How To Tail a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  The old man stood with a stiff, painful movement and gripped the small of his back as the PM strode forward, offering his hand enthusiastically.

  “James Lick, I presume,” the PM said with a grin. “I have to say, you look a lot like a man I used to know . . . a fellow who ran an antiques shop around the corner from here . . . a place called the Green Vase. I hear his niece is running it now.”

  The man dusted his palms on the front of his navy blue collared shirt. After a slight hesitation, his rough, calloused hand met the PM’s firm grip.

  “Good to see you, Mayor,” Lick said as they completed the shake. He tilted his head conspiratorially. “You came in through the back?”

  Nodding, the PM glanced at the tottering pile at their feet. “No offense, but I’m not sure my reputation could survive me being seen in this joint.”

  Lick threw up his arms in mock affront. “It was our reputation I was worried about.”

  Chuckling, the PM strolled over to the nearest window and looked out onto the busy street.

  “It’s a nice setup you’ve got here,” he said casually. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks and leaned back on his heels. “Right in the middle of things, and yet—neatly tucked away.”

  The PM cleared his throat anxiously. Lick’s reemergence on the San Francisco scene could mean only one thing.

  “I assume you’re following the situation at City Hall? The Mayor will be shipping out for Sacramento any day now.”

  He paused as Lick joined him at the window. Then he added tentatively, “The board’s holding a special session on Thursday to select his replacement. Are you backing one of the contenders?”

  Lick’s pale, worn face creased with a knowing smile. “Oh, I have a candidate in mind . . .” He paused and pumped his wild flyaway eyebrows. “An unconventional nominee.”

  “You have to let me in on this,” the PM said, barely containing his excitement. “Who’s your man?”

  Stroking his stubbled chin, Lick issued a cryptic reply.

  “Patience, Mayor. The show’s about to start.”

  Chapter 5

  THE FROG WHISPERER

  TUESDAY ARRIVED WITH another rare showing of Indian summer’s warmth. A glorious linen blue sky stretched over the San Francisco Bay, causing its cold, numbing water to look almost inviting. Vibrant colors bloomed in temporarily unshaded courtyards. Plants across the peninsula took on a verdant green glow.

  It was a deceptive, seductive lure—one that threatened to disrupt the efficiency of the entire workweek.

  In the financial district’s high-rise office buildings, the lazy afternoon seeped into the endless rows of dungeonlike cubicles, taunting the poor souls trapped within. Those who didn’t pause to gaze dreamily out the nearest window began to twist and squirm in their seats, tugging at the constricting confines of their suits, ties, high heels, and skirts.

  As the clock ticked slowly toward its five o’clock release, the antsy army of young professionals grew more and more restive, and a palpable tension began to build. Several hundred minds coalesced around a single pulsing thought.

  If only I could be outside.

  • • •

  ACROSS TOWN, A far more relaxed and contented individual strolled through the thousand-acre green space of Golden Gate Park.

  The bright sun sparkled across the sky-high tops of a stand of ancient redwoods, splashing down through the needled canopy to the ruffled red head of a burly man with a freckled face, a gap-toothed grin, and a beefy lumberjack’s build.

  A trail of dried mud crumbled from the man’s thick-soled hiking boots as he ambled along a sidewalk cutting across the middle of the park. He threw his shoulders back, taking in a deep, chest-filling breath of redwood-scented air.

  Sam Eckles preferred rural living to city life, but in this part of San Francisco, he felt completely at home.

  • • •

  HUMMING HAPPILY TO himself, Sam continued down the path to a fork, where the trees parted for a wide field.

  On his left lay the Music Concourse, a multiuse amphitheater filled with a number of open-air stages along with several small elms whose branches had been pruned down to short, knobby limbs. To his right stretched the sprawling complex that housed the California Academy of Sciences.

  Recently reopened after a lengthy renovation, the Academy’s new structure featured an ecofriendly grass-covered roof, a planetarium, a flock of webcam-mugging penguins, and a four-story rain forest exhibit, all seamlessly integrated with a vast aquarium. The establishment drew thousands of visitors each year, the majority enraptured schoolchildren.

  A nonstop roster of activities took place in and around this busy enclave—concerts, festivals, school field trips, and the like. Despite all this bustle, the area retained the quiet tranquility of the surrounding park, a surprising oasis in the center of the busy city.

  • • •

  AT THE FORK, Sam directed his dirt-caked hiking boots toward the Academy of Sciences. He soon reached a row of metal bike racks flanking the turnoff for the front entrance. Hooking a right, he strode purposefully up the walkway toward the ticket booth.

  As he reached a short flight of concrete steps, Sam paused to look up at several banners attached to the building’s eaves. The sheets, which stretched three-fourths of the way down the concrete and glass walls, were printed with adverts promoting the Academy’s special time-limited exhibits.

  One of the banners, Sam noted with approval, highlighted the rare amphibian species he had been summoned there to inspect.

  • • •

  DESPITE HIS HEFTY size and intimidating physique, Sam was a tender, inquisitive soul—one who saw the world through a unique frog-fascinated prism.

  He had spent much of the last year tromping through the lower hills of the Sierra Nevada, communing with his beloved amphibians as he took notes on their numbers, movements, and habitat preferences for a research team based out of UC Davis.

  During that time, word of Sam’s uncanny insights into his slimy-skinned brethren had spread far and wide. Among the state’s wildlife biologists, his stature had rapidly risen to near-legendary status.

  So when the Academy became concerned about the stars of its latest showcase amphibian exhibit, a call had gone out urgently requesting Sam’s consultation.

  • • •

  THE ECCENTRIC FROG-MAN certainly looked the part. His broad shoulders were clothed in a grubby T-shirt that hadn’t been washed in several wearings. The shirt was, in any case, fresher than Sam, who had gone even longer since his last shower.

  Over the T-shirt, Sam wore a frayed green vest with a circular patch sewn onto its right chest pocket. He beamed with pride as a passerby squinted to read the writing embroidered beneath the caricatured image of a smiling frog.

  The first line of text bore his formal title: Samuel T. Eckles, Amphibian Consultant.

  But he was known throughout the wildlife biology community by his more informal designation, the tagline that had been inscribed just beneath.

  The Frog Whisperer.

  • • •

  CONFIDENTLY, SAM APPROACHED the glass-fronted entrance and presented his credentials to the attendant seated inside the ticket booth.

  “Welcome, Mr. Eckles.” The man greeted him with a smile of recognition. He’d been told to be on the lookout for the grubby mountain man. He slid a laminated visitor’s pass through the opening at the bottom of the window and motioned for Sam to clip it to his vest.

  “Dr. Kline will meet you inside by the dinosaur,” he shouted in an effort to be heard over the noisy group of schoolchildren who had just approached the booth.

  “Thanks,” Sam replied with a wary glance at the hyperactive youngsters. He swiftly scooped up the visitor’s pass and hurried inside.

  • • •

  THE DINOSAUR WAS easy to locate. The creature’s bony head almost touched the atrium’s twenty-foot-high glass ceiling; its long, curving tail swept down to just a foot off
the ground.

  With a nervous tug at his vest, Sam parked himself beneath the skeleton.

  So far, everything was going according to plan. His cover was working perfectly.

  After several successful consults with Academy scientists out in the field, he had finally been brought into the main headquarters—the mother ship, so to speak.

  No one had any reason to suspect that he was there to do anything other than diagnose the illness of a pair of seemingly off-color amphibians; no one could possibly guess the real purpose of his mission.

  • • •

  JUST AS SAM was starting to relax into his undercover role, an eerie sensation swept over his psyche. The sunlit room took on a cooling shadow, and an anxious tension crept over his body.

  He turned a slow circle, his eyes warily scanning the room. With all the time he’d spent outdoors, observing both predator and prey, his finely tuned naturalist’s skills were quick to discern when he was the one being watched.

  After a minute of careful surveillance, he shook his head, trying to dismiss the unsettled feeling.

  “Probably just my imagination,” he tried to assure himself.

  He glared sharply up at the empty eye sockets in the dinosaur’s skull and added an admonishment.

  “But I’d appreciate it if you’d stop looking at me.”

  • • •

  SAM WAS STILL trying to calm his nerves when a boy of about three bounced across the atrium toward the dinosaur. The tyke’s shoes lit up each time his soles hit the floor.

  “Dangerously unpredictable creature,” Sam muttered as he began to fret over this unforeseen complication.

  Of course, he had known there would be children at the Academy. They were a naturally occurring species in this type of environment.

  He just hadn’t realized how many of them would be running about the facility, untethered to any supervising adult.

  • • •

  FROM SAM’S POINT of view, there was nothing wrong with children, per se. He found them a bit difficult to relate to and their tendency toward loud shrieking noises horribly off-putting, but, generally, they weren’t any more of a bother to him than their adult counterparts.

  The problem with children, at least for purposes of today’s operation, was their keen sense of perception, Sam thought with growing unease. They had a way of picking up on things. They saw right through even the whitest of lies.

  He shuddered with apprehension. He couldn’t escape the sense that someone was tracking his every movement.

  One of the little people, he feared, had seen through the ruse.

  • • •

  SAM TOOK A wide step to the side to avoid the approaching child, but the action only served to draw the boy’s interest.

  “Shoo,” Sam whispered hoarsely as the battery-powered shoes stomped ever closer. “Get lost.”

  Sam eased backward toward the exhibit space behind the central atrium, his thick boots scraping against the concrete floor as he kept his eyes fixed on the tiny, inquisitive human.

  “Run along now,” Sam urged again, waving his hands in the air.

  The boy only giggled and continued to trot toward him, his face lighting up as brightly as his shoes.

  Sam had backed halfway across the room when his attention was diverted to a second short-statured interrogator moving in on his left flank, a little girl with a high-pitched voice and long pigtails that whipped through the air like samurai swords.

  “Little buggers are everywhere,” he muttered under his breath as the girl raced toward him.

  A nervous sweat broke across his brow. They were all onto him. He just knew it.

  “Dr. Kline?” he called out desperately as a swarming mass of the Academy’s younger clientele rushed in from one of the side corridors.

  For a few tenuous seconds, Sam struggled to maintain his composure, but after a short hesitation, he turned and ran the remaining length of the atrium, his fleeing figure trailed by a squealing line of children who thought they were participating in an impromptu game of tag.

  • • •

  STANDING JUST INSIDE a gift shop located on the far side of the atrium, an elderly man wearing the shabby clothes of a tramp watched as Sam sprinted headlong across the building.

  The man wore several grimy shirts loosely draped over his upper half; each layer was riddled with holes and stained with smears of dirt. His ragged pants were two sizes too big, secured around his rotund middle with a worn piece of rope. The shoes on his feet had been reinforced with used duct tape, the frayed strapping wrapped around the arch of each foot.

  A ray of sun fell across the man’s pale, wrinkled face as he stepped into the atrium, illuminating his bristly gray eyebrows, thinning white hair, and scruffy false beard.

  He lifted his right sleeve to his mouth and whispered into a hidden microphone that relayed his voice back to the kitchen of a North Beach fried-chicken restaurant.

  “Wombler, this is Lick.”

  He paused and stared at the far side of the atrium, where he’d last seen the fugitive frog-man.

  “We might have a problem.”

  Chapter 6

  A CONTENTED CAT

  BACK IN JACKSON Square, a woman with long brown hair tied up in a messy ponytail collapsed onto a worn couch in the apartment above the Green Vase antiques shop.

  Her face was flushed, and she still wore the sweaty exercise clothes from her late-afternoon run. It had been a fantastic jog, out and back through the Presidio’s Crissy Field to Fort Point at the southern foot of the Golden Gate Bridge. But after the second lengthy route in as many days, she was too tired, as yet, to move toward the shower.

  Oscar’s niece had landed on the couch’s right side, closest to the kitchen, farthest from the window overlooking the street, the section where the cushions still retained the majority of their stuffing.

  The seating on the couch’s opposite side cratered down into its wooden framework and what was left of the furniture’s inner springs. The upholstery and the support beneath it had been molded into their bouldered-out shape by her uncle, the couch’s previous owner.

  It had been over a year since the woman and her two cats, Rupert and Isabella, moved into the apartment above the Green Vase showroom. During that time, Oscar’s niece had assumed almost every aspect of her uncle’s previous life.

  For some reason, however, she still didn’t feel quite right about taking over his long-established place on the couch.

  Besides, given the inoperative lamp on the opposite end table, the lighting on the firmer side of the couch was far better for reading.

  • • •

  THE WOMAN GUZZLED down a glass of water as she glanced across the sofa’s length to the windows overlooking the street. The glass panes were propped open, letting in a hot, balmy breeze through the slats of the blinds.

  The sudden arrival of Indian summer had inspired anyone who was able to head for the waterfront; the Embarcadero as well as the wide path cutting through Crissy Field had been packed with both people and pets.

  Despite the sunny weather, Oscar’s niece had left her animals at home.

  She had a special cat-adapted stroller, fitted with a net covering to secure its occupants, that she occasionally used to take Rupert and Isabella for walks, but it had been folded up in a closet for several weeks. Also packed away was a set of cat-sized harnesses, one slightly larger than the other, each with leash hooks sewn onto the back straps.

  The woman hadn’t been tempted to try either of these contraptions during that day’s outing. Her cats, she’d found, simply weren’t the best jogging or walking companions.

  First off, Isabella had a tendency to hiss at any dogs they came across. As canines made up the majority of the pet population on San Francisco’s running trails and beaches, this habit led to several uncomfortable altercations—Isabella was unintimidated by size or breed.

  For his part, Rupert would have spent the entire trip howling his demands for a stop at the f
ried-chicken restaurant.

  The woman knew from past experience; the pair was better off staying at home in the Green Vase.

  • • •

  THIS WAS NOT to say that the cats didn’t express any concerns regarding their person’s earlier whereabouts.

  As Oscar’s niece wiped the sweat from her brow, Isabella leapt primly onto the nearest armrest and issued a disapproving glare. She assumed a haughty sphinx pose, daintily crossing her front feet one over the other.

  The cat knew her person had been out mingling with the canine species. The unmistakable trace of doggy odor on the woman’s clothes indicated she had stopped to pet a number of the offensive beasts.

  “You never know, Issy,” the woman said teasingly. “One day, I might just bring one of those dogs home with me.”

  Isabella turned her head, ever so slightly, and stared icily down at her person.

  • • •

  THE NIECE SPOTTED a crumb hanging from one of Isabella’s white whiskers, likely a remnant of her afternoon snack.

  “Issy,” she said, pointing between gulps of water. “You’ve got something . . . right near your mouth.”

  Isabella’s orange ears swiveled sideways, expressing regal affront—as if someone had peeked under the princess’s mattress and pointed out the pea.

  “It’s just right . . . there,” the woman continued, reaching toward the cat’s face.

  Before the finger could touch the encumbered whisker, Isabella shook her head, triggering a violent vibration that removed the offending crumb without acknowledging its presence. Then she immediately resumed her imperial pose, settling onto her perch as her brother’s fluffy form padded into the living room.

  • • •

  RUPERT PROCEEDED DIRECTLY to the couch and, despite the open seat to his person’s left, hopped straight into her lap.

  A flurry of white cat hair floated into the air as Rupert nuzzled the woman’s face. Purring loudly, he began turning in a tight circle, kneading his front feet into her stomach, each prodding poke digging a little deeper into her gut.

  “I was here first,” she protested. A feathery clump of cat hair floated past the tip of her nose, triggering a loud sneeze.