Fear Familiar Bundle (7 page)

"Thank you," she murmured, feeling a need to get inside her door, to turn the lock and seek the safety of her small apartment. The lesson learned at the feet of Carter Wells, came back to her—
trust no one
.

"I'll keep an eye on you, at least for a while," he said, giving her a reassuring smile. "Just in case."

She hurried inside, forcing herself to breath deeply, calmly, to fight the panic that threatened to turn her knees to Jell-O. An employee of the CIA had clearly implied that she was in grave danger.

"Your coffee got cold." Peter came out of the kitchen, his hair still tousled. "I poured you a fresh cup." He held the steaming mug toward her.

"Thanks," she managed. She knew her face was pale and she could still feel her heart beating a mile a minute. "That CIA agent was waiting in the hall to talk with me."

"What did Rousel have to say so early in the morning?" Peter sipped his coffee and unobtrusively watched her. She was frightened again.

"He said someone broke into a research lab and stole Familiar and some other cats, and that whoever did it was dangerous. He said I could be in danger."

Eleanor looked down at the floor as she talked, and Peter knew it was because she wanted to hide her fears. He could see it in the way her chin trembled slightly. In her hands as she clutched the coffee cup.

"Does he know who broke into the lab?" This could be the information he had to get, if she wasn't the one.

"I think he thinks I did." Her brown eyes were round with concern.

"How about a Denver omelet for breakfast?" he suggested. "I found some oranges in the fridge and squeezed them, because it seems to me that last night you made reference to a nice tall glass of juice and— " he pointed to the newspaper under her arm "— some reading material." He could question her later. She was too upset, too close to snapping.

"You have a really miraculous way of rescuing me from painful conversations," she said softly. "You always know the perfect moment to change the subject."

"Hey, I was just getting hungry," he said with a grin. "And I do have to brag a little. I'm pretty handy in the kitchen."

The knife-edge of fear had begun to diminish with Peter's easy bantering. She filled him in on most of Rousel's questions. "I know it's crazy, but somehow I think this cat is mixed up in all of this. I didn't exactly tell Mr. Rousel about Familiar," she admitted, following him into the kitchen.

"He asked about the cat?" Peter's interest stirred. That cat held a direct link with Arnold Evans. The catheter proved it.

"Well, he asked about a black cat. He said one was stolen from the lab, one that was being used in psychological testing. He didn't seem that interested in getting the cat back." She held her breath through the lie— she didn't want Peter to pressure her into giving Familiar back. It was better if he didn't think along those lines. "I got the impression Mr. Rousel was more interested in finding who broke into the lab."

"That would make sense. If a lab was broken into, then I suppose a federal law enforcement agency would be interested in apprehending the criminals," Peter said, cracking four eggs into a bowl. "As I said earlier, Familiar doesn't look any the worse for wear. A lot of those animals are terribly…abused. Maybe he isn't important in the research. Maybe when they find out who broke in, they'll forget about him."

Eleanor took a knife from the drawer and started to cut up green peppers for the omelet. "But Rousel implied that someone else might be interested in the cat." She swallowed. "He even went so far as to say a faction of a terrorist organization." And implied that her dead husband had some connection with the group! The phone call came back to her and the knife slipped through the pepper, missing her finger by a hair. At least it made sense now why someone was pretending to be Carter.

Peter dropped the whisk into the eggs. "Eleanor!" He took the knife from her hand and put it onto the counter. "Terrorist organization?" This was a little more than he'd bargained for.

"That's what he said."

"Well, I wouldn't let this get out of hand in your imagination, Eleanor. Rousel may be a federal agent, but he could also have a tendency to exaggerate."

"That's true," she agreed, slightly relieved. "Why would a terrorist group liberate a black tom cat?"

"Now that's the sanest comment I've heard this morning," he said. "Let's just enjoy breakfast and hope by Monday morning all of this has been resolved." He forced a smile, but felt his anger boiling beneath the surface. The CIA agent must be an idiot to talk to her in such a way.

"I hope my past hasn't come back to haunt me," she said as she took silverware from another drawer; there was definitely a haunted look on her face, he observed.

"No, I'm sure it hasn't."

As Peter poured the eggs into the pan, Eleanor set the table. In a few moments they were ready to eat.

"The juice is great." She took another long drink from the chilled glass. "And the omelet, too."

"What's on your schedule for this afternoon?" he asked.

Eleanor grinned apologetically. "Actually, I often spend Sunday afternoon in the library or in my office. Betty Gillette, a colleague of mine, and I usually wind up working. Boring, huh?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "How about some Christmas shopping?" After all that had happened, Peter wanted to keep her in sight as much as possible. She didn't think her research was related to the recent attacks, but he wasn't so sure now. In fact he wasn't sure of anything— except that he had to find Evans. That particular chore was looming larger and larger in his mind.

"I haven't even begun to buy my gifts," Eleanor confessed. "It wouldn't hurt me to pick up some things and get them in the mail."

"Good, then it's settled. We'll give Saint Nick a hand with the gift list. Maybe we'll even pick up a little something for that black fur ball on the sofa."

"Yeah," Eleanor agreed. "An alarm clock. I refuse to let him sleep all day while I have to work."

T
HE STORES
were crowded and the lines long, but in Peter's company, Eleanor didn't mind the inconveniences. They picked up several items for respective family members and then sauntered through a pet supply shop.

"How about a red collar for Familiar?" she asked, holding up an item with an abundance of rhinestones.

Peter shook his head. "I don't think Familiar's the kind of cat who would appreciate such a gift. Catnip might be more up his alley. Or maybe even his own alley, if you're feeling plush."

Eleanor laughed out loud. Peter was delightful. "I suppose you're right. Catnip it is."

While she stood in the checkout line, Peter went to look at a display of magazines. Eleanor was drawing her billfold from her purse when she felt someone staring at her back. She forced herself to turn slowly, casually. Not twenty feet away across the crowded store was Alva Rousel. He was engrossed in a wind-up toy of a jumping cat, but Eleanor knew he'd been watching her.

She felt like abandoning her purchases, but instead put them onto the counter. The routine checkout seemed to take hours. Bag in hand, she hurried through the store until she found Peter.

"The man from the CIA was here, watching me," she told him. She couldn't help rushing her words together; her heart was pounding.

"He said he was going to keep an eye on you." Peter was completely unruffled. "I'm glad to see he's actually doing it. I hope he's better at watching than he is at keeping his mouth shut." He grinned. "Don't you feel better, knowing that the CIA is protecting you?"

"You're right," she said, pulling herself together at his casual tone. "But I was buying all of these cat toys— after I said cats weren't allowed in my building."

"Eleanor, my dear," Peter said patiently, "the truth is, you could have fifteen pet cats. Or you could be purchasing the toys for someone else's cat. Or you could be a seriously kinky lady with a passion for catnip and stuffed birds on elastic strings."

Eleanor laughed and the last of the tension was blown away. "I've never known anyone like you," she said. "You're immune to panic."

"Don't count on it. It's just that I— " he touched the top of her nose "— don't have a guilty conscience about lying to the CIA. How about an ice cream?"

She followed him out of the shop onto the brisk Washington street. "No ice cream for me. It's freezing! Besides, I can't wait to get home and give Familiar his presents."

"I do need to spend some time at the clinic," Peter said. "I like to check all of the animals, just to be on the safe side."

"I like that," Eleanor said. "I like it that you care."

"Then I'll drop you off at your place, and I'll take care of my work. Would I be pushing my luck if I asked you to a movie? We could find one we want to see or rent one."

Eleanor didn't feel pushed at all. She'd had a few misgivings about spending the evening alone, and Peter was a fun companion. "An old black and white with Cary Grant in it?"

"The Bishop's Wife?"

"Perfect. And I'll make some hot chocolate and popcorn, and maybe we could even build a fire."

Peter pulled in the car at the curb before her building. "See you about eight, then?"

"Eight," she said as she got out. Leaning toward the window, she smiled and waved before she ran to her building.

"Are you okay, Ms. Duncan?" Wessy stepped out and pulled open the door for her. "I hope I didn't intrude last night."

"Things were a little hectic yesterday, Wessy, but I'm much better now. I'll tell you a little secret, if you promise not to tell anyone else."

Her excitement kindled a fire in Wessy's eyes. "What?"

"I have a pet, Wessy. A cat."

The older man grinned. "I think that's a fine thing, Ms. Duncan. You've been alone too long. A pet can make all the difference in the world."

"I don't think pets are allowed in the building, though," Eleanor probed gently.

"Well, what the management don't know won't hurt 'em," Wessy said. "Cats don't make a lot of noise and they don't make a mess. So I don't see how anyone could complain, right?"

"Right," Eleanor agreed. "Now that we've settled this issue, could I ask you about the man who left the manila envelope for me?"

"I didn't see him," Wessy said. "I was taking Mrs. Porter up some medicine the all-night pharmacy delivered. Her arthritis has been bad lately, so I left the door for a few moments. When I came back, the envelope was there with your name on it."

"You didn't see anyone?"

"No, I thought it must surely be a Christmas card or something from a friend. Maybe even a special letter." He nodded at her. "I used to send my wife special delivery letters back when we were courting. She loved it."

"Because you're a special man, Wessy," Eleanor said.

He shook his head, slightly embarrassed. "Then if it wasn't a letter, what was it?"

"Actually it was a photograph…of me shopping. I was just sort of curious about who sent it."

"There wasn't a name?"

"No." Eleanor shook her head and forced a smile.

"So, the university professor has a secret admirer." Wessy grinned. "I just hope it isn't one of your students helplessly in love. That's hard on a young fellow."

"I hope not, too," Eleanor said. "I'd better go check on the newest resident in my apartment. And thanks for looking out for me."

"My pleasure," Wessy said, returning to his post by the door.

P
ETER WAS AWARE
of something the moment he unlocked his clinic door. Looking around the waiting room and reception area, he couldn't put his finger on it, but something was wrong. Damn! He was in a hurry to check on the animals, and then get to Eleanor's university office. Maybe there was something in her research that might tip him off.

His gaze swept the large room, roving back to the filing area behind the desk. Several of the files were pulled out, as if someone in a hurry hadn't taken the time to put them away properly. He felt the hair on his nape of his neck begin to rise. Lucille, his receptionist, was a fiend for neatness. He carefully examined the door lock, but there was no sign of forced entry.

Treading as silently as possible, he moved into the examining rooms to the left of the reception area. The office was quiet, too quiet. The normal cacophony of barking dogs and meowing cats was missing, and Peter felt his nerves grow even tauter. Whoever had broken in might still be in the kennel portion of the building.

Step-by-step he moved toward the cages where boarded animals and those recovering from treatments were kept. The unnatural quiet grew more and more ominous. At the green door that led to the indoor kennels he paused. He had no weapon, didn't keep one. From one of the examining rooms he took a squirt bottle of diluted ammonia. If worst came to worst, he could try to spray it into the eyes of anyone who threatening him. It was sometimes an effective way to keep a bad dog from attacking.

Fingers gently gripping the knob, he turned and pushed at the same time. The door flew open and before he could step into the room, he was partially blinded. Something flew at his face and he felt a razor-sharp grip on one shoulder.

Massive wings beat about his face, talons dug deeper and deeper into his flesh. He felt as if his shoulder were being torn apart, and knew that only the thickness of his coat protected him from severe injury.

It took only a split second for him to remember the great horned owl that someone had brought in, stunned by a car. He ducked and rolled, forcing the bird to loosen its grip. In another maneuver, he was on his feet and facing the bird. The owl had settled on the floor, enormous yellow eyes watching his every move. Peter was effectively trapped in the kennel, and now he knew why all of the dogs and cats had been so quiet. A great horned owl was big enough to make off with a full-grown cat. Even safe in their cages, the animals were smart enough not to agitate the big bird. He looked quickly to the right. The door of the owl's cage swung open, unlatched.

"Come on, bird," he muttered. "Back in your cage." Who would know the potential hazards of a trapped owl? A trace of ugly memory came back to him. Vet school, a first-term student who'd never seen the work of a predator's talons. The student had required a hundred stitches down his arm. He was lucky. And standing right in the middle of it all had been Arnold Evans.