The Tell-Tail Heart: A Cat Cozy (Cattarina Mysteries) (5 page)

Hunting the Spider

B
ig Blue and his extended family
lived behind the Eastern State Penitentiary, near the northwest corner, away
from the houses and roads. I'd spent long afternoons in the field separating
our neighborhood and the prison, observing the band of ferals as one might a
bird through a window. An extraordinary strategist, Big Blue moved his troops
with the passage of the sun, staying hidden in the building's shadow for much
of the day. When individuals ventured into the light, they did so with great
speed and cunning. This hearkened back to something my Auntie Sass taught me: unseen
cats are safe cats. I hadn't seen Sass since Eddie adopted me, but I thought of
the cream-colored longhair often and the wooden crate we shared behind Osgood's
Odd Goods. If not for her, I would've starved on the streets after my mother
died.

I turned and looked toward home. Eddie and Mr.
Coffin, no bigger than fleas at this distance, were exactly where I'd left them.
With any luck, my friend would continue chatting and my absence would go
unnoticed. I slunk through the tall grass, crossing the boundary between Big
Blue's territory and mine, and came to rest at its edge where I yowled an
all-purpose greeting.

A gust of wind replied.

This unnerved me more than anything. For all its
criminals, the penitentiary was and always had been, from my brief surveillance,
eerily quiet. I supposed the men inside were unable to talk, but I did not know
why. This caused my imagination to create reasons more horrible than the
silence itself, the worst of which involved the de-tonguing of prisoners upon
arrival. I yowled again to fill the quiet.

A white cat rose like a specter from a grass
patch to my left. She spoke, assuring me of her mortality, "State your
business."

"I've come to see Big Blue."

The ruff around her neck rose, almost
imperceptibly. "How do you know his name?"

"On a windless day, you can hear most anything—even
a name."

She cocked her head. "You look familiar."

"I live across the field. In one of the row
houses." I motioned in their direction with my tail.

A look of recognition crossed her face. "Ah!
You're
the one who sits atop the fence posts and watches." She
sniffed my nose in greeting. "I'm Snow."

"I'm Cattarina."

"That's your human name. What's your cat
name?"

"I no longer speak it."

"I've seen Big Blue refuse audience to those
who've lost their wild streak, their…cattitude." She twitched her whiskers.
"So, Cattarina, what name do you give?"

Cattitude? What a load of fur. I had cattitude
to spare. I sat back and switched my tail, creating a fan shape in the grass. He
had nerve, passing judgment on me for keeping two-legged company. And yet I had
no choice. If I wanted to catch Mr. Abbott, I had to play his game.

"It's…it's QuickPaw."

"QuickPaw?" She eyed my ample physique.
"I see why you cling to your new name, Cattarina. It suits you better."

I stood, redistributing my waistline. "I'm
still a good mouser. The best around by most accounts."

"If you say so." She turned with a
flick of her tail. "Follow me."

We trotted deeper into their territory until we
arrived at the rear of the prison. A gang of cats patrolled a small brick structure
adjacent to the main building. The door of this sturdy shed hung open,
revealing hoes, rakes, and other gardening implements. Snow brought me to the
entrance and instructed me to sit. I did as she asked, claws out, as she
disappeared inside to speak to Big Blue.

The prison overwhelmed not just me but the whole
of Fairmount with its size. An intimidating fortress, it reminded me of the castles
in Eddie's history books. Four corner towers connected the walls, creating a smooth
stone box. However, the building lacked the gargoyles common in medieval
architecture and had an altogether utilitarian feel—unsurprising
considering its function. I craned my neck to look inside the garden shed.
Nothing but darkness and tools. Earlier, the risks in coming here had seemed
insignificant. But as I waited for the enigmatic leader to make an appearance, my
nerves vibrated like piano strings. I grew wistful at this comparison. How I
loved to sit atop Sissy's square piano and watch the inner workings as she
played. I licked my paw and wiped my face. Music graced the Poe household less
and less these days—a pity.

Presently, Snow left the shed, followed by a
large blue-grey cat with velvety fur of a thickness I longed to knead. His
broad face and small ears lent him the regal air of a king, a comparison furthered
by the castle behind him. Had he emerged with a crown, I wouldn't have blinked.
Quiet as smoke, he drifted toward me, studying my features with eyes the color
of pumpkin. I'd just thought about slinking away when he spoke. "Why have
you come, QuickPaw?"

"To seek your help."

"Go back to your master."

"Master? But how did you—"

"Your shape tells me everything I need to
know."

Clearly, a new health regimen was in my future. I
steered us away from my oft-maligned midsection. "Current state aside, I
once lived free like you. And when I did, I
earned
my name. The
waterfront knew no better mouser."

A couple of the sentries snickered. Big Blue
quieted them with a crook of his tail. "Then why seek my help?" he
asked.

"While I am an excellent hunter, I lack the
necessary skills to defend against a group of attackers." I withdrew my
claws and began to pace. "I need to travel past Logan Square and—"

"Claw," Snow hissed under her breath.

I stopped, midstride. "You know him?"

"As much as anyone can know the deranged,"
she said. She slunk beside the tom and whispered in his ear. "I say we
help her, Blue."

"I know you've had your quarrels with Claw,"
Big Blue said, "but is that any reason—"

"
Quarrels?
" She switched her
tail. "Your memory is clearly shorter than mine." She turned and began
grooming herself with a little too much force.

Big Blue watched Snow for a time, then spoke
with hesitation. "War is a human folly. But…I'll grant your request,
QuickPaw."

Snow quit licking her fur and glanced at us over
her shoulder. "You will?"

"Yes," he said to her. "But
after
she's proven worthy of my help."

He whispered something to Snow. She nodded. I
swallowed.

"We have an excellent mouser as well,"
he said to me. "But there can be only one champion. So I'd like to propose
a challenge. If we win, you must tell every cat along the waterfront that my
son, Killer, is Top Hunter."

"K-killer?"

"And if
you
win," he continued,
"I'll guarantee your passage beyond Logan Square."

The rules were simple enough: hunt until Bobbin,
the lead sentry, completed his rounds, catch as many mice as we could, and let
Big Blue decide the winner. Yet his son was my opponent. Given their familial
connection, I had serious doubts about the fairness of the competition. After a
nod from Snow, the sentries called their goliath from the tall weeds, chanting,
"Kill-er! Kill-er!" to summon him. I don't know which shook more, my
knees or the spear grass parting before the beast. Catching Mr. Abbott had
better be worth this. I steadied myself as my opponent emerged: a grey-striped adolescent
with a white chest, no more than a year old.

"Killer?" I asked, eyeing the scrawny male.
"You're a bit short in the whisker, aren't you?"

Killer objected, "My whiskers are long
enough—"

Big Blue stepped between us, halting the verbal
jests. "Don't underestimate my offspring, QuickPaw. What he lacks in
experience, he gains in speed."

My offspring.
Fiddlesticks. The
tournament had just become impossible to win.

Big Blue continued, "For this trial, you
will catch as many mice as you can inside the Spider." He glanced over his
shoulder toward the penitentiary.

"The
what
?" Either he didn't
hear me, or he didn't care to explain. The tom left to speak to Bobbin,
crossing the field in commanding strides.

"He means we hunt inside the prison,"
Killer said. "We call it the Spider."

"You've been inside the prison?"

"You don't think we spend the night out
here, do you, QuickPaw?" Killer said. He left to position himself near the
base of the gardening shack.

I kept an eye on Big Blue, waiting for his
signal, and puzzled over the name he'd given Eastern State. Did a giant
eight-legged beast stand guard inside? If so, what did it eat? Prisoners? I
shivered at the thought of a man bound with silken threads, waiting to be
devoured by a carnivorous spider. Then I pictured Mr. Abbott—stained
cravat and all—in the same confines and sniffed with satisfaction.

"Heed my advice, QuickPaw."

"Hmm?" I turned to face Snow. She'd
snuck away from the others and crouched beside me now, staying low.

"Use your ears, not your eyes to best my
son."

Before I could ask what she meant, Big Blue
shouted "Begin!" and set the race in motion.

Bouncing from door handle to window casing to
eave, Killer sprang straight up the gardening shed and onto its roof before
Bobbin rounded the corner. The grey and white blur then leapt onto a mass of ivy
clinging to the prison wall, which he expertly scaled to the top of the wall. I
shook off my surprise and followed his route as best I could. It took a few
tries to land on the shed roof, but I persevered, reaching the ivy in good
time. I jumped, grabbed for the lowest vine on the wall, and
sliiiiiiid
back down the stone face amid laughter. After a string of failures—some from
which my pride may never recover—I hoisted my hindquarters to the top.

The vast complex of the Eastern State
Penitentiary lay before me, revealing the Spider. To my relief, I found not an
arachnid but a scheme of buildings resembling one. Rows of prisoner dwellings spread
out from a central watchtower hub that, on the whole, looked like legs
connected to a central body. A marvel of construction, indeed. Never again would
I snub its tourists. I watched unnoticed as guards marched single prisoners,
each wearing an ominous black hood, across the compound and into adjacent dwellings.
No words passed between the men, creating a silence that unnerved me.

My opponent had already hopped onto an interior greenhouse,
dropped into the complex, and was fast approaching a series of private yards adjoining
the prisoner dwellings. I thought about following him but recalled Snow's advice.
Had she said them to hinder or help me? While I
was
competing against
her son, she seemed keen for Big Blue to help me. So I took her advice,
listening to the swing of the doors, the rush of water through plumbing pipes, the
skiff-skiff
of shoes on steps. I listened for so long that the cats
below likely wondered if I'd gone mad; I listened for so long that
I
wondered if I'd gone mad. Throughout my quiet observation, I noted Killer's
routine. He would disappear into a prisoner yard, emerge with a mouse, scale
the greenhouse to the top of the wall, and toss his prize to Snow. In between
kills, he taunted me, calling me LazyPaw and LardBelly.

I persisted, swiveling my ears to catch any squeak,
no matter how faint. Then I heard it: a scratching of rodents near the
northeastern corner tower. Eureka! I scampered along the rear wall toward my
destination, ignoring the jeers below. Without a doubt, the sound had come from
a cast-iron downpipe that shunted rain from the tower's parapet. I hung over,
teetering on the wall's edge, and examined the rusted T-joint that connected the
vertical section of pipe to the horizontal. The mice had made their nest here,
allowing them several points of access. Since no rain had fallen in recent
weeks, they'd had time to set up house and reproduce.

The crowd cheered below as Killer added, one by
one, to his growing pile. Snow may have provided this advantage, but winning lay
in
my
paws. I swung onto the drainpipe and kicked the back wall with my
rear legs, trying to break the joint that held it in place. The mice inside
began to scramble, rustling the metal with their tiny claws, driving me wild. I
kicked harder and harder until the rust crumbled. With a final push, I freed the
vertical section and rode it down, down, down until it hit the ground with a resounding
crash that rattled my teeth and scattered Big Blue's troop. Mice and nesting
fluff erupted from the end of the downpipe.

Like a wild thing set free after captivity, I
exploded with energy, swooping and pouncing on the mice with a precision earned
through years of experience. And now that my feral instincts were back, none
could best me. Once I'd caught the runners, I returned to the drainpipe to catch
the small pink ones still in the nest. When it was over, I'd gathered every rodent
but one, and only because his tail had ripped off during the chase.

Wheezing and smeared with blood, I collapsed
near my heap as the contest ended. Somewhere beneath my exhaustion, an untamable
feeling hatched deep within me. It pecked at the shell of domesticity, hardened
this last year with Eddie. I hadn't felt this vital, this necessary in a long
time. Maybe hunting my largest prey yet—a human murderer—would be
as much for my benefit as Eddie's.