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A Kink In The Tale by Lisa Logan
It lay in wait, blazing eyes of amber piercing the inky darkness. Lowell Denton froze, a small muscle twitch under his left eye the only movement as he considered his situation. He could head back the way he'd come and risk the predator striking while his back was turned, or press on towards his destination––an archway fifteen feet away––and face an attack before he'd made it halfway.
The portly man decided to take his chances and inched forward, anger prickling at the back of his neck as he went. Why did he have to deal with this?
Five feet. Six. He kept a wary eye on the figure crouched nearby. It continued to watch, silent. Ten feet. Twelve! He could make it. Lowell's eyes shifted to the archway lying just ahead. In that instant, the animal lunged. Catching up to him in two quick strides, it sank its claws deep into Lowell's fleshy calves. He shrieked in pain.
"Damn you, Hershey!" He kicked one foot out behind him to dislodge the cat attached to his lower extremities. "How'd you like a dent in your spine to go with that tail?"
Unfazed, the feline sauntered off and struck a majestic pose a few feet away, satisfied with its conquest. The sleek black fur and lean body presented a striking picture marred only by an abnormal kink in its tail, a souvenir from a run-in with Aunt Cathy's rocking chair. She'd been so distressed that the chair was discarded immediately. Lowell had been disappointed that it hadn't caught the cat's neck instead.
The man shoved the swinging door in front of him and limped into the kitchen. Every time he wanted a late-night snack he had to put up with this crap. Damn rat-face. He scratched at his greasy auburn curls. Someday, he assured himself. When good old Auntie was gone, a rocking chair would be the least of Hershey's worries.
The next morning Lowell, unkempt in a shoddy grey sweatshirt and baggy jeans, attempted to leave the house without being noticed. Sneaking past the sitting room with as much stealth as his corpulent size could manage, he headed towards the front door.
"That you, Lowell?"
Damn. He turned and poked his head through the doorway, steeling himself for the sight he knew awaited him. "Yeah, Auntie. I'm goin' into town."
In the midst of the room, the mass of a large woman wearing a bamboo-print housecoat flowed and ebbed over a green recliner. Wire-bristle hair stuck out from odd angles atop her head. The room around her was alive and writhing, thanks to the twenty cats of every size and variety which swarmed around her like handmaids awaiting their queen's order. Her favorite and worst of the lot, Hershey, jumped up on her lap and kneaded its claws into the rolls of her belly. This was a constant practice which Auntie found endearing––and Lowell found repulsive.
"Good. Pick up a twenty-pounder of cat litter. Oh, and some of those gourmet treats they like."
The man's uncombed head bobbed an acknowledgment and he turned to leave before she could say more.
"A builder's coming this afternoon, so park that heap of yours back by the gardener's shed."
Lowell brushed off the insult. "Builder? What for?"
"I'm adding a solarium for my babykinses. And they're gonna have a giant wall aquarium full of fish to watch, aren't you my angels?" She kissed the top of Hershey's head for emphasis.
A cat solarium? Jesus, at this rate she'd blow through her entire fortune before he could inherit a dime. "What do they need that for? They've got two rooms! And there's that whole guest wing you never even use!"
The woman's eyes narrowed, crevices appearing around them which would stay ever visible were her face not so round. "The servant's quarters? Not for my angels. You just shut your mouth, boy. Maybe if you were out earnin' your way you wouldn't have time to worry about other people's doings."
Lowell made a beeline for the door, muttering under his breath. For twenty of his thirty-four years he'd been subjected to this bull, ever since his parents died and left him with squat. Now he was stuck here listening to the ravings of an old broad the neighborhood kids called "crazy cat woman" and he had privately nicknamed Aunt Cat-Pee.
He stuffed his rotund frame into a beat up old Gremlin and pulled away from the dilapidated Victorian mansion. How he hated that house, with its smell of decaying geriatric flesh and fetid cat urine. She never seemed to notice. Lowell, on the other hand, couldn't stop noticing how the ammonia-and-rot combination singed his nostril hairs and urged at his stomach to sacrifice its contents. With no job or place to go, however, he had little choice but to tolerate this misery. Besides, his aging aunt had money––a couple million, he'd been told––and no other living relatives. He didn't need a job. His time would come, and the cats would go. Soon, with any luck.
Monty's Exotic Pet and Reptile greeted Lowell with the aroma of sawdust. The shop was his favorite haunt, being the only place where he could indulge the object of his passion: snakes. Aunt Cat-Pee wouldn't allow him to have any for fear of her "precious babykinses," so he had to settle for visiting them here. When the owner (a rather unscrupulous fellow who'd managed to get on the wrong side of some bad people) had confided that he was in danger of having to shut down, Lowell had been quite put out. Plus, Lowell had found in Monty a friend who often commiserated over the nature of ignorant people and all things non-reptile.
"He's new?" Lowell pointed to a large glass tank. Inside was five feet of sleek, muscled boa constrictor, and the man studied its perfection with open admiration. The boa flicked an elegant, pencil-thin tongue in response.
"Yeah, came yesterday. Beaut, ain't he?"
Monty, sporting a hippie look suggestive of someone who'd taken a wrong turn on the way to Woodstock, plucked a feeder mouse out of a nearby cage. Handling the mouse by its tail, he dropped it without ceremony into the boa's tank. Lowell watched for a moment, hoping to witness the feeding, but the snake did not seem to want an audience. The men strolled to the counter past cages of assorted snakes, iguanas, and tarantulas while Lowell recounted the latest escapades of his feline nemesis and the Aunt from Hades.
"She's building what?" Monty shook his head. "Don't know how you hang in, man. I couldn't, not even for the money."
Lowell nodded. "I've seen kings who don't have it as good as those rat catchers of hers. Won't be a nickel left by the time that old mental case is finished."
Monty stared at the floor. "Too bad she won't let you keep snakes. Maybe one would get loose, put a few cats out of your misery."
The other man let out a snort. "Yeah...or maybe her."
His hippie-esque companion picked up an empty plastic tumbler and winked. "Think she's a bit large for that, bud...talk about indigestion! Hmmm, course if it was a venomous snake..."
Venomous?
Monty had just sowed the seed of a plan which Lowell spent a moment mentally watering. His eyes glittered. "What snake's that poisonous? Copperhead? Cobra? Boomslang maybe?"
Monty looked up from the floor and noted Lowell's sincere expression. "What, seriously?"
The man shrugged. "Let's say hypothetically. What snake could do it?"
Monty scratched at his beard with the lip of the tumbler. "Well, there's your Cape Cobra--real slick yellow beauty. Or even better, Black Mamba. Locals go into a freak if you just mention one. One problem, though."
"What's that?"
"They're not exactly easy to come by. And not exactly legal pets." Monty slammed the tumbler upside down onto the floor. "Ha! No escape for you today." Scooping the cup and its contents up with care, he headed for the cricket tank and returned his captive.
Lowell let out a breath. "Plus, you'd have to make sure it'd only bite who it was supposed to."
"Yeah, controlling one'd be no carousel ride. Anyway, snake bite marks are pretty distinctive. Someone'd notice for sure and raise all kinds of investigative hell."
His plan was about to wilt when a thought hit him. "Almost be better to get the venom and use it. A shot or something. Is it possible to just get venom?"
Monty eyed him for a moment. "As anything is, pal. It'd mean time––weeks, probably––and bucks. But yeah, sure. Hypothetically."
"Like what kind of bucks we talkin'?"
"Somewhere in four digits." Monty winked. "Plus a generous contribution to the guy who did the middleman stuff."
Four digits. Could be worse, but without a job it might as well be a million. Still, if he could come up with it….
"Well if someone were to hear how to get some, I'd be curious."
The other man rattled off further speculation. "There'd be a weird needle mark, maybe a struggle too. Not good. Have to find a way around that. Mamba only takes a drop or two, though. Could scratch it in under the skin. Maybe a scratch would look better than a hypo mark?"
The plan sprouted and was about to bloom.
"Scratches? You kidding me? That crazy bat's always covered with ‘em, thanks to those furry flea-biters!"
Monty laughed. "Too bad you can't get the cats to do it, then."
Lowell stared at Monty for several beats, then his mouth opened in a cavernous, debauched grin. The other man looked at him warily.
"What?"
Lowell spun on his heel and started for the door. "This is gonna be perfect. Oh yeah."
Six weeks later, a rubber-gloved Lowell held the small brown vial up to a lamp, letting heat from the bulb thin the syrupy black liquid inside. Though only half full, his five-thousand-dollar investment contained more than he needed. A tremor of excitement coursed through him. It had taken longer than expected; Lowell had hoped it would be done before Auntie's bank statement could tip her off to the check he'd swiped and forged for this little venture. He'd spent a week waiting by the mailbox in panic before he managed to intercept it. Now his day had come. No more insults, no more smelly house, no more damn cats.
Opening the vial with care, the man poured its contents into a saucer. Next came heavy work gloves, which he donned over his rubber ones. Applying the venom would be more awkward this way, but it was necessary for his protection.
A pitiful, muffled wail emanated from a blanket on the floor, which he held in place with his foot.
"Shut up, Hersh-flea," Lowell mocked. "You're finally going to do something useful."
Lowering his bulky frame to the floor, he straddled the blanket while placing the saucer within reach nearby. He uncovered the black cat's head and held it by the scruff so he could pull its front legs out from underneath.
"Murrrrrrh!" The cat growled in protest, but Lowell kept his grip firm. The man grasped a front paw and squeezed to extend its graceful, curved claws. Using a nail polish brush from Auntie's room he painted venom onto each claw, then let it dry before covering the cat's leg with the blanket.
Just as he was about to start on the other leg, Hershey wriggled out from under him and bolted for the closed bedroom door. Lowell barely managed to grab the feline by the tail, dragging a finger through the venom in the process.
"Damnit!" He deposited the rebel animal back onto the blanket, squirming and mewing. He looked at his syrupy glove. "Thank God for gloves. Now you," he threatened, holding Hershey down by the neck, "stay and take it like a runt."
An hour later he was ready. Lowell crept down the staircase with the still-blanketed cat. Everything was planned out. He'd go into town for a while, come back, dispose of the venom (which he'd kept in case the first try failed), make a rehearsed 911 call, then say hello to his new stench-and-old-people-free life.
Stopping just short of the sitting room door, he shook the cat out of the blanket and peered around the corner. Hershey dashed straight for the old woman, jumped up, and performed his ritual claw-kneading on her abdomen. Done in by her own beloved animal. Perfect. Lowell dropped the blanket and headed for the front door.
"That you, Lowell?"
This time, he ignored her.
Lowell returned four hours later, wiping his sweaty palms on a faded DC Comics t-shirt while he gave himself a pep talk.
"You're almost home free, Denton. You can do this."
The house was silent as he entered.
"Hello?"
No answer.
His feet felt sandbagged as he plodded across the entryway towards the sitting room. The blanket still lay on the floor. Sucking in a deep breath, he stepped into the room. Lowell's stomach felt shot through with cactus needles as he forced himself to look.
It had worked.
Aunt Cathy never even made it off the chair; she stared straight ahead, face contorted and eyes frozen with the terror she must have felt as the poison induced lung paralysis and cardiac arrest. The sickly yellow-gray color of her face was a strange contrast to the purplish mottle of her feet and lower legs.
It took Lowell a full minute to understand that his hand was on the phone. He'd moved over by the desk against the wall without realizing it, keeping his eyes trained on her all the while.
He had to make the call. His mind buzzed, trying to remember the order of his plan. The call first; no, wait, the venom. No, can't wait too long to make the call.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"I, she...my aunt. God, I think she had a heart attack. She's, I think maybe she's dead."
"Are you with her now, sir? Where is she?"
"H-here, at our house. 211 Garden."
Hershey sat nearby, licking his paws as though nothing had happened, as oblivious to what he'd unwittingly done as the rest of the teeming herd lounging around the room.
The cat shook its head twice, coughed, and staggered. What the hell's he doing? Lowell wondered.
The animal shuddered in convulsions. Reality dawned. Licking its paws...the venom. Crap! The cat can't kick now!
"Did you hear me, sir?"
"What?"
"I said I have paramedics and police in your vicinity. Just try to stay calm."
Police? The cat, now on the floor, stopped twitching and started looking very dead. Lowell hung up the phone, trying to think. No way could he explain two bodies in the same room. "Raise all kinds of investigative hell," like Monty warned. What now?
"Get a hold of yourself," he prompted. "Just hide the damn cat before the cops get here. Had it comin' anyway. Saved me the trouble, mangy freak."
Where to dump it? Sirens moaned a warning in the distance. He had to get rid of the cat, and there was still the venom, too. Lowell looked around, eyes wild, until he spied the kitchen door.
Garbage! It'd have to do for now. The man grabbed the limp animal by the neck, rushed into the kitchen, and flung the trash can lid upwards. It was piled to the top; he'd forgotten to empty it. Great. Lowell dropped the cat inside, aware that the sirens were growing louder. Its legs and tail hung over the edge, preventing the lid from closing. Exasperated, he started stuffing the remains down, pushing hard to compress the other garbage.
"Aye!" He withdrew his hand as a sharp pain jabbed at him. There was blood on his index finger. Fear gripped him.
"Damn!" In his panic he'd been careless. God, please let this be from a tooth, or back foot. Or maybe a tin can lid! He raced for the kitchen sink, wringing blood from the finger as hard as he could and letting a stream of water cleanse the wound. There. If there was poison, it wouldn't get in. Why hadn't he asked about an antitoxin?
The sirens were almost at the house. Still the venom to deal with...but there was no time. No reason for anyone to go upstairs anyway, he convinced himself. He could take care of it later. He just had to be cool.
A loud knock startled him from his thoughts. Lowell hurried to answer, snatching up a dishtowel to dry his throbbing hand as he went.
Two paramedics and a police officer stood outside. "You report a heart attack?"
"Yeah, this way." He lead them to the sitting room. After a brief examination, one of the paramedics caught the policeman's eye and shook his head. The officer promptly began speaking into a radio clipped to his shoulder. Lowell squeezed the towel around his hand tighter.
The older of the two medics nodded towards the towel. "You hurt your hand, sir?"
Lowell's heart fluttered, and his tongue felt thick in his mouth. Nerves, no doubt.
"Huh? One of the cath bit me."
Cath? The room seemed to dim. Lowell tried to swallow but couldn't.
"Sir? Are you okay?"
No! Lowell cried out, but only in his mind. He could no longer speak; neurotoxins were triggering a sweeping paralysis through his body. His nervous system was misfiring and shutting down.
The man dropped heavily to the ground, convulsing and suffocating. Right before the darkness took him, he had one last, disjointed thought.
"Damn...cat."
THE END Lisa Logan © 2007 |
