You Only Live Nine Times, page 16
Scarlett, walking behind them, rolled her eyes. “This is even worse than when Rachel watches Felicity,” she muttered.
As they turned the corner onto the street where Marc and Natalie lived, all four cats froze. Down at the end of the block, they could see a figure emerging from Marc's backyard, moving silently and with deliberate stealth. He wore dark clothing and what appeared to be a ski mask pulled over his face.
"Look," Scarlett hissed, crouching instinctively lower to the ground.
The masked intruder closed Marc's gate behind him, the soft click of the latch audible in the quiet night. Homer's ears swiveled toward the sound, tracking the man's footsteps as he moved away from the house.
"He's carrying something," Vashti whispered, her green eyes narrowed. "In his right hand. Something small."
"Evidence." Kotik’s voice was no louder than Vashti’s. "He must have been looking for something in Marc's house."
"This could be the killer." Scarlett’s tail twitched anxiously. "We can't let him get away."
"But what are we supposed to do?" Vashti's voice held a note of desperation. "It’s not like we can walk over and ask him what he’s doing here."
Homer's ears were aloft, his head moving evenly from side to side in a way that Rachel always said reminded her of a sonar dish. He catalogued every sound, from the soft scrape of the man's shoes against pavement to the distant rustle of palm fronds in the night breeze. Then he heard something new—the distinctive rubbery flap of a doggie door opening.
"Hot Mike," Homer whispered.
A moment later, Hot Mike burst into his backyard, his powerful form illuminated by the security light that had clicked on at his movement. The German Shepherd's ears were pricked forward, his entire body tense as he detected the intruder. With a deep, resonant bark that shattered the night's stillness, Hot Mike announced his presence.
The masked man started visibly, his head whipping around as he took in the former police dog’s massive size. Then he broke into a run.
Homer didn't think—he simply acted. Before Vashti or Scarlett could stop him, he darted after the fleeing figure, his small black body a swift shadow against the pale sidewalk.
"Homer!" Vashti cried out, but he was already gone, guided by the sound of the man's pounding footsteps.
The three remaining cats stared at each other in horror.
"What do we do?" Kotik’s voice rose in alarm.
Vashti made a split-second decision. She raced toward Natalie's yard where Hot Mike still barked from behind the chest-high wooden fence that confined him.
"Hot Mike!” she called. “You have to help Homer!”
The surprise of hearing Vashti’s familiar voice in such an unexpected context silenced Hot Mike. None of his feline friends had ever been to his and Natalie’s house before, and nothing he could think of would account for why they were here now.
“We think that man may have killed Daisy and Marc.” Vashti was frantic, and she sounded it. “Who knows what he’ll do if Homer actually catches up to him?”
“Wait…Marc is dead?!” Hot Mike’s mind tried to process this new—and astonishing—piece of information.
“Marc is dead, we think that man might have killed him, and Homer’s chasing after him.” Even Scarlett was beginning to panic. “Now you know everything we know.”
The German Shepherd hesitated, his training warring with his instinct to protect. "I can't leave the yard without Natalie," he woofed softly. "Those are the rules."
"You're a police dog!" Vashti's voice rose an octave. "Isn't stopping criminals what you were trained for?"
"Was," Hot Mike corrected stiffly. "I was a police dog. But I failed."
"You didn't fail at anything that mattered!" Vashti's white fur bristled. "Homer needs you! You’re the only one who can help him!"
Hot Mike's ears flattened against his head, his mind roiled by competing loyalties. What would Natalie want him to do? On the one hand, she’d very firmly impressed upon him that he was never, ever, to leave the yard without her. But surely Natalie wouldn’t want Homer—who was almost comically tiny from Hot Mike’s perspective—to chase a possible murderer through the streets of Coacoochee without any backup at all. Hot Mike shifted his feet uncertainly as he tried to decide.
Vashti could read the conflict plainly in his large brown eyes, and her impatience grew until it was unbearable. "HOT MIKE!” Her normally elegant voice rose to a sharp, desperate shriek that reverberated off nearby houses to echo through the silent streets. Cats for blocks around—indoor and outdoor alike—woke from naps or paused in the middle of foraging through trash cans to lift their heads in wonder and alarm. Even Kotik gaped at Vashti with open-mouthed astonishment.
“GO GET HOMER!” Vashti yowled at the top of her lungs. “GO GET HOMER, HOT MIKE!”
Hot Mike turned his back on her and galloped away toward the house. For a terrifying heartbeat, Vashti thought he intended to disappear through the doggy door—to go back inside and abandon Homer to whatever fate had in store for him.
But when he reached the opposite side of the yard, Hot Mike turned to face her again. Then he broke into a run. He reached the wooden fence within seconds and, with a single powerful leap, cleared it to land on the other side. Without breaking stride, Hot Mike accelerated to the top speed his legs were capable of, and he raced off in the direction Homer and the intruder had gone.
"He's going after them." Vashti’s voice was hoarse and trembling with relief.
Scarlett came up beside her. "They'll be okay," she said, although she sounded less than convinced. “Remember the vet’s office? Homer’s a lot tougher than he looks.”
Vashti didn’t say what she was thinking—that the only reason Homer had been able to “overpower” all three vet techs was because they were reluctant to take even the smallest risk of hurting him. It was this unwillingness to fight back that had allowed Homer to subdue three humans so easily.
Somehow, Vashti doubted that the man who might have killed Daisy and Marc would show similar restraint.
Homer's paws flew over the pavement as he followed the sound of retreating footsteps. His nose and whiskers mapped every obstacle—parked cars, street lamps, hedges. His heart thrummed against his ribs, and each breath came in a short, sharp pull. Homer had never run this far or this fast before. His ability to mentally map the space around him as he went was less accurate than it normally was, and every so often he’d stumble over an unexpected tree root that pushed up the sidewalk, creating cracks and hillocks.
Nevertheless, Homer felt glorious. The thrill of the chase brought with it a crystalline feeling of elation, and everything contributed to it—the wind in his face, the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears. Even the uncertainty of what would happen when he finally caught the man (Homer refused to think in terms of “if”) was more exhilarating than otherwise.
Yet Homer could feel his strength beginning to flag. He tripped over a child’s roller skate that had been left in the middle of the sidewalk, and in the time it took him to recover, he could hear the masked man widen his lead. He’d been nearly a full block ahead when Homer had begun chasing him—and even though Homer had closed much of that gap, if the man didn’t slow down soon, Homer might actually lose him.
But the man was tiring, too. The jagged rasp of his breath made clear he was winded. The sound of it became louder in Homer’s ears as the man turned his head to look behind him. It was doubtful he even realized that a small black cat was chasing him, and he might have stopped running altogether.
If not for what he saw coming up fast on Homer’s tail.
Homer heard it at the same moment the man saw it—the steady four-beat cadence of a large dog running at full tilt. The sound grew rapidly closer.
The intruder took a deep breath and lunged forward in a desperate increase of speed just as something gripped Homer by the scruff of his neck. He felt his paws leave the ground as Hot Mike's teeth gently but firmly lifted him.
For a disorienting moment, Homer was airborne. Then he landed on Hot Mike's broad back, instinctively digging his claws into the German Shepherd's thick fur to secure himself.
“Don’t let him get away, Hot Mike!” Homer pleaded, afraid the oversized dog would take him straight back to Marc’s house.
But Hot Mike was now in full pursuit mode. “Hold on tight,” he growled through clenched teeth, never breaking stride.
Homer flattened himself against Hot Mike's back, feeling the powerful muscles working beneath him as the two of them—cat and dog—raced through the night. The sensation was like flying, but safer, anchored to Hot Mike's steady strength.
"He's turning left," Homer directed, his acute hearing tracking their quarry.
Hot Mike adjusted course, his nails clicking against the pavement as they hurtled through the night. The wind rushed past them, carrying a kaleidoscope of scents: flowering jasmine, the chlorine from a nearby pool, the lingering exhaust from parked cars.
Occasionally, when the wind shifted, Homer caught tantalizingly familiar traces of the man they were pursuing—something that tugged at his memory, a scent he knew but couldn't place. But these moments were fleeting, disrupted by the overpowering aromas of garbage night in Coacoochee. The trash cans awaiting morning pickup created an olfactory obstacle course that confounded even Homer's exceptional nose.
"Can you smell him?" Hot Mike asked between breaths.
"Not clearly," Homer admitted. "There's something familiar, but the garbage is getting in the way. Plus, we're upwind. I keep getting hints of something I've smelled before, but I can't place it."
They raced down a side street and through a narrow passage. Homer realized they were heading into a more commercial area—he could smell the restaurants and shops of Hibiscus Road drawing nearer.
"He's slowing," Homer whispered as the footsteps ahead grew more hesitant. "I think he's trying to figure out where to go."
Suddenly, the footsteps quickened again, then turned sharply. The echoing quality of the sounds told Homer they'd entered a narrow space—an alley, perhaps.
"Blind alley off Hibiscus Road," Hot Mike confirmed, his pace slowing as they approached. "He's trapped."
They rounded the corner to find the masked figure facing a tall, chain link fence. The man whirled around when he heard them enter, his breath coming in quick gasps. For a tense moment, predator and prey regarded one another.
Then the man turned and leaped for the fence, scrabbling for handholds. As he did, something slipped from his grasp, fluttering to the ground like a fallen leaf.
The man froze, one leg already hooked over the fence top. He hesitated, clearly torn between escaping and retrieving whatever he'd dropped.
Hot Mike stepped forward, his posture alert but controlled. With a precision that spoke of his training, he placed one large paw directly over the fallen object and fixed the intruder with a steady gaze. A low, rumbling growl rose from his chest—not aggressive, but unmistakably a warning.
The man made his choice. With a final glance at what he'd lost, he hauled himself over the fence and disappeared.
Hot Mike's growl faded to silence as the sound of retreating footsteps grew fainter. Homer slid from the dog's back, landing softly on the alley floor.
"We lost him." Frustration and exhaustion were evident in Homer’s breathless voice. "I can’t believe we ran all this way for nothing."
“He did get away,” Hot Mike admitted, “but he dropped what he was carrying.” Hot Mike was also winded, and he panted as he sniffed at the object the masked man had left behind. “It looks like a photograph—that instant kind, with the white border around it.”
“What’s in the picture?” Homer sat on his haunches and bent his head forward to sniff at the Polaroid photo still pinned beneath Hot Mike’s enormous front paw.
Hot Mike cautiously lifted his paw and studied the image. "It shows two people at what looks like a party,” he finally said. “There's a woman I don't recognize—dark hair, younger than Natalie."
"And?" Homer prompted. “Is there anybody else in the picture with her?”
"There’s a man standing next to her with his arm around her shoulders." Hot Mike brought down his head to examine the picture more closely. “It looks like Julian Singer-Adams.”
Vashti’s eyes remained fixed on the shadowy street where Homer and Hot Mike had disappeared. "They should have been back by now." Her tail swished with uncharacteristic impatience.
Kotik paced between two ornamental palms, his black-and-white tuxedo fur blending with the shadows. Every few moments, he paused to glance at Vashti, then quickly looked away when she turned in his direction.
Scarlett had made the reluctant decision to lie down in the grass, her exhaustion after two near-sleepless nights overruling her innate distaste for the outdoors. The grass was damp with dew and tickled the fur of her belly uncomfortably. “I’ll bet they never even catch up to him,” she asserted calmly. Nevertheless, her yellow-green eyes flicked repeatedly toward the empty street.
The sound of a large dog barking softly made all three cats perk up their ears. Relief washed over them as, a moment later, the duo appeared around the corner of Marc's yard—Hot Mike's powerful form moving with surprising grace, Homer perched triumphantly atop his broad back.
“Oh, thank goodness!” Vashti bounded forward to meet them. “Don’t you ever do anything like that again, Homer!” she scolded. “That was unbelievably stupid! You could have gotten yourself lost or even killed!”
Homer leapt nimbly to the ground, where Vashti immediately and aggressively began grooming the top of his head with her tongue. “I’m fine. Leave me alone,” he grumbled, pulling away irritably. He didn’t at all appreciate the way Vashti was treating him like a little kid, even though he’d just returned unharmed from a daring mission with Hot Mike—the manliest man Homer knew.
Scarlett rarely found herself in the role of peacemaker, but she was anxious to get on with the investigation so they could all return as quickly as possible to the safety and comfort of their own homes. “All’s well that ends well,” she said with inarguable finality. “Did you catch him or not?
“No, but we got this.” Homer tilted his head in Hot Mike’s direction, and the dog set down the Polaroid he’d been carrying in his mouth.
The four cats and one dog formed a curious circle around the photograph. Even in the moonlight, they could clearly see Julian Singer-Adams, his arm draped casually over the shoulders of a pretty, dark-haired young woman. A man’s hand—likely the hand of the person who’d taken the picture—was just visible in the lower left-hand corner of the photo, pointing at Julian and the woman as if directing them into a pose. Both Julian and the mysterious woman were smiling broadly.
"That's Julian," Vashti mused, her delicate head tilted thoughtfully. "But who's the woman with him?"
Kotik hovered at the edge of their circle. "I should get home," he said reluctantly.
Vashti's expression softened as she turned to him. "Thank you for your help, Kotik. You were very brave."
The compliment sent a visible thrill through the young tuxedo cat. He stood a little taller, and his bottle-brush tail fluffed out handsomely. "I'd do anything to help you—all of you, I mean," he added hastily.
Scarlett graciously pretended to examine a nearby garden gnome. "We should check inside the house," she said, as Kotik padded off in the direction of Hibiscus Road. "The back window is still open where that man broke in."
The partially opened window provided just enough space for the cats to slip through one by one, with Homer navigating by sound and scent. Once inside, Scarlett stood on her hind legs atop a kitchen chair, her front paws manipulating the doorknob until the back door swung open to admit Hot Mike. Her agility with doors and drawers was a skill Scarlett had honed purely as a matter of principle; the very idea of being locked out of, or away from, anything she might happen to want was an intolerable affront to her dignity.
"Impressive." The German Shepherd padded inside and surveyed the kitchen with professional interest.
The darkness of Marc's house enveloped the four of them like velvet, shadows pooling in corners and stretching between furniture in ways that would have left humans fumbling and disoriented. But to Vashti and Scarlett, the nighttime gloom merely transformed the colors around them into various shades of silver and blue—the outlines of furniture, picture frames, and household objects all perfectly distinct to their nocturnal vision, as if the house had been redrawn in a moonlit palette specifically for feline eyes.
To Homer, of course, the lack of lighting made no difference at all. “Let me know if you need help finding your way around,” he whispered to Hot Mike, whose nighttime vision was much better than a human’s—but still nothing compared to Homer’s keen senses.
The kitchen felt still and uncluttered, with few interesting smells. A mug holding tea sat half-empty on the counter, a paperback lay splayed open on the table, and a jacket hung carelessly over a chair back—all evidence of a life interrupted mid-sentence.
Their exploration led inevitably to the living room, where Marc Gottsegen lay on the polished hardwood floor, motionless in the moonlight that dappled the room around him. His nose was heavily bandaged, the skin around it swelling in a way that indicated he would likely have woken up with two black eyes in the morning.
Now he would never wake up at all.
Homer began a thorough sensory investigation, his nose working to catalog the information a sighted cat might miss. He detected the same unusual smell he'd first noticed on Daisy—something bitter and floral with medicinal undertones.
“Poison,” Vashti breathed, when Homer reported his findings. “It must be. First Daisy just days ago, and now Marc.”
Hot Mike circled Marc's body, his trained nose detecting additional information. "There are hospital smells, too," he observed. "Antiseptic, bandages."
