|
 Secret's
Shadow
Chapter One: Cat
Cassidy McCabe zipped her rattletrap Toyota into the left
hand slot of her garage and dodged around garden tools
strewn along the wall. Later than I thought. Should've left
an hour ago. She emerged from the dark garage into a yellow
wash of street lights on Briar, breath quickening at the
thought of what might await her on her answering machine.
She
rattled down the door, scanning both the alley next to the
garage and the street leading to her large corner house.
Exhaust fumes and the shriek of sirens floated in from
Austin Boulevard a half block to the east. Austin was the
demarcation line between one of the highest crime ghettos of
Chicago and her own middle-class, struggling-to-integrate
suburb of Oak Park. Living so close to Austin, she was
always careful. But careful had turned to vigilant since the
calls began.
Across
the street a woman hurried down Briar from the bus stop,
shoulders hunched, one hand gripping a briefcase, the other
jammed in the pocket of her corporate-type suit, pepper gun
probably clenched in her fist. At the end of the block, a
trio of black teenagers standing in the middle of the
intersection exchanged high volume, belligerent "Fuck-you's."
A warm
spring night, scattered cars parked on both sides of the
street. She stepped into the shadow at the corner of the
garage, checking quickly for occupants.
Don't
be a baby. Only a couple of anonymous calls.
Jogging the ten yards from garage to gate, she allowed her
mind to drift back over the evening. Another Godawful
Wednesday night dinner with her mother. Thirty-seven,
divorced, a therapist yourself and you still let her get
under your skin.
She
sprinted through the gate toward the pool of light at her
back door. Spotlighted by the bulb, a cat sat erect in the
middle of the mat, watching her arrival with all the aplomb
of an official delegation. As Cassidy climbed the steps, the
cat undulated to the door and poked its nose into the crack.
"Sorry, your highness. Wrong house." She was turning the key
when the ringing began. She bolted through her client
waiting room, raced across the kitchen. Her hand grabbed for
the wall phone, then wavered. Might be him. The machine
could take it.
As the
fourth ring faded, Cassidy started toward the door to lock
up. But the ringing resumed, drawing her back like a tractor
beam to stare at the phone's sleek plastic surface. Chewing
her lower lip, she leaned against the refrigerator and
counted rings. Four, five, six. Why didn't the machine cut
in? The second call followed the first so quickly the
machine had not had time to reset itself. She picked at a
loose end of tape across the corner of a Sylvia cartoon.
Maybe the same caller redialing right away to harass her.
Your
imagination's running away. You do occasionally receive
calls that are not threats.
After
nineteen rings it finally stopped. She took a deep breath,
the tension in her neck and shoulders subsiding.
She
turned to see the cat, who had slipped in with her, sniffing
along the edge of the stove. Small, only a kitten, lean as a
dollar bill. She heard her mother's tart voice: Never feed a
stray. Once you feed them, you can't get rid of them.
"Hey
you. Cat."
Enormous amber eyes looked up, ears and nose forming a tiny
triangle, one ear orange, one ear black, small pink nose.
White, with orange and black patches. A calico, so it had to
be female.
"You
picked the wrong person to schmooze. I don't even like
cats." She pictured a shabby kitchen with cats on the
counter, refrigerator, table, a stink that knocked you out
when you walked in the door: the house of her best friend in
childhood.
Inching back behind the curling seam in the linoleum, the
cat flattened her ears, twitched the tip of her tail. Wide
almond eyes seemed to say: I might be willing to overlook
this irrational prejudice, but don't expect me to beg.
"I'm
broke, I can't afford another mouth to feed. You wouldn't
want to live with a cat hater anyway, would you?"
Mrump
"Oh,
forget my mother." Ferreting a can of tuna out of the
cabinet, she grabbed a used lunch plate from the counter,
plopped food on it, and held it out to the cat. "It's not
like I usually follow her advice or anything." The cat
bumped its head against her hand. "Course I always live to
regret it."
As the
cat growled over the tuna, she rounded the oak cabinet which
separated the kitchen from the client area, crossed the
waiting room, and locked the back door. After shredding
newspaper into a box, she left the cat scouring an empty
plate, closed the swinging kitchen door, and went upstairs
to her master bedroom. Flicking on the overhead, she crossed
to her executive desk in the corner, eyes instantly drawn to
the red light on the answering machine. Three blinks.
Stalling a little longer, she reprogrammed the controls so
the first call would pick up on the fourth ring, subsequent
calls on the first. One ring would be easier to resist.
Stop
procrastinating.
She
took a pen out of her ceramic-mug penholder and pushed
playback.
"Seven-thirty. Thought you'd be here by now. I made that
tuna casserole you always like so much, but it'll get soggy
if it has to sit much longer."
Beep.
I'm
never on time, she knows that. Tuna casserole--haven't liked
it since I was ten years old.
"It's
Maggie. Village board was really something. This gay rights
debate--it's bringing all the insects out of the woodwork.
Somebody actually said, 'If people choose to be
ho-mo-sexual....' And here I always thought Oak Park was
progressive. Oh, and by the way, remember the thing about
John Carter getting sued? He just got served. Malpractice
against therapists--it's going to be the scourge of the
nineties."
Beep.
Gotta
be hard for Maggie, listening to that bilge. And why'd she
have to mention malpractice? I don't want to think about
overdue bills.
"As I
told you before, we need to locate your ex." The voice, cool
and precise, like a voice on public radio. The instant she
heard it, her heart began banging into her rib cage. "You're
screening your calls, and it's beginning to annoy me. You
parked your beige Toyota in the garage at ten-twenty-five.
You walked in the door just as the phone started ringing and
refused to pick up. We'd prefer not to hurt you, but if you
don't start cooperating, we'll be forced to apply pressure.
Beep.
Oh
shit. Worse than oh shit. Watching the house. Kevin, you
jerk, you wanted the divorce. What've you done now?
Hugging herself tightly, she rocked up and down on her toes.
Third time Public Radio Voice had called. Avoidance wasn't
working.
Do
something! Call the cops. Get help.
No you
don't. No thrashing around. Can't find Kevin. Hasn't shown
his face since last time he tried to borrow money. This
guy's scary. Too slick to get caught. Keep your mouth shut,
lie low, and maybe he'll leave you alone. |
