Nine Lives Last Forever (27 page)

Whump.
The flashlight’s beam bounced wildly across the substructure.

“What happened?” I called down through the hatch.

“It turns out it’s rather slippery down here.”

I glanced over at Isabella and shook my head. Stretching my back, I leaned away from the hatch again, this time surveying the surroundings of the janitor’s closet.

Sam’s cleaning cart, far grungier than the one I had been wheeling around, was pushed to one side. A collection of mops, brooms, and a dingy-looking mop bucket filled in the rest of the space. On the back wall, running just beneath the ceiling, a rectangular window similar to the one in Monty’s office let in a streak of light from a streetlamp outside.

“Why don’t you come on back up?” I asked, shivering from the eerie emptiness of the basement. “And make sure you bring Rupert.”

Monty’s voice seemed far away. “Yep, yep, yep. Don’t worry. We’re headed back your way . . . hey, what’s this?”

I leaned back over the hole. Monty panned the flashlight toward the edge of the underground area. The lip of the concrete moat that surrounded the foundation was barely visible in the beam of light. The earth around the moat seemed to be undulating with mounded movements.

I watched as Monty bent over the side of the moat and trained the flashlight into its curved depth.

“It’s full of water,” he said, his voice transmitting bewilderment.

I glanced up at the ceiling in the janitor’s closet. “It’s a moat, isn’t it?”

Monty cleared his throat authoritatively. “That’s just a term of art . . . in, ah, earthquake retrofitting technology. This isn’t a castle. It’s not supposed to have water in it.”

“Who knew?” I whispered, raising an eyebrow at Isabella. She looked unimpressed.

Monty’s voice continued to report up through the hatch. “The moat is completely full. There must be hundreds of gallons of water in it. All flowing around in a circle. Round and round and round . . .”

I jerked my shoulders to the side as a second frog popped up from the substructure and into the janitor’s closet. Isabella watched as it hopped out the door and into the hallway. With a petulant sideways glance at me, she rested her head on her front paws.

Monty was still inspecting the moat. “There are millions of tiny black things swimming around in the water. Comma-shaped dots with tails.”

I stared down into the darkness, trying to interpret his observations. “Tadpoles?”

Monty’s response came echoing back. “Yes, yes, the moat is teaming with tadpoles.”

“That explains where all of the frogs are coming from,” I replied.

“Ooh! Hey, there goes one with legs. Half-frog, half-pole. Look at that, Rupert. Fascinating.”

Rupert made a murmur that sounded like concurrence.

“The note said to
follow
the frogs,” I called down into the hole as I dodged yet another exiting frog. “There appears to be a number of them leaving your area.”

There was a splash, followed by a sliding scramble.

“Ha, ha, get back here buddy,” Monty said, laughing loudly. “Hey,” he called up. “Rupert and I nearly landed in the moat.”

“Are you two coming back already?” I was starting to get impatient.

Another sliding slurp emanated from the substructure.

“Whoa, watch out there Rupert, the ground is really—slick.”

A deep silence filled the hatch.

“Is it muddy from the water?” I asked.

“No,” Monty replied, sounding somewhat perturbed.

“All of the water is in the moat.” He grumbled a further comment beneath his breath.

“What’s that?” I yelled down to him. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“There’s an awful lot of frogs down here. Thousands of them, I’d guess. I can’t hardly move without stepping on one. All of these frogs have . . . ahem . . . left their mark. The ground is covered with, well . . . it’s quite unpleasant really.”

Monty’s voice took on an anguished tone. “I’m afraid it’s frog”—he sighed in disgust—“fecal material.”

THE CAT MONTY
hoisted up through the hatch was far less white and decidedly less fluffy than the one who had dropped down it. Rupert’s furry, round body was covered with sticky patches of brown smudge; his mottled coat was now redolent with the musty, earthy smell of the substructure.

Rupert looked at me gratefully as I wrapped my hands around his belly and gingerly pulled him up into the janitor’s closet. I carried him out to the hallway and carefully deposited him on top of the old towels inside the cart. Suspicious brown smears were now streaked up and down my front. There was no longer any need to worry that Sam might realize that I had washed his spare overalls, I thought ruefully.

Monty’s head and shoulders emerged from the hatch as I returned to the janitor’s closet. He was besmirched from head to toe with the same brown smudges.

“Here I come,” he announced, dropping his battered top hat on the floor beside the opening. With a heave, he hauled his body midway up the ledge so that he could squeeze a knee over onto the floor. After a moment of groaning exertion, he managed to stand up next to the hole.

“Well, now we know where the frogs are coming
from
,” I said, staring at Monty’s rumpled tuxedo. I pulled the piece of paper with Oscar’s scrawled handwriting out of one of my pockets. “Now we just have to figure out where they’re
going
.”

Monty raised a soiled finger and then pointed it down into the hole as yet another green frog zoomed up onto the floor of the janitor’s closet. Monty’s finger traced the frog’s path as it hopped out the door.

The tiny frog glanced back at us nervously as we stepped into the hallway. Then, it took a long leap forward. “There it goes,” Monty said enthusiastically. “The same direction as the frogs we saw earlier.”

A second frog peeked out the door of the janitor’s closet. It blinked up at us as its hind legs squirmed back and forth with indecision, and then it, too, scooted down the hallway.

Isabella sniffed the air with renewed interest and made as if she were about to go after them. I scooped her up and siphoned her into a spot in the cart next to Rupert.

“Let’s go,” I said as I grabbed the cart’s handle.

“Hold on for just one minute,” Monty said briskly. “I’ve got a roll of paper towels in my office.” He pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door next to the janitor’s closet.

As I waited for Monty to rummage through his office for the paper towels, I glanced up at the window running along the top of the back wall.

“Monty,” I called after him, remembering Sam’s troubled expression at the end of our last meeting. “What’s the story with your window?”

“Ah yes,” he reflected. “The window.” He ran his hand over his head, trying to smooth out the mangled crest of his pompadoured hair. “You don’t want to get Sam started on the window story. We’d still be here listening to it if I hadn’t dragged you off down the hallway.”

Monty strode behind his desk to peer out the rectangular opening, absentmindedly tapping the wall next to the Mayor’s photo as he walked past it.

“You see, this is the window the Supervisor came through the morning he shot Milk and Moscone.”

Monty turned back to face me. “The basement windows didn’t have bars over them in those days. The man simply slid in here with his guns and ammo, took the back stairs up to the second floor, and bullied his way into the Mayor’s office. He shot Mayor Moscone; then he walked down the second floor corridor, pretty as you please, and shot Harvey Milk. It all happened so quickly, the guy was gone before anybody realized what had happened.”

Monty leaned over his desk toward me. “The janitor saw the shooter sneak in through the window. He asked the Supervisor what he was doing, but the man just gave him the brush-off. The janitor was outranked, you see.”

Monty shrugged. “It wasn’t the first time a Supervisor had squeezed in one of the basement windows. Apparently several of them had the habit of going through the basement to get around the security scanners on the main floor.”

Monty bent down to the desk and opened a side drawer. He pulled out a roll of paper towels, ripped one off, and began wiping the larger smudges from his tuxedo. “At least this is a rental,” he muttered glibly.

Another frog hopped past my cart in the hallway. “There’s another one,” Monty called out. “Keep an eye on it, will you? I’ll be ready in just a second.”

I stood in the doorway, staring at the little green frog, watching its determined progress down the hallway. Monty dropped the used paper towel into a trashcan, strolled around the desk, and ushered me the rest of the way out the door.

“Look! It’s turning the corner,” Monty cried as he sped off down the hallway. The slick soles of his dress shoes left a trail of brown smudges on the floor tiles behind him.

“Wait,” I said, still pondering Sam and the window story. “The janitor who saw the Supervisor come in through the window, was that . . . ?”

Monty was already ten feet down the hallway when he spun around to face me. “Sam’s father,” he said, nodding. “It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t have done anything to stop it. But the man was never quite the same afterward. They say the guilt tormented him for the rest of his life.”

I rolled the cart toward Monty as he spoke. He grabbed the opposite side of it and leaned toward me for a loud whisper.

“The man finally killed himself about fifteen years after the murders, I think. That’s when Sam took over as head janitor.”

Monty leaned back and tapped the side of his head knowingly. “Trust me, you don’t want to get Sam going on about his father. It’s a bit creepy. He talks about him as if he’s still alive.”

Monty swirled his finger in the air suggestively. “Don’t get me wrong, I like Sam, but he’s a bit cuckoo, in case you haven’t noticed.”

WE FOLLOWED A
very self-conscious frog all the way down the dimly lit hallway. Every so often, the frog paused to look back at the motley caravan trailing behind him.

Monty pranced back and forth across the tile floor, swishing his top hat and tails as he circled dance steps around the cart. I shoved the cart forward, ignoring his antics and trying not to trip over the rolled-up pant legs of my overalls.

The frog neared the end of the hallway and turned toward us, his green face twitching with consternation. Monty bent his lanky body toward the floor, dropping to one knee to bring his face closer to eye level with our amphibian ambassador.

“Hello there, little friend,” Monty said cordially. “Don’t mind us. You continue on about your business. We’re just here to observe.”

Monty whispered a loud aside in my direction. “
And follow you to the pot of gold
.”

Eying Monty warily, the frog thumped its right leg against the tile floor.

“Ah!” Monty cried out. The soles of his shoes slapped against the floor as he lifted off of his knee and jumped up onto both feet. Monty bent at his knees, so that he assumed a crouched position somewhat similar to that of the frog. With a dramatic flick of his top hat, Monty tapped his right leg against the floor, miming the frog’s thump.

The frog took a moment to consider this overture. His red tongue slid out and slapped the side of his mouth. I watched, shaking my head, as Monty attempted the same.

Isabella hopped up on her haunches to look over the edge of the cart. Exhausted by the lateness of the hour and his adventure in the substructure, Rupert snuggled down into the pile of blankets and settled in for a nap.

On the floor in front of us, Monty continued to ape and impersonate the frog. “Come on, little guy,” Monty wheedled, still in his crouched frog-imitating stance. “Where are you going? I’m a frog, just like you. Lead the way.”

I don’t think that the frog was the least bit convinced by Monty’s ruse, but he did finally turn and hop the rest of the way down the hallway. With a last disconcerted glance back at us, he turned the corner and disappeared.

Monty’s face gleamed with excitement. “I really think I got through to him,” he said proudly. “I think we connected—you know, on a man-to-frog level.”

I sighed, ruefully reflecting that I had willingly involved myself in this ridiculous caper.

With exaggerated hand gestures, Monty motioned for me to follow him as he tracked after the hapless frog. Reluctantly, I wheeled the cart forward, flicking on the flashlight I’d commandeered from Monty when he emerged from the hatch in the janitor’s closet. As Monty and I rounded the corner, I swung the beam down the length of the corridor.

I had to set aside my doubts regarding the logic of Monty’s frog theory as he and I both stopped and stared at the scene in front of us.

A pile of frogs had congregated on the tile floor at the bottom of the basement stairs that led up to the first floor. There were hundreds of frogs, waddling this way and that as if they were mingling at a cocktail party—a moist green ribbiting mass. We watched, amazed, as one by one, they each took their turn leaping up the stairs.

Isabella was plastered to the edge of the cart, her eyes fixated on the surreal landscape in front of the stairs.

I glanced down into the middle of the cart to check on Rupert. He had rolled over onto his back so that his stomach pouched upward. All four feet were folded and hanging limply in the air.

The frogs didn’t seem to notice us at first, but as we edged toward them, the flashlight’s focused beam grew stronger, and the throngs began to stir. Their croaking sounds took on a more concerned tenor.

The wheels on the cart ran over a divot in the tile floor, causing a loud squeak. Like a flock of wild birds, the frogs took off, en masse, up the stairs.

It was an amazing sight—a dark, flying tangle of muscular back legs and webbed, streaming feet, the bodies of individual frogs almost indistinguishable in the hurtling pack. The frogs reached a flat mezzanine midway up the stairs and rounded its turn in perfect unison, disappearing almost instantly up the rest of the staircase.