‘Well, at least Bushwick got what was coming to him,’ she says when we get there. She has collapsed against the wall but I cannot join her. I stand, staring at the coats. Trying to understand. ‘I should have known he was the boss, that the marker was going to him. Known that he …’
She stops, a look of horror on her face. ‘The marker – that was the signal that the old man was on his way. The old man – he was the price. He wasn’t killed only to get him out of the way – his death was what Diamond Jim brought to the deal.’
My head explodes in light and noise. The door bursts open. Men are yelling. Running. I am in pain and I howl. I cry with a voice not my own. A desperate cry. A man’s scream.
Too late, too late. I see this room and I know. I see the thugs. Their master staring as they throw me down. I see the gun. The noise. The pain. The three men watching as I fade. I see my death. I smell my death. Have smelled it all along. That stench. The furs. I was killed here. I was killed. I was …
‘What’s that?’ A voice breaks through. ‘Someone’s there.’ A flashlight runs along the floor. It leaps over the narrow entrance to the stairwell, my sharp eyes catching the shadow as Care disappears inside. ‘Who’s there?’
I launch myself with a caterwaul, ready to face them down. To buy her time. To die again.
‘What the—?’ The light blinds me once more. And then – a laugh.
‘It’s just a cat, Rico.’ Another laugh. The men were scared as well, unsure of what they’d find. ‘Some mangy old stray they must have let in to keep down the rats. Kind of like the ones that old man used to feed.’
‘Well, shit.’ The flashlight swings instead to the coats and up the walls. The men retreat. Another room searched. More inventory to log.
I find her in the stairwell, sobbing quietly with fear and loss. I am still stunned, taking in what I have learned. Absorbing what I now know. I lean against her with my cat body, giving her what comfort I can. This girl is my charge now. My protégé. My child. I feel her calm and settle as the noises outside begin to disperse. By the time we descend, the bay is dark and locked. Yellow tape festoons the doorway and the empty pallets; the smell of blood and vomit.
Care has a bad moment when she tries the door. It is padlocked and will not budge. But now that I remember, I am able to lead her to a secret entrance, the remainder of the smugglers’ passage, and onto the street. I am bone tired, sore and aching from the night’s event, and I do not object when she lifts me up. She is trembling, not entirely from the cold, as we make our way through the city.
By the time we return to the office – my office – the sky has brightened, a harsh grey light showing me the toll this night has taken on her. She is too young for this life. Too young for such dangers, but she has not had many options. Besides, she is smart, this girl. And I have trained her well.
‘I’m glad they got Diamond Jim,’ she says as we settle into the couch. I curl up beside her, purring from the sheer pleasure of being still. Remembering that other time, that other life. ‘He deserves to go to prison for life. Actually, he deserves worse.’ We are quiet for a bit, and I wonder what she is thinking of. Of the old man, who loved her so. Or of Tick, whom she could not save.
‘At least Bushwick got what he deserves,’ she says again, her voice growing sleepy. ‘That bastard.’ She is fading. ‘I never knew he had it in him to be so cruel. To demand …’ She falls silent and I know what she is thinking. To demand a death. A tribute. A blood price. ‘I’m going to keep after Tick, though. I’m going to find …’ Her breathing becomes even and slow and I begin to drowse. We are at peace. We are safe. Now, perhaps, I can let go. To surrender to the pain, the fatigue. To the wear of an age and a battle that is now finally done.
Done. I wake with a start, jumping to all four feet, my fur on end and new energy coursing through me. An impression of drowning has come to me. Of sinking into deep waters, into death, as three men look on. Two goons, yes, but a third man – cold-eyed and silent. A man who inspired fear – fear unto death – and who was not there to be taken, to be killed. A master whose mark made all happen. Who will, as Bushwick knew, be angry. Who will be looking for the one who alerted the authorities. For a girl and a little boy.
I am not done here, not yet, and I will stay. I am a cat, and I have one life left.