But before she could speak at all, her father’s bloodshot eyes fixed on her and he said, “You were with that kid.”
Her eyes flicked toward the window. Her father’s back was to it, but if he’d been getting another beer when she and Seth had come out of the woods…
Better not try to deny it.
“W-We were out hiking,” she stammered.
Her father’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Ever since school let out?”
Angel nodded, and instantly wished she hadn’t. But it was already too late — her skin began to crawl as she felt her father’s eyes moving over her. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, shifting his weight in the chair. “If you’d been out in that downpour, you’d be soaked.”
“I–I am wet,” she said. “I better go up and change.” Before he could say anything else, she hurried out of the room and up the stairs.
Wet, huh? She hadn’t looked wet to him, and if she’d really been where she said she was, she’d be a lot more than just wet. She’d have come in dripping, with her hair plastered down, and that ugly sweatshirt she was always wearing would’ve been clinging to her body.
So she hadn’t been out hiking.
She’d been out doing something else.
And he knew damned well what it was.
He started up the stairs, but his foot caught on the first step. Swearing loudly as he lost his balance and lurched forward, he threw out his hands to catch himself. The half-full bottle of beer struck the wall, clattered onto the stairs, rolled down a couple of steps, then came to rest on its side, the last of its contents draining onto the step below. Cursing again, Marty picked up the bottle, drained the last few drops from it, and tossed it down to the floor below. He started to take another step, swaying as the beer he’d been pouring down his throat for the last two hours tightened its grip on his brain. This time, though, his hand closed on the banister and he caught himself before he sprawled out on the stairs. Muttering darkly, he continued on up the stairs, but when he came to the point where his head was level with the upstairs landing, he suddenly stopped.
A cat!
A black cat with a small white mark in the center of its chest was sitting on the landing above him, looking down at him.
Marty hated cats. He’d always hated them, even when he was little. He could still remember the time when he was only three or four — before he’d even gone to kindergarten — when his father had brought home a kitten. When Marty had first seen the shoe box punched full of holes his father was holding, he’d been sure it was the puppy he’d been begging for. But when his father set the box on the floor and let him open it, all he found was a kitten.
A stupid kitten!
His first impulse was to pick it up and throw it against the wall, and as he’d reached for it, the animal seemed to sense what he was about to do and lashed out at him with its tiny paw. The miniature claws, already needle sharp, slashed deep into the skin of his hand, and he screamed in pain.
The kitten had been given away that very afternoon, but ever since, Marty Sullivan had hated cats.
And been terrified of them.
And now there was one in his house, sitting on the upper landing, staring down at him. He froze, his eyes fixed on the cat, and a dim memory rose out of his alcohol-clouded subconscious. A memory of a dream.
A dream in which a cat had leaped out of the darkness, scratching his face.
He couldn’t remember much else about the dream, just that he’d been in the dark and a voice had been whispering to him, telling him what to do, and then he’d heard a cat hissing at him. Hissing at him, and then leaping out of the darkness, slashing at him!
Marty’s hand rose to his face, and his fingers touched the scabs over the not quite healed cuts he’d thought he must have accidentally inflicted on himself while he’d been shaving the other morning. But maybe he hadn’t cut himself.
Maybe it hadn’t been a dream.
Maybe the cat had gotten into the house the other night and come after him.
He gazed up at it malevolently, and as if sensing his hatred — and his fear — the cat rose to its feet and its back arched.
It bared its teeth and a low hissing sound came from its throat.
The same hissing Marty had heard in his dream.
The cat’s eyes began to glow with a light that seemed to come from within, and its gaze held Marty in an almost hypnotic thrall.
As he stood frozen on the staircase, the cat edged closer to the lip of the landing and its muscles tensed.
Marty’s heart began to pound and he felt a cold sweat break out over his body.
It was going to kill him.
The cat, which couldn’t weigh more than ten or fifteen pounds, was going to kill him!
And he couldn’t move!
It was as if every muscle in his body had gone rigid, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force himself to turn around, or even back away.
He tried to swallow, but his throat was too constricted, and now he realized he wasn’t even breathing.
And the cat was gathering itself for the attack, its claws already extended, its jaw yawning wide, exposing all its teeth.
Then, just as it was about to launch itself at his throat, there was the slam of a door and a voice.
“Marty? Angel?”
The sound of Myra’s voice jerked Marty out of the strange trance the cat had induced, and he spun around, almost lost his balance again, and grabbed at the rail. A second later Myra appeared at the foot of the stairs. Her eyes were hard and she held an empty beer bottle in her hand.
“How many?” she demanded, raising the bottle toward him so there was no mistaking her meaning.
“A — A couple,” Marty stammered.
“A couple six-packs,” Myra replied. “And if you think I’m cleaning up your mess, you’re wrong.” Then, seeing the ashen color of her husband’s complexion, her tone softened. “Are you all right?”
“A cat,” Marty said. “There’s a cat up here.”
Myra frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“A damned cat!” Marty said, his courage returning now that Myra’s voice had softened. “It was gonna come at me!”
Myra’s lips pursed. “Oh, really, Marty—”
“You don’t believe me?” Marty asked, his voice taking on a hint of a whine. “It’s up here right now!”
Myra started up the stairs. “Why would there be a cat up there?”
“How should I know?” Marty countered truculently. “Maybe you left a window open, or Angel—”
“I don’t leave windows open, and neither does Angel,” Myra cut in. Passing Marty, she came to the upper landing and looked around. “And if there’s a cat here, I don’t see it!”
Marty climbed the rest of the stairs, searching for the cat.
There was no sign of it.
The door to the bedroom he and Myra shared was closed, as was Angel’s, and the one leading to the back bedroom.
Only the bathroom door stood open, and Marty, emboldened by his wife’s presence, went to it. There was no more sign of the cat in the bathroom than there was anywhere else. “I’m telling you, it was here,” he said, his voice rising. “Just a second ago, when you came in!”
