I jump down to stand by the girl, my tail erect, whiskers bristling and alert. We are going on the hunt.
The girl is growing smarter. Rather than just rush out, she prepares herself. For starters, she goes through what remains in the old man’s closet. A long overcoat in a nubby tweed comes out first. She buries her face in it and I know even her inferior senses are picking up the fruity fragrance of pipe tobacco that lingers around the worn collar. She tries it on and I wonder at her planning. Although it is thick and doubtless warm, a benefit for a skinny creature such as she is, it falls to her ankles. Although I have seen her shiver, wrapping her arms around herself when she is not holding me, this coat is not a very practical garment for someone who might need mobility or stealth. But when she pairs it with a cap of the same fabric, I begin to understand. By donning her mentor’s clothing, she seeks not only to emulate but to evoke him. To create an illusion and possibly force her opponents to act in a way that will betray them – or betray their colleagues.
To this she adds the cheese knife, poor thing that it is, and that board she has been carrying, the piece from the busted door. She opens the coat and slides it in a tear in the lining, a hole, I surmise, that has been used before for just such a purpose. She takes a few more items as well from within the desk, shoving them into her jeans and the deep pockets of the coat. Lastly, she reaches for her bag.
I look up at her. I have been standing, watching her preparation, my tail beginning to lash as the excitement mounts. Now I meet her eyes, green on green. As green as any emeralds. I wait.
‘Blackie?’ She holds the bag open. Crouches down on the floor, and with a leap I am inside, the worn cloth shifting beneath my feet. I stick my head out to retain my bearings and to signify that she should not close the flap. I do not know what her plans are or how we will proceed. I do know that I will need to be able to move, to jump and to strike. This is more than a hunt: we are going to war.
THIRTY-NINE
It is an odd thing to be bounced along like a kitten in a hammock. I find my claws flexing for balance as the bag sways against the thick tweed. Care is moving fast, running as often as she walks and making the most of the twilight and her street savvy as she darts from shadow to shadow. Almost, I feel, she could be a cat with her swift, silent moves. Almost, I feel at one with her, as if I too had a death to avenge.
She has made her plans before we set out. Consulted those papers from the desk and others that she had unfolded on its surface. Although I do not read – neither those letters that mean so much to her nor the so-called map she has found, with its shadings and lines like so many mouse trails – I am confident about where we are heading. We cats do not need such tools for orientation, not when our other senses are engaged. Besides, I know the waterfront. Its smells, its features, its capacity for danger. I may not have the exact bearing that Care is heading for – as I have said, I do not deal with such trivia as addresses or signposts – but I am confident we are heading to the right place. That we are heading to where it all began.
Perhaps it is that confidence that makes me feel I am drifting. That or the rocking motion of the bag as the girl enters the city’s less populated quarter and maintains a steady pace. At some level, I am aware that I will need to be alert – alert and strong – once we arrive at our destination. On another, I am marshaling my reserves. I have been run ragged recently, bruised and beaten. I am not, as I have noted, a kitten anymore. I am a mature feline, and as we cats will do, given the opportunity, I find myself drifting once again into that dream state of half waking where we spend so much of our time.
I am sinking. I am always sinking, even as I extend my claws into the worn denim. Even as I shift and readjust in the bag, more awake than not. I stick my head out, curious about our progress. The girl is making her way between high rises. Across a vacant lot now filled with rubble and past a crane, silent against the sky. The shadows fall across her, across us, longer now that the day is ending. I see them, even as my eyes close again, as I slide back into the recesses. Bars against the light, moving as we move. Moving closer.