Foggy Mountain Breakdown and Other Stories

Somebody. Danby had kept conversation to a minimum, not quite liking the look of the beast’s prominent fangs. Danby suspected that the Doberman had previously been an IRS agent. Of course, the dog had said that it had been a serial killer, but that was just to lull Danby into a false sense of security. Anyhow, much as the dog approved of Danby’s plan to kill his humans, he wasn’t interested in forming a conspiracy. Why should he go to the gas chamber to solve someone else’s problem?

Danby himself had similar qualms about doing anything too drastic-such as setting fire to the house. He didn’t want to stage an accident that would include himself among the victims. After puttering about the darkened house for a wearying few hours, he stretched out on the sofa in the den to take a quick nap before resuming his plotting. He’d be able to think better after he rested.

The next thing Danby felt was a ruthless grip on his collar, dragging him forward. He opened his eyes to find that it was morning, and that the hand at his throat belonged to Julie Eskeridge, who was trying to stuff him into a metal cat carrier. He tried to dig his claws into the sofa, but it was too late. Before he could blink, he had been hoisted along by his tail, and shoved into the box. He barely got his tail out of the way before the door slammed shut behind him. Danby crouched in the plastic carrier, peeking out the side slits, and trying to figure out what to do next. Obviously the rubber ball on the steps had been a dismal failure as a murder weapon. Why couldn’t he have come back as a mountain lion?

Danby fumed about the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune all the way out to the car. It didn’t help to remember where he was going, and what was scheduled to be done with him shortly thereafter. Julie Eskeridge set the cat carrier on the backseat and slammed the door. When she started the car, Danby howled in protest.

“Be quiet back there!” Julie called out. “There’s nothing you can do about it.”

We’ll see about that, thought Danby, turning to peer out the door of his cage. The steel bars of the door were about an inch apart, and there was no mesh or other obstruction between them. He found that he could easily slide one paw sideways out of the cage. Now, if he could just get a look at the workings of the latch, there was a slight chance that he could extricate himself. He lay down on his side and squinted up at the metal catch. It seemed to be a glorified bolt. To lock the carrier, a metal bar was slid into a socket, and then rotated downward to latch. If he could push the bar back up and then slide it back…

It wasn’t easy to maneuver with the car changing speed and turning corners. Danby felt himself getting quite dizzy with the effort of concentrating as the carrier gently rocked. But finally, when the car reached the interstate and sped along smoothly, he succeeded in positioning his paw at the right place on the bar, and easing it upward. Another three minutes of tense probing allowed him to slide the bar a fraction of an inch, and then another. The bolt was now clear of the latch. There was no getting out of the car, of course. Julie had rolled up the windows, and they were going sixty miles an hour. Danby spent a full minute pondering the implications of his dilemma. But no matter which way he looked at the problem, the alternative was always the same: do something desperate or go under the knife. It wasn’t as if dying had been such a big deal, after all. There was always next time.

Quickly, before the fear could stop him, Danby hurled his furry bulk against the door of the. cat carrier, landing in the floor of the backseat with a solid thump. He sprang back up on the seat, and launched himself into the air with a heartfelt snarl, landing precariously on Julie Eskeridge’s right shoulder, and digging his claws in to keep from falling.

The last things he remembered were Julie’s screams and the feel of the car swerving out of control.

* * *

When Danby opened his eyes, the world was still playing in black-and-white. He could hear muffled voices, and smell a jumble of scents: blood, gasoline, smoke. He struggled to get up, and found that he was still less than a foot off the ground. Still furry. Still the Eskeridges’ cat. In the distance he could see the crumpled wreckage of Julie’s car.

A familiar voice was droning on above him. “He must have been thrown free of the cat carrier during the wreck, officer. That’s definitely Merlin, though. My poor wife was taking him to the vet.”

A burly policeman was standing next to Giles, nodding sympathetically. “I guess it’s true what they say about cats, sir. Having nine lives, I mean. I’m very sorry about your wife. She wasn’t so lucky.”

Giles hung his head. “No. It’s been a great strain. First my business partner disappears, and now I lose my wife.” He stooped and picked up Danby. “At least I have my beautiful kitty-cat for consolation. Come on, boy. Let’s go home.”

Danby’s malevolent yellow stare did not waver. He allowed himself to be carried away to Giles’s waiting car without protest. He could wait. Cats were good at waiting. And life with Giles wasn’t so bad, now that Julie wouldn’t be around to harass him. Danby would enjoy a spell of being doted on by an indulgent human, fed gourmet catfood, and given the run of the house. Meanwhile he could continue to leave the occasional ball on the stairs, and think of other ways to toy with Giles, while he waited to see if the police ever turned up to ask Giles about his missing partner. If not, Danby could work on more ways to kill humans. Sooner or later he would succeed. Cats are endlessly patient at stalking their prey.

“It’s just you and me, now, fella,” said Giles, placing his cat on the seat beside him.

And after he killed Giles, perhaps he could go in search of the building contractor that Giles bribed to keep his dirty secret. He certainly deserved to die. And that nasty woman Danby used to live next door to, who used to complain about his stereo and his crabgrass. And perhaps the surly headwaiter at Chantage. Stray cats can turn up anywhere.

Danby began to purr.

GENTLE READER

367 Calabria Road

Passaic, New Jersey 07055

Dear Laurie Gunsel:

I hope you don’t mind me writing to you via your publishers. It says on the book jacket that you live in the Atlanta area, but that’s a big place, so I figured this was the best way to make sure that you got my letter.

I have just finished reading your new book Bullet Proof, and I had to write and tell you how much I enjoyed it. Since finding that book, I have been looking for the rest of the Cass Cairncross detective series. I located your first book (Dead in the Water) in a used bookstore, and I hope to acquire first editions of all your works. In hardcover yet, which is something I don’t do for many authors.

I especially liked the scene in Bullet Proof in which Cass’s preppy boyfriend Bradley turns out to be the killer, and, as he’s attacking our heroine, he falls out the window of the apartment when he trips over Cass’s cat Diesel. Nice touch!

Anyhow, Ms. Gunsel, you do good work. So I wanted to write and tell you that you have a satisfied customer, and that I’m looking forward to Cass’s next adventure, which I’m sure you’re working on even as I write.

Here’s wishing you the best of luck and continued success.

Sincerely,

Monty Vincent

Laurie Gunsel

Mr. Monty Vincent

367 Calabria Road

Passaic, New Jersey 07055

Dear Mr. Vincent:

Thank you very much for your kind letter about my books. It’s always nice to hear from readers. It’s nice to have readers.

I’m glad you liked Bullet Proof. It’s one of my favorites, not only because it went book club, but also because I got some rage out of my system toward an old… acquaintance, shall we say? I don’t think libel comes into it, because unfortunately, he didn’t trip over a cat and fall out a window.