When we entered the house, a low moaning noise greeted us. It seemed to come from the back of the house. Were we too late? Was Clarence even now in the throes of some horrible death?
“If he was dead, we wouldn’t hear anything. If he was dying, we’d hear more. Don’t you think?” Tamara shooed me toward the back of the house. “Go. See what’s happening.”
Not dead—but dying? Tortured?
The moaning got louder, and I pinpointed the room it was originating from. I could hear Tamara opening and closing doors—searching for another construct, perhaps. Or just making certain we wouldn’t be surprised by anything else nasty that Nicky had left behind.
Sylvie and Lilac were both at my back, following closely.
“If the layout is as close to my house as it seems, then this is the master bedroom,” Sylvie said as she gestured to the last door.
I nodded and opened it. And there he was, a pitiful, tortured bundle of fur, lying prone on his side, a look of anguish on his face.
“Save me, Geoff,” he whispered.
And that was when I heard the porn tunes in the background.
A huge screen showcased a film with too much bare flesh and bad background music. I grabbed the remote on the bed and shut it off while Clarence writhed in agony.
“Clarence, what did they do to you?” I asked. I was confused, concerned . . . confused.
“Beer and brats. So many brats.” He moaned again.
“And porn,” Lilac said helpfully in a chipper voice.
Clarence groaned. “So much bad porn.” He lifted his head slightly and looked at her. “I couldn’t say no.”
Sylvie’s lips twitched. “Clarence.” There was sympathy there, but also a laugh that I could tell wanted to burble to the surface. Thank goodness she could laugh. She’d had a doozy of a day.
“Go on, laugh.” He writhed on the bed and groaned again. “But get me some kitty Pepto, pleeeeease.”
His stomach was distended under all his fluffy stomach fur, which I could see more clearly now that he’d stretched out and was still. Still except for the panting. That couldn’t be good.
“I think we need to get you to the vet, Clarence. You really don’t look so good.” I turned to grab the corner of the bedspread and caught a shared glance between Clarence and Sylvie.
Sylvie put her hand on my arm. “Don’t worry, Geoff. He’ll be fine. There’s an emergency vet right around the corner. A friend has used them and says they’re great.”
“Got it. Emergency vet it is,” I said as I wrapped Clarence in the bedspread. When I picked him up, the moaning increased in both volume and frequency, which made me hope that Sylvie was right. How terrible would it be for Clarence to survive the kidnappers only to be brought down by beer, brats, and porn?
Epilogue
Late night
Several hundred dollars later, Clarence and I were back from the emergency vet. It had been a close call. Not a medical one—Clarence was just fine—but a logistical one.
So far, everyone had believed me when I said, “Bobcat? Of course he’s not a bobcat. He’s a pixie bob.” And if they commented on his size, which was much greater than any pixie bob, I just claimed there was a little Maine coon thrown in.
That hadn’t worked at the emergency vet. It wasn’t the vet who’d commented, but the vet tech. “Sir, that’s a bobcat. I can see clear as day that it’s a bobcat.”
Clarence’s eyes had narrowed, and if he hadn’t been in gastric distress, I was pretty sure the tech would have gotten a nice claw to the nose.
People saw what they wanted to see, and they didn’t want to see magic or the unexpected. Give them a reasonable alternative, and most people would latch on and cling to it desperately rather than deal with the idea of magic or the supernatural.
But not Horace Messerschmidt.
My guess: Horace had a little magic tucked away in his family tree. Or he was just that guy. The one who knew everything. The one who was never wrong. The one who had to tell you all about the right way to do it.
“I might want to strangle you, Clarence. First, that terrible Messerschmidt man with his lectures on having wild animals as pets, and then the bill. Seven hundred dollars.” When he didn’t look chastened and didn’t reply, I repeated, “Seven hundred dollars, Clarence.”
“Hm. I’ve never had an ultrasound before.” Clarence sniggered. “Like a pregnant lady.” Then he chuckled.
“Are you twelve?” Although that wasn’t fair, because twelve seemed a little young for someone with a porn fascination. I could only hope he’d gotten that out of his system while locked up with Nick and his aunt.
A knock at the door precluded a response, but I gave him a look that said this conversation was not over. I answered the door to find Sylvie on my doorstep.
“I saw you were home and that the lights were still on. I just wanted to see how everything went at the vet’s office.” She lifted a basket. “For Clarence.”
I gestured for her to come inside. She hesitated, but then nodded.
Clarence stretched and then began a slow saunter to his bedroom. “Hi, Sylvie. Excuse me while I sleep off my bender. I gotta get some shut-eye, or I’m a gonna be a cranky kitty.” He gave me some side-eye, and I knew he was thinking he’d avoided our little heart-to-heart about pornography, alcohol, and gluttony—oh, and wandering away with any murderous stranger who invited you for beer and brats.
Sylvie indicated the basket she’d brought. “I’ll leave this in the kitchen for you.”
“Oh, that’s for me?” Clarence scanned the basket. I’d swear his eyes lit up at the little stuffed mouse and the kitty grass, but he retrieved the DVD. “Thanks!” He had to speak around the DVD clenched in his mouth, but his enthusiasm was unmistakable.
He also hotfooted it to his room much faster than my seven-hundred-dollar vet bill would
