Cat People (16 page)

"Oliver?"

He turned back to look at her.

"I don't expect to still be a virgin at twenty-two."

He held a severe expression for a moment, then broke into a grin. "Come on, you, upstairs. I've got to grab a couple of hours' sleep. I promised Brant I'd help him look for the leopard first thing in the morning."

Irena stopped before a glassed-in bookcase at the foot of the stairs. The books had been disarranged to make room for a heavy-caliber rifle.

"You're not a hunter?" she said.

Oliver turned on the stairway. "The rifle? No, I brought that home from the zoo earlier today. I just stuck it in there to get it out of the way until I take it back."

"I'm glad," Irena said. "I don't like people who kill for sport."

"Neither do I," Oliver said.

For a moment their eyes held, then he continued up the stairs. Irena followed him to a comfortable-looking room, simply furnished, with a large window that looked out on trees in the back yard. Oliver set her bag down on the floor at the foot of the bed.

"If you need me for anything, my room is right next door."

Irena shuddered, suddenly remembering the ugly events earlier in the evening.

Oliver saw the change in her expression. "Don't worry, Irena, they'll find Paul."

Her eyes were clouded. "I can't believe he did all those things the police say he did. Not my brother."

"He's not responsible," Oliver said gently. "He needs help. He'll get it when they find him." He stood in the doorway for a moment longer but saw that Irena was off somewhere in her own thoughts.

"Good night," he said. "I'll probably be out by the time you get up. Just make yourself at home."

When she was alone Irena began to undress. She pulled off the blouse she had hastily donned at the Gallier house and stood with her back to the mirror that hung over the bureau. By turning her head she could just see the marks of teeth where Paul had clamped onto the back of her neck. She touched the wound, found the sensation strangely pleasurable. Quickly she slipped off the rest of her clothes, turned out the lights, and got into bed.

Sleep did not come easily. The unfamiliar bed, the strange sounds inside and outside the house, the terrible events of the day, combined to keep Irena awake long past midnight.

When at last she did sleep, her dreams were worse than her waking fears. She was walking alone in a strange land where desert met jungle. In the distance loomed cool, misty mountains. It seemed to be night, yet Irena's vision in the dream was as keen as at midday.

Some force drew her on towards the jungle. Something there was calling her name. As she approached, moving effortlessly over the dream landscape, she could make out a standing figure at the edge of the jungle. A man. He beckoned her on. Irena felt a mixture of repulsion and desire. She floated toward the beckoning figure, unable to resist.

When she was almost close enough to make out his features, the dark figure moved back deeper into the jungle. Irena had no choice but to follow.

The thick, moist brush closed in around her. Up ahead one tree stood out from the rest. Its trunk was gnarled and twisted as though it writhed in agony. The branches spread a dark canopy that shut out the dream sky. The silent figure stood waiting for her at the base of the tree. It was Paul.

He was naked. His tall, sinewy body seemed to glow with a soft inner light. Irena saw his nakedness in every detail. Desire burned within her even as a voice in her head screamed
No! This is wrong!

She glided toward him. Her own body yearned to join with his. Paul held out his arms to her. Irena could feel the heat of him. Then she looked up into his face. It was the face of a cat.

Irena gasped. The sudden rush of air into her lungs awakened her. She looked about wildly for a moment, disoriented. She was not in her bed. She was standing, naked, in a strange room. On a bed before her, his body only partially covered by a sheet, lay Oliver Yates.

Shocked, Irena started to back away, but something held her where she stood. The hot desire she had known in the dream returned. She felt the dampness between her legs, and touched herself there.

Oliver stirred in his sleep, making a small sound. He rolled over and the sheet fell away completely. Irena devoured his body with her eyes. She longed to stroke his flesh, caress him, taste him.

She had no feeling for the passage of time as she stood there. Only the gray streaks of dawn at the window brought her back to the moment.

Silently she slipped out of Oliver's room and returned to her own. She got into bed and stroked the place where her thighs joined, until she fell at last into a dreamless sleep.

Irena awoke to a lovely, sun-bright day. The dreams of the night before, along with the embarrassing sleepwalking episode, were washed away by the fresh breeze that stirred the curtains and cooled her room.

She showered long and thoroughly, rubbing her skin pink with one of a stack of fluffy towels she found in the bathroom. She hoped Oliver would return before too long. She was anxious to hear his voice, see him smile.

She dressed quickly, packed her things away in drawers, and went downstairs. Feeling a little bit naughty, she prowled around the living room, looking at Oliver's things, touching some of them. It was a completely masculine room, but in no way cold. The colors were earth tones, the furniture comfortable. The place was reasonably clean, for a bachelor.

There were plants growing in sturdy pots around the room. That was unusual for a man living alone, but these were big, masculine plants, not the dainty little things some women talked to like babies. One wall was given over to framed photographs. Irena crossed the room for a closer look.

Most of the pictures were of animals, taken in their natural habitat. There were shots of Oliver in safari jacket and boots, looking very handsome. Often he was standing with native tribesmen. Africa? South America? Irena could not be sure.

There were pictures of Oliver and Alice Moore together. Apparently she accompanied him on at least some of the expeditions. In one of the photos they had their arms around each other and smiled happily out at the camera. Just good friends?

Irena felt a pang of jealousy. Why? Surely she did not think Oliver had never been with another woman? Why did it bother her to see him in such a familiar pose with his coworker? After all, she was the one living in his house now, not Alice Moore.

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.

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.