“What about a john?” Anne asked.
Blakemoor shook his head. “No sign of any sex at all, kinky or otherwise.” He sighed. “And that’s what worries me. If it wasn’t sex, and it wasn’t a fight with someone she knew, what was it?”
Anne hesitated, knowing what she was about to say was heresy among the press. On the other hand, she’d come to trust Blakemoor as much as he trusted her. “There’s been a lot of coverage on Kraven lately,” she began carefully. “With me right up there with the best of them. I suppose it’s possible we pushed someone over the brink.”
Blakemoor’s eyes met hers. “That’s exactly the thought that occurred to me,” he told her. “I have a real bad feeling about this one, Anne. It’s almost like now that Kraven’s dead, someone’s decided to emulate him, just to mess up our heads.”
“And if that’s true?” Anne asked, though she already knew the answer.
Blakemoor’s lips tightened into a hard line. “Then there will be more.” He sighed, then uttered a disgusted grunt. “Sometimes I just don’t get it, Jeffers. It’s like now that we’ve gotten rid of one wacko, we’re just going to have to deal with another.”
“Maybe it won’t happen,” Anne suggested.
Blakemoor listlessly stirred his latte. “Maybe it won’t.”
Neither of them believed it.
CHAPTER 20
Though he saw nothing, the boy knew the cat was there. This was where it always hid, skulking behind the house, doing its best to conceal itself in the thick foliage of the rhododendrons his mother had planted along the fence. The boy didn’t know why the cat never actually left the backyard, but since it never did, he guessed there must be something outside the yard that terrified the creature even more than he did himself.
Or possibly — and the boy was becoming more and more certain that this was the real truth — the cat enjoyed the game as much as he did.
The boy crouched low, settling down on his haunches, balancing perfectly so he was almost as still as the cat when it was stalking one of the birds that occasionally ventured into its domain. Only the boy’s eyes moved now, and even they moved so slowly the motion was all but imperceptible, scanning the shadowy interior of the rhododendrons, searching for the slightest movement that would betray the cat’s presence.
Then he saw it — no more than a twitch of the animal’s tail, but enough to betray its hiding place.
Taking on the same grace as the cat itself, the boy began moving, first rocking forward until his hands touched the lawn, the sensitive skin of his palms feeling every blade of grass just as he imagined the cat’s paws experienced whatever surface they trod. His confidence growing as the cat remained crouched where it was — not yet certain it had been spotted — the boy began to inch his way forward. Now he felt as if he had become the cat, felt all the muscles in his lithe body tense, felt time stretch out as he crept forward, each movement slow and liquid, so he felt as if he was oozing across the lawn toward the bushes.
Now he could see the cat tense — but it was more than seeing; it was as if it were happening to him. He and the cat were becoming as one; he was experiencing what the cat felt, while the cat, in its turn, lived the boy’s life as well as its own.
Was that why the cat never tried to escape the yard? For the same reason the boy hadn’t, either?
The cat tensed as the boy crept closer, and now he could see not only the end of its tail twitching nervously, but its whiskers as well. As if in sympathy, the boy’s own face began to tingle, and he felt the down on his jaw stand up.
He edged closer, and saw the cat draw back. “Nice kitty,” the boy breathed, so softly only he and the cat could hear the soothing words. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a pair of thin black leather gloves and carefully pulled them on. “That’s a good cat,” he crooned. “Nice, nice, kitty.”
As though mesmerized by the caressing whisper, the cat calmed slightly, and its ruffling coat began to flatten.
The boy slipped closer to the shrubs.
His right hand reached out, winding through the foliage as silently as a serpent. Once more the cat tensed, this time rising to its feet, its back arching as every hair on its body stood on end. A thrill — like a light charge of electricity — ran through the boy, and now, like black lightning, his hand struck, his fingers closing on the cat long before it could spring away to safety. Drawing his prize from the shelter of the rhododendrons, the boy held it at eye level.
The cat’s eyes met his own, and it hissed. Then one of its forepaws shot out, claws extended, as it tried to slash his face. The boy’s other leather-clad hand closed on the paw, and the cat, as if finally truly assessing the precariousness of its position, didn’t even try to struggle.
Just as the boy had never tried to struggle.
Holding the cat, the boy stood up and started toward the house, which today was empty.
Empty, save for himself.
And the cat.
Inside the back door the boy paused. He knew he was alone, but the house still held terrors for him. Today, though, fear subsided in the face of what he was about to do.
He moved quickly now, and a moment later was in the basement. His heart pounding, he approached the workbench.
Pounding from fear, or from anticipation?
He knew the workbench well. It was as much a part of him as life itself. Always, it had been there.
Now it was his to use.
Putting the cat into a cage, the boy set to work.
Everything he needed was there, carefully prepared, as everything had always been carefully prepared for him.
The rag, the ether.
The boy felt good, knowing he would show kindness to the creature.
He soaked the rag with ether, then opened the cage and reached inside. The cat struck out again with its forepaw. This time its talons slashed through the leather of the gloves, digging deeply into the boy’s skin, but the boy felt nothing.
Inured from every pain, of every kind?
His fingers closed on the cat; his other hand pressed the ethered rag against the cat’s face. The cat struggled, but soon its struggles flagged. Then it went limp, and the boy knew it was time to begin.
Laying the cat on the workbench, he set to work, splaying its legs out, tying them down much the way the Lilliputians bound Gulliver. But if the cat was Gulliver, the boy was not of Lilliput.
He was of Brobdingnag.
He began attaching electrodes to the cat, just as his father attached electrodes to him.
He waited then, waited for the cat to wake up.
Only when it was fully awake, only when it would be able to fully experience the effects of what would happen, did the boy’s finger reach for the button that would activate the electrodes.…
CHAPTER 21
Glen’s whole body jerked spasmodically and his eyes snapped open.
A heart attack — he was having another heart attack! He reached out, groping for the buzzer that would summon the nurse, but even as his thumb was pressing it down, his mind cleared and he realized his mistake. It wasn’t a heart attack at all — it was simply a bad dream.
But a dream of what?
A second ago it had been so vivid.
A cat.
Something to do with a cat. Kumquat?
He tried to remember what the cat had looked like, but the details of the dream vanished like ephemera, fading from his mind even as he tried to retrieve them. A second later the door to his room opened and one of the nurses stepped in. It was Annette Brady, whom Glen had liked from the minute he was conscious enough to know who she was, but this morning her normally cheerful smile was nowhere to be seen.