World without Cats (13 page)

“But there is no evidence of any immunity whatsoever,” said Angelo.

Vera frowned. “Okay, you’re the epide … epizoologist; you come up with a better theory.”

“I will try,” said Angelo. “Actually, although I appreciate your attempt to use the correct word, I am, in fact, an epidemiologist. Most of the time I investigate human diseases. Anyway, the word
epizoologist
isn’t used much, even by epizoologists.”

Vera smiled, in spite of herself. “I’ll try to watch my language.”

Angelo sipped his coffee in silence. Suddenly, he looked up and demanded, “Show me one of the sick cats.”

Vera eyed him for a moment and decided not to let his autocratic tone get to her. “Well, there aren’t many left, I’ll tell you that. I know of only three cats still alive in Camarillo, and all are sick. One of them is in back.”

She took Angelo and McNally into the ward and had them put on disposable paper smocks and latex gloves. She did the same. Together, they examined the lethargic animal—a nondescript tortoiseshell. Angelo hurriedly recorded notes on his tablet.

“I would like to send some tissues for analysis to the CDC,” he said, replacing the little book in his pocket.

“What sort of tissues?” Vera asked.

“Spleen, blood, lymph node, liver, and maybe some brain.”

“All right, but I don’t have any dead animals on hand right now. I incinerated the bodies.”

“Hmmm. But couldn’t we just sacrifice this one?”

Vera stared at him, tight-lipped. She glanced at Kal whose face expressed astonishment. McNally was equally aghast. Vera said, finally, “Dr. Kraakmo, I am in the business of caring for and trying to cure sick animals. I do not kill my patients.”

“But it is just a cat!”

Vera glared at Angelo in silence for a moment. She then declared, “When, and if this animal should die, I will personally carry out a necropsy and provide you with the tissues you need. Until then, I shall try to maintain this cat, who is someone’s friend and companion, in as comfortable a state as is humanely possible.”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “I want to talk to the cat lady. Is she close?”

“Well, it’s only about a twenty-minute drive. Let me call her first.”

Vera phoned, and, shortly, she, Angelo, and McNally had been invited to dinner. Dorothy’s enthusiastic invitation made Vera realize that the widow would be happy for the company now that her feline companions were gone. McNally begged off, mentioning that she was exhausted, as she’d been up since midnight, Pacific time.

After dropping McNally off at a nearby motel, Vera turned her Porsche onto Lewis Road. She switched to gasoline and hit the accelerator. Angelo, who had a passion for fast cars, remarked, “This 999H handles well.”

“Are you a sports-car aficionado?”

“Yes, but I’ve never owned one. Maybe after I retire … It’s amazing that batteries are so light they can be used in hybrid sports cars.”

Vera nodded. “Right you are. Five years ago, it wouldn’t have been possible.”
Who’d have thought I’d have anything in common with this guy?

It was late afternoon by the time they arrived at Dorothy’s. As they approached the front door, Angelo suddenly stopped and grabbed Vera’s arm. “Wait. What is that I hear?”

“A harpsichord. Dorothy plays the harpsichord.”

They stood silently in the chill air, listening to the strident chords of a Bach toccata. Finally, Angelo whispered, “Marveloose.” Vera cocked her head, eyeing the epidemiologist. She was suddenly aware that there was was more to Kraakmo than science and ego.

Inside, Angelo proclaimed, “You play very well, Madame Knowland. I would like to hear more, if you would be so kind. Perhaps after we discuss your cats …”

“Do you enjoy Bach?” asked Dorothy, obviously flattered.

“Absolut!” said Angelo. “After 1750, there has been no reason for any composer to write a fugue or toccata or partita. Bach did all there was to do in these forms.”

“Well, I don’t know …” said Dorothy, “you certainly have strong opinions about Bach.”

“I am sorry,” he replied. “I guess I do.”

Dorothy smiled. “Dr. Kraakmo, I would be happy to play something after dinner.”

Vera was becoming concerned that Kraakmo was behaving a little too genially toward Dorothy.

The three spent an hour going over the disease and its catastrophic effect on Dorothy’s feline colony. All the while, Angelo assiduously took notes on his e-tablet.

Vera noted that Angelo’s questions emphasized dates and facts.
He’s good,
she thought.
If he just had a more agreeable demeanor …

“Did you ever receive any cats from the university?” he inquired.

Dorothy replied, “No, I don’t think so. Most of my cats were strays or they were given to me by other people.”

“Did you acquire any new ones in the month or two before your cats got sick?”

Dorothy closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “Just one, I think. Clyde, the tomcat that Pete Wingate brought over.”

At this, Angelo let out a guffaw. “That is very funny name for a little cat. I never heard of a cat named Clyde.” The two women glanced at each other. Vera shrugged. Angelo resumed his questioning. “Can you remember just when this Clyde cat came here?”

Dorothy thought a moment. “I think it was around the middle of February. Yes, I remember, it was a Saturday afternoon, and Pete brought me some pippin apples along with Clyde. I baked a pie the next day.”

“Where does this Mr. Wingate live, please?”

“He has a small farm about ten miles from here.”

Dorothy rarely had dinner guests, but when she did, she prepared an attractive table. After dinner, Angelo asked, “Will you play Bach now?” It was not quite a command, not quite a request.

Vera frowned. “Maybe we should be heading back.”

“Oh, you can stay a while longer,” said Dorothy. “I don’t often have someone to play for.”

“All right,” Vera said. “Just for a while.”

For over an hour, Dorothy played harpsichord music of Bach, punctuated from time to time by Angelo’s “Marveloose!” Vera could see that the epidemiologist was enraptured. At one point, Dorothy began a sonata by Scarlatti, but Angelo interrupted, “Bach. Just Bach, please.” Finally, she began “Toccata and Fugue in D minor.” Angelo’s eyes widened. When the piece finally ended, Angelo, eyes glistening, said, “Madame, I have never heard it played so skillfully on harpsichord. On organ, yes, but never on harpsichord.”

Dorothy turned around to face him. Vera saw that her face was pink and beaming. Dorothy opened her mouth, but no words came. The lonely widow could only manage a smile of gratitude.

Angelo looked at his watch. “Well, it is getting late, and I don’t have a room yet. I must find a hotel.” Vera rose. “The motel where McNally checked in isn’t far from my place.”

Dorothy found her voice. “I won’t hear of it. I have a spare bedroom. You will stay here tonight.”

Vera, startled, was about to protest, but thought better of it.

Angelo eyed Dorothy slyly and asked, “You will play Bach tomorrow morning?”

Dorothy smiled. She pursed her lips and, affecting a parody of Angelo’s accent, said, “Absolut! I would be happy to play Bach tomorrow morning.”

“Marveloose,” he said, and they laughed. “I will have to go to my rented car to get my things.”

Vera wondered, “Will you be able to find your way back here in the dark?”

“Absolut! There’s a fine GPS console in the car.”

The next day, after collecting McNally from her motel, Angelo visited the institute. At the open doorway to Noah’s office, he inquired, “You are Doctor Noah Chamberlin?”

Noah eyed the strange-looking man standing in the doorway. He surveyed the ruddy countenance of the mustachioed fellow, who reminded Noah of the character Mario from the video games he had played as a kid. “What can I do for you?”

“I am Dr. Angelo Nils Kraakmo, epidemiologist from the Centers for Disease Control. I am here to investigate the feline epizootic that has been occurring in this village.”

Village? What kind of guy calls Camarillo a village?
“Come in, come in,” he said. Angelo removed books from the two Eames chairs in front of Noah’s desk, introduced McNally, and sat down.

Noah said, “I suppose you’ve been told that the disease started here in my laboratory.”

“Yes.” He looked Noah straight in the eye. “But I would like you to understand that I, myself, have come to no conclusions.”

“Thank you,” replied Noah with a trace of sarcasm.

“Please describe to me your research and your facilities, if you will be so kind.”

“May I record this discussion?” asked McNally. “I’m gathering material for a series on the disease.”

Noah shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t care. I have nothing to hide.” Prohibited from doing any experiments, Noah was not particularly busy that day, so he patiently told Angelo of his plans to clone the feline alpha-globin gene. He soon realized that Angelo was conversant in the arcane language of molecular biology, and he described his work in some detail, leading McNally to shake her head from time to time. Later, he took the two of them on a tour of the lab and cat room. All the while, as McNally recorded the conversation, Angelo meticulously wrote his own notes on his e-tablet. He was particularly interested in the break-in and theft of the cats.

“Scandaloose!” Angelo exclaimed when Noah told him about the episode. “And there never was a sign of the cats after that?”

“Not a trace. I had to procure all-new cats, but now they are all dead from this new disease.”

“I suspect the lady veterinarian has a good theory,” commented the epidemiologist, “and I will proceed with it as my working hypothesis. But I will keep an open mind, Dr. Chamberlin. In epidemiology, the most likely theory does not always turn out to be the correct one.”

After working the swing shift, Jake Moloney arrived home to find the lights still on in his white-frame bungalow. Joan greeted him at the door. Their six-year-old daughter, Irene, was asleep on the couch.

“What’s wrong?” Jake asked.

“Slim died, and Irene’s been crying all evening.”

“Oh, hell.” Slim, Irene’s tabby, had been ill for a week. Their vet had warned them the cat might not survive. Jake went over to his sleeping daughter, her eyelids still red. He kissed her lightly on the forehead and whispered, “We’ll get another cat soon, don’t worry.”

But that was not to be.

In Sweet Home, Oregon, Rebecca Smith called out for her cat. “Bib! Bib! Come here right now, you little devil!”

Bib had always raced to her call at mealtime.

“Lee,” she cried, “have you seen Bib?”

Leon Smith put down his newspaper. “Not since yesterday. Isn’t he showing up for breakfast?”

“No. Lee, I’m scared. What if he’s got that virus thing you were telling me about?” She descended from the porch and walked the path into the woods. Shortly, she spied the cat’s body twisted in an unnatural position. Ants and other insects were already at work on the remains. Rebecca screamed, “
Aaiioo!
No. No. No!”

Leon ran out. When he saw Bib’s dead body, he took the grieving woman in his arms. They remained silent. They knew they’d never have another companion like Bib.

11
 

Angelo continued to question cat owners—mostly former cat owners—in Camarillo and surrounding communities. When he arrived at the residence of Dr. Amend, city council member, Mrs. Amend invited him in. Angelo looked around at the opulent furnishings, parquet floor, deep-pile carpet, and, what looked to him like original artwork on the walls.

“Well,” said Mrs. Amend, “what is it? I suppose you want to ask me about my cat.” Angelo found her manner both condescending and rude.

“Yes, Mrs. Amend. That is correct. I am seeking clues to the origin of this feline epizootic.”

“It certainly didn’t start here,” said Mrs. Amend coldly.

“No,” Angelo replied. “I didn’t think it did. However, I am trying to learn how the disease is transmitted from cat to cat. Anything you can tell me about the days before your cat—er, what was its name—became ill?”

“My cat was not an ‘it.’
She
was named Madame.”

Oops,
thought Angelo,
that was a faux pas on my part. I’ve got to treat this lady with tact.
“Yes. I’m sorry. I had forgotten her name. I meant no offense. I know that you miss her very much. All the cat people I’ve spoken with are saddened by the loss of their pets. This is a difficult time.”

Angelo saw that his words had the appropriate effect. Mrs. Amend’s face softened noticeably. She said, “I don’t know how I can help you. Madame was healthy. She got sick. A few days later, she died.”

Angelo pulled out his e-tablet. “Did you let Madame outside or did you keep her inside all the time?”