CURIOSITY
Julie Seward walked home as usual. It was just over half an hour from her office in the J. Edgar Hoover Building to the small Georgian house she shared with two cats and, once in a great while, a gentleman caller. She realized with some alarm that it had been almost a year and a half since the last time the cats had had to share her attention. It wasn’t that Julie was unattractive or had difficulty relating to men; it was just that the job, at least at this point, seemed to take all of her time and energy. She was a researcher for the FBI. She wanted to make Special Agent but that meant finishing her degree at night while still working a sixty-plus-hour week. She was tired.
She walked up Independence, along the side of the Capitol Building, then right on Pennsylvania and left onto North Carolina Avenue. Her house was two blocks up in the middle of a quiet elm-shaded street. She fumbled in her purse for the keys that always seemed to worm their way to the very bottom. She cursed silently under her breath as she opened the low wrought-iron gate and gingerly picked her way up the narrow walkway. The front light was out again, making the uneven brick treacherous in her low heels. She dug out her keys and opened the heavy door.
The hall light was out, too. The streetlights were still on and she could see lights on in the house next door. What a pain in the ass. Her hand groped along the wall for the switch that turned on the living room lights. Her foot slipped on something slick on the floor and something warm and wet brushed against the side of her face. Reflexively her left hand grabbed the doorjamb as her right swung up to protect her face. The arm struck something soft and heavy. There was a muted gurgling sound.
“Jesus Christ,” she screamed as she flailed in the dark and slipped to the floor. On her hands and knees she crawled into the living room and found the wall switch. The lights came on, blinding her momentarily. It took a moment for her brain to make sense of what she was seeing. The hook of the coat hanger had gone in through the back of the cat’s head and come out its mouth, holding the jaw open in what looked like a crooked snarl. The hanger had been looped over one of the arms of the brass chandelier in the foyer. The cat’s belly had been cut open and something that looked like link sausage hung out, dripping blood on the floor. The blood had smeared where Julie had slipped in it. The pool ran all the way to the stairs. The animal was still alive. One hind leg spasmodically pawed the air as if trying to get purchase on wet marble. Her open eyes met Julie’s, pleading. She was trying to make some sound but the hanger had clearly destroyed that capacity. Blood bubbled at the exit wound.
Something clicked in Julie’s mind. The raw panic receded and a clinical detachment took its place. She kicked off the pumps and smoothed down the skirt as she stood. She grabbed a side chair from the living room and stood on it, cradling Ruby’s body as she gently lifted the hanger off the chandelier. She felt the cat’s hind leg continue its fruitless pedaling against her jacket. She murmured softly to her as she carried her to the sofa. She looked away as she tried to nudge the sausagy thing back where it belonged with her elbow. “Shh, shh,” she whispered, “there’s a good girl.”
The front door was still ajar, keys dangling from the lock. No cars were on the street and it seemed unnaturally quiet in the house. A sound from the stairway made her heart skip. She hadn’t considered the possibility that whatever monster had done this was still in the house. Panic tightened her throat and squeezed her chest. Then she saw Buster, the other cat, a gray male, come slowly down the stairs, tail high, the tip flicking nervously from side to side. He ran his cheek and body along the rails the whole way down. He quickly crossed the foyer, delicately skirting the pooled blood, and came to her. Julie knew he’d be hiding under her bed if anyone was still in the house. He meowed accusingly while rubbing himself against her legs. Hungry. She was late. Buster seemed completely unaware of his companion on Julie’s lap.
Ruby’s breathing was shallow and her eyes were wide. She was dying. Julie knew it and knew there was nothing she could do except try to ease her suffering. She cradled her head and grabbed the hook of the hanger just below where it entered. With a firm turn of her wrist she twisted the hook out. Ruby’s eyes stretched even wider and her mouth opened in a silent scream, then shut, pale pinkish fluid beading at the exit wound. Julie dropped the hanger, startling Buster. Ruby’s eyes relaxed and found Julie’s and the tip of her tongue poked out of her mouth. For a second she looked perfectly normal and peaceful, then her body hiccuped. She got a faraway look in her eyes and was gone.
Julie took off her jacket and spread it out on the couch. She laid Ruby on the jacket and went into the kitchen to feed Buster. She mopped up the blood in the hall, then poured herself a big tumbler of Maker’s. Ruby was still; it looked like she was smiling and squeezing her eyes shut. Her body was cold; she didn’t feel real, the weight felt wrong. Julie wrapped her up in the coat. She was scared, but more than that she was angry. This had nothing to do with her. She took out her phone and dialed Michael Herron in Boston. Herron picked up on the first ring.
“Hey, Jules. How’s it going?”
“Not so well, Michael. In fact it’s been a pretty shitty evening so far.” Through the cell latency she heard him start to speak, but she cut him off. “No. Don’t say anything. Just listen. I just finished cleaning up the blood from one of my cats who was gutted and hung up by a coat hanger through her head. She was still alive, Michael. She’s dead now, thank you very much. No, no, shut up and listen. This is on you. I’ve been thinking it through. This was a warning, you know, curiosity killed the cat, right? But I’m thinking, what the fuck have I been working on that could stir up a hornet’s nest like this? Nothing. There’s only one possibility and that’s you. Either that phone number you had me run or one of those pictures I tried to ID for you. And I fucking told you, too.” Her voice was rising, the composure slipping as she spoke.
“I fucking knew it. When that DC number came back cold I told you to back off. Goddamn it, Mike.” She was crying in earnest now. “So we’re done. You got it? No more little favors for old times’ sake. Nothing. You hear me? I don’t want to hear from you. Got it?”
Herron may have answered but she had already clicked off.
* * *
Matthew Chun refreshed the page for the umpteenth time. Nothing. ROBIN had gone completely silent. No new data in days. He should call Prenn but it was nerve-racking talking to him lately. He’d give it one more day.
* * *
In the basement of the building on Hoxton Square, Sam frowned. The FBI girl had gotten the message. But she hadn’t called Metro. She’d called some cop in Boston, Herron, the guy who’d handled the Parrish case. It made no sense. That case was closed.
What the fuck was he up to? What did he know? It kept spreading. This cleanup was turning into a bigger and bigger mess.
At a certain point the upside didn’t matter. That was the thing with gambling. You had to know when to walk away.