Portents Page 13

  He tried to put his notebook into his pocket, but it wouldn’t fit. Something else was in there. Gabriel reached in and felt a box. He pulled it out.

  It was the cards. The Victorian tarot for Rose.

  Gabriel turned back toward the man to call out his thanks. But the street was empty. He pocketed the cards, smiled and headed back to give Rose her present.

  The Orange Cat

  “The killing of the cat was unimportant, though not inconsequential,” Gabriel said as his aunt walked into the parlor with a pot of tea in one hand and a plate of cookies in the other.

  “You’d better not say that in front of a jury.”

  “That I believe the cat’s death played a role in the later crime?” He took a cookie. “Yes, I’m still deciding how to frame that in the defense. It is an important factor, yet it may be difficult to explain.”

  “I meant calling the death of a cat unimportant.”

  “My client is hardly on trial for killing an animal. I could bargain that down to a misdemeanor. This is felony murder. But it started with the cat.”

  “Such things often do.”

  Gabriel sipped his tea. “It’s not that sort of crime, where one begins with small animals, and moves up the food chain. That’s a natural progression. The cat? Nothing about the beast was natural.”

  When she waited for him to continue, he took his time eating his cookie. She glowered. Then he said, “It began two weeks ago . . .”

  As Gabriel walked into the office at eight Tuesday morning, he hung out his shingle. That was the common phrase for it, derived from the Old West, when lawyers and doctors would use shingles as business signs. Of course, in 2007 one didn’t hang out a real shingle. One put a brass plate on the door or a discreet sign in the lobby. Unless one was a new lawyer who time-shared the space and literally had to hang out his sign when he started work for the day.

  Gabriel Walsh had passed the bar two years ago. To have his own office already did not speak of a brilliant career. It spoke of failure, of being unable to find a position in a law firm and hanging out a shingle in hopes of bringing in clients foolish enough to hire a twenty-five-year-old barrister. Or it did if one actually wanted a position in a firm. Gabriel did not. When he’d finished interning for Mike Quinlan, the lawyer had offered him a job. And had breathed an undisguised sigh of relief when Gabriel refused.

  “I had to ask,” Quinlan said. “You’re fucking brilliant, and I’d be a fool not to try. But . . .”

  He didn’t need to finish that sentence. Gabriel knew what he was. Cold, ruthless and unscrupulous. Also driven, tireless and ambitious. That made him an exemplary defense attorney. It did not make him someone even Mike Quinlan wanted on staff. What Gabriel wanted was Quinlan’s title: Most Notorious Defense Attorney in Chicago. And most successful.

  Step one toward achieving that goal was hanging out his shingle in this rented office. Step two would be getting his own office. He could afford one. He’d put himself through law school running a gambling ring, where he’d played all the roles, from bookie to loan shark to enforcer—Gabriel did not work well with others. It’d been far more profitable than law, meaning he could easily find the money to rent an office. Yet he’d set his sights on purchasing one of the historic greystones on this very street. The neighborhood was safe and quiet and within a short walk of the Cook County Jail. Until he could justify such a purchase to the IRS, he would share this office. The rent was cheap, which could be explained primarily by the faint chemical smell wafting up from the basement. Gabriel pretended not to notice, promised he would never be in the office between sundown and sunrise, and offered pro bono legal advice to the owner, all of which resulted in a very low monthly rent.

  Gabriel had just settled at his desk when a man walked in. Mid-forties. Average height. Above-average weight. Balding. Dressed in a department store suit. Strikingly ordinary.

  Seeing Gabriel, the man stepped back out the still-open door and checked the sign.

  “Uh, you’re . . . waiting for Mr. Walsh?” he asked Gabriel.

  “I am Mr. Walsh.”

  Gabriel rose and the man’s gaze rose with him. Then the man stepped back again. At six-four, Gabriel wasn’t simply tall—he was big. Not overweight, though it was easy to slide in that direction if he paid too little attention to his diet and exercise.

  “Ben said you were, uh, young. Just caught me off guard there.” A slightly nervous laugh. “He’s the one who recommended you. Benjamin Hall. You helped him out with a problem last year.”

  By helped out with a problem, he meant got him off on a DUI charge that put a woman in a wheelchair. It’d been one of Gabriel’s finer moments. Not setting free a drunk who’d permanently disabled a mother of four—that was nothing to be proud of. But the case had been turned down by Quinlan himself, who’d deemed it unwinnable. Yet Gabriel had won, which got him his first front-page story, his first hate mail and his first full roster of clients.

  “Yes, of course,” Gabriel said. Then added, a little belatedly, “How is he?”

  He didn’t listen to the answer. He didn’t care, but this was the expected response, so he made it.

  “Now I have a problem,” the man continued. “And I’m hoping you can help.”

  Gabriel waved him to a chair. He did not offer refreshments. There was a difference between civility and servitude.

  “It’s about a cat,” the man said. “I think I might need to kill it.”

  “I would advise against that.” That’ll be one hundred dollars, please, and the door is behind you.

  “Strongly advise against it?”

  Gabriel considered. While he understood that he shouldn’t need to, what he thought was very different, because emotion had no place here. He was a lawyer, not a priest.

  “Is the cat a nuisance?”

  The man shifted in his seat. “Kind of.”

  In other words, not really.

  “That is the crux of the matter,” Gabriel said. “If the animal is a danger to you or your children or your own pets, then you could argue it is a nuisance animal. The first step, however, would be to contact animal control. I presume it’s a stray?”

  “No, it’s mine.”

  “Oh. That, I’m afraid, is a whole different matter, falling under the animal cruelty laws. In that case, I would even more strongly suggest animal control.”

  “I’ve taken him to the shelter twice. He comes back.”

  “Ah.” Gabriel tapped his pen against his legal pad. “I’m going to need more information then. Why do you wish to get rid of the cat? Is it a health issue? Allergies? Or a financial one, such as medical needs you cannot fulfill?”

  “I . . . just want to get rid of it.”

  Gabriel waited for a better answer. The man squirmed, then said, “It’s bothering me.”

  “Attacking you? Being abnormally noisy?”

  “No, it just . . . stares at me. I know that sounds . . .” The man pushed to his feet, and began to pace. “It sounds crazy. But you don’t understand. It just sits there and it stares and it stares. One yellow eye, staring at me all the time.”

  “One?”

  The man ran a hand through his hair, upsetting the fine balance of his comb over. “It was a mistake.”

  “A mistake? You mean the loss of the other eye? You blinded—”

  “Half blinded. The cat can still see perfectly well. It’s not a big deal.”

  Gabriel was not particularly empathetic. All right, not one bit empathetic. But when the man said that, with a plaintive whine in his voice, it was all Gabriel could do not to say, And if I blinded you in one eye? Would you consider it ‘not a big deal’? He decided then that he did not like the man. Which had absolutely no bearing on the case—or on his ability to defend him. If it did, Gabriel would have no business at all.

  “I was drunk,” the man said. “I came home and it was screeching at me, and I get enough of that from my wife. So I had this penknife in my pocket—”

  �
�I understand,” Gabriel said, which was not true, but comprehending the reasons for a client’s behavior was as unnecessary—and improbable—as liking him. “So you half-blinded the cat and now it follows you about and stares at you accusingly.”

  “Not accusingly,” the man said. “It’s a cat. It doesn’t think that way.”

  “So after half-blinding it, it randomly follows you about. I can see where that would be disconcerting.” And I don’t blame the cat one bit. “If you wish my legal advice . . .”

  “I do.”

  Gabriel scratched numbers on his pad and then turned it toward the man. “That would be my fee for the advice. Any further consultations would be an additional charge.”

  The man hesitated at the amount, and then said, “That’s fine.”

  “First, you will provide me with the name of the shelter that took the cat. I will obtain confirmation that you did in fact deliver the animal and that it escaped. In the meantime, you will take the cat to a different shelter, for one last attempt to divest yourself of it.”

  Gabriel hated to make the next suggestion but saw no reasonable alternative. He continued, “If that fails, you will do what a shelter would have done if unable to find a home for it—have the animal euthanized by a licensed veterinarian. There is no legal issue with euthanizing a healthy cat, but in the event of any such claim, you have proof of your attempts to get it adopted.” While Gabriel could not imagine any legal grounds for complaint, suggesting otherwise would have halved his fee. “Does that sound reasonable?”

  “My wife won’t like me putting the cat down.”

  “Then I would suggest you don’t tell her. Now, if you could provide your personal details and the name of that shelter . . .”

  Gabriel made the phone call as soon as the shelter opened for the day. Naturally, the woman who answered did not wish to admit they’d lost the cat—twice. She insisted that the man had been playing some sort of game with them.

  “He must have come in and taken the cat out,” she said.

  “Is that possible? Anyone can simply wander in and open the cages?”

  “Of course not, but we’re a shelter, not a jail. All I know is that the cat was there when we closed for the night and gone when we opened and Mr. Patton insisted it was on his doorstep. Which means not only did it need to open a cage and two locked doors, but it traveled clear across the city in a matter of hours. That is not possible. He must have taken it.”

  The next morning, Gabriel’s phone rang almost before he had time to put down his briefcase.

  “It came back,” Patton said by way of greeting. “I took it all the way out of the damned county and it still came back.”

  Which was, Gabriel had to admit, odd. Not entirely impossible, despite what the woman from the shelter had said. Still, very improbable.

  “You suggested your wife is fond of the cat. Could she be retrieving it from the shelter?”

  “I didn’t tell her where I was going.”

  Which did not mean she didn’t know, but Gabriel said, “Then do what you must. Just do it properly, at the appropriate facility, and be sure it’s documented.”

  Gabriel thought no more of the cat that day. The matter had been dealt with. Naturally, he’d have preferred a conclusion that did not involve the death of an innocent beast. Even more, he’d have preferred a conclusion that didn’t involve the death of a wronged beast, since the blinding of the cat gave it every reason to torment Patton. But more desirable steps had failed, and it came to a choice between a painless death and a more terrible conclusion, with Patton losing his temper, as he had that night with the penknife.

  Gabriel arrived at the office the second morning after Patton’s initial visit to hear the phone ringing. As he unlocked the door, it went to voice mail. Then, as he was removing his jacket, it began to ring again.

  Gabriel answered. The voice on the other end rattled off an address. Then, “Get here. Now.”

  Gabriel recognized Patton more by the home address than his voice, which was thick with rage.

  “What has—?”

  “I’ll pay double your rate. Just get over here, Walsh. Now.”

  Gabriel was not in the habit of taking orders from clients. Of course they tried to give them, as if he was the hired help. Which he was, technically, but the balance of power in any relationship was critical. Being young and inexperienced already tilted it out of his favor. He’d wrench it back any way he could, including ignoring such a summons . . . unless the client offered him double his rate and he didn’t actually have an appointment for three hours.

  He arrived at Patton’s home, a tiny house in a working-class neighborhood. When he rapped on the front door, Patton called, “Come in!” and Gabriel entered a dark and empty front hall.

  “In here!” Patton’s voice came from an adjoining room.

  Gabriel paused. He did not carry a weapon. He had many—relics of his youth—but they were in his apartment, security talismans, their existence quite humiliating enough. He’d certainly never carry one. His size usually kept him safe and when it didn’t? Spending one’s teen years living on the streets of Chicago meant one didn’t require weapons to fend off a threat.

  He still paused, and when he walked into that room, he angled his entry so he would see Patton before he stepped through the doorway. The man sat on a recliner and stared at the coffee table. And on the table? A huge orange cat. With one good eye.

  “Explain this.” Patton jabbed a finger at the feline and then glowered at Gabriel, as if he’d resurrected the creature himself.

  “Are you certain it was euthanized?”

  “I stood there while she did it.” Patton yanked a paper from his pocket and held it out. “Here’s the bill. Euthanization and proper disposal. This”—he waved at the cat—“is not proper disposal.”

  “Hmm.”

  “That’s your answer?” Patton’s voice rose. “My dead cat has come back.”

  “Yes, that’s very odd.”

  “Odd?”

  Patton started raving, spitting and snarling about how “odd” didn’t quite seem adequate to the situation. Gabriel ignored him and walked to the beast. It sat still as a gargoyle, staring at Patton. Gabriel lowered himself to a crouch in front of the animal and it deigned to look at him, yellow eye meeting his and blinking once, as if to say, Yes, I’m alive. Then it returned its accusing stare to its owner.

  Gabriel reached out carefully, being sure the cat could see his hand moving. He touched the back of its neck. The cat shifted, but didn’t otherwise move, too intent on the target of its silent outrage. Gabriel rubbed the cat’s neck, feeling the warmth and the pulse of life there.

  “Yes, it’s clearly alive.”

  “No fucking kidding it’s alive! What did you think it was, a zombie?”

  Gabriel had never encountered a zombie, but he did not believe in ruling out any possibility. As for the fact of the cat’s return, to Gabriel it was simply a puzzle. There was most likely a logical explanation, and one ought to always consider logic and simplicity first. Yet he would not discount the possibility of a less-than-natural cause either.

  The second sight ran in his family—his aunt Rose had it, indubitably. And she lived in a town where gargoyles appeared and disappeared, depending on the weather, the time of day, even the time of year. The world had its mysteries. He accepted that as readily as he accepted the existence of bacteria. He could not see either, but he did see both in action, and that was enough.

  “I’m going to kill it,” Patton said.

  “You already did that. I hardly see the point in repeating the process.” Gabriel stood and looked about. “Do you have a carrier of some sort?”

  Gabriel took the orange cat to Cainsville. He’d hoped to speak to his aunt about it. Beyond having the second sight, she was also an expert in matters of folklore and magic. Her car was gone, which meant she’d gone out of town—there was no place within town that required a vehicle. Still, he took the cat to the door an
d knocked. No one answered. He was putting the carrier back in his car when a voice called from across the road.

  “What are you doing with that?”

  He turned to see Grace perched on the front porch of her three-floor walkup. He did not use the word “perched” facetiously. Old, wizened and permanently scowling, Grace reminded Gabriel of the town’s gargoyles, hunkered down on her stoop, watching for trouble, and never so delighted as when she found it.

  “It’s a cat,” he said.

  “I can see that. What are you doing with a cat?”

  He took it over to her, primarily to avoid shouting across the roadway.

  “Please tell me you aren’t giving your aunt a cat,” Grace said. “She has about as much use for one as I do. Or you, for that matter. What—?” She peered at the beast in the carrier. “Something’s wrong with it.”

  “Yes, it’s missing an eye.”

  She rolled hers at him. “Obviously. I mean something else.”

  “Apparently, as of yesterday, it was dead. Then it came back.”

  “Huh.”

  “That’s what I said. It’s somewhat troubling.”

  Her thin shoulders lifted in a shrug and she said, “It happens.” Gabriel couldn’t tell if she was joking but decided it best not to pursue an answer.

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Find a place for it, I suppose. It keeps returning to its owner. I thought perhaps if I left it here, in Cainsville, and it appeared in Chicago again, I could be certain unnatural forces were at work.”

  “Because returning from the dead isn’t proof enough?”

  “I didn’t actually witness the death.”

  “Well, give it to me, then. Patrick’s been looking for a cat. I’ll drop it at his place.” She smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, and he was quite certain the young local writer had no need of a cat, but if it took the beast off his hands . . .