Nine Deadly Lives Page 8

  “Crap,” I hissed. I poked her head back into the bag and pulled the zipper closed. Instantly she calmed down, but now she was completely trapped in the bag.

  I thought about taking her, bag and all, to someplace where I could see better, where I could finagle that crusty zipper into opening. She was small, and just needed another inch or two. But it wasn’t my bag, and decades of etiquette were telling me it was not polite to mess with other people’s stuff.

  I wondered what else was in the bag. I began to feel around the edges. It was by no means empty. Something squarish and heavy, papers or books, lined the bottom; above that was a layer of soft, squishy stuff—like clothes. At least Spot had somewhere to rest in her isolation.

  I’m not sure when I’d made the transition from Kitty to Spot, something resembling a real name for the tiny baby in the bag. Granted, I hadn’t seen much of the cat—a nose, a forehead, and an eye—but of those, only the golden eye lacked the distinctive black and white freckles. Spot was a good name. At least until something better came along.

  Suddenly, I heard heavy footfalls approaching from the hallway. I went rigid, guilty trespasser that I was. I began to stand and turn, face my accuser and attempt to offer the explanation of my presence without sounding like a blithering old bat, but I never got the chance.

  A duo of deafening blasts jumped me out of my skin. Something whizzed past, splitting the air, then impacting a wooden crate behind me, splintering wood.

  “What the—” I spit without thinking, but I didn’t need a reply to grasp what was happening. I grabbed the gym bag and scurried, half-bent, toward the far wall. Though it was not within the realm of my previous experience, I had no doubt whatsoever someone was shooting at me.

  I dodged behind the stacks of crates just as a few more bullets flew. Not stopping to see where they landed, I bolted down the narrow passage between the wall and the boxes as fast as I could go. Footsteps slammed across the planks in my direction. I glanced backward. Though the makeshift passage gave good cover from the main part of the room, once the gunman got there, I’d be an easy target. I needed to get around the crates and back outside again.

  That plan fizzled when I saw the wall up ahead that transformed my corridor into a dead end. For a moment, I was frozen with fear. Then, a thought came over me—a thought which changed everything.

  There must be some mistake.

  The revelation sent harp chords and rainbows leaping through my panic-amped system. Why would anyone want to shoot at me, Lynley Cannon, beloved cat lady? There had to be some mistake.

  I turned, calm now, to face the person who had so cruelly confused me with someone else. I guess I didn’t see the obvious, that even if he weren’t shooting at me, he was still shooting at someone—which didn’t make him a very nice guy. I missed that part as I took a step toward the shadow that wavered ever closer. With a bravery that was both unfounded and absurd, I confronted him.

  “Excuse me, sir, but I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” I said in my sweetest voice. “I don’t know you, have never met you. I didn’t mean to come here at all. I heard the kitten, you see.”

  The man actually paused and I had a moment to study him. Though all detail was lost in the near-night blur, he looked big as an ogre and as buff as The Terminator. I’d caught him off guard, but what I mistook for acceptance was probably shock at my audacity. He said nothing; then, slowly, he began to raise the gun.

  My second revelation—that he was going to kill me anyway—was not so pleasant as the first, but got me moving a lot quicker. I’d noticed that some of the boxes forming the wall of my corridor were not set square, creating giant steps. Could my aging body still climb?

  The gym bag was equipped with a wide, padded shoulder strap, so I slung it across my chest and proceeded upward. Fear pushed me, and as another bullet cracked, I made it to the top in record time.

  Once there, I crouched, out of breath, wondering where to go next. “I don’t suppose you can fly,” I asked Spot in a muted whisper. She gave a tiny mew in response, but we didn’t take off toward the ceiling, so I guess her answer was no. I was getting silly. I knew it. I didn’t care. I’d go back to acting like an adult when I was once again safe and sound.

  I heard the footfalls start up again, but was surprised to note they were heading in the opposite direction. Maybe he wasn’t going to shoot me, after all. He came into view and I watched him slink back across the warehouse, a shadow in classic bad-guy black. He looked angry. He had a gun. I had no idea why he was after me but was way past my plan of trying to find out.

  He stopped by the door and seemed to be listening. I shrunk closer to the warm plywood, the bag cradled under me, kitten quiet inside. Then, as my heart did a giant flip-flop, the man swung around and began to return. He was hesitant, searching. Though he’d seen me climb up the other side, he now looked uncertain. That was a point in my favor. If I stayed silent, maybe he would give up and go away.

  A sudden wail cut loose from the bag, and that option winked into the dimension of things that might have been. Peeking over the edge of the crate, I saw the man staring back at me. Time to move. I had two options, aside from throwing myself on his dubious mercy: I could shimmy back down the way I had come, back to the dead end corridor—or I could go up. Above me, a balcony ringed the warehouse beneath the peaked glass skylights. The crates were piled high, and I thought I could reach the railing if I really really tried.

  I really really tried. It took some effort to pull myself up and over, but I managed it. As I lay on the dusty ledge, congratulating myself on my accomplishment, I heard running steps and what sounded like a pig-snort from down below. The chase was on.

  I grunted to my feet and began to sprint around the balcony. There was a fire door at the west end of the building where the antique green exit lamp still burned. I made for it, praying it wouldn’t be locked. The man had found the stairs and I could hear him crashing like a troll behind me. I got to the door and pushed through to the roof. I was greeted with a panoramic view, far superior to that from the esplanade, but I barely noted it as I hurled myself forward. For whatever reason, the man was coming for me. He’d be through that door at any moment, and when he got there, I needed to be gone.

  It wasn’t hard to find the fire escape. Old and rickety, it couldn’t have been more welcome had it been a marble staircase, and I took the wrought iron treads with angel wings. I didn’t know I could still run that fast. Hell, I didn’t know I could still run at all.

  The zig-zag flight ended in a straight vertical ladder with a six-foot jump from the last rung to the ground. Someone had conveniently ditched an old mattress underneath. Normally, I loathe litter, but I made an exception. I jumped, rolled on the spongy filth, and took off at an arthritic jog.

  Once back on the street, I looked for a place to hide. I was getting winded and wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep this up before the inevitable old lady heart attack overcame me. Down the block, I caught sight of an all-night bistro and made for it, slowing to a nonchalant stroll to mingle with the patrons out front. It seemed to be a popular hangout. I wasn’t dressed in six-hundred dollar jeans or a designer dress, but in the dark, I hoped no one would notice. This was Portland, after all, and we can, with the correct attitude, keep it weird.

  The door was open and I ducked inside. I wanted, oh so badly, to peep behind me and see if the man was still following; but I didn’t, just in case he was.

  “Do you have a reservation?” asked a slight dark girl in a print dress so skimpy I could see her breasts.

  “No, I just need...I just want...”

  She looked at me quizzically, then smiled. “There’s still a few places at the bar. Let me know if you change your mind about a table and I’ll put you on the list.”

  I uttered a heartfelt thanks and headed in the direction she was pointing. Through a brick archway was the cocktail lounge, a cozy space resembling a wine cellar with a mural of an Italian street scene painte
d on the stucco wall and fairy lights cascading from the high-beamed ceiling. Though filled to bursting with loud, happy drinkers, sure enough, there were a few empty stools and a tiny booth someone had recently vacated. I slipped onto hard wooden bench and breathed; just breathed.

  “Water?” I called to the server when he brushed by to take my order.

  “What kind?” he answered without missing a beat.

  “Cold,” I said, and closed my eyes. He got the point.

  Much as I would have loved to sit quietly, happy to be alone and alive, I knew I needed to keep alert. I pulled my cell phone out of my pants pocket and dialed Frannie. Frannie and I had been friends for long enough that I knew I could count on her not to ask stupid questions like Why are you being shot at? She would just take my word that I needed help and be there for me.

  As I waited for my water, I explained everything I knew about the events of the past half-hour. “I need to get out of here and I don’t trust the streets. He might still be out there. I know you’re busy, but—”

  “Not another word, Lynley,” came the reassuring voice. “Tell me where you are and I’ll come pick you up.”

  “It’s a bistro on the waterfront.” I looked around for a name and came up with a napkin. “Webster’s.”

  “Okay, hang tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can. But I’m at the shelter so it might take a little while.”

  My heart sank, but I said, “No problem. I’m sure I’m safe here.”

  I scrunched the phone back into my pocket and took another deep breath. The kitten had been quiet for some time and I was thankful, but now a terrifying thought hit me. What if something were wrong with her? What if one of my clumsy maneuvers had knocked the bag against a wall or a rail and hurt her? Or what if she were sick or injured to begin with? I hadn’t exactly had time to check her out. Instantly, I was pulling at the heavy zipper. “Spot?” I urged. “Hey, sweetheart, you okay in there?”

  The zipper still caught at the inch-and-a-half mark, so I forced in a finger, wiggling it around to get her attention. For a scary moment, nothing moved, then there she was, little nose pressed up against my touch. I tried to feel over her body, but all I could reach was face, sideburns, and ears, fluffy and unharmed. When Frannie came, I’d have her take us straight back to the shelter to get little Spot checked over by the doctors there. Until then, I couldn’t do much but wait.

  The server came with my water. “Thank you,” I told him as he set down a green bottle, an ice-filled glass, and a check.

  “Anything else, ma’am?”

  “No, that’s it. Thanks.” I gave Spot another scratch on her sideburns and withdrew my hand. I had intended to take a much-needed drink of the very expensive H2o, but Spot thought otherwise and began to cry. It was amazing how loud such a small thing can be when she put her feline mind to it.

  The server turned in his steps and stared at me. “Is that a cat?”

  “Well, um, it’s a kitten, actually.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, but animals aren’t allowed in this establishment. You’re going to have to leave.”

  “My friend is coming to pick me up. She’ll be here any minute. Can’t I just wait for her?”

  Spot kicked it up a few notches, sounding as if she were being tortured, or worse. Patrons turned their heads and a small crowd was gathering. I shoved my fingers back in the bag and tried to calm her, but this time, she wasn’t falling for it.

  “I’m sorry, health department rules.”

  I took a gulp of my water, flung a few bills on the table as I hefted the bag, and left. “Haven’t you ever heard a cat before?” I grumbled to the onlookers as I brushed by.

  Outside, I hunkered near the wall behind a little cluster of smokers feeling very sorry for myself. I was mad. Mad as hell, but mostly because I was scared. It wasn’t the server’s fault the health department was shortsighted about cats in restaurants; it wasn’t Spot’s fault that she was frightened and probably hungry; and it certainly wasn’t my fault I was being chased through lower Portland by a creepy person unknown.

  I peered around for any sign of him, but beyond the lights of the café, the streets were empty. Then, my mind cleared, and suddenly I knew what to do. How had I been so blind? Fear and adrenaline might help make the body move fast but not so much for the mind. In my attempt to run and hide, I had missed the obvious.

  I took my phone out one more time and started to dial 911. How simple! I would tell the police what happened and let them deal with it. Shots had been fired, after all. That was the sort of thing they liked to know about.

  A hand touched my arm and I whirled around. There he was, the man in black. For a moment I saw his face, charcoal baseball cap low on his forehead. He was young, white, scruffy, but built like a brick outhouse. As his grip tightened, I jerked away and ran.

  He was after me in a heartbeat. I swerved around a crowd of well-dressed young people, pushing a willowy redhead into his path.

  “Sorry,” I yelled over my shoulder, then added, “Help!” and “Call the police.”

  I’m pretty sure they didn’t take me seriously because their only replies were, “What the—” and “Watch where you’re going, lady!”

  I didn’t want to leave the area, because Frannie was on her way—so I turned the corner at the end of the block and made to come back around from the other side. I held to the shadows, this part of the neighborhood being strictly old school, warehouse and factory—closed up tight for the weekend. It was full dark now, and I strove to be silent as I ran on tiptoes. No one pursued. Maybe I’d been wrong about the man. Maybe it wasn’t the assailant at all, but someone else who wore black clothing. That wasn’t exactly rare in a city of Grunge and Goth. I turned the second corner, then the third. Up the street was the bistro again, a bright sparkle in the night. Jogging from a run to a walk, I breathed heavily. I hadn’t got this much exercise in as long as I could remember. I’d be sore tomorrow, I laughed to myself.

  Behind me, a chunk of gravel crunched on the sidewalk. I turned—and there he was. Damn, it had been him after all! I saw him look out across the street and followed his gaze to a second man. White ball cap, white tee shirt, tight gray jeans, but the same hefty build. They could have been a set of wrestler twins.

  Man in Black nodded to Man in White and they began to converge. For a moment, I stood petrified. I knew I could never outrun them both. Now would be a good time for Frannie to come driving by, I thought to myself, but as I scanned the sparse traffic finessing its way across the cobblestones and railroad tracks of the waterfront district, there was no sign of her little car.

  For lack of a better idea, I shoved my hands in my pockets and kept moving toward the bistro. If I could make it back there, I had a chance. I could try to convince the half-drunk clientele I needed assistance; I could go back inside and maybe, if nothing else, they would call the cops on me.

  Man in White was heading straight for me now, Man in Black, still moving up from behind. It didn’t take a strategist to see I was never going to get near that peopled oasis of light.

  Glancing around for alternatives, I discovered a wrought iron gate barring a narrow passageway between two buildings. With a sprint, I ran for it. Footfalls behind me let me know I wasn’t alone. It was déjà-vu all over again, except now, there were two of them and I was dog-tired, feeling every year of my age.

  The gate was chained, and my heart fell—until I realized the padlock hadn’t been clasped. I flung it aside and hurried through, pushing the iron bars shut behind me. The alley was little more than a footpath, hard clay and garbage. I didn’t want to guess what those slimy shopping bags contained, nor did I care to look any closer at the piles of multifarious debris. I know what it smelled like, and was glad when, in another few yards, I burst out the other side. It was a courtyard, once a garden of sorts but now just dried weeds and more garbage. The building backs abutted the dreary square, windows barred and security doors locked and padlocked. A few folding chairs were scattered h
aphazardly on the cracked dirt where workers came for a break, a smoke, a sandwich. No one was there now, the metal seats abandoned. All was dull and dark except where a string of colored lights hung like Christmas in June—the rear of the bistro.

  The pathway continued through the block, and an alley crisscrossed in the other direction. A truck was parked there and without thought, I made for it. I tried the door but it was locked. I don’t know what I’d expected—that it would be open, keys in the ignition, my magic ride to freedom? God, how much more of this could I endure? My knees buckled. I sank to the ground, utterly defeated.

  The men were in no hurry now. They loomed over me, making no attempt to do anything more.

  “What do you want from me?” I whimpered, sounding a lot like the kitten.

  “Give us the bag and we’ll leave you alone,” said Man in Black.

  “The bag,” I laughed. “You can have the bloody bag, but please just let me take the kitten.” I hugged the bag to me, feeling Spot squirm inside.

  The men looked at each other as if I were crazy. “Give it over,” commanded Man in White. He reached out and I shrunk back. There was no way I was delivering Spot into those menacing hands.

  With a slap that sent me sprawling, he grabbed the handle of the gym bag, but it was still slung across my shoulder so even as he pulled, I slid along with it. I screamed and he jerked even harder.

  An explosion split the night. Both men whirled, then bounded for cover. With one last bone-jarring yank, Man in White let go the strap and I was free.

  Free, in the middle of a war zone.

  Shots were coming from all sides, though I couldn’t see the other shooter. I didn’t care. Low and fast, I crab-scrambled behind the truck. Farther down the alley, a mere half-block away lay Water Street, the esplanade, and the clear glitter surface of the Willamette River. Zombie-like I staggered for it.

  With a screech of gravel and a blinding blaze of headlights, a vehicle flung itself into my path. It blocked the alley and with it, my only escape. I crouched against the wall. I hunkered down, shut my eyes, and waited to die.