The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives Read Free

though.”
    As he said “this nice lady,” he rolled his eyes, but my attention was already focused up ahead, where a small crowd of people was forming around the green landscaping truck. There was a plume of white smoke rising up from its front grille, which was painted bright red.
    The man said, “I just called 911. It ain’t pretty.”
    That was when I realized—the smoke wasn’t coming from the truck, and the truck’s front grille wasn’t red. What I was looking at was the cherry red convertible that had been tailgating me, only now it was folded around the front of the landscaping truck like a piece of shiny red wrapping foil. That bald idiot must have been trying to speed around someone again and had pulled into the northbound lane and plowed into the landscaping truck head-on. It would be a miracle if he was still alive.
    I ran up as fast as I could, and sure enough, there was Baldy, slumped over the air bag in a haze of smoke and fumes in the passenger seat, which was a good thing since the driver’s side was so crumpled the whole thing barely looked like a car anymore, just a triangular mess of red metal—like a giant slice of steaming pizza. Strewn all over the ground like pieces of mushroom and bits of pepperoni were hundreds of shards of glass and little strips of black plastic.
    The man’s bald head was shiny with blood, but to my utter surprise his eyes were open and looking right at me. He must have somehow managed to extricate himself from the driver’s seat and climb over to the passenger side, or else he hadn’t been wearing a seat belt and the impact had tossed him right out of harm’s way. I noted that his expensive-looking sunglasses were nowhere in sight. I tried to open the passenger door, but it was stuck, and now there was more smoke pouring out from under the dashboard and a thick, syrupy smell in the air. I could hear the familiar wail of a siren approaching not very far away, but I knew there wasn’t a moment to waste.
    My heart started racing like a jackhammer. I reached in and laid my hand gently on his shoulder. “Sir, my name is Dixie. I’m going to get you out of this car, okay?”
    He didn’t move. I wondered if he even understood what I was saying, and yet he didn’t take his eyes off me.
    He said, “I am not dead?”
    “No, sir. No, you’re not dead, but I need to get you somewhere safe.”
    His eyes narrowed and he smiled, almost like he’d just thought of a funny joke, and then he nodded slightly, as if considering the punchline, and said, “Safe…”
    I wasn’t sure what he could possibly think was so funny at that moment, but I hoped it was a good sign as I considered my options. Normally it’s a pretty good idea to leave an accident victim completely still until paramedics arrive—moving someone with broken bones or spinal damage can cause irreparable harm—but the smoke from the car was getting heavier, and I could feel heat rising from behind the dashboard. This car was about to go up in flames, and this man needed help.
    I braced myself for a fight as I hooked my arms under his shoulders. Sometimes people in accidents can go into a state of shock and resist being handled. It’s like some deeply rooted, ancient survival instinct kicks in, and they’ll fight tooth and nail before they’ll let strangers touch them no matter how bad off they are. Luckily, Baldy didn’t look the least bit fazed by the idea of being moved. In fact, the expression on his face was eerily peaceful.
    Just then the burly man in the blue suit appeared behind me. He pointed at the smoke and said, “Uh, lady, I think you better get away from that car.”
    I looked back at him and blew a strand of hair away from my face. “Ya think?”
    I could hear creaking coming from deep inside the car as I tried to pull Baldy up enough to hook my right arm under his legs, but he was deadweight. I could barely lift him.
    “Aw, goddammit.” The burly man whipped off his jacket and slipped in