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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 dei
gned 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 and 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.
