The Whiskered Spy

“What? No! That’s impossible. Zack would never do such a thing.”

“And yet he will,” he said slowly, giving me what I perceived was the evil eye.

“You’re kidding, right?” I said, smiling my bravest smile. “A little joke?”

He looked at me levelly.“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“Well, no,” I admitted, shuffling uneasily. “But Zack would never murder anyone. He’s not the murdering type.”

“I never said he was. But he’s still going to butcher the Vale if you don’t put a stop to it.”

“But—”

“You better leave now. The party’s about to start and if you’re not there, you won’t have a home to return to tonight.”

“But who are you? What’s going on? Why would Zack do such a thing?”

He shook his head censoriously.“They told me you were a blabbermouth. Now get lost.”

“What? No, I want—” I swallowed, blanching under the Peterbald’s penetrating gaze. But still I persisted. “I want some answers,” I said.

“You can ask me one question,” the bald menace snarled.

“Who are you?” I said, before I could think things through. As it was, it was the question foremost in my mind.

He grinned, and worked the fishbone or human skull splinter loose with a yellow, pockmarked tongue, then transferred it to the other side of his maw.“Let’s just say I work for the cat who runs the FSA. And now beat it, Agent Tom. You’ve got your orders. Now carry them out.”

I suppressed a sudden urge to shout,‘Sir, yes, sir!’ but merely nodded—intelligently, I hoped—and took my leave. I still had dozens of questions whirling through my mind, but refrained from voicing them. For one thing, where did this guy get all his information? And how could he be so sure? And, most of all, how could he think Zack—Zack of all people!—was even capable of such a thing?

But now was clearly not the time to go into first causes or sit down for a cozy one-on-one, so I simply ran as fast as my chubby legs could carry me to the Brookridge Market Square, where the town theater is located. I had no idea how to stop what was about to unfold, nor how I would get close to the affair, as cats are not considered valued theatergoers, but I pushed on regardless.

What I did do was send out mental messages to Dana, Stevie and even Brutus, in the hope they would pick up on them and respond with alacrity to my silent cries for urgent assistance. I didn’t know if this was the way to transmit a message, but I seemed to remember Dana saying something about picking up distress signals from other cats. And if she could pick up a signal from any Tom, Mitzi and Felix, she would surely pick one up from her FSA comrade. Or so I silently hoped.

32

At the Theater

Arriving at the theater, I immediately proceeded to the back entrance, hoping to slip in through some crack, grate or open window. And I was just giving the building a once-over, trying to pinpoint its entrance possibilities, when my eyes met an uplifting sight: Dana came tripping down the alley in my direction, a worried expression on her face.

I gave an inward cheer. My mental projection, or whatever it was, had clearly worked. Then a loud bark came from behind her, and I saw that she wasn’t alone: Frank had joined her and now came trotting up, looking a lot more cheerful than he had the last time we’d met. I didn’t have to read his mind to come to the conclusion that Dana had told him the good news.

“What’s going on?” said Dana, slightly out of breath. I now realized she was in fact a pretty pretty cat. Stomping on the thought—she was, after all, with Frank now—I quickly filled the both of them in on the state of affairs.

“Zack?” exclaimed Dana. “But that’s impossible. We caught the killer.”

“Bart locked up Norbert McIlroy this afternoon,” grunted Frank. “Though he denies all charges.”

“There’s one other thing,” I said. “This Peterbald I met said he works for the FSA.”

Dana hesitated, then inclined her head.“He does. From your description it must be Dollo Rosso. He’s the head of Internal Affairs.”

“Internal Affairs?” I said, marveling at the intel. For one thing, I’d almost dismissed the FSA as a hoax of some kind, and now the organization turned out to have an Internal Affairs division. From my extensive research into Hollywood movies and TV shows I knew such a division mainly existedto subject its own members to extensive scrutiny, sniffing out any malfeasance on their part. I swallowed.

“They’re investigating… me?” I said.

Dana shook her head.“No. They are not, at this time, investigating anyone in particular. IA branch reports directly to the FSA Director, who likes to keep a close eye on all of the organization’s operations. For some reason this particular mission must have attracted his attention so he sent in Dollo Rosso and hiscrew.”

“But how can they think Zack would ever…” I didn’t finish the sentence, still thinking it beyond ludicrous they’d see a murderer in my human.

Dana had no answer to that.“All I know is that the Director’s sources are impeccable, so there must be some truth to the matter.”

The notion of hypnosis suddenly sprang to mind. The fact that Norbert, an upstanding citizen and father of two, denied all charges against his person indicated something fishy was going on. Perhaps someone had induced McIlroy to act the part of the murderer?

There have been cases of people committing an act of such atrocity the public cries foul, but later it turns out the perpetrator of such a crime was him-or herself an innocent victim of a third party, using mental or chemical stimulants to force the killer’s hand. Could something like that be the case here? It certainly started to look like it.

I suggested this explanation to Dana and Frank, and they both agreed there might be something in it.

“But, if that’s the case, then Norbert reallyis innocent,” I said, “and the real killer is still on the loose.”

“And now he’s trying to do the same thing to Zack,” said Frank.

“Whatever the explanation,” said Dana, “we have to get in there, and stop your human from…” She swallowed. “…murdering my human.”

In my consternation, I’d totally forgotten the predicament Barbara Vale was in. If Dollo Rosso was right, not one but two cats would lose their humans tonight. It was imperative we get inside and stop this drama from unfolding.

The three of us looked up at the back entrance to the theater. For a moment, I didn’t see a way in. The entire building was painted black, probably out of some artistic consideration, and for a moment gave me the impression of one of those impregnable fortresses of old.

On the ground floor there was one entrance, marked Stage Door, and it featured a gangly youth standing watch. Then there was a garage of sorts, where I guess trucks with costumes and decors could back into, but that was closed now. On the first floor I noticed a window standing ajar, but there was no convenient drainpipe leading up to it and no other way of reaching it, so that was also a bust.

“We have got to get through that door,” said Frank, pointing to the gangly kid. He looked about sixteen, with a dreadlocked goatee, an Evil Dead T-shirt, and iPod buds in his ears. His head was swaying to the rhythm of some beat, and he looked positively goofy to me. I had a feeling I’d seen him somewhere before, and then I remembered. He was one of Terrell McCrady’s younger brothers.

“Isn’t that Terris McCrady?” I said. I can never remember who is who in the McCrady household. There’s four brothers—Terrell, Terrill, Terris and Terrence—and one girl—Terry—and they all look alike to me.

Frank nodded.“That’s Terris all right. And I know just the thing to distract him.” He coughed. “Better not watch this. It’s not gonna be pretty.”

I started.“You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

Frank grimaced.“Better turn away, Tom. You, too, Dana. Sensitive viewers, beware.”

I swallowed a lump in my throat. I liked Terris. He’d once come to babysit me when Zack was away in England on some mission. I didn’t like his choice of music—trance if I’m not mistaken—but no kid should be condemned for having bad taste. I averted my gaze as Frank moved in. The next moment horrible sounds echoed through the alley, and inadvertently I took a peek.

Frank the Poodle was lying on his back, four legs in the air, his tongue lolling, and producing puppy sounds, as Terris was tickling his belly.

“Now!” said Dana, and the both of us scooted out from our hiding place behind a dumpster, and raced to the stage door, which was now unguarded.

I looked back at Frank as I disappeared through the door. He caught my eye and I saluted him for the brave soldier that he was, laying his dignity on the line for the good of the mission.

We were in, and that was all that mattered.

33

Behind the Scenes

“Frank really is a courageous soul,” I remarked, as Dana and I darted deeper into the building.

“He is,” sighed Dana, and once again I detected that love light in her eyes.

“We have to find Zack,” I said, as I studied our surroundings. We were in a red-carpeted corridor, royally decorated with pictures of stars of the stage and screen. People were running in and out of the dozen or so rooms giving out into the corridor. Judging from their appearance—all of them were in diverse states of undress—they were the artists starring in Father Sam’s play. And all of them displayed those typical pre-premiere jitters not uncommon with stage artists.

There was a gentleman wearing a tuxedo, a monocle pressed firmly under his left eyebrow, who seemed in excellent spirits, humming a gay tune and smiling a pleasant smile at anyone who cared to look in his direction. He disappeared into a dressing room and I slipped in after him, wondering if perhaps here was where I would find my human. The room was humming with the hustle and bustle of opening night, several extras looking equally spruce in tux and monocle, and all of them talking too loudly and laughing too hard for no reason at all. Conspicuous in his absence, though, was Zack.

I slipped out again. Dana, meanwhile, had checked one of the other dressing rooms and gave me a thumbs down—yes, cats have thumbs. No, they’re not opposable ones, but yes, we do have them.

It was at this moment that disaster struck. From a room marked with a golden star—one of the dressing rooms for the stars of the show, I gathered—Barbara Vale suddenly emerged and, seeing Dana, swooped down on her, and scooped her up in her arms. Barbara was a big, motherly woman, with Nana Mouskouri glasses, and a wide, endearing smile that made her cheeks dimple.

“Dana, my pet! What are you doing here?” she squeaked, and before I could intervene, Barbara had disappeared back inside her dressing room, taking Dana along with her. I caught a desperate glance from Dana, and then she was gone. One more soldier was down, and I now faced the enemy alone.

The incident had given me pause, though. If Barbara had her own gold-star dressing room, wouldn’t it stand to reason that Zack, too, would be holed up in one? I checked the corridor: only five gold-star rooms left. I sighed. How was I going to get inside? Then I remembered one of the FSA tricks I’d picked up: all I had to do was get inside a human’s head and ‘nudge’ him into action.

I decided to get inside Zack’s head and induce him to open his door for me. Closing my eyes and focusing on my human, I willed him to open his door. Opening my eyes, I saw that nothing had happened, apart from a slight headache thrumming behind my left eye. Dang, I still hadn’t mastered this particular technique.

Then, remembering Stevie was more proficient at this than me, I started wondering where my fellow agent and trusted partner could be. Dana and Frank had come running when I’d sent out my distress signal earlier, but Stevie was a no-show, and so was Brutus. That Brutus hadn’t heeded my call, I could understand. The cat was, after all, not an FSA agent. But why hadn’t Stevie showed up?

I sighed. I only saw one avenue left open for me to pursue, so I pursued it. I ambled over to the first door and gave it a hearty buffet. The door swung open and a red-faced Mayor McCrady popped out. It didn’t occur to the chairman of the Brookridge Theatrical Society to look down at little old me, so after scowling down the corridor for a moment, trying to pinpoint the joker who’d played this fool’s trick on him and cursing under his breath, he slammed the door closed with a bang that made me jump.

One door down, four more to go. And it was as I’d pounded on door number three, that my luck finally turned. A familiar face popped out of the door and I gave a shriek of elation. I’d found my Zack. Directing his gaze downward, he seemed equally thrilled to see me, for he stooped down and gave me a cuddle, then carried me inside his dressing room. He didn’t even seem surprised to see me, but then I could sense that his thoughts were not really with me but with the play.

Attila the Hun could have showed up on his doorstep and he would have bade him entrance, no questions asked, so occupied were his thoughts with the part he was about to play.

Dropping me onto a couch that was conveniently placed against one wall, he started pacing the floor, half-crumpled script pages in his left hand while gesturing wildly with his right.

“Nuts about you!” he vociferated, just a little too loudly. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that little weasel get in the way of our future happiness. Either he goes, or I go!”

With a jolt I recognized the scene I’d seen play out under my elm tree that fateful night, and I knew what would follow. I sat watching, enthralled.

“Eitherhe goes, orI go,” repeated Zack, his arms wide. Typical overacting, I thought.

“Either hegoes, or Igo,” he said once more, impressing the line upon his memory. He then mumbled something to himself and flipped to another part of the script. “Oh, my darling. My love, love, love.” He coughed, closed his eyes and puckered his lips, then made as if to kiss. He grimaced, and I could tell he was thinking about Barbara Vale. He then grabbed a huge knife from his dressing table and started wielding it with uncommon fervor.

“Take that,” he cried, as he slashed the air, his face suddenly contorted in rage. “And that, and that, and that!”

Oh, boy. This wasn’t good. No, sir. This wasn’t good at all.

34

Pipe Cleaning

Just then the stage bell rang, and Zack looked up, as if surprised, the knife temporarily held high above his head. Then he sheathed the monstrosity in a hidden pocket of his coat, abruptly turned a pretty Nile green and, quickly grabbing a wastepaper basket, vomited.

So much for the glory and glamour of the stage artist’s life, I thought.

Dabbing at his blue-tinged lips with a cleansing wipe, Zack checked his look in the mirror one last time, then blinked ten times in rapid succession, and vomited again.

Now was this the image of a cold-blooded murderer? I think not. I wracked my brain to figure out what to do next. The best thing would be for Zack not to appear in the play at all. He was an understudy’s understudy, so was it so hard to imagine Father Sam had provided for an understudy’s understudy’s understudy?

Just as I was thinking up ways and means of sabotaging Zack’s participation in the play, Father Sam himself suddenly popped his head in the door. He was dressed in some sort of penguin suit, and I remembered he was playing the butler.

“All ready?” Sam said cheerily.

Zack burped.“All ready,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

“Great,” said Sam, beaming. “Just remember, Zack. When Barbara says, ‘No, Jack. Don’t go,’ that’s your cue to bring out the knife.”

“I’ll remember,” said Zack, licking his lips and fingering the small sword in his pocket.

“Good man. All right. Break a leg.”

“Huh?”

Sam laughed.“Just something we theater folk like to say before going on stage.”

“Oh, right,” said Zack. “Well, break a leg, too, I guess.”

“Thanks,” said Sam earnestly, and popped out again.

I was still trying to figure out a way to stop Zack from making a huge mistake, but time was running out, so I simply hopped onto his dressing table, stared into his eyes, and mentally projected the intention he refrain from leaving this room.

For a moment I caught his eye. Then he smiled weakly, patted my head absentmindedly, and abruptly did an about-face and left the room.

I groaned. Total mission failure. And the worst thing was: Zack had closed the door on his way out.

Frantically looking for an escape route, I suddenly noticed an air vent located near the ceiling, its grate dangling from a single screw. A cupboard had been placed underneath, stocked with boxes of theater paraphernalia. There was a box marked‘wigs’, another offering ‘beards& mustaches’ and a third promising all manner of make-up.

I hopped onto the top of the cupboard, where a nice collection of dust and cobwebs were awaiting me, and from there it was but a single leap to the grate. Hanging on with my claws, I scrabbled up and away into the air duct. Agent Tom had done it again! Now if only this would lead someplace.

I squeezed myself through the duct, which was not built for a cat my size, I might add, and soon found myself facing the tunnel explorer’s perennial dilemma: arriving at a crossing, I had the option of going left, right, up, or down. Mh. Difficult decision. I would have preferred to keep going straight, for I had the distinct impression the stage was somewhere ahead of me, but, following my feline intuition, I opted to take a right turn. Unfortunately, my usually unerring intuition had led me astray, for this part of the ventilation system proved a dead end. I now faced what looked like the end of the line for about a yard of dust and one dead rat.

I sneezed and would have scratched my head in bemused puzzlement, if not for the fact that I couldn’t move my paws. No wiggle room. With no way of turning round, I had no option but to backpedal. Now, I don’t know if any of you have a working knowledge of catdom, but we felines don’t come equipped with reverse gears. It was starting to feel really cramped in there, but I suppressed a rising feeling of panic and claustrowhatchamacallit, and willed my limbs to move in the opposite direction.

Oddly enough, they flatly refused. Failure to comply to a direct order, or in other words: mutiny. I broke into a cold sweat at the thought of being stuck there for the rest of my, extremely reduced, life. Oh, and that old wives’ tale about the nine lives? Hokum, brother. If this was the end, this was the end. Period.

In frustration I tried wiggling, then jiggling, then wobbling, and finally shimmying. But all to no avail. I was stuck. In desperation, I decided to plunk down on my belly to have a much-needed rest, so I simply retracted my limbs and dropped my bulk onto the‘floor’.

As my belly hit the piping, there was a loud groan, like the death rattle of an expiring piece of equipment, then a clank and a clang, a rending sound, and suddenly the floor gave way and disappeared from under me. The next moment I was hurtling through space, and when I landed, I found myself straddling something soft and hairy. A carpet, or so I thought.

I directed my eyes heavenward and murmured a few choice words of thanks to that great, big Cat in the sky for saving my furry butt. Then I noticed it wasn’t a carpet that had broken my fall, but the head of Mayor McCrady. And he didn’t seem too well pleased that I’d dug my claws into his skull—what can I say? It’s a reflex. The Mayor screamed bloody murder, and lifted both me and his hair—who would have thought the Mayor was wearing a toupee!—into the air, and slung the both of us far and away. Well, at least as far as the stage wings.

I deftly landed on all fours—something that couldn’t be said for the toupee—and thanked my lucky stars: the air duct, I now discovered, had been located directly over the prompter’s box with the Mayor, who liked to be hands-on when a play was being performed by ‘his’ Theatrical Society, taking up the role of prompter.

Then, suddenly remembering Zack’s big‘murder scene’ takes place in the first act, my heart skipped a beat. Was I too late?

35

The Awful Truth

Then, to my relief, I saw Zack waiting in the coulisses across from where I’d landed. The big guy was still green around the gills, and his lips kept moving as he repeated his lines over and over again. Next to him I recognized Barbara Vale, apple-cheeked and cheerful as ever, trying to engage Zack in conversation.

She had applied a particularly fluorescent brand of lipstick and now stood puckering her lips in anticipation of the big kissing scene. Zack, catching a glimpse of her, blanched and I could see from the expression on his face his stomach was still doing somersaults.

My relief that I had arrived in time was short-lived as I realized I was running out of time. Short of leaping on stage and taking Zack out with a well-aimed swish of my own retractable knives, thus necessitating the arrival of the stretcher-bearers and ending the performance, I didn’t know what to do. Stretcher-bearers being preferable to pallbearers, I had almost decided to go with this gung-ho, yet kamikaze, idea when I noticed another familiar figure high up in the stage rafters.

It was Stevie.

So my fellow agent and FSA partner had made it here after all. The odd thing was, that he wasn’t focused on me, but on Zack, staring at my human with a curiously focused intensity.

“Hey, Stevie!” I whispered, but he didn’t respond.

I tried to read his mind, but once again couldn’t. Then a thought occurred to me: I’d been able to read Zack’s mind, hadn’t I? Why couldn’t I read Stevie’s? The only logical answer was that Stevie was blocking me.

The notion frankly startled me. Could it be? Now I remembered that earlier that day I’d tried to read both Stevie’s and Dana’s mind and had drawn a blank. It all made sense now. Both of them had the capacity to close their minds. With Dana, this seemed obvious. She was a senior agent or officer or whatever her FSA label was. But I’d never have expected Stevie to do the same. Wasn’t he a mere trainee, just like me?

Then another thought struck me. Why would Stevie want to block me, unless he was hiding something? He was still staring at Zack with that intense gaze, and then it hit me. Stevie was willing Zack to do something. Nudging him in a certain direction. Had he also figured out Zack was about to use Barbara Vale for fileting practice?

A flood of relief washed over me. Agent Steve to the rescue. My partner had somehow discovered what Zack was about to do, and was trying to stop him. Oh, bless Stevie’s heart, I thought. I just hoped he would succeed where I had failed.

Instantly I started making my way up by using the curtains as a climbing pole. Curtains are excellent for this purpose, did you know that? It only took me ten seconds to reach the rail, and from there it was a mere few leaps and bounds to reach my friend and partner. He was sitting between two following spots.

“Ho there, pardner,” I said by way of greeting. Stevie had been so focused on Zack—saving the day—that he hadn’t noticed my approach. He started violently.

I chuckled freely at his perturbation.“No need to be afraid,” I jested. “It’s only me. Agent Tom.”

“Oh, hi, Tom,” he said, though he didn’t seem too happy to see me.

I grew serious. These were, after all, serious times.“Any luck changing his mind?” I said, indicating Zack, who now stood on one leg. From our vantage point we had an excellent overview of the action down below on stage.

“What do you mean?” he said nervously.

“Well, trying to convince Zack not to slay the Vale, of course,” I said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

He gulped once or twice.“You know about that?”

“Sure,” I said, and proceeded to fill him on the state of affairs, omitting no detail, no matter how small.

On stage, Father Sam had appeared in his butler outfit, and was swigging port in what I assumed to be his pantry. He now started singing a song about how he’d lost the girl of his dreams and hoped one day to see her again. I winced and wondered if this was the same singing voice he utilized in church. If so, the piercing whine didn’t do him credit.

Stevie, meanwhile, was still gulping like a bullfrog.“So,” I concluded, “I made my way here as fast as I could, and have been trying to figure out how to stop Zack since I arrived.”

“That’s… great,” Stevie said, and the comment struck me as rather feeble, as comments go.

“No, it’s not,” I corrected him. “Haven’t you been listening? I tried to dissuade Zack from going down this road, but he didn’t respond.”

“Didn’t he?”

Again I was disappointed by his lack of fervor.

“That’s why I asked: Haveyou had any luck changing his mind?”

“Me? Um…” His eyes darted to Zack, and I could see them narrowing as he focused his mental powers on my human. Good, at least he was trying hard—very hard—to make Zack… do something that he would normally never, ever do… I frowned. Now, wait a minute, I thought. Something fishy was going on here, something…

And then I got it. The awful truth. Stevie wasn’t trying to dissuade Zack from picking up that knife and using it to end Barbara Vale’s life. He was willing him to go ahead and do it!

36

The Attack

“Stevie! Stop!” I yelled.

“Huh?” he said, as if waking from a trance. “What’s that?”

“You’re trying to kill Barbara!”

“I’m doing nothing of the kind,” he said, indignant. Then his lips contorted into a wide, toothy grin. “Zack is.”

“But why?” was all I could think to say.

He shrugged.“You’re smart. You figure it out.”

My eyes widened.“You killed Lucy Knicx. And Jamie Burrow!”

He casually studied his paw nails.“Technically Norbert McIlroy did. Though it’s safe to say I lent him a paw.”

The horror of my partner’s betrayal had me reeling, and I nearly plummeted to my death—well, that’s probably exaggerating slightly. Cats don’t easily plummet to their death, certainly not from a mere 15 feet up. I was just about to repeat my earlier ‘But why!’ when a brain wave made me see the light. Lucy Knicx. Jamie Burrow. Stevie’s comments about how they kept dropping by the house all the time. The eternal fear of any cat that his male human takes in a female human and that the days of wine and roses are about to come to an end…

“You didn’t want Lucy or Jamie to take over the run of the house,” I said slowly.

Stevie frowned darkly.“Or Barbara, for that matter,” he said, confirming I’d hit pay dirt. “Ever since she got the blue belle understudy part, Sam hasn’t been able to remove her from the presbytery with a stick.”

“But Sam is a priest,” I said. “He’ll never marry.”

“Sam is wavering,” Stevie said softly. “All this female attention has had him reconsider his vows. Another couple of months and he would have chucked the church and gone and gotten married to one of these… groupies.” He spat out the last word.

“But Barbara is all right,” I said. “She’s a great human. Just ask Dana.”

He shrugged.“Better safe than sorry. Besides, I don’t want Dana for a roomie. She’ll corner the market on kibble and cuddles and I’ll be left fighting for leftovers. No, thank you very much. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a Father Sam groupie to eliminate.” And he returned to his perch next to the spotlight, and resumed his mental treatment of Zack.

“No, Stevie!” I cried. “Don’t do it!”

“Who’s gonna stop me?” he scoffed. “You?”

At this moment Zack and Barbara stepped onto the stage. Show time.

“I think he’s on to us,” said Barbara, taking Zack’s lapel in a firm grip.

“Are you sure?” said Zack, after a significant pause.

Barbara gave an unconvincing sob that sounded like a dinosaur removing its foot from a primeval swamp.

“That sucks,” said Zack, desperately searching for the prompter. “That means we’ll, um, have to, um, whack the sucker.”

I was pretty sure this wasn’t the way Father Sam had written the scene, but that’s show business. No one respects the script.

Barbara hesitated. Her cue had been‘Take him out!’, and she was clearly at a loss how to respond to Zack’s improv.

“Whack the sucker?” she finally said, though with reluctance. “Are you nuts?”

“Nuts about you!” cried Zack. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the little turd come between me and a pretty piece of pecan pie. Um, that’s not right,” he mumbled.

“No! Jack!” cried Barbara.

“I know, I know,” Zack muttered. “He won’t come between me and, and… Between me and…” His voice trailed off, as he desperately tried to remember his line. Then he got it, and his face lit up. “Between me and… you! Barbara!”

Barbara closed her eyes. As things were going, it seemed more likely that she’d kill Zack than the other way around.

“No, Jack!” she cried once again, a steely note in her voice. “Don’t go!” But the expression on her face belied her words.

Her cry galvanized me into action. I knew what was next, and I could already see Zack’s hand steal into his pocket to get a firm grip on the knife handle. So I did the only thing I could think of: I dealt Stevie a hearty smack on the head and, not expecting this, he dropped down to the stage like a ton of bricks. Or rather one brick. Unlike me, Stevie is a lightweight.

On stage, Zack had taken out the knife, and held it out behind Barbara’s back, in full view of the audience, which collectively gasped in shocked surprise. When one attends the performance of a murder mystery play, one obviously expects a murder, and Zack was about to give the public its money’s worth of blood and gore.

Stevie landed deftly on all fours, but his landing platform, unlike mine, wasn’t Mayor McCrady’s soft hairpiece, but Barbara Vale’s bare back. Digging in his claws to prevent his further descent, Stevie finally got his wish and drew Vale blood. The bone-chilling scream that next rent the air, had the audience once again rocket back in their chairs, cries of anguish andhorror on their lips, for Barbara didn’t stint on volume.

“You idiot!” she screamed, and, swinging her purse like a hammer, she let it come down hard on Zack’s head, for she had automatically jumped to the conclusion Zack must have nicked her with that big, shiny knife of his.

Stevie, rightly deducing he wasn’t wanted on the scene at this particular moment, quickly made good his escape.

“Ouch!” Zack yelled, as Barbara’s purse impacted on his head. He dropped the knife.

Now, when a knife drops to the floor, it usually makes a clanking sound. This particular knife, though, hit the floor with its pointy end, and simply bounced back up, before landing on its hilt, bouncing a few more times and then coming to rest, tired of all these theatrical shenanigans.

I had seen the knife bounce and I had seen it plunk down, and I sat back on my high perch above the stage with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, grabbing onto one of the spotlights to keep me from keeling over and plunging into the abyss.

For I’d just realized that this was not the kind of knife that slays ten in a murdering frenzy. This was a stage knife, and what was more, made of rubber. No way could Zack have done any harm to Barbara, even if he’d wanted to. At most he could have smudged her dress.

“What—what—what—” I stammered, as I stared before me with unseeing eyes. “W-w-what theheck is going on?”

37

Agent Tom

It was at this moment that I became aware I wasn’t alone up there. The air to my left suddenly seemed to shimmer, like it does on a hot summer’s day, and even before a bright flash popped and she appeared out of nowhere, I knew I was in the presence of Dana. She had a vague smile on her lips.

“Hello, Tom,” she said.

Then the same thing happened again, but this time to my right. A loud pop, and there he sat, cool as dammit and grinning gaily: Stevie. He actually looked more like the old Stevie I’d come to know and, well, yes, almost love.

I shook my head, dazed and confused. What was going on here?

On stage, meanwhile, the murder mystery had turned into a farce, with Barbara chasing Zack around the set, using all manner of props to hurl at him. The audience members were now rolling in the aisles, laughing their collective heads off. I don’t know how Father Sam would feel about all this, and frankly, I didn’t care. What I wanted to know was…

“What’s going on? That’s what you wanted to ask, right?” said Dana softly.

I merely nodded, still feeling rather dazed.“Let me get this straight,” I began, but that’s as far as I got. Nothing was straight.

“You’re on candid camera,” said Stevie, who was crouching low and holding onto the steel girder with a death grip. Together with the old Stevie, his fear of heights had also made a comeback. Probably being plunked on the back of the head by yours truly hadn’t helped.

“Am I?” I said, searching around for the cameras.

“Shut up, Stevie,” said Dana. “No, you’re not,” she said to me.

I looked down, where Zack and Barbara had left the stage, and a wise stage manager had drawn the curtains. Barbara, who was supposed to be dead by the end of act 1, was still very much alive. I could hear her screaming all the way from her dressing room. I briefly wondered how the play would start act 2 without a murder to investigate or a dead body to examine.

“Huh?” I said, for I perceived that Dana was addressing me.

“I said, this must all be very confusing for you.”

I said she was right.

“It was all a test,” said Stevie blithely. He clapped me on the back. “We all go through it.”

“Huh?” I repeated.

Dana gave Stevie a look of disapproval.“Shut up, Stevie.”

“Oh, all right,” said Stevie, rolling his eyes. “Just saying.”

“Huh?” I said a third time.

“Stevie’s right,” said Dana. “Everything you’ve experienced these last couple of days has been one big recruitment exercise. And I’m glad to say that you’ve passed the test with flying colors, Tom.”

I didn’t even have the oomph to say ‘Huh’ again, so I merely goggled.

“The FSA stages these exercises for every recruit. Just a way to make sure we’re not inducting anyone into our ranks who doesn’t justify the expenditure.”

I cleared my throat with some difficulty.“Expenditure?” I said.

“Sure,” said Dana. “Now that you’re cleared for admission, we’re starting up your training.”

“And I’m going with,” said Stevie. “Finally.”

“Stevie was inducted a little over a month ago,” said Dana. “But we’ve been waiting for a fifth recruit before organizing training camp. You’re number five.”

“There’s four more like—” I glanced over at Stevie. “—him?”

“Don’t be so shocked,” said Stevie, grinning. “You sound as if you don’t like me.”

“Oh, I like you all right,” I said. “I just don’t know if I can trust you.”

He slung an arm around my shoulders.“Oh, bro, don’t be that way. I was just playing along with Dana’s little scheme.”

“Were you now?” I said frostily. I still hadn’t forgiven him for lying to me. “Partners should have no secrets from one another,” I reminded him. “They should tell each other everything.”

He looked at me in mock reproof.“But Ido tell you everything. Just not the part about this all being one big training op.”

“Just that part, huh? You’re quite the actor, you know that? Stringing me along like that, while all the time you knew exactly what was going on. No fair.”

He beamed.“You think so? About the actor part? That was part of my training.”

I made a face, and he held up his paws, palms up.

“Stevie’s right,” said Dana. “Part of being a secret agent is to be able to convincingly construct an entirely fictitious persona and present it to the world. I think Stevie did a great job.”

“You mean I will have to do… this… as well?” I said, incredulously.

Dana smiled.“You’ve already begun.”

“Me? No way,” I said.

“Sure you have. Don’t you remember your little t?te-?-t?te with Brutus?”

“Brutus is going to be an FSA recruit?” I said, aghast.

“You’ll have a ball,” said Stevie. “That cat is so gullible, you wouldn’t believe it. He actually thought Dollo Rosso was a Southridge gangster. Can you beat it?”

He laughed heartily. I didn’t join him. The prospect of having to team up with Brutus didn’t appeal to me, and I said as much to Dana.

She shrugged.“That’s part of the job description, Tom. If you want to be a feline spy, you can’t always choose the people you deal with. Some of them will become great friends, like Stevie here—”

I gave Stevie a look that indicated his friendship status was temporarily on hold.

“—while others will be really nasty specimen.”

“James Bond wasn’t buddy-buddy with Goldfinger, was he?” said Stevie, stung that I hadn’t acknowledged our great friendship. “Or those guys from SPECTRE? Well, then?”

I decided to change the subject.“What happened to Lucy Knicx? And Jamie Burrow?”

Dana smiled.“Lucy’s in bed with a cold. Lying on the park ground that night didn’t do her much good.”

“So the ‘ghost’ we heard…”

“Was in fact Frank,” said Dana. “He’s getting better at this stuff. As far as Jamie is concerned, she has a new boyfriend and decided spending time with him was more important than playing the part of Zoe Huckleberry.”

“But what about the body I saw in the park yesterday?”

“That wasn’t a body,” said Dana, “but a lifelike doll. Every year the Brookridge police department, in cooperation with the Red Cross, teaches a refresher course in CPR for drowning victims and other first aid techniques. I made sure the exercise was over by the time we got there. All the members of the public had gone home and the people you saw were about to pack up and leave with the ‘body’.”

“So that’s why they didn’t seem interested in the victim,” I said, understanding dawning. “But what about Rick Mascarpone and Norbert McIlroy? Weren’t they supposed to be here tonight?”

“Rick Mascarpone doesn’t exist,” said Dana.

“I came up with that name,” said Stevie proudly.

“And Norbert McIlroy decided to stay home with Lucy and the kids. He’s Lucy Knicx’s husband, by the way. That’s why they were in the park that night. They’d gone to see a movie together—Jamie Burrow was babysitting if I’m not mistaken—and decided to take a stroll through the park and practice their lines.”

“But you couldn’t have possibly known all that,” I said.

Dana shrugged.“Part of the job is perfect planning, and the other part is knowing how to improvise. When I saw Lucy and Norbert that night, I figured it was a good way to start you on your process. The rest worked itself out as we went along.”

The three of us sat in silence for a spell. On stage the curtains had opened once again, and Zack and Barbara were repeating the murder scene. Good idea. Without a murder, they could just as well throw out the whole play and call it a night.

I tried to read Dana and Stevie’s minds as we sat watching Zack stumble through his lines, but they wouldn’t let me. Blocked. I really wanted to know how to do that.

“You’ll learn,” said Dana.

Cripes. I wish she would stop doing that.

“All right,” said Dana. “I won’t do it again.”

This raised yet more questions. For instance, how could I be certain she wouldn’t? It was not as if I had a way of knowing who was taking a peek inside my brain.

“You’ll know,” Stevie said.

Aargh!

Stevie merely giggled.

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So there. That’s my life. The life of a junior feline spy. Having to team up with bullies. Having my mind read by Ragamuffins, Siamese and—now that I come to think of it—probably Poodles as well. Being snarled at by extremely disagreeable Peterbalds. Seeing dead bodies everywhere that aren’t dead bodies after all. And saving humans that don’t need saving.

If you ask me what I learned from all this? Well, that even though those humans didn’t need saving, lending a helping hand mademe feel good. Looking back at the Brookridge Park horror, I guess I went from being an egotist and a little bit of a fathead—

“Nothing little about it. You were a major fathead,” remarked Stevie.

Will you please stay away from my brain, Stevie?

“Oh, all right.”

Now where was I? Ah, yes. I went from being a minor fathead to—

“Being a major fathead,” said Stevie, with a guffaw.

“Stevie!” said Dana.

“But he’s asking for it!” protested Stevie.

“If you can’t respect your partner’s private space, consider yourself suspended from active duty. Is that what you want? No? Then please behave.”

“Some partner,” grumbled Stevie. “Can’t even take an innocent little joke.”

So. Recapitulating here for a moment. I went from being a selfish fathead—that all right with you, Stevie?—to realizing how much humans mean to me, and wanting, more than anything, to save them from harm. In other words, I went from being an egotist to being an altruist. Of sorts. That about covers it, Dana?

“It does,” said Dana, well pleased. “You can consider yourself recruited, Agent Tom.

“Finally,” sighed Stevie.

“Finally,” I agreed.