Cat People (18 page)

There on the pale yellow wallpaper was the huge bloody imprint of a paw.

"What about it?" Brant asked.

Oliver examined the print. "It's a big cat, all right. Most likely a leopard."

"Is it ours?"

Oliver closed his eyes. The hours with the veterinarian reports and his own repeated measurements left no room for doubt.

"Yes," he said. "It's our cat."

The sun, just risen in the eastern sky, made a glittery path across Lake Pontchartrain as Oliver turned the pickup off Interstate 10. He drove on an unpaved road through the marshy woodlands that lay along the western shore of the lake. In the back of the truck were fishing gear and overnight provisions. Beside him on the seat, Irena was silent and thoughtful.

"Believe me," Oliver said, "it's best that you didn't go with me yesterday. The way that hotel room looked will give me nightmares for a month."

"Will it give Alice nightmares?"

He looked at her quickly, caught the mischievous smile, and grinned in return.

"It will do us both good to get away from the city for a day," he said. "And from that damned leopard."

"It
is
pleasant out here," Irena agreed.

"Don't expect too much of the jetty house, now. A tough old fisherman, Yeatman Brewer, and I put it up practically with our bare hands. The roof leaks, and it's too cold in the wintertime, but this time of year it's kind of fun."

"Does your friend live there?"

"Yeatman? No, he has a place of his own a couple of miles up the lake. He takes care of the jetty house and uses it when he has a fishing party to take out. I just come out once in a while when the pressure of the city gets me down. Spend a day or two. Fish, cook outdoors, swim ..."

"Have you brought other women out here?"

Oliver turned to look at her, but her expression was innocent.

"I've had parties."

"With Alice?"

"Alice has been out here, yes." Oliver pulled to a stop at the lake shore, anxious to get off the subject of Alice Moore. He helped Irena out of the truck and pointed at a rough wooden cottage that sat out on the end of a jetty. "There it is."

"It looks cozy," Irena said.

"Better than a hole in the ground, as Yeatman would probably say."

They walked out on the jetty as the choppy waves of Lake Pontchartrain lapped at the pilings beneath their feet. A rangy, grizzled man in a rough woolen shirt stood in the doorway of the house.

"Hey, Oliver," the man said, "I got the shack all opened up and aired out for you. Had a bitch of a time gettin' rid of the fish smell."

Oliver shook his hand. "How you been, Yeatman?"

"Holdin' my own, you might say. How 'bout yourself? Looks like you're doin' right well, if this little gal is any sample."

"Irena, this is my friend Yeatman Brewer."

She shook the fisherman's hand. "I've been hearing about you."

"Nothin' good, I'll wager," he said, cackling.

They went into the house, while Yeatman stayed in the doorway. Oliver stood off to one side while Irena turned slowly around in the center of the room. There were Coleman lamps, a few pieces of sturdy furniture, a big window overlooking the lake. The walls were decorated with Oliver's animal photographs.

"I like it," she said, turning to include both Oliver and Yeatman in her smile. "I really do."

"It has a certain rustic charm," Oliver said, pleased.

Irena walked over to where a beaded curtain closed off a corner of the room. She rattled the beads aside, revealing a low full-sized bed.

"Parties, hey?" she said to Oliver with a glint of mischief in her eyes.

Oliver coughed into his fist. "I'll go out to the truck and get the fishing gear. The earlier we get out, the better they'll be biting."

"You gonna be needin' me for anything else?" Yeatman asked.

"No thanks," Oliver told him. "We can handle it from here."

"Kinda thought you could," the old fisherman said. "I'll come back to clean up tomorrow night." He gave them a broad wink and sauntered out the door.

Oliver and Irena spent the next thirty minutes loading the stubby rowboat Yeatman had left behind, then Oliver rowed them well out into the lake, where they began to fish.

He was happy to see the girlish enthusiasm Irena showed when she pulled in a black bass or a sunfish. Her eyes glittered with pleasure as she yanked the flopping creatures from the water, expertly unhooked them, and tossed them into the catch bucket. There was no sign of the moodiness that had come over her in recent days.

They lunched in the boat on sandwiches packed the night before in New Orleans. Oliver drank beer from a six-pack of Budweiser he'd brought along. Irena had her usual carton of milk.

When they had all the fish they could eat, it was still early, so they just let the boat drift while they talked and laughed and enjoyed each other's company.

About midafternoon they took their catch back to the jetty house, where Irena insisted that Oliver show her how to clean the fish. She proved remarkably deft with the gutting knife, and showed none of the usual female revulsion at scooping out the innards.

In the evening they went ashore. Oliver built a big campfire and they fried the fish in sizzling fat in an iron skillet with only salt and pepper for seasoning. Oliver could not remember a more delicious dinner in his life. Irena ate with the same hearty appetite he had admired the night they met.

When the fish were eaten, the fire drowned, and the cooking gear rinsed and stowed in Oliver's pack, they started back toward the jetty, their arms linked.

Irena stopped suddenly, holding him back.

"What is it?" he said.

"Listen," she said softly.

Oliver peered at her in the gathering darkness. "Listen to what?"

"The sounds of the night. The little creatures all around us talking to each other."

Oliver held his breath and tried to concentrate on the chirping and chittering of small animals in the woods, but all he could think about was taking this beautiful girl into his arms. So that is what he did. And he kissed her.

Irena kissed him back eagerly. Her mouth opened. Her tongue met his. Oliver's hand slipped inside her blouse, touched her breast.

Abruptly she pulled away from him. "Oh, God, I'm sorry. That was my fault."

Oliver groaned. He ached with the wanting of her.

She moved close again and touched his cheek with cool fingers. "I know, darling I want it too."

"Then why—?"

"It isn't our time," she said. "I have to be ... sure about something."

"How sure can you be?"

She looked up at him with sad, dark eyes.

He breathed deeply several times, filling his lungs with the cool air off the lake. "Okay. You take the bed tonight. I'll get out the trusty sleeping bag."

"Please bear with me, darling," she said. "I promise you I'll have things sorted out in my head soon."

He smiled and touched her hair as it ruffled in the light breeze. "Soon," he repeated.

The day spent out in the fresh air, the exercise of rowing, and the satisfying fish dinner combined to put Oliver into a deep sleep ten minutes after he stretched out on the floor in the sleeping bag. Not so Irena. She had never slept well at night, preferring to nap during the daylight hours. On this night she found it even harder to sleep than usual. The sound of Oliver's regular breathing, the lapping of the wavelets against the jetty, the creaks and groans of the pilings, all seemed unnaturally loud.

And there were other sounds. The voices of the night creatures that she had heard so clearly when they were leaving the campfire. The voices floated to her now across the water. She could almost make out what they were saying.

After a wakeful hour she peeled back the sheet and blanket and stepped out of bed. Carefully she drew the beaded curtain aside and went into the room where Oliver lay in the sleeping bag. It was dark, but Irena had no trouble seeing. She walked across the floor without making a sound and crouched beside Oliver. She looked down into his face, and one of her hands stole inside her nightgown and felt her breast where he had touched her. She squeezed it gently, wanting Oliver's hand there. Releasing her breast, she slid the hand down across her stomach to her groin. She massaged herself, eyes closed, yielding to a momentary fantasy.

Her own breathing grew more rapid. Quickly she stood up, crossed the room, and slipped out the front door into the darkness.

The night sounds were much louder outside. Irena inhaled, breathing in the night like a perfume. Moving with unconscious grace, she walked the length of the jetty and started through a field of ankle-high grass to the woods. She kicked off the light slippers, which she found suddenly uncomfortable, and continued barefoot into the woods.

The trees closed in around her like a group of welcoming friends. The breeze off the lake fluffed her hair and cooled the fever of her cheeks.

The sounds around her intensified. As they did so, the shadows of the forest lightened and gave up their secrets. Irena found she could see into every corner and crevice.

A mouse scampered through the grass with a great crashing noise. A thunderous flapping overhead turned out to be the flight of an owl. A methodical crunching, grinding was the insect life in a rotted tree stump. She heard a high, almost feminine scream as the swooping owl seized the mouse in its talons. A panicky hum from behind her was a fly caught in the web of a spider. An ominous twang sounded as the spider hurried along a silken strand to claim its prey.

Irena was part of it all. This was where she belonged. She stood in the center of a small clearing and let the life of the night seep into her. She turned slowly, tasting it.

There was a movement in the grass, and a rabbit hopped into view. It stopped, nose twitching, looking this way and that, alert for predators. Irena looked at the rabbit and smiled. The rabbit saw her. Its sudden rapid breathing was like the whimper of a frightened child. It darted away. Irena sprang after it.

Oliver was awakened by a sudden cool breeze on his face. The closing of the door to the outside snapped him fully awake.

He could see nothing in the darkness. With muscles tensed, he listened. There was the soft pad of footsteps across the planks of the floor. A dark silhouette came toward him.

"Irena?"

He sat up and fumbled for the flashlight, thumbed it on. In the instant that the light shone he saw her standing hunched before him, her eyes wild, blood on her mouth and streaking the front of her nightgown.

"Don't look at me!" she cried, and kicked the flashlight out of his hand.

It didn't really happen.

Irena stared into the mirror over her dressing table and repeated the words to her reflection.

Back here in Oliver's cozy house on Burgundy Street it was not hard to believe that the whole terrible night had been some wild imagining. The house on the jetty, the beckoning woods, the night voices, the rabbit, the blood ... None of it seemed real when viewed from this safe distance.

And yet it
was
real.

Irena was too sensible a young woman to live in a world of pretense. It had all happened, just the way she remembered it. Oliver had been very good about it the next morning. After politely asking her if she was all right, he said nothing at all about her appearance the night before. By that time Irena had cleansed her face and her body, and had stuffed the bloody nightgown deep into her bag. As calmly as she could, she had told Oliver that she felt fine.

Thinking about Oliver now brought a lump to her throat. He was the kindest, most gentle, and understanding man she had ever known. More than that, he stirred up passions within her that Irena hadn't known were there. That was where the danger lay for both of them.

She looked down from the mirror to her sketchbook and continued with the drawing she had worked on throughout the early morning.

A soft rap at the door.

Oliver's voice: "Irena, are you awake?"

"Just barely," she answered. "I'm not dressed."

"I have to go out now," he said. "I should be home about six."

"I—I'll be here."

A pause, then, "I love you."

Irena caught her lip between her teeth. Her eyes misted. There was silence for a moment while Oliver waited for her reply, then the sound of his footsteps going down the stairs.

Irena pulled a Kleenex from a box on the table and wiped her eyes. She balled it up and threw it away, forcing herself to concentrate on the drawing in her book. It was her own face, but with small, grotesque changes. The eyes were more slanted, staring intently out from the page. The nose was broader, the mouth shaped differently, the ears tapered back. It was as though she were in the midst of some ghastly metamorphosis.

Impulsively Irena slashed back and forth across the drawing with the soft pencil, scarring it with crisscross lines until the lead snapped. Then she put her head down on her arms and cried bitterly.

"We're calling off the search," said Detective Sergeant Brant.

Oliver, sitting at his desk in the zoo administration building, while Alice Moore stood behind him, frowned.

"It's been five days since the woman was killed in the hotel room," Brant continued, "and no sign of the cat anywhere in the city since."

Oliver tapped the end of a pencil on his desk. "Somehow I feel he's still out there."

"I don't see how. A black panther that size—"

"Leopard," Oliver corrected automatically.

"Right, leopard. Anyway, a cat that size can't wander around a city of half a million people for almost a week without somebody seeing it. The thing can't turn invisible. I say he's either dead or he's left the state."

"A dead black leopard is just as visible as a live one," Oliver pointed out. "I can't believe we're rid of him that easily."

"There's nothing I can do about it," the detective said. "We don't have the manpower to devote any more time to cat hunting."

"Yeah, the budget," Oliver said bleakly. "I know how that goes."

"What about Paul Gallier?" Alice asked.