Echoes of Darkness (25 page)

And the noise! Every cat announced itself, even as they rubbed up against his shins in that creepily familiar fashion, the chorus of meows rising as more of the damned little things packed into the small hall, and Agatha Harper screamed
Don’t you hurt my babies!
again and again.

With the cacophony of wailing cats and screeching woman, nowhere to step as little bodies packed in closer, and Agatha’s long, scarecrow arms moving in a constant, flailing attack, Billy had felt claustrophobic and panicky, and he didn’t know what else to do . . . so he’d popped the old lady one.

Some part of him had registered that, up close and personal, Agatha Harper looked like a bundle of thin sticks held together with string, and at the last instant he’d pulled his punch, turning his frightened blow into more of a jab than a haymaker. It had been enough, though. Her eyes had gone wonky, and Billy’d been obliged to catch her as she sagged toward the floor; they’d wound up standing like a couple in some old movie poster, Billy leaned over her, one arm beneath her, as Agatha swooned backward, fingers nearly touching the carpet.

“Way to go, Mike Tyson.” Dagner had beckoned from the doorway, shaking his head. “C’mon, bring her in here.”

And that was how they’d wound up standing around in the kitchen, waiting for the old woman to come around so she could answer their questions. Billy stood beside Agatha, holding a steak from the fridge to the woman’s eye, as Dagner finished zip-tying her wrists and elbows to the straight-backed wooden chair she sat in.

“Don’t make ’em too tight,” Billy warned. “We don’t want to cut off her circulation. Old folks have trouble with that anyway, right?”

“Says the guy who clocked her in the eye,” said Dagner, squinting up from his squat beside the chair. “They have that osteo-whatsis brittle bone thingy, too, and what’s she weigh, about ninety pounds? Christ, you coulda killed her, big guy.”

A retort sprang to Billy’s lips, but he saw that even as he cracked wise, Dag was checking the thin plastic strips around Agatha’s left arm, making sure they weren’t too tight.

“What are you doing in my house?”

The scratchy, old voice wasn’t loud, but still surprised Billy so badly he nearly dropped the steak. He fumbled with it as Agatha Harper tilted her face up toward him, eyes fluttering open, though still a little unfocused, and one already swelling. He reached to put the meat on the counter, but flinched when he saw the countertop was lined with small feline bodies. He glanced about, for the first time not distracted by the woman’s eye, and saw that the whole crowd from the front hall had followed them deeper into the house, and now sat all around them, staring with their bright, flat eyes.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “Dag, look at all the cats.”

But Dagner was busy answering the woman’s question.

“Your money, you crazy old woman! We’re here for your money!”

He was leaning close, shouting into her face like some B-movie villain. Billy figured he was trying to make up for the fact that, when the woman was standing, Dagner wasn’t quite up to her shoulder. He was taking control of the situation, being the bad guy he’d probably always wanted to be: large and in charge. But the situation, in Billy’s opinion, was rapidly growing weird; Dagner was just too busy to notice.

“What money?” Agatha shouted, only half-cowed by Dagner’s antics. “What are you talking about?”

“Uh, Dag?” said Billy.

“The cash,” said Dagner, ignoring Billy. “That green stuff you keep using to buy cat food. I seen you. Always cash. Where is it?”

“That’s not
my
money,” Agatha said. “That belongs to them.”

“
Them
?” Dagner stood straight in his confusion, barely taller than her, though she remained seated. “Who the fuck is
them
?”

“Dag?” Billy said again, not looking at Dagner and the woman, but aware of both in his peripheral vision.

“Them.” Agatha Harper twitched a shoulder, reflexively trying to gesture with a bound hand, then jerked a chin toward the kitchen around them, but Dagner didn’t take his eyes from hers. “The cats. It’s their money—I just use it for them. They can’t very well just go to the store themselves, can they?”

“Holy shit,” said Dagner. “You really
are
crazy.”

“
Dag
!” Billy finally reached out a groping hand and grasped Dagner’s arm,
hard
, unable to take his eyes from the rest of the kitchen, his voice a strangled half-shout; he
had
to break Dagner’s focus, but he wanted, very badly, not to draw any other attention to himself. Dagner’s arm jerked from the grip as the little man turned to face him.

“What? What do you—oh!” Billy heard air hissing in through clenched teeth, then a whispered “Holy
shit
.”

There were two things Dagner could have been reacting to, but Billy wasn’t sure which of them had made the tiny tough guy sound like he’s just been punched in the gut.

The first thing, what Billy had spent the past minute or so trying to get Dagner’s attention over, was the cats—no, the
cats
. Billy had thought all the cats had been in the front hall with them when he’d popped the old lady, but that had been a narrow hall, a much smaller space than the vast kitchen. There had been fifteen or twenty packed into that hall with them, but there were easily four times that many, maybe five, sitting and staring at them from the surrounding kitchen. And they were
still
coming, strolling through the door in twos and threes, occasional loners loping along solo. Counters, table, chairs; everywhere he looked, Billy saw furry little bodies, of every color he’d ever seen on a feline. There were short-haired cats, and fluffy cats—even a couple of those hairless things that looked like tiny, wrinkled aliens—all sitting statue-like, lashing tails all stilled.

And they were silent. While the cats greeting the old woman in the hall had filled the air with noise, packing more purring, meowing cat-chatter into that hallway than Billy had thought possible, they were closing on a hundred cats in that kitchen, not one of them making so much as a sound. They paid no attention to each other, but came in the door, chose a spot amongst the crowd, and either sat or lay down, all their unblinking attention fixed on the three-person tableaux before them. Everywhere Billy looked, he found silent, staring eyes.

It was fucking unnerving.

The second thing Dagner may have been reacting to, the thing that had spurred Billy to reach out and grab his partner—would have given him a shake to get his attention, a slap if necessary—was the huge, orange, goliath of a cat stalking toward them from the open door. As they watched, the big beast reached the edge of the expanding circle of sitting, staring cats about them, and the dense carpet of furry bodies parted before it, cats shuffling or rolling aside to make way for the newcomer, then sliding back to fill the space behind it as it moved on. Not one of them challenged the big cat, nor even looked its way, but moved as if responding to instinct, or some inaudible command.

For an instant, Billy thought it must be a different mammoth feline. Hard on the heels of that thought, though, came the same one that had occurred to him when they’d happened upon the orange monster lying across the back of the couch: there was no way there were two of those things in the whole world, never mind within the walls of a single house.

It had to be the same one.

“But,” said Dagner, “I thought you locked him in the—”

“I did.” The words were a dry-throated rasp.

“Well then how . . .”

“I have no fucking idea.”

The great cat reached the far side of the butcher-block centerpiece and leapt up without a sound. A scattering of thuds marked the half dozen or so cats that
had
occupied that perch dropping to the floor, silently taking up new positions as the felines about them made room.

It’s like he’s their king
, Billy thought, watching the cats redistribute themselves as the big boss cat made his stately way to the front of the block and sat, back straight, head high, boxing-glove shaped paws practically dangling off into space. His huge, fluffy tail curved in from the side, wrapping about in front, covering the paws, and then the big cat went just as still as the rest of them.

“Oh, no,” came the whisper, and it took Billy a moment to realize it was the woman, not Dagner, who had spoken. He tore his eyes from the cat—made even more impressive by the height of his perch, for sitting up on the block brought his eyes to a level higher than Dagner’s—to take in the other two people in the room. Agatha Harper looked haggard, long, withered features drawn into an expression Billy might not have identified, but for her eyes, staring at him and bright with fear. Dagner’s expression was also unreadable, thanks to the mask, but his magnified eyes were busy, darting here and there about the room. The voice that finally seeped through the mask was an awed whisper.

“Holy
shit
!”

“I know,” Billy whispered, still trying not to attract attention, though they were clearly the focus of the room; all of those bright, expressionless eyes fixed in his direction gave him the feeling his skin was crawling around on him. “Why don’t we—”

“Look at them all,” said Dagner, as if Billy hadn’t spoken. He sounded dazed. “You feed . . . all of these, without . . . without going to the bank? Paying in cash?”

“Just wait, buddy,” said Agatha, her voice low, but still the only one above a whisper.

“
All
of them?” Dag’s voice rose now as well. “Billy, do you have any idea how much that would
cost
?”

“Huh?” said Billy, not really tracking the conversation as his eyes swung toward the huge orange cat again. Sunlight glinted off the beast’s broad chest, and Billy caught sight of that golden disc dangling from some collar or chain buried in the thick orange fur.

“There has to be ten grand in this house,” said Dagner, and Billy winced at his sudden volume in the big, silent room. “Maybe more.
Where is it?”

This last was a ragged scream. Billy whirled to see Dagner, nose-to-nose with Agatha, little fists bunching the front of her brown-sack dress, spitting the words in her face. He’d been trying to intimidate her before, but this . . . this was something different. His partner’s words rolled through Billy’s head, and delayed comprehension followed.

Ten grand?
he thought.
He was only talking about a couple thousand before. Ten would be his biggest score
ever
. No wonder he’s losing it.

“Buddy,” said Agatha Harper, her voice straining for calm, “leave it alone. I’ll handle it.”

“Handle what?” said Dagner. “You’ll hand it over, is what you’ll handle.”

“I told you.” She turned from Dagner’s wild eyes, looking in Billy’s direction. “It’s not my money to give. It’s the cats’.”

“Well, let’s talk to one of
them
then!”

Moving with athletic speed and surety he could never have managed if he’d thought about it, Dagner snapped out a gloved hand, snatching one of the cats from the nearby countertop. As Dag spun back to the old woman, Billy caught a ripple of motion from the corner of his eye.

He looked at the small sea of cats surrounding them, expecting that Dag’s sudden fast movement had spooked their furry audience. As his gaze swept the kitchen, however, he didn’t think any of them had moved an inch, and it took him a moment to recognize what was different: though not one of them had taken a step, all their heads were down now, little triangular chins almost touching the floor, their eyes, unless he was mistaken, fixed on Dagner.

“Dag . . .” he murmured, something about the cats touching a nerve, some instinct buried within him, from way back when man was not at the top of the food chain. Earlier, the mob of little animals had given him the creeps; now they seemed to exude an air of menace, and the primitive urge to back down into the safety of a hole and pull something over it welled up, almost strong enough to drown him. Agatha Harper wailed, tearing Billy’s eyes back her way. Dagner faced her, a small black cat in one hand. Despite the claws from three feline feet being buried in his wrist, he’d managed to get a grip on one forelimb, and now held it stretched straight out from the little black body.

“Buddy, please! They don’t understand!”

“Oh, I know
they
don’t understand.” Dagner thrust the little ball of fur and claws toward her face, forcing her to see it. “That’s why I’m asking
you
. I’m counting to three, and if you’re not already tits-deep in telling me where the cash is, I’m snapping this leg like a fucking matchstick. One.”

“Hey, Dag!” Billy said in protest, but he could see it was no use: with the money in his head, Dagner’s world had shrunk down to just him and Agatha Harper. He wasn’t even hearing Billy any more.

“Don’t!” shouted Agatha. “I—I—” Her head whipped to the side, her eyes spearing Billy again. “Buddy!” Billy stiffened at the woman’s obvious plea for help, his longing for this to just all be over warring with his almost physical need to flee.