Into his room, licking, waving.
In came the cat.
Close the door, lock it, grab the furry fucker by the neck and throw it hard against the wall.
Thud. It cried out and slid down the wall and landed on his bed, alive but something was broken. It just lay there looking funny.
He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out the hypodermic needle that he'd prepared. Lidocaine from one of the little rubber-topped bottles Doctor kept in the library closet, along with boxes of disposable needles, packages of gloves, bandages, and the empty doctor's bag-a Gladstone bag. it was called-which made this fantastic thunk when you opened and closed it. A couple of times he'd taken stuff, put it in the bag, and brought it up to his room.
Big smile: Hi. I'm Dr. Terrific. What seems to be the problem?
He'd used lidocaine on bugs and worms and the mouse that he'd found half-dead in the trap in the cellar. Mostly it killed them right away, so he figured it was too strong. But bugs were no fun anyway-so small, just sticking them with the needle fucked them totally up. And the mouse had been all crushed, almost dead when he found it.
A cat, now that was a different story-a step forward, real science.
In school, he was flunking science because it wasn't real science-the teacher was a lame-o, all words, no reality.
The cat tried to crawl off the bed, stopped, just lay there.
This was real. He'd been real scientific, taken the time to plan everything. There was a pediatrics book in the library-he read it for hours before finding a drug dosage chart for newborn infants, then used it to dilute the lidocaine, then added even more water, mixing all of it together in a juice glass, hoping he hadn't ruined the lidocaine.
Only one way to find out.
The cat was trying to get off the bed, again. Its eyes were all cloudy and its back legs were dragging.
Fuck you, dickhead, messing things up like that!
He picked it up by the scruff, stuck the needle in its chest, and shot in the lidocaine. Did it a bunch more times, the way it said in the book, trying to get pinpoint anesthesia.
The cat made squeaky sounds, struggled for a while, then shuddered and then went all stiff.
He placed it on his desk, belly-up, on top of the layers of newspaper he'd spread all over.
It wasn't moving-shit! No fair!
No, wait? Yeah, there it was, the chest going up and down. Fucker was still breathing, weak, you could barely see it, but still breathing!
All right!
He opened the bottom drawer again, took out the two knives that he'd chosen from the box in the library: the biggest scalpel and a curved bistoury. He held them in his hands, watching the cat breathe, knowing this was real science, not any bugs or half-dead mouses.
Hi, I'm Dr. Terrific.
What seems to be the problem, Mr. Cat, Mr. Snowball? Mr. Little Dickhead who almost ruined my life?
The cat just lay there.
Big problems for you. Things got all red in front of his eyes. The roar in his head got louder.
He took a deep breath. A bunch of them, until things got clear again.
Hello, Mr. Cat. Time for surgery.
Friday. Daoud's nights keeping Roselli under surveillance had been as productive as tilling concrete.
For the past week, the monk had remained within the walls of Saint Saviour's, taking only one brief walk Wednesday night, shortly after midnight. Not even a walk, really. Fifty steps before turning on his heel-abruptly, as if he'd experienced anxiety, a sudden change of heart about venturing out-and heading back quickly for the refuge of the monastery. Daoud had just begun to trail him, walking maybe ten meters behind, disguised as a Franciscan, the hood pulled down. After Roselli changed direction, Daoud kept on going and, as they passed each other, retracted his head into the brown folds of his robe and stared downward, as if lost in contemplation.
When Roselli had gone twenty more steps, nearing the curve at Casa Nova Road, Daoud permitted himself a half-turn and a look back. He watched the monk round the bend and disappear; then Daoud headed swiftly toward the monastery on silent, crepe soled feet, getting to the curve just in time to see his quarry vanish behind the large doors. He stopped, listened, heard retreating footsteps, and waited in the darkness for an hour before satisfying himself that Roselli was in for the night.
He kept the surveillance going until daybreak, shuffling back and forth on St. Francis Road, down Aquabat el Khanqa to the Via Dolorosa, reading the Arabic Bible that he'd brought for a prop, always keeping one eye on the tower of the monastery. He stuck it out until the city awoke under a golden banner of sunlight, watched early risers emerging from the shadows, and, tucking the Bible under his arm, started walking away in an old man's halting pace, blending in with the burgeoning stream of workers and worshippers, allowing himself to be carried along in the human flow that exited the Old City at the New Gate.
Engine roars and bleats and guttural commands filled his ears. Fruit and vegetable vendors were unloading their cargo; flocks of sheep were being herded toward the city walls for market. He inhaled the rotten sweetness of wet produce, made his way through dancing spirals of dung-laden dust, and walked the two kilometers to his car, still dressed as a monk.
The night-watch assignment was a little boring, but he enjoyed the solitude, the coolness of dark, empty streets. Took strange pleasure in the coarse, heavy feel of the robe, the large, leather-bound Bible he'd brought
