Fear Familiar Bundle (29 page)

"I'm not. You died. And I made a new life. Leave me alone!"

"I'd like to, Eleanor. But you have to give back what you took from the lab. Give back the microfilm that your lover took from the cat, and I'll leave."

The figure stepped closer to the bed. It was indeed Carter Wells. He'd fooled everyone, including his own enemies.

"No!" Eleanor tried to rise from the sheets, but couldn't force her body to move. She knew she was drugged. The wine! How could she have been so stupid? Beside her, Peter, who'd drunk more than she, was deeply under the influence of the drug.

"Give it to me, Eleanor. Or I'll have to hurt your lover. I have a perfect right to kill you both."

"Leave us alone, Carter. I don't have any microfilm. Peter must have given it to one of the CIA agents."

"You have it!" The figure turned on her, an angry finger jabbing in the air in a long-remembered, authoritative gesture. "Otherwise, they'd be looking for me already. You see, that little bit of film can implicate me. I foolishly put my code on it. It's so much more convenient when people think I'm dead. I don't want them to know that I'm actually very much alive."

"I don't know what you're talking about." A tiny portion of her brain was struggling to function clearly. She had to pay attention. The figure rushed to the bed, lifting her by her hair into a sitting position.

"Don't tempt me, Eleanor!"

She struggled to free herself, but still couldn't make any of her limbs obey. The smell of Carter's favorite cologne made her twist away from him. Beside her, Peter lay as if he might be dead.

"Okay," she agreed. "I'll give you the microfilm." She had to do something to make him leave. "Peter hid it in his clinic. He said it was in a file. My file," she amended, trying to make it sound convincing.

"You'll come with me to get it," he said. "Get dressed."

"Yes," she agreed. Her hair felt as if it were being pulled from her scalp.

"Don't try anything stupid." He reached down and jerked the phone from the wall.

"I promise," she said. She fell to the mattress when her hair was released. "Wait for me in the living room."

Carter hesitated a moment in the doorway— was he reconsidering? Eleanor wondered— then disappeared down the hall. As soon as he was gone, she fought her way to a sitting position. The drug was powerful, but she managed to hold herself erect.

"Peter?" she called.

There was no answer, only the darkness.

W
HO THE HELL
is this guy, rummaging through here? He had a key to the door, and he came in like he knew where he was going. Thank goodness, I'd taken a little run to the kitchen to see if Eleanor left anything good to eat on the counter. No dice on the food, but it gave me the drop on the guy when he zipped through the door. A healthy human specimen, I have to give him that. Not as big as Dr. Doolittle, but the two of them would be a match. Somehow I get the distinct impression that they are adversaries. I'd better follow this guy to see what he's up to.

The guy moves like he's upset. He's headed straight for Eleanor's bedroom, and he's no friend! Who the hell is he? Eleanor knows him! She's talking really strange, but she knows him! Rat litter! She's afraid of him, and he's not doing anything to remedy that situation. He's pulling her hair and threatening her! I know him now! He's been lurking around here like somebody's lost shadow!

Hey! Dr. Doolittle! Snap out of it and defend Eleanor! What's wrong with the two of them? She sounds like a record on 78, and the good doctor is out cold. From one bottle of vino! What pantywaists! They'd never make the Washington party circuit that I grew up in. But all of that aside, I have to do something to get the tall, blond stranger out of here. It's just that my resources are limited in this apartment. Give me a dark alley and I'd have that sucker on his knees, begging for mercy. But, hey, I've got to work with what I've got.

Wait! Here he comes! He's striding out of her bedroom like a king. Now it's time for a little fancy, furry footwork, if you don't mind unnecessary alliteration.

A direct attack is too risky. Don't ask me how I know this guy's here because of me, but he is. Following the example of the best fighters ever known, I'm going to initiate the old ambush plan.

Timing is all in this situation. Timing and an intense desire to inflict pain. I do believe he hurt the dame. Not bad, but nobody hurts my Eleanor and gets away scot-free. So here goes!

E
LEANOR
was pulling on a pair of sweatpants when she heard the enraged scream of the cat. She staggered down the hall, leaning against the wall for support, then hit the light switch and flooded the room with brightness.

In her living room, Carter was spinning in a circle, Familiar riding his head, clawing and biting with every ounce of his twelve pounds. Calling on her last reserves, Eleanor picked up a lamp and swung it sideways into Carter's face. The lamp shattered, and the man fell to his knees, then crashed into the wall. Familiar leaped to the safety of the sofa. For a moment there was silence. A tiny trickle of blood oozed down the wall and into the fibers of the muted gray carpet.

Familiar sat on the arm of the sofa, his golden-green gaze focused intently on the unconscious man. He seemed to take in every detail of the man's features. Only a few feet away, the hat had fallen against the wall.

Eleanor stumbled closer. Something was wrong. It wasn't Carter. With the hair slicked back, a fake nose and a little makeup, he resembled him a lot, but it wasn't him.

"Alva Rousel," Eleanor said, standing over the unconscious form. "All along it was you." A very distant memory came back to her of a tall, blond man who'd come to her home the day Carter died. He'd said he was there to inspect the swimming pool, and she'd left him unattended in the yard. He'd borne a simple resemblance to Carter then, something she'd noted but never thought about again. Strange coincidence, she thought, recalling that she'd learned Carter's brake line had been cut. She'd never connected the two until now. So Carter had been involved in the CIA plot with Rousel, and then Rousel had killed him. While they were working together, Rousel had gotten to know Carter well enough to imitate him perfectly.

"Meow," Familiar said as he sprang from the sofa. He brushed against her leg, using his soft claws to nudge at her feet.

Eleanor responded, moving to the telephone and dialing 911. Then she went back to the bedroom and this time managed to rouse Peter.

"H
E WAS TERMINATED
in 1982, or at least that's what we thought," Charles Breck said, shaking his head; the police were leading Rousel away in handcuffs. "Our last report was that he was killed in Beirut, in an attempt to provoke some international trouble there."

"Terminated?" Eleanor asked. Her head was pounding from the aftereffects of whatever drug Rousel had put into the wine, but she had to know the truth.

"Our reports indicated he was blown to bits by a faction of Black September. We heard that he betrayed the wrong people, and they killed him. Even though we tried to find his CIA credentials, we never did. We thought he was dead." Breck ran a hand through his hair. "Now that I'm going to be director, I promise you such slipshod methods won't be tolerated."

"Spoken like a true politician," Peter said, but there was more humor than malice in his words. "So Rousel was actually the brains behind the whole plot. Evans was simply a tool. Incredible." He shook his head. "All of this was designed to ruin Sam Nottingham."

"Because Nottingham blew the whistle on Rousel in Central America," Breck told them. "I don't believe Rousel intended to kill Nottingham, but it was the perfect setup for revenge on you, Peter. Evans was out of control." He sighed deeply. "Maybe I'm not cut out for this business, after all."

"Poor Betty," Eleanor said, thinking of the way her colleague had been tricked by Rousel. Peter's arm circled her shoulders.

"You'll be relieved to know that there are no official charges against Dr. Gillette or Magdalena Caruso," Breck told them. "Maybe a few stern lectures, but no charges. And our people are now thoroughly checking the trade in research animals. As we've discovered, a lot of information can be illegally passed in innocent cats and dogs. Those Swiss bank accounts were very lucrative."

"Thanks," Eleanor said as she and Peter walked Breck and the policemen to the door.

"And Merry Christmas," Breck wished them in farewell.

Peter closed the door and locked it. His strong arms reached out for Eleanor and drew her close. "If it isn't too late to make a special request to Santa, I know what I want this year."

"What?" She held back the laughter that tickled her throat.

"I have her right here in my arms. So that part is simple. But I want her for the rest of my life."

"And her little cat, Familiar, too."

"This ain't Kansas, Dorothy."

"Meow!" Familiar interjected from his perch on the mantel.

A
REN'T HUMANS RIDICULOUS
! I just hope with all of this mooning around, they don't forget to leave a good snack out for old Saint Nick. Something along the line of tuna or sardines. After all, if it wasn't for me taking care of them, where would those two be now? Ah, well, time for a nap. It never hurts to be good and rested, because we know a human may toil from sun to sun, but a cat's work is never done. Good night, Clotilde, I'll see you in my dreams.

She looks dead, slumped over the steering wheel.

Hard to say from my vantage point on this bluff. My body feels like a punching bag, but I guess I'd better mosey on over to her car and take a peek. Snazzy little red convertible, a sign that she's got a bit of class. She hit the bank pretty hard, and for no apparent reason. Not another car in sight. She just swerved and slammed on the brakes. Almost as if she fainted or something.

Pretty little thing, for a blonde. Doesn't look a bit like my Eleanor. My Eleanor who might be injured. Or worse. And Dr. Doolittle, too. I'm even worried about him. Worry about those two has tormented me for the past three days— ever since I woke up in that moving van somewhere south of Washington with a hideful of glass and bruises. My hearing is still messed up from the blast.

It had to be a bomb. That's a hard thing to accept, that my family has been devastated by some explosion. But I've thought and thought about it, and that's the only possibility that makes any sense. The last thing I remember, I was walking to the refrigerator. Eleanor, the doc, and that funny-talking houseguest they were so excited to see had all gone to bed. There was the sound of a window breaking, the thunk of something on the living-room floor and a concussion that felt as if all the air were being sucked out of the house. The kitchen window shattered when I went through it, and that's it. I musta crawled into the Hendersons' moving van and passed out. Since I woke up, Eleanor's been the only thing on my mind. She couldn't have been killed! She couldn't! Not her or Dr. Doolittle. Even as we speak, I'm on my way back to Washington to find out what happened.

Right now, though, it looks as if I'm going to have to take a little detour. No self-respecting guy can just walk away from a damsel in distress. If the dame buckled tight in her car seat is still alive, she might need some assistance. I can't do the fireman's carry, but I might be able to wake her up.

Hey, she's moaning! Now she's crying. Good grief! She's turning on the faucets over a little car wreck. I need to tell this kiddo to buck up! Tears won't help. Best thing to do is get up and get moving. Never set yourself up as a sitting duck, babe. This calls for action.

Hey! I nudged her hand and she didn't do a thing. That's not exactly the most response I've ever gotten from a good-looking woman. This calls for more dramatic pressure. A little sandpaper tongue on the old bend of the elbow. Yep! That's the ticket! She's lifting her head and beginning to look around.

Dig those blue eyes! It's Goldilocks, I do believe. Those eyes look like a summer sky that stretches forever. Big and deep and intense. And filled with pain! Great, now that makes two of us. She's hurt; I'm hurt. This looks like the beginning of a mutual need relationship. Uh-oh, she's going to speak. Let's hope and pray it's English.

"C
AT
." Cassandra McBeth let the word fall from her mouth. She was surprised that she still had the ability for speech. Struggling to release the seat belt that had saved her life, she popped the button and felt her body sag. This seizure had been the worst of all. It had caught her unexpectedly. Before she could pull her car onto the side of the road, she'd been in the throes of…

"The murder." She finished her thought out loud. There was no other way to describe what she'd witnessed. A graphic, horrifying murder. Alfred Hitchcock couldn't have done a better job of capturing the young woman's terror. Cassandra felt the shakes take over her body as she reacted to what she'd envisioned. The girl had been looking out at a mountain view. The killer had come from behind. His fingers had circled her neck, caressing, before they began to press. It was as if Cassandra had been standing at the killer's shoulder.