I hopped onto the top of the cupboard, where a nice collection of dust and cobwebs were awaiting me, and from there it was but a single leap to the grate. Hanging on with my claws, I scrabbled up and away into the air duct. Agent Tom had done it again! Now if only this would lead someplace.
I squeezed myself through the duct, which was not built for a cat my size, I might add, and soon found myself facing the tunnel explorer’s perennial dilemma: arriving at a crossing, I had the option of going left, right, up, or down. Mh. Difficult decision. I would have preferred to keep going straight, for I had the distinct impression the stage was somewhere ahead of me, but, following my feline intuition, I opted to take a right turn. Unfortunately, my usually unerring intuition had led me astray, for this part of the ventilation system proved a dead end. I now faced what looked like the end of the line for about a yard of dust and one dead rat.
I sneezed and would have scratched my head in bemused puzzlement, if not for the fact that I couldn’t move my paws. No wiggle room. With no way of turning round, I had no option but to backpedal. Now, I don’t know if any of you have a working knowledge of catdom, but we felines don’t come equipped with reverse gears. It was starting to feel really cramped in there, but I suppressed a rising feeling of panic and claustrowhatchamacallit, and willed my limbs to move in the opposite direction.
Oddly enough, they flatly refused. Failure to comply to a direct order, or in other words: mutiny. I broke into a cold sweat at the thought of being stuck there for the rest of my, extremely reduced, life. Oh, and that old wives’ tale about the nine lives? Hokum, brother. If this was the end, this was the end. Period.
In frustration I tried wiggling, then jiggling, then wobbling, and finally shimmying. But all to no avail. I was stuck. In desperation, I decided to plunk down on my belly to have a much-needed rest, so I simply retracted my limbs and dropped my bulk onto the‘floor’.
As my belly hit the piping, there was a loud groan, like the death rattle of an expiring piece of equipment, then a clank and a clang, a rending sound, and suddenly the floor gave way and disappeared from under me. The next moment I was hurtling through space, and when I landed, I found myself straddling something soft and hairy. A carpet, or so I thought.
I directed my eyes heavenward and murmured a few choice words of thanks to that great, big Cat in the sky for saving my furry butt. Then I noticed it wasn’t a carpet that had broken my fall, but the head of Mayor McCrady. And he didn’t seem too well pleased that I’d dug my claws into his skull—what can I say? It’s a reflex. The Mayor screamed bloody murder, and lifted both me and his hair—who would have thought the Mayor was wearing a toupee!—into the air, and slung the both of us far and away. Well, at least as far as the stage wings.
I deftly landed on all fours—something that couldn’t be said for the toupee—and thanked my lucky stars: the air duct, I now discovered, had been located directly over the prompter’s box with the Mayor, who liked to be hands-on when a play was being performed by ‘his’ Theatrical Society, taking up the role of prompter.
Then, suddenly remembering Zack’s big‘murder scene’ takes place in the first act, my heart skipped a beat. Was I too late?
35
The Awful Truth
Then, to my relief, I saw Zack waiting in the coulisses across from where I’d landed. The big guy was still green around the gills, and his lips kept moving as he repeated his lines over and over again. Next to him I recognized Barbara Vale, apple-cheeked and cheerful as ever, trying to engage Zack in conversation.
She had applied a particularly fluorescent brand of lipstick and now stood puckering her lips in anticipation of the big kissing scene. Zack, catching a glimpse of her, blanched and I could see from the expression on his face his stomach was still doing somersaults.
My relief that I had arrived in time was short-lived as I realized I was running out of time. Short of leaping on stage and taking Zack out with a well-aimed swish of my own retractable knives, thus necessitating the arrival of the stretcher-bearers and ending the performance, I didn’t know what to do. Stretcher-bearers being preferable to pallbearers, I had almost decided to go with this gung-ho, yet kamikaze, idea when I noticed another familiar figure high up in the stage rafters.
It was Stevie.
So my fellow agent and FSA partner had made it here after all. The odd thing was, that he wasn’t focused on me, but on Zack, staring at my human with a curiously focused intensity.
“Hey, Stevie!” I whispered, but he didn’t respond.
I tried to read his mind, but once again couldn’t. Then a thought occurred to me: I’d been able to read Zack’s mind, hadn’t I? Why couldn’t I read Stevie’s? The only logical answer was that Stevie was blocking me.
The notion frankly startled me. Could it be? Now I remembered that earlier that day I’d tried to read both Stevie’s and Dana’s mind and had drawn a blank. It all made sense now. Both of them had the capacity to close their minds. With Dana, this seemed obvious. She was a senior agent or officer or whatever her FSA label was. But I’d never have expected Stevie to do the same. Wasn’t he a mere trainee, just like me?
Then another thought struck me. Why would Stevie want to block me, unless he was hiding something? He was still staring at Zack with that intense gaze, and then it hit me. Stevie was willing Zack to do something. Nudging him in a certain direction. Had he also figured out Zack was about to use Barbara Vale for fileting practice?
A flood of relief washed over me. Agent Steve to the rescue. My partner had somehow discovered what Zack was about to do, and was trying to stop him. Oh, bless Stevie’s heart, I thought. I just hoped he would succeed where I had failed.
Instantly I started making my way up by using the curtains as a climbing pole. Curtains are excellent for this purpose, did you know that? It only took me ten seconds to reach the rail, and from there it was a mere few leaps and bounds to reach my friend and partner. He was sitting between two following spots.
“Ho there, pardner,” I said by way of greeting. Stevie had been so focused on Zack—saving the day—that he hadn’t noticed my approach. He started violently.
I chuckled freely at his perturbation.“No need to be afraid,” I jested. “It’s only me. Agent Tom.”
“Oh, hi, Tom,” he said, though he didn’t seem too happy to see me.
I grew serious. These were, after all, serious times.“Any luck changing his mind?” I said, indicating Zack, who now stood on one leg. From our vantage point we had an excellent overview of the action down below on stage.
“What do you mean?” he said nervously.
“Well, trying to convince Zack not to slay the Vale, of course,” I said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
He gulped once or twice.“You know about that?”
“Sure,” I said, and proceeded to fill him on the state of affairs, omitting no detail, no matter how small.
On stage, Father Sam had appeared in his butler outfit, and was swigging port in what I assumed to be his pantry. He now started singing a song about how he’d lost the girl of his dreams and hoped one day to see her again. I winced and wondered if this was the same singing voice he utilized in church. If so, the piercing whine didn’t do him credit.
Stevie, meanwhile, was still gulping like a bullfrog.“So,” I concluded, “I made my way here as fast as I could, and have been trying to figure out how to stop Zack since I arrived.”
“That’s… great,” Stevie said, and the comment struck me as rather feeble, as comments go.
“No, it’s not,” I corrected him. “Haven’t you been listening? I tried to dissuade Zack from going down this road, but he didn’t respond.”