The Orange Cat & other Cainsville tales Read Free

when a voice called from across the road.
    “What are you doing with that?”
    He turned to see Grace perched on the front porch of her three-floor walkup. He did not use the word “perched” facetiously. Old, wizened and permanently scowling, Grace reminded Gabriel of the town’s gargoyles, hunkered down on her stoop, watching for trouble, and never so delighted as when she found it.
    “It’s a cat,” he said.
    “I can see that. What are you doing with a cat?”
    He took it over to her, primarily to avoid shouting across the roadway.
    “Please tell me you aren’t giving your aunt a cat,” Grace said. “She has about as much use for one as I do. Or you, for that matter. What—?” She peered at the beast in the carrier. “Something’s wrong with it.”
    “Yes, it’s missing an eye.”
    She rolled hers at him. “Obviously. I mean something else.”
    “Apparently, as of yesterday, it was dead. Then it came back.”
    “Huh.”
    “That’s what I said. It’s somewhat troubling.”
    Her thin shoulders lifted in a shrug and she said, “It happens.” Gabriel couldn’t tell if she was joking but decided it best not to pursue an answer.
    “What are you going to do with it?”
    “Find a place for it, I suppose. It keeps returning to its owner. I thought perhaps if I left it here, in Cainsville, and it appeared in Chicago again, I could be certain unnatural forces were at work.”
    “Because returning from the dead isn’t proof enough?”
    “I didn’t actually witness the death.”
    “Well, give it to me, then. Patrick’s been looking for a cat. I’ll drop it at his place.” She smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, and he was quite certain the young local writer had no need of a cat, but if it took the beast off his hands . . .
    He set down the carrier. “And in return?”
    Her smile then was genuine. In other places, one might take offense at the suggestion that a favor was not given freely. Cainsville was different. “Two scones and a coffee,” she said, and Gabriel nodded and headed off to the diner.
    #
    When the phone rang at two the next morning, Gabriel was expecting it. Indeed, that’s why he’d given Patton his cell number. If the cat returned, Patton was to contact him immediately and Gabriel would be there in twenty minutes, regardless of the time of day or night. Because while Gabriel could tell himself that he simply wanted to know if the cat returned, that promise suggested that, perhaps, he had developed a certain respect for the feline. Far more than he had for Patton. The man was a bully and a coward. There had been plenty of those in Gabriel’s life. The cat, however? It was a survivor, and that was to be admired. Despite the possible inconvenience of the hour, Gabriel would intervene to ensure it did not suffer further at Patton’s hands.
    Then he answered the phone . . . and discovered there was, perhaps, even more to worry about than the life of a cat.
    #
    Gabriel arrived at Patton’s house twenty minutes later. He sat in his car and watched the crime scene technicians coming and going. Then he climbed out and headed for the front door.
    He stepped over the yellow tape and continued up the walk. One young rookie looked over, but made no move to stop Gabriel. If he acted as if he belonged, he was rarely questioned.
    He climbed the steps and went into the house. He found a crime scene tech—a girl no older than him—and said, “Gabriel Walsh. I’ll be handling the case. Can you tell me what happened here?”
    The woman nodded, presuming he meant he was with the State’s Attorney’s Office. Not a lie. Simply misdirection.
    “Vic was found over there.” She pointed at the blood spray on the sofa. “And the other vic was supposedly there.” She waved below a dent in the wall.
    “The second victim being the cat, I presume.”
    “Yeah. The perp woke up with the cat sitting on his headboard, staring down at him. He said some nonsense about the cat being dead or in some