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 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.
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