clattered and banged as the birds threw themself heedlessly against the wire.
"I am sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave," the woman said. "Something has badly upset the birds, and I'll have to close the store until I can get them settled down."
"Yes, of course." Irena took a last look around her, fighting down a growing panic of her own. She left the woman standing amid her terrified birds and fled, scooping the shoe box from the counter as she ran out.
Chapter 20
Billie Haines wandered unhappily among the grave markers in the New Orleans cemetery and thought black thoughts about the rotten vacation she was having after working for it all year in a Seattle insurance office. Like so many dumb mistakes, this had seemed like a good idea at the time. She thought she had it made when Carol Tetley suggested they share expenses on a vacation in New Orleans. Carol was the person Billie Haines would be if she could be reborn. Carol had naturally wavy hair, a perfect complexion, huge brown bedroom eyes, and tits that could stop traffic. The office studs hung around her like flies around a jam pot.
Not that Billie was such a dog. Actually, she was rather nice-looking. She simply did not have that secret ingredient Carol had that snapped men to attention. When she agreed to the joint vacation it was Billie's hope that some of Carol's magic might rub off. She fantasized about the platoons of dark-eyed men of New Orleans who, drawn to the gregarious Carol, would discover with pleasure the more subtle charms of her blonde friend.
Things had not worked out that way. Things had not even come close. They had arrived this morning, checked into a hotel, and gone into a local bar together this afternoon. Carol had attracted the men, all right, but as usual, Billie might as well have been invisible. She had sat with a smile frozen on her face, listening to the schlocky lines the men threw at Carol, praying that one of them might throw a little her way. None did.
Twenty minutes after they walked into the bar, Carol walked out with a bond salesman from Baltimore who looked like Burt Reynolds.
"You don't mind, do you, Billie?"
"Of course not." Oh, hell no.
"I'll see you later back at the hotel, okay?"
"Sure." Thanks heaps.
So here she was, wandering through a lousy cemetery trying to figure out how to kill the rest of the day. So deep in self-pity was Billie Haines that she did not see the approach of the tall man with the arresting eyes.
"It's quiet here, isn't it?"
She almost jumped out of her skin when the man spoke to her. Then she saw how good-looking he was and caught herself grinning like an idiot. Seemingly unable to stop herself, she babbled away about how she was not here for any morbid reason, and normally did not go strolling through graveyards, and she liked a little fun and excitement as well as the next person. One thing led smoothly to another, and even sooner than she had hoped Billie was having a drink with the tall stranger in a softly lighted bar.
"Paul is a nice name," Billie said, immediately regretting the inane comment.
The tall men did not seem to notice. His great luminous eyes watched her intently as she sipped the pink rum drink known locally as a hurricane.
"It's crowded in here, don't you think?"
Actually, Billie did not think so, but she was not about to disagree. "Yes," she said. "Lots of tourists, I guess."
"Can we go somewhere to be alone?"
It was like living out one of her fantasies. Trying to sound calm, she said, "My hotel isn't far from here. The room doesn't have much of a view, but—"
The man was obviously not interested in the view from Billie's room. Before she had the sentence out of her mouth he was signaling for the check, and a minute later they were leaving the bar, he with an intimate grip on her arm.
An hour after that both were in Billie's bed in the Hotel Emile Zola, naked. But Billie's romantic fantasy had come to a limp end some minutes before. Paul eat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped between his knees, staring morosely at the floor. Billie reclined beside him, stroking his bare back.
"Don't be upset, Paul," she told him. "These things happen sometimes."
Without looking at her, Paul said, "You're a nice girl, Billie. I like you."
"Well, that's no problem," she said. "I like you too."
"You don't understand."
Billie squirmed around on the bed and rubbed her hand across his flat stomach, down to his groin. It was remarkable, she thought, how little hair he had on his body. And his skin was so smooth. Like a baby's.
"You're just a little nervous," she said. "Lie back. Relax."
Paul sighed. A deep sigh brought up from his soul. He let Billie ease him down on the bed.
"Every time I pray it won't happen," he said. "God knows I don't want to—"
"Hush now," Billie said. "It's not the end of the world. You just lie there and let Billie do the work for a change."
He lay back flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling as Billie kissed his chest, his stomach. Her hot Little tongue explored his navel.
Billie felt the tension grow in his muscles as her lips brushed the silky hairs at his groin. She cupped his testicles in her hand, squeezing them gently.
Paul moaned. His flaccid penis stirred. He started to sit up.
Billie pushed him back down. "There, there, love, you just let me take care of this."
He lay back again, hie arms straight at his sides, hands balled into fists.
Billie stroked the shaft of his penis. It grew. She kissed the head.
"There, you see?" she said, her lips touching the velvety flesh. She opened her mouth and took him inside.
Paul tried to protest as Billie's lips closed over him, but the words would not come. The warm, wet inner mouth sucked at him, caressed him, brought him rapidly toward the release he so badly craved. And feared. It was too late now to stop it. He raised his hands to his face, saw the fingers bent into claws.
His back was pressing on something cold. There was a bright light shining in his face beyond his closed eyelids. He heard the splash of running water.
Paul opened his eyes. It took a moment for him to get oriented. He was lying naked on the tile of a bathroom floor. Water was running from the faucet into the sink above him. He looked at himself. His bare skin was moist and paler than ever.
It had happened again.
He got shakily to his feet and stood before the bathroom mirror with both hands braced on the sink. He turned off the blasting cold water and leaned closer to the glass to study his reflection. His pale, smooth flesh was unmarked, except for a flap of grayish membrane that adhered to his stomach. He peeled it off as one would peel a sunburn, raised it to his mouth and ate it.
He dreaded opening the bathroom door, but there was no postponing it. He had to go out through the bedroom. He wiped his face on one of the hotel towels and went out.
It was as bad as he feared. Blood was everywhere—in soggy pools on the carpet, spattered on the walls, even a streak of dark red on the ceiling. The rumpled bed sheets were soaked crimson. Tangled up in the bloody bedclothes were bits and pieces of the woman who had been Billie Haines, insurance secretary from Seattle.
Paul stepped carefully over the blood-soaked patches of carpet to the chair where his clothes lay neatly folded. On the floor near his shoes was a hand. It had been severed well above the wrist. Broken bones and gristly tendons protruded from the raw end. The hand lay palm up, the fingers reaching out as though in supplication.
He put on his clothes quickly, being careful not to look at the hand. When he was dressed, he eased open the door and peered out into the hall. For the moment it was deserted. He slipped out of Billie's room, letting the door latch behind him. He walked swiftly past the elevators, heading for the stairway.
Chapter 21
Oliver was tired when he keyed open the door to his little house on Burgundy Street. Riding around for hours in a vibrating helicopter, looking for the elusive black leopard, had led him with an aching back and a throbbing head. The thought of spending a relaxed evening at home with Irena cheered him.
He walked into the house. There were no lights on downstairs, and the room was in deep shadow.
"Irena?"
"Over here, Oliver."
He jumped at the sound of her voice. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw her sitting at his writing table, hands folded in her lap. He walked over to her.
"Are you all right?" He looked closer and saw the redness of her eyes. "You've been crying."
"A terrible thing happened today," she said.
"What?" Visions of monstrous attacks on the girl flashed through his tired mind.
There was a shoe box on the writing table. Irena pulled it over between them and gently unwrapped the tissue paper inside. Oliver looked in at the tiny body of the parakeet, then back at Irena.
"It's Peppy."
"I'm so sorry, Oliver."
He took the girl's hands and pulled her up so she stood facing him. "Darling, Peppy was just a bird. Birds die. He was getting old for a parakeet, anyway."
"He didn't just die, Oliver. I killed him."
"What do you mean?"
"I was only playing with him. I didn't want to hurt the little thing. I just reached into the cage to touch him and ... and he fell over. He was dead."
"You couldn't help that," Oliver said.
"No, listen to me, I think I frightened him to death."
"That's foolish, Irena. I told you Peppy was an old bird. It isn't your fault in any way." He put his arms around her, but she did not respond. Looking over her shoulder he saw for the first time her suitcase sitting on the floor next to the table.
"What's that?"
"It's better that I leave here, Oliver."
"Don't talk crazy. It was only a bird."
"That's not all of it. This afternoon I went downtown to a store where they sell birds. I was going to buy you a new one. But when I walked into the store all the birds started acting strangely. The closer I came to them, the more frantic they were. There's something wrong with me, Oliver. Those birds were terrified of me."
"Be reasonable, Irena. There could be any number of explanations for what happened."
"It's in the blood. That's what Paul told me. My mother and father, the way they died, now my brother. It's a taint that could be in my blood too. I don't want to involve you."
"Stop it," Oliver said. "There is no reason for you to believe that whatever has happened to Paul has anything to do with you."
"I think it does," she said quietly. "It will be better for both of us if I leave."
"You can't!" Oliver blurted. Then more calmly he added, "You can't leave, because I love you."
The tears Irena had been holding back spilled over and rolled down her cheeks. She hugged him. "Oliver, oh, Oliver, how can you love me when you know what I am? What I might become?"
"Hush, darling. This has been a rough couple of days for you."
"It'e not just what's been happening, it's what can happen in the future."
"Did you hear me say I love you?"
"Y—yes."
"I didn't mean just for tonight. What I mean is there will be two of us standing together in the future. You won't have to fight alone."
Irena looked up into his face. There was a hunger in her eyes. "Oh, I want so much to believe it can be that way."
"It can, darling," he said. "It can be any way we want to make it."
He kissed her, and this time she responded with her whole body. But after a minute she pulled away again.
"What if I told you I can't go to bed with you? Would you still want me to stay?"
"There's no rush about that. I want everything to be right for us."
"No, Oliver, I mean what if I could never make love to you the way I want to?"
"We'll talk about it," he promised, "but not tonight. We're both too tired to make heavy decisions. Let me take your bag back up to your room."
Irena did not object as he carried her suitcase up the stairs to her bedroom. They kissed lightly as she stood in the doorway, then Oliver left her and went to his own bed. He lay there for a long time running their conversation over in his mind, trying to understand what it meant.
Shortly after dawn he was awakened by the insistent ringing of the telephone. He stumbled down the stairs and grabbed the instrument, still not fully awake.
"Yeah?"
"Oliver? This is George Brant."
"Who?"
"Detective Sergeant George Brant, New Orleans Police Department."
"Oh, yeah. What's the matter?"
"I'd like you to come down to the Hotel Emile Zola. There's been a killing here."
"Somebody I know?"
"A tourist. Her name was Billie Haines."
Oliver was rapidly waking up and getting irritable. "The name means nothing to me. What's the matter, Sergeant, don't you have enough detectives?"
"This looks like the work of your leopard."
"In a hotel?"
"Don't ask me how or why, but that's what it looks like. The Haines woman was literally torn to pieces in her room. I've seen a lot of murder victims, but I've never seen one ripped apart like this. No human being could do it."
"All right," Oliver said, "I'll be there as soon as I can."
He hung up and stood for a moment frowning down at the telephone. What the hell kind of a cat was this? Massage parlor? Hotel? He picked up the phone again and called Alice Moore.
"Can you be ready to go downtown in ten minutes?" he said when her sleepy voice came on the wire.
