The Ninth Life Read online

  ‘What is it, Blackie?’

  Care is looking at me, and I realize my ears have gone wide and flat, as they do when I am thinking. Perceptive girl; I can see why someone took her in.

  ‘Is it this?’ She holds out the weight, which I lean in to sniff. Nothing, not even the scent of death, has remained on its cold metal surface. She may as well have left it, or returned it to that ragged boy who worries her so. The boy who, most likely, nicked the heavy trinket on some earlier visit.

  A boy who was either welcomed in by Fat Peter via that locked front door, or, more likely, had run the same gantlet we did. I look up at Care, wondering how much of this she has realized. We smaller beings do tend to be sharper than the brutes of the world. Still, it may not have occurred to her, as it has, belatedly, to me. The shop we had visited was locked and dark. The alley guard had let us in and nearly trapped us there. If Care – if anyone – had been alone, he very well might have. But he hadn’t stopped whoever had come in to kill Fat Peter. He hadn’t stopped him – or her – either coming or going.

  ‘I’ve got to talk to Tick, Blackie.’ She’s rolling the cylinder around in her hand. ‘I don’t know if he knows anything, but this came from Fat Peter’s. Maybe he saw something – or someone.’

  My ears go back. She’s not thinking clearly.

  ‘I know Tick.’ She’s staring into the distance, her eyes unfocused. ‘Fat Peter was a creep but Tick’s not a killer. If he didn’t kill our foster father after what that creep did, well …’ She turns to me. ‘He spoke to the old man, Blackie. He might have been the last person to do so. I need to find out exactly what he said and more – what he looked like, what he sounded like. You know?’

  I don’t. Such loyalty is nonsensical. It serves no purpose. The old man is dead, and were he not, I would scratch him for sending her to the pawn shop. For putting her in danger.

  ‘He always said that everything could be a clue.’ She’s still talking, which is good in that it means she has not yet left – has not yet resolved to leave – our safe haven by the tracks. ‘The way a person speaks as well as the words he says. He’d have been pissed that I didn’t look at Fat Peter’s clothes or anything while I had the chance.’

  No, but I did. Beneath the metallic tang of blood I can still smell the dust and sweat. The pungent smoke and the life-rich river mud on his shoes. All of this I would tell her, if I could. Anything to keep her from returning to that place of death, from confronting the dirty waif who is somehow involved. If only I knew how.

  My whiskers bristle with the effort, obscuring even the pangs of hunger. I have lived a long life for one of my kind; the scars on my hide as well as the stiffness in my joints tell me this. A long life alone, but there is something compelling about this girl. Something beyond an imbalance in the scales.

  Scales. The word echoes strangely in my head. Of course, the cylinder. Although I do not know how, I can see Fat Peter as he must have been, big belly pressing against the table and his white hands surprisingly delicate as he moved first one then another of the rounded weights. And lastly the smallest – the one Tick found a way to pocket. He is turning toward me. He is talking.

  ‘There she is! Oi!’ I wheel around, cursing myself for my distracted state. The guard from the alley is standing on the verge, pointing. Care and I are trapped.

  SEVEN

  I don’t freeze. I react. Only my default response – inflating my size with fur and spit – doesn’t have much effect on the man coming over the verge. Red-faced and furious, my scratch marks still showing raw on his slab-like cheeks, he stares down at me. He raises his boot and I know again what it is to face my death.

  ‘No!’ Something hits the side of that meaty head hard. The metal cylinder, expertly thrown, falls to the ground beside me, and the ruffian above me stumbles and goes down. I don’t need more of a cue and zip up the slope, my claws gaining purchase on the loose soil as he roars behind me. There’s a patch of scrub a hundred yards off, past another automotive carcass and a corrugated metal shed, but I hesitate. I can no longer rely on speed. As I pause, Care pulls herself up close behind me, until a hand grabs her ankle and she kicks it off, scrambles to her feet and starts to run again.

  ‘Blackie!’ She looks for me and pauses – a bad move, because as she does, another man appears. The brute in the gutter is still howling but the newcomer ignores him, coming up fast and silent.

  I can’t wait. Neither of us can, and so I take off, heading for that scrub and trusting that Care will have the sense to do the same. Only as I approach do I realize how useless it is. I can dive under the brambles, make myself compact and hidden. She cannot. And by the looks of our pursuer, a few thorns will not be enough to dissuade him.

  ‘Care!’ A whisper – almost a hiss – makes her pause. Makes her turn. I slide to a stop, a good few lengths from the brambles. I don’t want to see her taken. I do not hope for the impossible. ‘This way!’

  It’s the boy. Tick. He’s crouched beside the shed and is gesturing, calling her over. With a glance at me – for confirmation? assent? – she turns and follows, ducking down low behind the second wreck in the hope that the men will not notice her change of direction. In a moment, she is gone. But the big man has rejoined the chase, passing his smaller colleague. And I am seeing the distance between our pursuers and myself close. With the girl out of sight, I am less likely to be in danger. Even the big man is more likely to chase her down than follow me, although I have no illusions about the grudge he holds against me – or the cruelty of which he is capable. I should bolt.

  I do. I follow Care and the boy around the shed and see that he has ducked into a dark opening beneath the train bed. It’s a pipe – a drainage pipe – and my blood runs cold. I gasp and feel the pressure again – the water that flooded my mouth and my nose. The cold.

  ‘They went that way!’ Care’s quick turn – the rusted-out wreck – they have not been enough. The red-faced thug is lumbering toward me, his colleague close behind. The choice has been made. Ears flat, heart racing, I dive into the pipe, my claws scrabbling on the rusted metal. ‘This way!’ Their voices echo in the enclosed space, surrounding me. I am tired, and I am old. And they are getting louder and closer. I hear one of them dive into the pipe. The big man – he blocks the light and I can smell him: blood and rage. But he has to crouch to enter and that slows him, and even as he reaches for me he stumbles, his bulk overbalanced as he hurries half bent. He catches himself with a curse, but it is too late. I have reached the far end and I am out.

  ‘Blackie!’

  I blink, taken aback by the light and pause, panting. I do not know this place. I do not know its safe spots. Then I see. Off to the right, Care is running, the boy before her grabbing her hand. But even as she runs, she has turned to call for me. She sees me and I am heartened, her voice giving me breath enough for a last dash.

  With long strides, flying low to the ground, I catch them as they duck into an alley. Close on their heels, I follow as the boy guides Care around a corner and then to an open door.

  I freeze. The doorway is black and low, leading to a basement. I am too winded to scent properly. There is water here and mold, and something more. I remember the furtive way this boy avoided Care, the odd scent coming off him, and I will her to look at him. To see what I see and to question.

  Too late. She follows him down. The pounding of feet grows louder. I dart down behind them and wait, listening to the three of us breathe.

  ‘Tick, what happened? How did you find me?’ Several minutes have passed. The footsteps have faded. My eyes have adjusted to the near total dark, and I have grown calmer.

  We are in an open space with a dirt floor. Fresh air blows in from the cracks in the far wall. The puddles are rainwater, old and dank but clean enough. I drink my fill, even as Care reaches blindly for the boy.

  ‘Tick, are you there?’

  ‘Hang on.’ A hiss and there’s light. He’s brought a candle – or found one – here in this empty
space. ‘Care, are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’ She smiles at him but she knows better. ‘So what’s with that, Tick? Tell me.’

  The boy turns to stare deeper into the room. He can’t see me in the darkness but I can make out the sadness on his thin face. The hunger and something more, something feral.

  ‘I didn’t do anything, Care. They knew.’

  I hunker down to watch, my ears alert.

  ‘They?’ Care makes herself wait. I can hear the strain in her voice, but it pays off.

  ‘Those men – they knew you’d found Fat Peter. They … I didn’t know, when I told you. When I gave you the weight. Honest.’

  She nods. There’s more. ‘And?’

  ‘AD made me go with them. Told them I could find you. That I would.’ He stops and bites his lip.

  Care reaches for him, but instead of an embrace she simply takes his hands, turning them over in her own. ‘Oh, Tick.’ Her voice is sad, out of proportion, I think, to the minor burn marks that stripe his fingers with red welts.

  ‘It’s just … I get so hungry. But I didn’t give you up. Honest, Care.’ He’s talking more quickly now. He has surrendered some truth to her. ‘Not for scat, not for anything. Don’t call the services on me, please, Care. The old man really did come to me, only …’

  Care looks into his face. She is still holding his hands. ‘Why did the old man want me to follow Fat Peter, Tick? You have to know more.’

  The boy shakes his head. ‘He said you would. That it was a lead, like the weight.’ A shrug. ‘I’m sorry, Care. Really, I am. When I realized what was happening … That they wanted to frame you …’

  He sniffs and Care leans in to embrace him, for real this time. He doesn’t pull back as he has before. Instead, he falls against her, crying easily like a child, and she coos like a much older woman as she rocks him back and forth. Outside, the day is fading, and I suspect that these children will both sleep soon. But now that I have drunk, I am aware again of hunger. Dusk was made for hunting, and so I slip by them, invisible in the darkness, to peer out of the doorway.

  The city is quiet here and I can hear the rustling of rodents. The few human footfalls have slowed to a walking pace. Still, I slink down the alley, my body low, my dark fur hidden in the shadows. And there I see them, the two who hunted us – the smaller man and the brute with the bloody face. It is dark here in the shadows, and their eyes do not work like mine. Even as they crane around, I do not worry about them seeing me. I can watch them here in peace.

  And so I do, piecing together the histories revealed by their voices and their clothes. The stories told by their scents and the way they hold their bodies. They are waiting, and so I wait too, even as my stomach growls in protest.

  Their voices rise in greeting as a third figure walks up to join them. A tall man, in finer clothes, nods at their greeting and turns to survey the scene. He cannot see me, any more than they could, and yet I freeze, my breath seizing up inside me.

  I know this man. I have seen him, standing on the shore as I was drowning.

  EIGHT

  I will not flee. I have been a hunter long enough to know how motion draws the eye, and the thought of these three spying me, alone, in this alley makes my fur rise. As it does, I sink low, to listen and to watch.

  ‘Talk to me.’ The newcomer – the one I recognize – doesn’t waste words. His voice has the tone of command, and his two colleagues exchange a nervous glance.

  ‘It’s all good, boss.’ The red-faced hoodlum, the one I’ve scratched, is trying to sound confident.

  ‘Really.’ It’s a question. Even I hear that, and the two look at each other in panic. The newcomer doesn’t see this. Doesn’t have to, I assume. He’s bending over a match as he lights a cigarette. The brief flare of sulfur reaches me as it catches. More interesting is the quick glimpse I catch of his face, the deep lines around a wide mouth. He’d be handsome were he not marked by his cruelty.

  ‘Fat Peter’s not going to squawk to anybody. Not anymore.’ The red-faced one again, trying to bluff. ‘Randy and I took care of that.’

  ‘And?’ The boss releases a cloud of smoke in the brute’s face.

  ‘The girl showed up, acting like she knew him. Maybe he tried to turn her out.’ My ears flip forward. They are talking about Care. ‘Maybe he did.’

  ‘That would be most fitting.’ He pauses to pick a fleck of tobacco from his tongue. I find the gesture cat-like and most disturbing. ‘If you had her.’

  ‘Not a problem, boss.’ The other man, Randy, has a face like a rat I met once. He looks up at his boss, like some dog expecting to be hit. ‘We’ll get her – Brian and me will. AD’s sent the boy to her. The boy will find her – and he’ll rat her out. He’ll do it for nothing, for a hit of scat. He’s got a taste for it, he has. From his mama. Then me and Brian will take care of the rest.’

  My instincts are good, but at times I must fight them. I want to run. To seek Care out and make for safety. To take her away from that child who would betray her. Tick – this Randy must be speaking of the boy who led her into that basement. Led her, I now see, into a trap. Rat, indeed. My tail twitches at the word.

  But they are still speaking, and I cannot risk rousing their attention by my movements. Stilling my tail – how unnatural that feels – I begin to back away, ever so slowly. And stop myself as realization dawns. I cannot afford to miss any of their planning. How they decide to spring this trap may be vital to avoiding it.

  ‘The boy will come back,’ Randy is explaining. ‘AD sent him with us, ’cause he knows her. They ran away together, he said. He took them in at the same time.’

  ‘Yeah? And how can you be so sure he’ll rat her out?’ The red-faced one has his bluster back now that someone else is on the hot seat.

  ‘She took off without him,’ Randy says, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket. ‘Besides, he needs the stuff.’

  ‘Good work.’ The boss extends a match, its flash highlighting Randy’s rodent face. He takes the light, his thin cheeks sucking in to get his gasper started. But even as he inhales, his eyes dart up to the boss man. He’s smoking to calm his nerves as well as his fraying lungs. The muscle popping along his jawline … the way his forehead is knitted. Signs of tension. He’s doing the boss’s bidding but he is still afraid.

  ‘Buck up.’ The boss has taken a flask out of his coat. He’s seen it too. ‘Your service won’t be forgotten.’

  As they pass the flask around I begin to back away again. I don’t know how long I’ll have until they descend on the girl. Nor do I know how I’ll get her to leave the boy. All I can be sure of is that I have to try.

  ‘Tell me again.’ Care is talking as I slink back in, her voice soft but direct. ‘Use his exact words.’

  ‘I did, Care. Honest.’ The boy whines, tired, but I have no sympathy to spare. ‘“Too much current,” he said. He was looking for “other tributaries.”’

  Care stares as if she could see through him. I think she is seeing someone else. The old man, the one she misses.

  ‘You knew where he meant. Where he wanted me to go.’ It’s a statement, not a question, but the boy shrugs an answer. ‘You gave me the weight.’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Why were you at Fat Peter’s, Tick?’ Her voice has grown softer. ‘Did AD send you? He didn’t want you to—’

  ‘No!’ He interrupts her, speaking too loudly for the quiet space. ‘No. AD wouldn’t. He knows what happened in the home. Besides, he doesn’t deal in skin anymore.’

  The way Care’s eyebrows lift, I think she is going to argue. I don’t blame her. Preying on smaller animals is the nature of things, although there’s little meat on this boy.

  I’m a bit surprised when she picks up on another of the boy’s words. ‘Not anymore?’ she asks. ‘Why not? What’s he got going – and what’s AD got you doing in it?’

  ‘Deliveries. The usual.’ The boy looks up, his face unreadable. ‘You haven’t been around much, Care.
You don’t know. Things have gotten bigger. AD’s gearing up for more business.’

  ‘Not with Fat Peter. Not anymore.’ She sits back and I see my chance. She may be mulling over the connection between these two predatory men. I’m more concerned about the boy. About the men who are waiting less than a block away. I leap to the ground beside her feet, intent on making myself understood.

  ‘Fat Peter must’ve been working with someone. Someone bigger.’ She smiles at me as she says it, pleased with herself for working this out. I close my eyes in satisfaction – and start as I feel hands on my body.

  ‘Ow!’ The boy falls back, his wounded hand in his mouth. ‘I thought …’

  ‘He’s a street cat, Tick.’ Care is looking from the boy to me. For good measure, I hiss. ‘And you grabbed him.’

  ‘I just thought he looked … never mind.’ The boy examines his hand. It is barely bleeding. ‘He doesn’t like me.’

  ‘He doesn’t know if you are going to hurt him,’ Care corrects him and pauses, as if she would say more. I cannot resist another blink of satisfaction. Whether I’ve put the thought in her mind or not, I’m proud of her. ‘So, Tick. You still haven’t answered my question. What were you doing out here today?’

  ‘AD sent me.’ His head is bent as if he were addressing his injured hand.

  ‘Tick?’ Care hears him. I can tell. Like me, she’s not content with the answer.

  ‘He told me to go find Brian – he’s the bruiser – and do whatever he wanted.’

  ‘And he wanted …’ She waits. He’s staring at the ground, his chin on his chest. ‘Tick?’