by Louise Clark
The cat darted onto the sidewalk. If it kept on moving at the rate it was going, it would end up right in the path of his on-coming car. Quinn hit the breaks and his horn at the same time.
The cat, caught mid-leap, landed on the road in front of his car and froze. Quinn spun his wheel and ended up sliding into the opposite lane, just as a car rounded the curve and headed toward him. Quinn braced himself for impact, desperately hoping the cat had had the sense to jump back onto the sidewalk or to stay put. Tires squealed as they burned over pavement, but there was no shriek of metal impacting on metal. Quinn breathed a sigh of relief.
The other car drove slowly around him, the driver pausing long enough to shout, "Idiot! What the hell do you think you were doing? You could have killed us both!"
Quinn didn't bother to shout back. He figured the guy had the right to vent. Quinn had almost wrecked his and someone else's car, and potentially caused them both bodily injury for a small animal that didn't provide anything useful to society, except perhaps the capture of a mouse or two and a lot of love and affection for its owner.
But then there were plenty of rapists and drug dealers who didn't do a lot for society either. He figured that if they had a right to life, so too did dogs, cats, and all the other animals that walked the earth. He backed the car into his lane again and pulled it off to the side of the road, then he got out to see if the cat was okay.
At first he thought it had disappeared, then he saw that it had made it to the opposite side of the road after the other car had gone on its way. The cat was limping badly, dragging itself along as if it was on the edge of exhaustion. He checked for traffic, then sprinted across. Crouching near the cat he spoke quietly, "Hey, puss. Let me help you."
Tiger-striped, the creature was one of the largest cats Quinn had ever seen. It stared at him balefully, hunched into a tense, compact shape. Quinn crept closer. The cat swished its tail, but it didn't run.
"There's a pretty lady beyond that fence. I bet she'd help you."
The cat eyed him cautiously, still tense, ready to bolt.
"That's it, kitty." Quinn kept his voice soothing as he stretched out his hand toward the cat. "I imagine you're hungry." He stroked the cat's head gently. Its eyes watched him and its tail continued to twitch, but it didn't bolt. "Let me pick you up and help you out. There, that's a good kitty." He caught it under its belly and scooped it up.
The cat allowed him to inspect its wounds, although its tail lashed back and forth with annoyance. Its fur was missing in places and it was skinny. There was a nasty cut on one of its back legs that looked as if it had happened some time before and hadn't healed properly. There were also a variety of lesser injuries.
From its appearance, the cat was a stray. Quinn nipped back across the road and put the animal in his car. "Hang on," he said, "and we'll get you some help." He could have sworn he heard the cat sigh as it curled into a ball on the passenger seat, but he dismissed that as his imagination.
He certainly couldn't dismiss the cat's uninhibited outrage when he took it into the emergency animal hospital on Boundary Road. It clearly did not want to be there, fighting with claws and teeth, but then, that was no surprise. He'd never found an animal that enjoyed a visit to the vet.
It took Quinn, the vet, the vet's assistant, and the antiseptic steel of the examining table to convince the cat that resistance was pointless. The vet worked quickly, though in a competent and careful way. He cleaned the cat's wounds, stitched the worst of them, and advised Quinn on how to get rid of the animal's fleas and care for the injuries. Quinn put the now subdued cat back in the car and headed for home.
He'd give the cat to his father to take care of since the old man was as big a sucker for animals as Quinn was. Roy Armstrong had needed someone to look after since his wife Vivien, Quinn's mom and the practical hand that held their family together, had died two years before. Taking care of the cat would give him focus and maybe drag him out of the melancholy that never quite went away.
Then, maybe, Quinn could get back to his own life.
Maybe.
Chapter 2
Roy Armstrong draped his long, lanky length along the black leather sofa, then struck a match. The flame hissed as it touched the end of the joint he'd just rolled. A rich, aromatic scent wafted through the spacious living room.
Roy sucked in, drawing smoke deep into his lungs with an almost sensual pleasure. It was nine forty-five in the morning, a bit early to be smoking a joint, but if he burned a little incense the smell would be out of the room by the time Quinn got back.
He took another drag and considered the situation. Living with his son was a pain in the ass, he thought, not for the first time. The boy meant well, but he tended to treat his old man as if he was teetering on the edge of senility. In fact, Roy was strong and healthy and at the peak of his creative powers—if he could be bothered to set his fingers to a computer keyboard.
Roy took another puff. His thoughts drifted off into his current work in progress. It wasn't going well and he couldn't quite pinpoint what was wrong.
The cat Quinn had brought home bounded up onto his chest. It was a brute of an animal, big as a small dog and heavy boned. He called it his house tiger because of the restless way it prowled through the rooms, almost as if it was exercising to gain strength in its healing muscles. He scratched behind the cat's ears absently and the beast settled in on his chest, purring in a satisfying, soothing way.
What if he made the brother into a sister? Would that change the dynamics enough to disrupt a fictional family that he'd decided was incredibly boring, even to himself, its creator?
God, that smells good.
Roy contemplated the glowing tip of the joint. "It does, doesn't it?"
I wish I could join you, but I can't.
The voice was clear and seemed to reverberate inside his head. Roy glanced around the room, but the cat was the only other occupant. He looked at the joint and said, "Oh, man," and started to butt it out. The cat tapped the back of his hand with its paw, claws in.
Don't do that on my account.
Roy looked at the joint again. "Are you going to stop talking to me if I put it out?"
No.
"Far out." Roy smoked in silence for a minute, while the cat breathed in his fumes. "So why are we having this conversation? You've been living here for over two weeks and we haven't spoken before. Why start now?"
I've been trying to get through to you for days. I have to go. I wanted to say good-bye and thank you.
Roy considered that. "Why do you have to go? Don't you like living here?"
The cat likes it just fine. He wants to stay. I can't.
That was interesting. "So there are two of you living in the cat's body?"
You might say we're roomies for now. Until I've completed my mission.
"And you talk to each other?"
We share thoughts, just as I am sharing my thoughts with you. Restless, the cat leapt onto the floor, then prowled to the top of the stairs that led down from the living room to the front door. His movements were lithe, controlled, decisive. Big and powerful, he was clearly a male in his prime, a male with a mission.
Roy believed in possibilities. He'd built his life visioning what couldn't be and making it happen. He liked to keep an open mind, but this was really pushing his limits. A cat on a mission, who was communicating with him telepathically. Yeah, sure. He contemplated the smoke rising lazily from the glowing tip of the joint. Maybe it was time to quit.
The gray and black tabby shot him a look that could only be described as disapproving. I thought you would understand.
A happy idea brightened Roy's mood. Maybe this conversation was his writer's imagination going out of control. His characters tended to take over the creative process once he knew them well. Maybe one had decided to give him a poke and let him know how he could sort out the problems in his current project. They were such a dull bunch, though. He would never have pegged one of them for being a talking
cat. For that matter, even thinking up the idea of a talking cat. If he added a talking cat, how would he work it into the plot? Maybe...
The vision of a narrow alley, closed at one end, plugged at the other by a beat-up car that had once been someone's luxury ride, rose in his mind. He was there in the alley, huddled in the shadow of a dumpster that stank of rotting food. Someone was with him, someone he trusted. While his nose twitched with distaste, his eyes focused on the small, sealed plastic bag the other person was holding. The bag was filled with pills that were a rainbow of colors. Need, intense, powerful, demanding, slammed into him. He wanted that bag. Now.
His hand shook as he reached into his pocket for the ready cash he always kept on him. He should quit—and he would, when he was ready. For now he'd enjoy the rush that would take away the guilt over the mess he'd made of his life.
He had the bills in his hand when he sensed movement nearby. He lifted his head to look, but before he could see who was behind him something hit him, connecting with his skull with a vicious crunch. Agonizing pain shot through his head. He staggered forward, disoriented.
He heard a voice say, "I've got him. You grab his other arm."
Hands took hold of him, keeping him upright, forcing him to stagger forward. Each step was agony. The inside of his head felt as if a maniac wielding an ice pick was slamming it repeatedly. He concentrated on keeping his head still to minimize the jarring, but it was an impossible task. His vision wavered, dancing in a sickening way that distorted everything. He glanced at one of the people helping him. All he could see was hair the same blond color as his own above a pale, narrow face that was nothing more than a blur.
As he stumbled forward, he was pretty sure they were leading him out of the alley. Relief coursed through him. They were taking him out onto the main drag where they could signal for help. That was great. Still, it would have been better if they'd let him slump onto the ground where he could lie until rescued. Maybe he should suggest that.
"Here we are. Okay, ready now. Do it!"
The hands released him. As he swayed unsteadily, relieved he didn't have to plow forward anymore, his blurred vision showed him a car trunk gaping open before him. Confused, he looked around. He only had a moment to realize that rescue was not in his future, before he was hit from behind with another blow that sent him sprawling.
Darkness closed around him.
Gradually, the vision merged with reality. The dark, smelly alley became a suburban living room in a modern townhouse development. Shaken, Roy squished the joint into the ashtray. This was getting too weird. His imagination didn't need any help from the weed.
He sat up so he could put the ashtray on the coffee table. A sense of what he thought might be compassion wrapped itself around him. The cat came over and rubbed against his leg, purring loudly. I'm sorry. I thought I was losing you. I had to show you to make you accept me.
Roy sighed as he reached down to scratch the cat behind its ears. "I can't deny you shook me up," he said. "That was what happened to you? How did it end? Did you die?"
Yes. I'll spare you the details. They aren't pretty.
The voice was wry, filled with a self-depreciating amusement that was oddly touching. Roy picked up the cat to give it a hug. It rested for a moment before it wriggled away, jumping off his lap onto the carpet, where it sat and carefully cleaned a paw. "How did you come to be living in the cat?" he asked, respecting the creature's need for independence.
There was a heavy sigh in his mind. I went home, to tell my family where I was, but I couldn't reach them. Only the cat seemed to accept me. He invited me in.
"Interesting," Roy said. "If you can't communicate with your family why can you talk to me?"
I've been practicing. That's why I need to go. I can talk to them now, explain what happened. Help them heal.
An image of his late wife Vivien popped into Roy's mind. His throat closed, and he had to push back tears. He wouldn't have made it through those first few days after Vivien's passing if Quinn hadn't been with him, irritating him, making him deal with the details of death, keeping him away from the misery of being alone. "Okay," he said. "I'll get the door for you."
He levered himself to his feet. The cat twined around his legs once, then bounded down the stairs. Roy followed him at a more dignified pace. "So do you have far to travel?"
I had almost reached my destination when your son kidnapped me.
The cat's disgruntlement made Roy grin. "Quinn's a good boy, but he tends to interfere, like his mother, bless her. Never met a cause she didn't like. That's why she became a lawyer, and a damn good one, I might add." He opened the door. The cat leapt through, then paused on the other side, almost as if he'd stopped to shake hands before leaving.
"Look, if you ever need any help, come back. Okay?"
Thank you. The cat hesitated a moment more, then it bounded away into the bright sunlight and the dangers that any feral animal faced in dealing with a mechanized world.
"Good luck," Roy said, then he went back to burn incense and air out the living room.
* * *
Christy turned onto the street on which her townhouse was located. She had just dropped Noelle at the local public school a few minutes' walk away. The principal had been warm and friendly, making Noelle welcome and quickly putting her at ease. By the time Christy left the school, Noelle had been assigned to a grade three class and was the focus of attention from the other kids. With her child safe and in a good situation, Christy enjoyed her walk home. For the first time she looked around at her surroundings.
Just over a year old, the complex was well kept, with flower borders that showed the loving care of house-proud owners and gave the complex personality. Although her unit was one of the last built and over six months old, it had never been lived in. Bought originally for a corporate relocation that never happened, it had come on the market again about the same time the sale of the Jamieson mansion closed. The previous owners agreed to sell the house to the Trust at cost, a good deal that appealed to Samuel Macklin, an accountant and one of the Jamieson trustees. Christy hadn't been asked if she wanted to live in Burnaby, a generally working-class suburb east of Vancouver. The deal had been done and the address given to the moving company. She'd had her first glimpse of the place when she arrived to tell the movers where to place the furniture and unpack the boxes.
As she neared her house she could see a man standing beside the planter box that separated the front walks of two of the townhouses. Head bent, deep in concentration, he appeared to be pulling deadheads off the annuals that grew in lush profusion in the box.
Since she'd not yet had the opportunity to meet any of her new neighbors, and the man seemed to belong to the house two doors down from hers, she decided to take a few minutes away from her unpacking chores to introduce herself. Besides, she had to pass him to get to her place.
He looked up at the sound of her footsteps—a good-looking man on his way out of middle age into his senior years. His eyes were an intense gray fringed with black lashes. Sharp and clear, they inspected her without apology. Christy smiled at him, not at all put out because she was inspecting him in much the same way.
He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and his silver hair, still shot through with black in places, was worn long and tied back in a ponytail. Between his gardening and his clothes she guessed he must be retired, able to do and dress as he pleased.
"Hi," she said, holding out her hand. "I'm Christy, your new neighbor two houses down."
His handshake was little more than a brush of skin touching skin, then it was over. Strange, she thought. That was a woman's handshake. "Roy Armstrong," he said.
"Nice to meet you." She looked around her and gestured vaguely. "What a lovely complex this is."
Roy looked around too, his expression rather critical. "Modern and suburban," he said. "Good for bringing up kids. You have one, I'm told."
Christy stifled a little gasp. "Boy, news travels quickly around here."<
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Roy grinned. "If you know the right people. Now, our on-site manager lives in that house over there—" He pointed to a townhouse across the road from where they were standing. "—and he likes to share his news whenever he gets it. Since I'm on the neighborhood watch and usually around, I tend to be the first person he fills in."
"Oh," Christy said, feeling rather overwhelmed.
Roy noticed a decaying blossom and plucked it off of the tangle of Shasta daisies that were growing with wild abandon in his planter box. He grinned at the dubious note in her voice. "We're a small complex, so we tend to know each other pretty well. You'll get used to it."
"I suppose so." Wanting to get his enquiring mind away from her, who she was, and what her aspirations for the future were, she searched for a new topic of conversation. "Armstrong. You know, that name sounds familiar."
He shrugged in a nonchalant way, but she could have sworn that he tensed. "It's a common enough name."
"That's true, but I'm sure I've heard it fairly recently. Armstrong, now where—" She broke off to look at him more closely. He met her gaze levelly, but with a trace of resignation in his expression. "Your face seems familiar too." She laughed in a self-depreciating way, aware that she was making him uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, don't mind me. I have the most lamentable memory. I've probably seen you at the grocery store and not realized it."
He raised one still-dark brow. A faint smile curled his firm lips.
There was something about that smile, something Christy couldn't pinpoint, an amusement that said he knew where she'd seen him, but he wasn't telling. "Well, I guess I should be going. I've still got loads of unpacking to do. This is Noelle's—she's my daughter, in case you need some info for the on-site super—first day of school so I want to make good use of my quiet time before she gets home."
Roy nodded and smiled. "Nice to meet you, Christy."
