“Hurry!” she panted as she threw herself into the passenger seat.
Peter was leaning back, his head resting against the driver’s door.
She touched his shoulder. “Wake up, Peter!” She couldn’t believe he’d slept through the explosion. “Peter?”
She reached to touch his face and her hand slipped in the sticky wetness of blood.
“Oh, no!” She gently felt his face, fingers seeking the wound. On the far side of his head she found the gash where he’d been struck.
Near the water the residents of the boats were beginning to create a bigger and bigger commotion. In the distance the wail of sirens split the dark night into fragments of danger. Scanning the waterfront, Eleanor saw that no fires had broken out along the river. She turned her attention back to Peter. He was moaning softly and beginning to move.
“Peter,” she whispered, slipping out of the car and dashing around to the driver’s side. With a great deal of effort she was able to move him enough so that she could get behind the wheel. The car started with no problem, and she carefully drove away from the pier. She had no desire to be caught in the questioning of authorities, especially not when she’d have to admit that she’d been trespassing and once again in the shadow of some group involving animals.
Peter stirred, sitting up and touching his head.
“Where are you going?”
“The hospital.”
“Make it my clinic. I’m not hurt.”
“There’s blood all over you.” She didn’t feel in the mood to argue. She wasn’t trained to gauge the possible complications of a blow to the head.
“No hospital.”
There was no arguing with his tone, so Eleanor changed the subject as she charted a course toward Washington.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I heard an explosion, and I was getting out of the car to go to you when something struck my head. I didn’t see the guy until it was too late.”
“Did you see him?” Eleanor felt a surge of excitement. “He was tall. He threw the bomb onto the houseboat where the meeting was.”
“He what?” Peter’s jerking reaction made him touch his head again. “What are you talking about?”
“I was coming back to tell you what I heard, when I saw the man on the pier. He threw something on the houseboat, and somehow I knew it was a bomb. I picked it up and threw it into the water.”
“A bomb?” Peter heard the words, but the full meaning hadn’t yet registered. One hand gripped the dashboard and the other touched her shoulder. “Are you hurt? You’re dripping wet.”
“There was a big wave, but I don’t think anyone was really hurt. It couldn’t have been a very big bomb.” She had to make light of it. Peter was frightening her with the way he was acting. In all of the confusion, she’d never considered that she might actually have died.
“You saved those people’s lives,” Peter said.
“Only by chance.”
Peter’s hand tightened on her shoulder. The full implication of what had occurred struck him. Eleanor had been set up, and she could have died. “Was the bomb intended for them—or for you?”
Eleanor felt the wheel wrenched from her hand as the car slipped off the edge of the pavement onto the shoulder. She jerked it back onto the road, but her heart was hammering as the words Magdalena had spoken only a few hours earlier came back to her. The man had said he was going to kill his wife.
“Peter,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
“It isn’t your ‘dead’ husband. If he did this, he’s very much alive. And whatever he wants, it has something to do with that cat. Let’s go see Familiar. I checked him thoroughly, but there may be the chance that something is hidden on him. We’ll take X rays.”
“I never considered such a thing,” Eleanor admitted.
“And all of this has begun since Familiar came into your life.” Peter’s own excitement began to rise. “The key is Familiar. If only we can decipher what it is he has, or is connected to, that everyone seems perfectly willing to kill for.”
“This has all seemed such a hopeless muddle to me,” Eleanor confessed. “But who would want to kill a boat full of people whose biggest interest is to protect animals? That’s insane!”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Peter said. “But there are a few insane people out there.” His jaw tightened.
“Magdalena is a member of that group,” Eleanor told him. She couldn’t hide her sense of betrayal.
To her complete amazement, Peter laughed.
“That Magdalena, she’s a sly fox. No wonder Charles Breck comes at her beck and call.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “She as good as lied to me.”
“She did lie to me, flatly,” Peter said, but he laughed again. “It’s just that she’s learned to be very cautious.”
“I don’t find this very amusing. She dragged me down to that lab with her, and I was guilty by association!”
“In that instance she didn’t do you any favors,” Peter agreed. The humor was gone from his voice.
“She could have planted that flyer in my office.”
Peter was silent for a long time. “She could have, but so could anyone else that got hold of it.’’
“Yeah, great. Did they want to invite me, frame me or blow me up?” Eleanor asked dryly.
Peter leaned over and kissed her cheek. “The first thing I loved about you was your sense of humor."
“Well, if this keeps up, that and everything else about me may get blown to bits.”
She pulled into Peter’s clinic. Under the bright light of an examining lamp, she could tell that the blow to his head wasn’t as serious as it had first appeared. Once the blood was washed away, she was satisfied that he didn’t need a doctor. They went straight to her apartment building.
“I can’t wait to get out of these clothes,” Eleanor said, tugging at the still-damp sweater. She pulled into an illegal parking zone. “Let them tow it tonight I don’t care.”
“Look,” Peter said, stepping onto the sidewalk and pointing to the doorway of her building. Two policemen were standing guard, and patrol cars were parked on the street.
“I hope there hasn’t been an accident,” Eleanor said. A sick feeling settled into her stomach. “It’s gotten to the point that I can’t see a policeman without thinking something else bad has happened around me.”
“Paranoia,” Peter said.
Dodging traffic, they ran across the street.
“Name and address.” The biggest patrolman stepped forward to block their entrance to the building.
“Eleanor Duncan, 919. What’s wrong?”
The policemen looked at each other. “The captain is waiting to see you, ma’am. Step this way.”
“What is it?” Eleanor asked.
She and Peter found themselves escorted to the elevator. The policemen refused to even look at them as they rode to the ninth floor.
“What’s going on?” Eleanor demanded.
“Officer, is there some trouble?” Peter asked.
“The captain will explain it,” the patrolman said. He stepped aside so that they could walk down the corridor.
The confusion spilled out of Eleanor’s apartment into the hall. Her neighbors were standing in their doorways, murmuring and watching. Plainclothes detectives came and went, and at last an older, grizzled man approached her.
“Detective Jones,” he said, rubbing his chin.
“What happened?” Eleanor tried to look past the detective, but couldn’t see anything inside her apartment except figures hurrying around.
“I’m afraid there’s been a murder.” He looked at her sharply. “You wouldn’t know about that, would you?”
“Murder? Who?” Eleanor felt Peter’s arm slip around her and hold her.
“We’re not certain. Maybe you could identify the body for us.” He rubbed his chin again. “Middle-aged man, short, wiry.” Eleanor shook her head. “No one should ha
ve been in my apartment. I left it locked.”
Slowly she stepped toward the door. Peter touched the detective’s sleeve.
“What happened?”
“The man was sitting on the sofa. Someone came in and shot him in the heart. Twice.”
Eleanor pushed past the officers at the door and walked in. “Rayburn!” she cried. “Rayburn!” She ran toward the body, which was still sitting on the sofa. “Oh, no!”
Peter hurried after her, crushing her against himself and drawing her away from the terrible sight.
“You’ll have to come down to the precinct, Dr. Duncan,” Winston Jones said. “Does this Rayburn have a last name?”
“Smith,” she mumbled, dazed. “Rayburn Smith.”
A stretcher was brought in to remove the body. Peter led Eleanor back to the hallway.
“He’s been dead at least two hours,” Jones said. “Shot with a .22 pistol, if my guess is correct.”
“Familiar!” Eleanor roused herself and looked at Peter with widened eyes.
“Her cat,” Peter explained.
“What have you done to my cat?” Eleanor demanded.
“We’ve poked in every nook and cranny of that apartment. There’s no cat,” Jones said.
Chapter Eleven
Free at last, free at last. But not exactly the way I had it planned. This is not actually freedom, it’s enforced escape. Where is Eleanor? Her pad is getting to be a regular Grand Central Station of disreputable characters crashing in and out. As we speak, there’s some yo-yo parked in the middle of her sofa, acting as nervous as a man on a hot tin roof. He practically reeks of trouble. He doesn’t seem to be the threatening type, at least not to my Eleanor. He’s more the “I’ve got a big, bad secret” type of trouble. He didn’t seem the friendly sort, and he left the door ajar. My instincts told me to strike while the iron was hot. Once an alley cat, always an alley cat. An open door is an invitation to adventure. Well, that was once true, but now it isn’t necessarily so. I don’t really want to leave her. It’s a matter of principle. Right now, though, I’ve got to concentrate on this road and get across before I become a blot on the pavement of life. At least it’s late. Traffic is much slower than it was the other day.
Whew! That little Datsun almost got me. I know it’s hard to see a black cat on a black night. But what am I supposed to do? Stand in the middle of the road so that my eyes reflect the headlights? Sure! Then I’d have to change my name to Kamikaze. People! If they could really see at night like us cats, then they wouldn’t be such a menace behind the wheel of a car.
Now let’s see. Best I can remember, Eleanor brought me this way when we left the university. Yeah, I remember the smell of that little Italian restaurant. I wonder... Now! no time for gourmet raiding tonight. Besides, I have to confess, Eleanor feeds me so well, I’ve sort of lost my yen for foraging through ritzy leftovers. Too rich. Not really well balanced. I have to say, the dame takes good care of me. I hope she isn’t too upset when she finds I’m gone. She relies on me, you know. She may not know it, but she does. Sometimes when she strokes my back, I feel all this tenderness. I’ve often wondered why she lives alone, no little rug monsters. I’ve wondered—and given many thanks. I guess as long as she’s got me, she doesn’t really need children.
That’s one of the things that keeps troubling me. She’s going to be devastated when she finds I’m gone. No time for a note, even. I’ll just have to take care of business and get back as soon as possible. I know that promise sounds empty to a lot of people owned by cats. See, cats get a bum rap about leaving without a trace. I’ve heard so many owners moaning and crying, “He just disappeared one day.” Well, there’s more to that story. We aren’t fickle by nature. But a cat has to do what a cat has to do! It’s a law of cat physics. The problem is that once we get it done, sometimes we can’t get back. Life isn’t simple anymore. There used to be dogs, a few birds of prey, other, bigger cats, a handful of rare predators that stood between a cat and his natural behavior. Now, think about it! Millions of cars, billions of people. Those rascals in the white coats that snatch an honest cat off the street and sell him into hell. Getting home isn’t as easy as it used to be. But I’ll get back here. For the dame I’ll do what has to be done, and then I’ll come back and devote the rest of my life to purring for her. That’s a solemn vow. Running around Washington on a cold winter night isn’t what it used to be. I must have covered five miles!
And lo and behold, it looks like the old university campus. My instincts, as ever, are completely correct. From here I can find my bearings and get back to the lab. It’ll take some doing, but I’m sure I can get there. And after that? Well, a determined cat knows no boundaries, as my grandmother, this incredible pitch-black feline with a long history of Egyptian blood, used to tell me. Now she was a wise mama. I’m going to rest a while under this shrub and give the old “dogs” a break. Hey, hey! I’m getting pretty good at this pun routine. I wonder if David Letterman is ready for a new segment. Superior Pet Tricks. I’ll bet, with a few weeks of training, I could have even him twirling can openers and winding cat toys. Well, that’s a challenge to think about during a little catnap.
“I have to find Familiar.” Eleanor knew she sounded like an unreasonable child, but as long as she kept hunting, she could hold her emotions at bay. She didn’t know what she felt anymore. Not even about Peter.
In the initial questioning by Detective Jones, Peter had blithely lied about where they’d been. He’d told the police they were walking The Mall and a mugger had struck his head. And she’d gone along with it. Why?
Why hadn’t Peter told the truth about the houseboat?
“Where do you want to look now?” Peter asked. They’d covered the building from the top floor to the garage. Familiar was gone. They were standing at the front door, scouting the busy street. Eleanor’s clothes were still damp, but she refused to go into her apartment to change. At least there were no dead animals on the roadside. Eleanor couldn’t have taken that. They both held plastic cups of coffee provided by Wessy.
“I don’t know,” Eleanor answered. “Do you think whoever...killed Rayburn...took Familiar?”
“It’s a strong possibility.” And if that were the case, then they might already have what they wanted. Peter was more and more certain that the black feline held a valuable secret.
“What was Rayburn doing in Washington?” she asked aloud, though the question was meant only for herself. “Maybe he was trying to warn me.”
“When you talked with him, did he say anything?” Peter asked. Detective Jones had not been able to make a bit of headway questioning her. “Did he say anything about visiting Washington?”
“No.” She was distant and withdrawn once again. She couldn’t think about Rayburn—about how he’d be alive if she hadn’t called him. Code One Orange. She’d forced him to talk about it. Now he was dead. Who had Rayburn told about their conversation? It had to be someone he knew, because she’d told no one about her conversation with Rayburn.
The pieces of the puzzle rattled together in her head like dice in a gambler’s cup. The research on animal communication stolen—her office rifled and a flyer on animal activists planted—the reappearance of her “dead” husband—Peter—and Familiar. Always Familiar.
“You think Familiar is dead, too, don’t you?” she asked.
“Eleanor, I said I don’t know.” Peter touched her shoulder. Her face reflected deep misery. “If we were right about the cat, if he carries some secret information, then he may well be dead. And the man in your apartment might have died trying to get that information.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Eleanor snorted. “Rayburn was penny- ante. Besides, he didn’t know a thing about Familiar or any of the other stuff.”
“So what was he doing in Washington?” Peter turned her so she faced him. “In your apartment?”
She pulled away from him, suddenly furious. “Don’t act as if I killed him. Remember, I was with you. Walking around The Mall
!” She stalked away from him, not caring that the night was bitter and her clothes clung to her clammy skin.
“What aren’t you telling me?” he called after her. “What did you tell him, to motivate him to fly to see you after nine years?”
She whirled, confronting him. “What am I withholding? That’s a fine question, coming from you. What is it that you have to gain? You picked up that flyer from my office and didn’t tell me. That behavior might have cost me my life, as it turned out.” She stepped behind him and started back to her building. She had to get away from him. “I’m going home, and I suggest you do the same.”
“You can’t go back there.” He knew the bloodstained sofa would be her undoing. “Come back to my place and spend the night until your apartment can be cleaned.”
“Go to hell,” she answered, stepping briskly toward the door. “I was a fool to ever think I might—” she turned to look at him “—trust anyone. I mean really trust.”
She stepped inside and hurried across the lobby toward the elevator. Peter knew there was no need to follow her. She’d never let him in. She might never talk to him again. And the worst part of it was that her accusations were perfectly justified. He had kept things from her.
He scanned the black night, wishing against all odds that by some dark magic he could conjure up that damned cat. Familiar! There was little doubt in his mind that the animal was dead. That was one feline too smart to voluntarily leave Eleanor’s care.
Pulling up his collar against a blast of wind, he went to his car. He couldn’t talk to Eleanor, but there were several questions he wanted to put to Magdalena Caruso, and he was willing to bet a hefty chunk of his savings that the short animal rights advocate was not tucked snugly in bed. Not on her conniving little life!
Try as she would, Eleanor could not make herself enter the empty apartment. No cat, no friendly greetings. She leaned against the wall of the hallway in front of her door and almost gave in to her tears. She’d move! It was that simple. There were other buildings, even other cities, if it got down to it. Once the police were through with her about Rayburn, she’d pack the few things she really wanted and move on. But for tonight? She went back to the elevator, down to the house phone and dialed Betty Gillette.
Fear Familiar Page 14
