Cat's-Paw, Inc.

by L. L. Thrasher

  I couldn’t explain why I couldn’t leave my house. “I’ll do what I can. If he shows up, tell him to call me right away.”

  I spent thirty minutes trying to track Phil down by telephone. He wasn’t in a bar drinking soda and lime or anything stronger. He wasn’t out at the firing range pretending the target was the Chief of Police. He wasn’t at Sparky’s flirting with the waitresses. I left messages for him with two of the regulars who would be attending the AA meeting at eight o’clock. The anonymity bit doesn’t work well in a town the size of Mackie.

  All else having failed, I called Patsy. The phone rang six times before it was finally picked up. There was a breathless “Hello,” then the receiver thunked against something hard. After several softer, diminishing thunks, Patsy said,” Sorry. I dropped—” She broke off with a laugh. Then her voice muffled, she said, “Stop it! Don’t! Get off me, you idiot. Don’t tickle!” I hang up during some sustained out-of-control giggling. I had no desire to find out who was tickling the fancy of Phil’s ex-wife.

  I sat and stared at the phone for a while. If Patsy was fooling around at seven in the evening, Philip the Second wouldn’t be in the house. He was probably with his father and the two of them were out in the country somewhere with a couple fishing lines trailing in the water. Shit.

  I tapped out Phil’s number and listened once more to his recorded voice drawling out an interminable message. At the sound of the beep, I said, “Where the hell are you? I have Allison Vanzetti. If you want her, get over here.” I slammed the receiver down. Never a goddamn cop around when you need one.

  I went outside and stretched out in the chair beside Allison. We went inside after the sunset had faded to a soft diffuse light beyond the hills. Very meekly, Allison told me she was tired and asked if it would be all right if she took a bath and then went to bed. When I said it would, her face flooded with relief. Reprieved again. She thought I was going to give her another night. But I wasn’t. I couldn’t. Long before dawn, the early edition of The Oregonian would hit the newsstands and if my picture was in it, Mackie cops and county sheriffs and state troopers were going to be banging on my door.

  Allison asked for her nightgown and followed me to the hall closet. I blocked her attempt to watch me open the inner door. She glared at me, then went upstairs. After a moment, I followed. I stood outside the bathroom door and listened to the water running and then to the light splashes as she bathed. When water started draining from the tub, I went down the hall to the master bedroom and looked at the wall by the door. There was a ragged hole in the sheetrock where some fool had put his fist through it three years ago. Three year, three months, and… how many days? It seemed important to know so I stood there until I figured it out.

  The bathroom door was still closed. I walked past it and went downstairs. I used the phone in the kitchen. O’Connell answered and I asked for Harkins.

  “He isn’t here,” O’Connell said. “He went home about an hour ago. Phil hasn’t shown up.”

  “Thanks,” I said and hung up the phone. I could hear Allison walking around upstairs. She was in the master bedroom. There was nothing in there to look at except the hole in the wall and a stack of photo albums that tracked three years of marriage to an abrupt end.

  I picked up the telephone receiver again. I wasn’t one of the privileged few who had Harkins’ unlisted number. Well, if the son-of-a-bitch didn’t want me to know his number, he shouldn’t live next door to my sister. I called Carrie and heard the relief in her voice as she gave me the number.

  I punched the buttons and Harkins answered immediately.

  “I have Allison Vanzetti,” I said.

  There was a long silence. If the bastard asked who I was, I was going to reach right through the telephone and rip his tongue out.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “She’s here. Out at my place.”

  There was another long pause then Harkins said, “At your house? She’s there?”

  “That’s right. Listen, Harkins, she’s young and she’s scared. Handle this quietly. Don’t call the press. You can get your picture taken tomorrow.”

  Another long silence. He was probably already trying to figure out how he could take full credit for apprehending her. Finally he said, “What did she tell you?”

  “She said she didn’t do it. Nothing else. And she isn’t saying anything else until she has a lawyer. Don’t try any grandstand plays on this one. If you lean on her, I’ll kill you.”

  After another lengthy pause, Harkins said, “I didn’t bring a city car home. Better go by the book and not transport her in a private vehicle. I’ll call the station and send someone out in an unmarked unit. You can ride in with her and I’ll meet you at the station. The place was dead when I left. There won’t be any reporters hanging around. We can take her in the back way. I’ll call the county and have them send a woman from the juvenile division and you can get a lawyer for her. How did you find her?”

  “I picked her up on the road. Hurry up.”

  “Right,” he said and hung up.

  I looked at my wrist, which was bare, then at the clock on the microwave. It was 8:51.

  I went to the bottom of the stairs and watched Allison come down. She descended slowly, her eyes on mine, her face solemn. The light at the top of the stairs cast an aura of gold around her hair and silhouetted the shape of her body beneath the thin nightgown. My throat ached. She stopped on the last step, her face level with mine, and put one hand behind my neck and one on my shoulder and kissed me, a long, slow kiss that was totally devoid of passion, sweet and sad and very final. A goodbye kiss. From A to Z.

  Without a word, she walked away from me and went into the family room. After a moment the sweet sound of violins filled the air. I went into the room beneath the stairs and selected some clothes for her, the dark blue pants and the blue blouse, underwear, her sandals. I slung her purse over my shoulder and carried the clothes into the family room. She was standing at the counter, staring into the kitchen.

  “Here,” I said. “Put these on.”

  She looked at her clothes as if they were unidentifiable foreign objects. “What?” she said.

  “Get dressed. I called the cops. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “What?” she said.

  I tried again. “I talked to the Chief of Police. He’s sending a—”

  Allison went berserk.

  She screamed, a less than human scream that stopped as abruptly as it started. She grabbed the clothes from me, dropping them all over the floor. She snatched up the pants, thrust one leg into them and fell, landing hard on her butt on the floor. Her face didn’t register any pain. She shoved her other leg into the pants and had them pulled up and zipped by the time she was on her feet again. Her nightgown was ballooning around her waist, tucked loosely into the pants. She was sobbing loudly, harshly, and yet her eyes were completely dry.

  She slid one foot into a sandal, bent to buckle it, then wriggled her other foot into the second sandal, leaving it unbuckled. She picked up her bra, dropped it and picked up her blouse, holding it in front of her as if she didn’t know what it was for. She said, “I need my purse” in a voice as calm as if she were asking me to pass the salt. She snatched her purse from me and ran, her blouse gripped in her hand. I caught her arm as she was rounding the counter into the kitchen. She spun around and attacked me with hands, feet, nails, and teeth. When I finally got my arms around her, pinioning hers to her side, she used her hair, whipping her head around, the log strands flailing, lashing at my face.

  I finally just let her go because I was afraid she was going to hurt herself the way she was arching her back and swinging her head around. She stood stock still for an instant then thrust her foot back into the sandal that had fallen off. I was blocking the entrance to the kitchen. With her shoe flapping wildly, she ran toward the front of the house. I caught her before she reached the hallway to the entry. She swung her purse, catching me on the side of the hea
d. The strap jerked out of her hand and the purse flew across the room. I gripped her wrists tightly and she pulled hard away from me. All the time, she was breathing in those loud dry sobs and all the time I was telling her to calm down, to listen to me, to let me help her.

  We were making a lot of noise. I didn’t hear a car but, over the sound of music and Allison’s sobbing, I heard the compressed air sound of the screen door opening and I heard the footsteps in the entry. I turned toward the sound, dragging Allison around with me, thinking, good, Phil finally listened to his messages. It had to be Phil. Anyone else would have knocked.

  Anyone else but the man who walked into the room.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I probably wouldn’t have been fool enough to rush a man with a gun anyway and as it was, Allison was in front of me, stepping back against me, stepping on me, trying to step through me. I gripped her arms above the elbows and felt fear jolting through both our bodies and, just beneath my own fear, shock and disbelief followed by an incongruous rush of relief. Allison didn’t kill her father.

  For a brief moment the only sound in the house was the swell of violins from the stereo. Then Allison spoke. Her body shielding mine was trembling steadily but her voice was glacial.

  “He doesn’t know. I didn’t tell him anything.”

  Her words set me and the gunman into motion. I moved her to my side. He took a few steps farther into the room and made a quick upward gesture with the gun. I interpreted the movement as “put your hands up” and laced my fingers across the top of my head, moving my elbow awkwardly back to get it behind Allison’s head, moving my head just enough to see the VCR. It was 9:07. Sixteen minutes since I called Harkins. The cops would be here any minute.

  Allison put her right hand behind me and grabbed a fistful of my T-shirt. “He doesn’t know,” she said again, her voice calm and steady. “He found me and brought me here. I was trying to get away. I was trying to make him give me some money. That’s all I need, just some money to get away and I’ll never come back. I’ll never tell anyone. I don’t care what you did. My father… I didn’t know him very well. I’ll go someplace far away and change my name and… I haven’t told anyone. You can help me get away. I’ll never tell anyone.”

  While Allison was speaking, the gunman stood still, the gun steady on me, then he pulled a length of rope out of his jacket pocket and tossed it. It hit Allison in the stomach and fell to the floor.

  What?” she said. “Tie him up?”

  He nodded and she stooped down, her hand still clenched on my shirt. The fabric strained across my back as she used it to pull herself up again. I lowered my hands and crossed my wrists behind me. Her fingers were icy, bloodless, but she tied me as if she had done it a hundred times before, tightly, crisscrossing the rope between my wrists, making no attempt to leave it loose. I was breathing a little better. He wouldn’t tie me up if he planned to shoot me. At least, I didn’t think he would.

  While Allison was behind me, I studied the man in front of me. He was overdressed for an August night in eastern Oregon. A tan ski mask was pulled over his head. The eyeholes were hidden behind cheap black plastic sunglasses. A white handkerchief, folded into a triangle, concealed the mouth opening of the mask. He was wearing baggy blue overalls—the kind people pull on over their clothes to work on their cars. He was also wearing a maroon down jacket—wrinkled and lumpy—and black leather gloves and navy blue moon boots with bright orange stripes across the insteps. All I could tell for sure was that he was about six feet tall. His gun was just like mine only his was in his hand and mine was locked in a room beneath the stairs.

  Allison gave a little tug on the rope, checking her handiwork, and moved to my side. Her body was vibrating. He voice was ice-cold. “Shall we go?” she asked her father’s killer.

  I tried to keep my face expressionless and willed her to read my mind. Shall we go? For God’s sake, Allison, stall him. The cops are coming. Her eyes met mine, briefly, blankly.

  The gunman made a “turn-around” gesture with the gun. I turned and felt another, rougher, tug on the rope. It was followed by a slap across my shoulder. I turned again. He had backed a few feet from me. He gestured “come here.” Allison went. He spun her around to face me, twisting his left hand in her hair. The gun jabbed in the direction of the kitchen. I went.

  They followed close behind me, shuffle-footed, out of step. Allison’s loose sandal slapped softly on the carpet then loudly across the kitchen tile. I stopped in the middle of the room and turned slowly to face them. The darkness outside was complete and the kitchen was dimly lit by the lamp at the front of the family room. The numbers on the microwave glowed bright red. 9:11. They’d be here any second now.

  The gunman shoved Allison against the kitchen counter, long golden strands clinging to his glove as her hair was jerked out of his hand. He pulled a small bottle from his pocket and tossed it at her. She had the reflexes of a sleepwalker. Like the rope, the bottle hit her and fell to the floor, rolling back toward him. He kicked it toward her and she picked it up.

  “You want me to take these?” Her voice was shaking. She seemed more afraid of the pills than of the gun. He must have nodded. I was trying to get a good look at the bottle. It was a clear, unlabeled prescription bottle full of tiny rounds pills. White or maybe pale yellow.

  “How many?” Allison asked.

  He held up four fingers. She looked at his hand for a long moment, her lips moving slightly. I could swear she was counting fingers, as if the concept of four was beyond her comprehension. She nodded slightly then twisted the lid back and forth several times, her lower lip caught up in her teeth, a small dot of blood appearing on it. Finally she pressed her palm flat against the lid and twisted and it came off and dropped to the floor. She dumped the contents of the bottle into her left hand, most of it spilling onto the floor. With her palm flat, she flicked excess pills off with her index finger until four were left. She held them toward the gunman for inspection then tossed them into her mouth. She ran some water into a glass, took a big gulp, and dropped the glass into the sink. The sound of it cracking was very loud. I checked the microwave. 9:12. Where the hell are the cops?

  The gunman was suddenly in a hurry. He shoved Allison to the floor by the sink and began pulling out drawers, glancing at the contents, keeping the gun on me. When he yanked the silverware drawer open there was a loud crack and the whole drawer came out in his hand. A service for twelve—April’s pattern—hit the floor with enormous noise. He threw the empty drawer behind him and pulled open the next one. It was the one he wanted. He tossed dish towels onto the counter.

  He made a downward motion with the gun in my direction. I dropped to my knees. Evidently that wasn’t far enough. The back of his left hand slammed across my face and before I could get my eyes open again, his boot landed in the pit of stomach. I can take a hint. I fell over onto my side, gasping for air and choking on the blood welling up in my nose and mouth.

  Allison said, “Don’t.”

  I lay on the floor, spitting blood, while he gagged her with two dish towels and tied her hands in front of her with another. The gun jerked upward at me. He had to be kidding. Probably not, though. I struggled awkwardly to my knees, got one foot flat on the floor, and pushed myself to my feet. 9:15. Where the goddamn hell are the goddamn cops?

  The gun jabbed toward the family room. We filed into it, me first, then Allison, then the gunman. He pushed her roughly to the floor in front of the recliner. Then he put his gun in his pocket and headed my way.

  “Don’t cry,” I said to Allison. “You’ll plug up your nose.” They were the only words I spoke the entire time Carl Vanzetti’s killer was in my house.

  His fist landed just beneath my ribs and was followed by another in the same place. I staggered backward, staying on my feet but sending a spiraling wrought-iron plant stand crashing to the floor. I followed it a few blows later, landing on my face in a mess of plants and dirt and cracked pots. His foot rammed into my
side. I got my knees under me and then the next kick sent me sprawling again.

  The thick padding in the moon boots probably helped but after the first few kicks it didn’t seem to make much difference. He put his weight behind each swing and got a pretty good rhythm going. I made it to my knees a couple times but all I managed to do was give him new targets. A kick to the side of my head slammed me into the wall and I slid down it, coughing blood all over a broken-stemmed golden pothos. My face hit the floor.

  The kicks stopped.

  Here lies Zachariah Smith, done to death with moon boots.

  I raised my head and turned it slowly until I found Allison. Above the gag, her eyes were wide and dry and pleading.

  I couldn’t help her.

  I blinked away blood and sweat and tears and looked at the VCR. 9:21. Where the goddamn fucking hell are the goddamn fucking cops?

  The moon boots came into view and Allison was jerked to her feet and out of my line of sight. All that was left was her sandal, upside down on the floor.

  The black dots hovering in front of my eyes all joined together and I went away to some place where it didn’t hurt.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I came to slowly, surfacing toward light and the low, slow beat of music and the clean-earth smell of potting soil. My heart was thudding in jackhammer strokes, out of sync with my mind, which came sluggishly to the realization that I was on the floor and that I hurt all over and that the feather-tickle on my face was blood dripping across my cheek. I wiped it off on the carpet and inhaled dirt. The sneeze fragmented the overall pain into separate and distinct points of agony. It also brought me back to full consciousness.