Cat Raise The Dead

30

Dulcie crouched on the balcony, staring across empty space where Joe had disappeared. He was not on the next railing eight feet away, and when she pushed out between the wrought-iron bars to look down far below to the concrete, the curved drive stretched away unbroken. Stories shivered through her, of cats who had fallen, sometimes to their deaths-it was another human myth that cats invariably landed on their feet.

But no pitiful accident victim lay below her, no gray tomcat flattened and unmoving or trying to right himself.

Looking again to the far terrace, she hopped up onto the balcony rail and gathered herself, crouching, and steeled herself, wondering if she could make that eight-foot span.

If she'd had a good purchase, a solid platform, or if her target was somewhat below her, no problem. But the tiny, slick metal rod beneath her paws felt like a tightrope, and the other rail was no wider.

She could see that the glass doors stood open, and she caught a scent of the harsh chemicals. Surely Joe had gone in there, but why couldn't he have waited for her. Talk about impulsive-he was always on her case for being impetuous.

She knew she was procrastinating, afraid of a simple eight-foot hop.

No good thinking, just do it. Why would she fall? She crouched tighter, a coiled spring, and took off with a hard thrust-was in midair when Joe appeared from out the glass doors, springing to the rail. She nearly plowed into him, nearly fell; landed beside him hissing. The chemical smell hit her so hard she doubled over, choking and sneezing. She glared at him angrily.

"Why didn't you wait for me? I thought…"

He gave her a sideways smile and licked her ear. "You okay?"

"I guess."

He trotted on inside, couldn't care less that she was mad enough to claw him. "Come on, Dulcie, this is too good to miss."

She followed, swallowing back her anger.

Beyond the glass doors, shutters had been partially closed, dimming the room within. The chemical stench came so strong she could taste it, like swallowing some disgusting prescription medicine.

The room seemed to be half dressing room, and half some kind of workroom. A stainless-steel worktable occupied the center of the large space, and around it the walls were crowded with cabinets and built-in drawers. On their left was the locked inner door to Renet's bedroom. Across the room to their right were two doors. One stood open. But the chemical smell that came from beneath the closed door was so strong one did not want to press one's nose against that crack; Joe sniffed as close to the space as he could manage.

"It's a darkroom. I'd bet on it."

Occupying most of one wall was a large dressing table, an elaborate affair with a hinged, three-way mirror, its glass top cluttered with bottles and jars and, at one end, a stack of round, old-fashioned hatboxes. Dulcie paused, torn between the dressing table and the two doors. The room seemed a wealth of possibilities, a treasure trove perhaps bristling with clues hidden inside the cupboards or on the dressing table.

Leaping up, she wandered among the bottles and crowded jars, stepping carefully, sniffing at the lids, trying to identify the contents. Makeup, certainly, but some smells were very strange. Stepping over an array of lipsticks and little boxes of eye makeup, over eyebrow pencils, cotton swabs, and a pair of tweezers, she paused to look into the three-way mirror, enchanted by her multiple reflections. To see herself from all angles at once, see herself from the back as if looking at another cat, was like an out-of-body experience.

Forgetting Joe, preening shamefully, she heard, from the drive below, from somewhere beyond the kitchen, a car start up and pull away, heard it move around the front of the house and head off up the long drive.

A miniature chest of drawers stood beside the hat-boxes, a little, perfect piece of furniture no taller than her shoulder. She nosed at it, and with a careful claw she pulled out one of the drawers-and she raised her paw to strike, her eyes blazing.

But these were not mice. In the small drawer, the furry bodies looked, in fact, more like dead caterpillars lying fuzzy and still.

Some were gray, some brown, some nearly white. They did not smell like anything that had ever lived. Puzzled by the lifeless fuzzy creatures, she shoved the drawer closed and opened the next.

She froze, staring.

Eyeballs. The drawer contained human eyes.

Pairs of eyes lay jumbled together, blue eyes, green, light brown, hazel. Each pair had been placed inside a tiny transparent box. Some were faded, their color drained away at the outer rim to a ring of foggy white. Her heart raced.

These were not disembodied human eyeballs.

She sat down and coolly regarded the little pairs of contact lenses.

"What's with you?" Joe said from the floor below. Rearing up below the dressing table, he had pawed open its larger drawers. She looked down into a drawer full of neatly folded nighties, soft and beautifully made, with high, ruffled necklines. Tucked into the corner of the drawer were several pairs of neatly folded gloves, white cotton gloves.

They could no longer hear the vacuum cleaner; for some time the upstairs rooms had been silent. Joe pushed the drawer closed and leaped up beside her, to the dresser. Tramping heavy-pawed among the delicate bottles, he posed before the mirror, twitching a whisker, giving her a toothy grin. Panning and turning, he glanced over his shoulder, studying his stub tail and his tomcat equipment. She hadn't known he was such a ham.

She had known cats who were afraid of mirrors. And, of course, a kitten's first experience with its own reflection puzzled and frightened it. She knew a cat once who, when he was laughed at for growling at his mirror image, leaped to the lap of his tormentor and slapped her face.

Leaving Joe leering and clowning, she left the dressing table and approached the adjoining room, which she could see through the open door. It was a huge space, and bare, nearly empty. Bare floor, bare walls, hardly any furniture. A room so hollow that her startled mewl bounced back at her in a sharp echo.

At first glance, the vast space looked like the set for a low-budget science-fiction film. Five tall metal tripods stood about like spindly space aliens. The only other furniture was a hospital bed, with its nightstand, alone in the far corner.

The bed was neatly made up with a white blanket, the corners tucked under with rigid precision. Over the metal headboard hung a gray electrical cord fixed with a squeeze button so a nurse could be summoned. There was a clip-on light, too, like the ones used at Casa Capri, and a stand for an IV bottle.

Joe, having abandoned his multiple reflections, trotted in and pressed against her, his warmth and solidity suddenly very comforting. She did not like this room.

He scowled at the bed, his ears back. "Does Renet keep some patient here? One of the missing women?"

She shivered; they stood looking at the bed as if a patient might suddenly materialize beneath the smooth covers, a pale, thin figure softly moaning. Standing on their hind legs, they sniffed the bed warily. They could smell nothing but laundry soap.

Each of Renet's three rooms-bedroom, the peculiar dressing room, and this hollow chamber-had its own detached balcony. Perhaps at one time these had all been separate bedrooms, had been joined together for Renet's convenience. Another solid door led from this room, the smells beneath it were of fresh air and newly cut grass. They sniffed deeply.

"Must be an outside stairway," Joe said. "I think we're above the kitchen." He leaped for the knob and swung. It turned, but the door was locked with a dead bolt. They sniffed beneath it again, a good lungful of fresh air, then returned to the dressing room.

Approaching the door that closed away the sharp chemicals, again Joe leaped, clamping his paws on the knob. Swinging and pushing, he managed to force the door open.

The room was small and windowless, very dark. As their eyes adjusted, they could see another metal table; it occupied most of the space. Along the back wall stretched a counter with drawers below and shelves above. Four red lightbulbs hung over it, and Dulcie could just make out the switch, beside the door.

Three leaps, and the red lights shone like canned fire. The blaze turned her paws pink, stained Joe's white face and white markings to the color of thin blood. The shelves held gallon jugs reeking of developer, their labels clearly visible. Leaping up to the stainless-steel sink, the cats balanced on the edge.

"That's the printer, there on the table," Joe said. "And, I think, an enlarger."

Clawing open cupboards, they found four big cameras, and when they pawed into a long, thin drawer, it contained slick photographic paper. A deeper drawer held hanging files filled with negatives in plastic envelopes, items nearly too slick for paws and claws. They managed to pull out several with their teeth. All were portraits of people, but the reversed images showed faces strange and unnatural. The strong smells in the warm enclosed space were beginning to dizzy the cats.

"So this," Joe said, "is where Renet printed the pictures of Mary Nell Hook. If the pictures were taken here, in that hospital bed, if they're keeping that old woman here, we'd better look for her." He leaped to the cold metal table, stood licking his shoulder. "A darkroom, a hospital bed, that elaborate dressing table…"

"The sod in the graveyard," Dulcie said. "The missing finger… Like parts of a puzzle that all seem to fit, but when you try to put them together, the key piece is missing."

She felt, not enlightened by the varied bits of information, but as if they'd lost their way.

"It takes time," Joe said. "Like playing with a mouse. Let it run free, then catch it again. Maybe you have to play with the facts. Let them run free, catch them from another angle."

"There's a car pulling up the drive."

He heard it and stiffened. They both came to attention as the car stopped beside the house, near the kitchen.

The car door slammed. Footsteps came up the back stair, keys jingling. They leaped together at the light switch as they heard the dead bolt slide back, felt a suck of wind as the door opened.