Fear Familiar Bundle (8 page)

Peter tried to move toward the door, but the bird spread its enormous wings and puffed its chest feathers in the first warning of attack. But Peter could clearly see that the bird favored one wing and appeared to be in pain.

"You're going to have to let me by," he said softly. "No help for it." He shifted forward slightly. The bird made no noise, but it was plainly bracing itself for an attack. It would come talons extended, ready to hold and twist. The beak was a secondary attack weapon, and it was strong enough to inflict nasty wounds.

Moving very slowly, Peter took off his jacket. The owl was dangerous because it was hurt and frightened. In normal conditions it would never attack a human. If he could get the jacket over it and carefully fold down its wings, he'd stand a chance of getting it back into a cage without hurting it further.

"Steady, fella," he said, advancing with the jacket. When the bird feinted, he followed and quickly enfolded it in the jacket. In a matter of a few seconds, he had it back in the cage.

"Someone was hoping you'd do some damage to me, weren't they, Cornelius?" he said, still speaking gently to the bird. "Well, whoever pulled this prank is going to be very disappointed." How had Evans learned that he had begun hunting for him? He'd told no one.

As soon as he was certain the owl had suffered no serious damage, he went back to the reception area. As he'd suspected, the files that were disordered were those surrounding Eleanor Duncan's name.

He went back to his office, Eleanor's file in hand. As he flipped it open, he saw the potential for trouble. Her address and Familiar's brief but damning history were all on one page.

He picked up the telephone and dialed Eleanor's number. On the seventh ring he started to get worried. By the fifteenth, he was standing and reaching into his pocket for his keys. He should have walked her into the building. He should have made sure that her apartment was safe. He ran out of his office and into the parking lot. At the sight of his car he stopped. All four tires were flat. He walked toward it, examining the left front one. Several holes had been jabbed into the sidewall. A flutter of paper on the rear tire caught his eye. He saw the note, then the surgical scalpel that had been used to slash the tire and hold the note.

"Mind your own business," he read aloud.

Eleanor stood at the gate that led to the small house and took a deep breath. It had taken a tremendous amount of wheedling to get the address of Magdalena Caruso from the SPCA. The organization had been reluctant to admit to any dealings with the woman. She was an avowed radical, and they wanted no connection with her, present or past. But persistence had paid off, and they'd finally relented enough to yield her address.

She opened the gate and stepped along the sidewalk, which was bordered on either side by a variety of plants. The small house with its tiny front garden was exquisite. It was obvious that Magdalena Caruso was as fanatical about plants as she was about animals.

Eleanor took her time inspecting the neat flower bed. She could imagine how bright the yard would be in summer. She could picture the marigolds, petunias and the vivid zinnias.

Standing silent, she let the recent events stew in her head like some roiling gumbo. Out popped the name of Magdalena Caruso. If anyone could shed light on "terrorist" behavior, it was her.

"Ms. Duncan!"

Eleanor's head snapped up from her inspection of the flowers to find the small, rotund woman standing on the front step. "How nice of you to pay a call. Come in." Bowser's head ducked out behind her legs and he issued a short bark of welcome.

Eleanor didn't know how she'd expected to be greeted, but it certainly wasn't so warmly.

"How's that cat of yours?" Magdalena asked. "You did a very generous thing, taking care of him. Not many people are willing to help animals from labs. They don't want to get involved. I won't ask how you got him."

"Familiar is fine," Eleanor said, stepping over the threshold. Now wasn't the time to explain to the woman that she hadn't "gotten" Familiar. If anything, he'd "gotten" her.

As the door shut behind her, she stopped dead in her tracks. At least fifteen cats were perched, posed and positioned on different pieces of furniture in the living room. Totally oblivious to the feline population, Bowser went to a small rug and settled down for a nap.

"Let me make some introductions," Magdalena said. "You've met Bowser, so that's Garp, Slugger, Minnie the Moocher, Zazu, Squeaky, Whiskers, Lord Byron, Adolph, Mister Mitts, Jones, Tiger, McDonald, Cochise, Asia, Calico, Mozart, Smokey, Stay Puff, Yoda, Pitter, Van Gogh and Faulkner. That last one has defied my ability to come up with a name, so we call it Boo Boo Kitty. Cats, this is Eleanor Duncan, new cat owner." She waved Eleanor to an empty chair.

"How many are there?" Eleanor asked. She felt as if the room could burst into motion at any second.

"Too many," Magdalena said cheerfully. "But they needed a home, and I had one with a wonderfully enclosed garden in the back. What brings you to this part of town?"

"I want to know more about ARSA," Eleanor told her.

"Why, my dear? You'll forgive me if I say you don't seem to be the type to want to get involved in what will inevitably be a dirty fight. Now that veterinarian friend of yours, he looks like a good candidate." Her green eyes were intense. "Is he?"

"I don't know about Peter. I don't want to be in a fight at all, dirty or clean," Eleanor said with emphasis. "But I'm already involved. I didn't steal Familiar, but when he came into my life, a lot of things changed. I'm not exactly certain how, but I've begun to think that maybe some of the changes might relate to that cat. Did your group break into any labs recently?"

"The Animal Rescue Squad Arsenal hasn't officially been active since last summer."

"This isn't a real answer," Eleanor pressed.

"It's the only answer I'm prepared to give," Magdalena said. There was a no-nonsense look in her green eyes now.

"Last Friday night there was a break-in. A man was seriously injured." Eleanor took a deep breath and met the direct gaze of the woman who sat across from her. "I have been questioned by the CIA, and I think my cat was stolen from there."

"I see." Magdalena was clearly evaluating something. "When I got the report about you and the cat, I was led to believe you were supplying experimental animals. There seems to be a great deal of confusion here, and I'm wondering how that might be. How about a cup of tea?"

"I could use one," Eleanor said. She was more nervous than she'd anticipated, but Magdalena Caruso was surprisingly easy to talk to. "If ARSA didn't rob the lab, who did?"

Magdalena rose. "Excuse me while I brew the tea. If I talk very loud, you can hear me." She continued to talk over the clatter of cups and the whistling of the teakettle. "ARSA has been officially inactive since last summer, when I was arrested on a fur protest and subsequently injured in the local jail. I haven't lost my heart for the work, but it has taken my ankle a bit longer to heal than I expected." She popped her head around the door. "This lab that was broken into, what was taken?"

"I don't know for certain," Eleanor said. If the ARSA leader didn't know about the break-in, who did? Or it could be that Magdalena was playing the innocent? She made rapid calculations as she talked. "A cat that was being used in psychological experiments was taken, and I think that cat is Familiar."

"Was ARSA's name mentioned?"

"No. The CIA agent who questioned me didn't say what organization. It's just that you were the only person I knew who did animal rights work, and I thought this was as good a place to start as any. You have to admit, it's more than coincidental that Familiar arrives at my house and you show up not a day later."

Magdalena returned with the spiced tea. "Yes, I do agree that more than coincidence is at work. Tell me everything," she said.

An hour later, Eleanor gathered her gloves and keys. If Magdalena Caruso had been involved in the lab break-in, she was a very convincing liar. Eleanor had told her everything— except for the business with her dead husband. "Before I go, would you tell me how you first got my name?"

"I've been thinking about that myself," the woman said. "I got a call from Charles Breck."

"Breck? Is that the Charles Breck who's in the news every night? The man who's waiting for confirmation to head the CIA?"

"Waiting and hoping. There is another candidate, you know, that Bueler man. Anyway, Charles doesn't publicly support my work. He can't afford to do that. In fact, I'd say he more than likely hates me because I hold his feet to the fire. But he has a good heart, and he gives me a lot of undercover support, such as leaking me the names of animal suppliers. He actually thought you were selling cats. Whoever gave him his information must have been confused." Magdalena let her head drop to one shoulder. "Or else old Charles is trying to use me for some gain. This is all interesting, and I think that maybe a meeting with Charles will clarify a lot of things. Are you game?"

"Sure," Eleanor agreed. "At least this explains how the CIA got my name," she said. "This is beginning to make a little more sense."

"I'll arrange a meeting," Magdalena promised. "I'll be back in touch."

"Thanks." Eleanor hurried down the bordered walk to her car.

"And one more thing," Magdalena called out.

Eleanor's hand was on the gate. "What?"

"Be very careful. I'd like to know what kind of research has got the CIA so concerned."

"I just want them to leave me alone." Her face was grim as she got into her car.

Flipping over the issue again and again in her mind as she drove home, she could find no solid answers. No matter how she linked the events of her life, she could not make a triangular connection between Familiar, the frightening phone call and herself. The business with her apartment and Carter had to be some nasty practical joke that was unrelated to anything else. Magdalena's warning was still on her mind, but her biggest sensation was one of relief.

As she approached her apartment building, she was still engrossed in her thoughts. The winter night had fallen swiftly, and she noticed with a disappointed groan that all of the parking spaces on the street were filled. The afternoon wind, already brisk and cutting, had turned into a howling evening terror, and she shivered in anticipation of the damp chill that lurked in the parking garage. She cheered herself with an image of Familiar and a cozy fire as she spiraled down the ramp into the garage.

The parking lot was subterranean, but it had never bothered her before. She didn't care for the sense of being buried but wasn't afraid of the perpetual murkiness. At least she hadn't been. Now, as if her imagination were being deliberately perverse, she remembered the phone call from the night before. The cruelty of it made her angry again. She'd cut her ties with Carter and his past. No one had the right to use her dead husband as a scare tactic. No one.

The voice had sounded more than a little like Carter. Or at least it had sounded like she remembered Carter's voice. Nine years was a long time, especially for a memory she didn't particularly relish. If she found out who was practicing such ugly jokes, she'd certainly press criminal charges.

She slipped from behind the wheel and gathered her purchases. The grocery package was light, and she was anxious to get inside the warm building. As she dropped the keys into her purse, she heard the scuffing of leather on the concrete floor. It was a small sound that rang through her head like an alarm. She held herself perfectly still to listen better. Only the emptiness of the parking lot came back to her.

"I'm letting my imagination get away with me," she said out loud, realizing even as she spoke that she was imitating the young boy who whistled in the graveyard. All of her senses were vitally alert. There was something about the garage that didn't strike her as right. It was too silent, too dark. She started toward the elevator.

Her footsteps echoed emptily on the concrete, a steady, comforting sound. She walked faster, unable to stop herself from glancing between the cars. The elevator was only a hundred yards away.

"Eleanor!"

Her whispered name seemed to echo around the concrete columns. She froze.

"Eleanor!"

She turned, swinging her gaze in a 360-degree sweep on all sides. The parking lot was completely devoid of other human beings. There wasn't even the sound of an idling motor. The voice had come from the shadowed corners, from the air. From the lips of a dead man.

"I've been waiting a long, long time, Eleanor."

The voice penetrated her spine. Fear deeper than any she'd ever known tingled through her muscles.

"Who are you?"

"How cute, still the innocent little Eleanor."

The voice! She knew it for certain now! She knew that teasing note, the edge of familiarity.

"Where are you?" Her own voice echoed eerily through the garage, striking the concrete walls and vibrating back to her.

"I'm here, Eleanor. Watching you." There was a deep, satisfied laugh. "You thought I was gone forever. Glad to see my car at the bottom of the cliff, weren't you? I messed up your neat little life."

"Carter!" The word was barely a whisper as it came from Eleanor's throat. "Carter, is it you?"

"Oh, yes, it's me. Back from the dead. Back to claim my wife."

"I'm not your wife anymore." She swirled suddenly, hoping to find him behind her. But the garage was as empty as it had been the last time she looked. "Quit playing stupid games, Carter, and come out."

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," he mocked her. "Did you mourn me when I died, Eleanor? I don't think so. You packed up and left Colorado. You didn't even tell our friends goodbye."

"Your friends, Carter." She turned on her heel and started to walk away, wobbling slightly. The garage had become a landscape for a nightmare. She had to escape, to get away from the sound of his voice so that she could think clearly. She started to run.

Carter Wells was dead. Dead and buried, and she was standing in the garage of her building having a conversation with her imagination. Or maybe her guilty conscience. She hadn't allowed herself to feel anything for a man…until Peter. And now that she was beginning to warm to a spark of interest, her mind had opened up to give her the ugly reminders of Carter. There was nothing real in the voice she heard, only her own repressed guilt.