White Cat (18 page)

“And a knife,” I say. It bothers me that the thing I most remember—my horrible smile—is absent from his telling.

“Right. A knife. You said you didn’t remember anything, but it was obvious what happened.” He shakes his head. “Philip was terrified that Zacharov would find out, but blood’s thicker than water. We covered up for you—hid her body. Lied.”

There’s something wrong with the way he’s describing the memory. It’s like he’s remembering a few lines from a
textbook about a battle instead of actually remembering a battle. No one would really say blood’s thicker than water when their memory should be full of smeared, clotted redness.

“You loved her, right?” I ask him.

He makes a gesture—a wave of his hands—that I can’t interpret. “She was really special.” A grin lifts a side of his mouth. “You certainly thought so.”

He must have known what was in the cage in his spare room, what was crying and eating whatever he gave her and soiling his floor. “I guess it’s true what they say—I have loved too much not to hate.”

Barron tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a quote. From Racine. Also, you may have heard, there’s a thin line between love and hate.”

“So you killed her because you loved her too much? Or aren’t we talking about you and her anymore?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m just talking. I want you to be careful—”

I stop as Philip comes into the doorway.

“I just got off the phone with Mom,” he says. “I need to talk to Cassel. Alone.”

Barron glances at Philip and then back at me. “So, what is it you suspect is going on? You know, that I should be careful about.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I’d be the last to know.”

Philip leads me back to the kitchen and sits down at the table, folding his hands on the stained white cloth. Around him are a few remaining plates and several mostly empty
wineglasses. He picks up a bottle of Maker’s Mark and fills one of the used coffee cups with amber liquor. “Sit down.”

I sit, and he regards me silently.

“What’s with all the grimness?” I say, but my fingers reach down unconsciously to rub the spot where the pebbles rest under my skin. The soreness is reassuring and as addictive as touching the tip of my tongue to the raw socket of a recently lost tooth. “I must have really upset Mom.”

“I have no idea what you think you know,” Philip says. “But you have to understand that all I’ve been trying to do—all I’ve ever tried to do is protect you. I want you to be safe.”

What a line. I shake my head, but don’t contradict him. “Okay, then. What are you protecting me from?”

“Yourself,” he says and now he looks me in the eye. For a moment I see the thug that people are afraid of—jaw clenched, hair shadowing his face. But after all these years, at least he’s finally looking at me.

“Get over
your
self,” I say. “I’m a big kid.”

“Things are tough without Dad,” he says. “Law school isn’t cheap. Wallingford isn’t cheap. Mom’s legal bills alone are staggering. Grandad had some savings, but we burned through that. I’ve had to step up. And I’m doing the best I can. I want us to have things, Cassel. I want my son to have things.” He takes another slug from the cup and then laughs to himself. His eyes shine when he looks over at me, and I wonder just how much liquor he’s already had. Enough to get him pretty unwound.

“Okay,” I say.

“That means taking some risks. What if I told you there
was something I needed you for?” Philip says. “Something Barron and I both need your help with.” I think of Lila in my dream, asking for help. The overlay of the memories is dizzying.

“Do you need my help?” I ask.

“I need you to trust us,” Philip says, tilting his head to one side and giving me that superior older brother smile. He thinks he’s teaching me a lesson.

“I should be able to trust my own brothers, right?” I ask. I think I manage to say it without sarcasm.

“Good,” he says. There’s something sad and tired in the sag of his shoulders, something that seems less like cruelty and more like resignation. It makes me unsure of my conclusions. I think of us being kids all together and how much I loved it when Philip paid me any attention—even the kind of attention that came in the form of an order. I loved to scramble to get a beer out of the fridge for him and pop the top like a bartender, then grin at him, waiting for the offhanded nod of acknowledgment.

And here I am, trying to find a way where he isn’t the villain. Looking for the nod. All because he finally looked me in the eye.

“Things are going to be different for us real soon. Vastly different. We’re not going to have to struggle.” He makes a sweeping gesture that knocks over one of the wineglasses that Maura didn’t clear. There’s only a little bit of liquid in it, but it rushes over the white cloth in a tide of pink wetness. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“What’s going to be different?” I ask him.

“I can’t tell you details,” he says, and looks toward the living room. Then he stands up unsteadily. “For now, just don’t rock the boat. And don’t mess with Mom. Give me your word.”

I sigh. The conversation is circular, pointless. He wants me to trust him, but he doesn’t trust me. He wants me to obey him. “Yeah,” I lie. “You’ve got my word. Family looks out for family. I get it.”

As I stand up, I notice the wineglass he knocked over isn’t as empty as I thought. Some kind of sediment remains at the bottom. I lean over and drag my finger through the sludge of sugar-like granules, trying to remember who was seated where.

Over Maura’s protests and Barron’s annoyed insistence, I half-carry Grandad out to the car. My heart beats like I’m in a fight as I turn down the offers to sleep in the study or on the sofa. I say I’m not tired. I invent an appointment Grandad has with a bingo playing widow in the morning. Grandad is heavy and so drugged and drunk that he barely responds.

Philip drugged him. The reason eludes me, but I think of the sludge and I know Philip must have done it.

“You should just stay,” Barron says for the millionth time.

“You’re going to drop him,” Philip says. “Careful.”

“Then help me,” I say, grunting.

Philip puts out his cigarette on the aluminum siding and slips his shoulder under Grandad’s arm to lift him up.

“Just bring him back into the house,” Barron says, and a look passes between them. Barron’s frown deepens. “Cassel, how are you going to get him into the house on the other end if you need Philip’s help getting him into the car?”

“He’ll have sobered up some by then,” I say.

“What if he doesn’t?” Barron calls, but Philip walks toward the car door.

For a moment I think he’s going to block my way, and I have no idea what I’ll do if he does. He opens the door, though, and holds it while I heave Grandad inside and belt him in.

As I pull out of the driveway, I look back at Philip, Barron, and Maura. Relief floods me. I’m free. I’m nearly gone.

My phone rings, startling me. Grandad doesn’t stir, even though it’s loud; the sound is turned all the way up. I watch for the rise and fall of his chest to make sure he’s still breathing.

“Hello?” I say, not even bothering to check who’s calling. I wonder how far the hospital is and whether I should go.

Philip and Barron wouldn’t kill Grandad. And if they were planning on killing him, Philip wouldn’t poison him in his own kitchen. And if he did, he sure as hell wouldn’t try and get me to put the body to bed in his guest room.

I repeat that thought to myself over and over.

“Can you hear me? It’s Daneca,” she says, whispering. “And Sam.”

I don’t know how long she’s been speaking.

I look at the clock on the dashboard. “What’s wrong? It’s, like, three in the morning.”

She tells me but I’m barely listening to her answer. My mind is going through all the possible things you can give someone to knock them out. Sleeping pills are the most obvious. They go great with booze too.

I realize the other end of the line is expectantly silent. “What?” I ask. “Can you say that again?”

“I said
your cat’s disgusting
,” she says slowly, clearly annoyed.

“Is she okay? Is the cat okay?”

Sam starts laughing. “The cat’s fine, but there’s a little brown mouse on Daneca’s floor with its head ripped off. Your cat killed our mouse.”

“Its tail looks like a piece of string,” Daneca says.

“
The
mouse?” I ask. “The mouse of legend? The one everyone’s been betting on for six months?”

“What happens if everybody loses a bet?” Sam asks. “Nobody got it right. Who the hell do we pay?”

“Who cares about that? What do
I
do?” Daneca says. “The cat is just staring at me, and I think there’s blood on her mouth. I look at her and see the deaths of hundreds of mice and birds. I see them just lining up to march into her mouth along an unfurling carpet of tongue like in an old cartoon. I think she wants to eat me next.”

“Pet the cat, dude,” says Sam. “She brought you a present. She wants you to tell her how badass she is.”

“You are a tiny, tiny killing machine,” Daneca coos.

“What’s she doing?” I ask.

“Purring!” says Daneca. She sounds delighted. “Good kitty. Who’s an amazing killing machine? That’s right! You are! You are a brutal, brutal tiny lion! Yes, you are.”

Sam laughs so hard he chokes. “What is wrong with you? Seriously.”

“She likes it,” Daneca says.

“I hate to be the one to have to point this out to you,” he says, “but she doesn’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Maybe she does,” I say. “Who can tell, right? She’s purring.”

“Whatever, dude. So, do we keep the money?”

“It’s either that or release another mouse into the walls.”

“Right, then,” Sam says. “We keep the money.”

I drive the rest of the way home, unbuckle Grandad, and shake him. When that doesn’t work, I slap him in the face hard enough that he grunts and opens his eyes a little.

“Mary?” he says, which freaks me out because that’s my grandmother’s name and she’s been gone a long time.

“Hold on to me,” I say, but his legs are rubbery and he’s not much help. We go slowly. I bring him right into
the bathroom and let him slouch on the tiles while I mix up a cocktail of hydrogen peroxide and water.

When he starts puking, I figure that my Wallingford’s AP chemistry class was good for something. I wonder if this would be a good argument to give Dean Wharton in favor of letting me back in.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“HEY, GET UP,” SOMEONE is saying. I blink in confusion. I am lying on the downstairs couch and Philip’s standing over me. “You sleep like the dead.”

“If the dead snored,” says Barron. “Hey, good job in here. The living room looks great. Cleaner than I’ve ever seen it.”

Dread coils around my throat, choking me.

I look over at Grandad. He’s still passed out in the reclining chair with a bucket next to him. Grandad was sick for hours, but he seemed fine by the time he fell asleep. Coherent. I would have thought all the noise would have woken him. “What did you give him?” I ask, throwing a leg out from under
the afghan.

“He’s fine,” says Philip. “I promise. It will wear off by morning.”

I am reassured by the rise and fall of Grandad’s chest. As I watch him sleep for a moment I think I see his eyelids flicker.

“You always worry,” Barron mumbles. “And we always tell you he’s fine. They’re always fine. Why do you worry so much?”

Philip shoots him a look. “Leave Cassel alone. Family looks out for family.”

Barron laughs. “That’s why he shouldn’t worry. We’re here to look after them both.” He turns to me. “Better get ready fast, though, worrywart. You know how much Anton hates to wait.”

I don’t know what else to do, so I pull on my jeans and zip a hoodie over the T-shirt I slept in.

They seem totally comfortable waiting for me, so comfortable that, thinking over what Barron said, I come to the groggy conclusion that this has all happened before. They’ve gotten me out of this house—maybe my dorm—and I don’t remember a thing. Have I ever panicked? I’m panicking now.

I grab my gloves and slide on a pair of work boots. My hands are trembling with adrenaline and fear—enough that I can barely get the gloves on.

“Let me see your pockets,” Philip says.

“What?” I stop tying the laces to look up at him.

He sighs. “Turn them inside out.”

I do, thinking of the stinging cut in my calf, the charms healing inside my skin. He rubs the pocket cloth, checking for something hidden in it, then pats down my clothes. My hands
fist, and I want to take a swing at Philip so much that my arms ache from the strain of not hitting him. “Looking for a mint?”

“We need to know what you’re bringing, is all,” Philip says mildly.

Adrenaline has pushed back exhaustion. I’m wide awake and starting to get angry.

He looks at Barron, who reaches over for my arm. He’s not wearing a glove.

I pull back. “Don’t touch me!”

It’s funny how instinct is; I keep my voice low when I say it. Because in some ridiculous part of my head this is still family business. It doesn’t even occur to me to shout for help.

Barron holds up both his hands. “Hey, okay. But this is important. It takes a few minutes for the old memories to settle. Think back. We’re in this together. We’re on the same side.”

That’s when I realize they’ve already worked me. Before they woke me up. My skin crawls with horror and I have to take quick, shallow breaths to keep from running away from them, from the house. I nod, buying myself what time I can. I have no idea what memories they expect me to have.

I watch Barron pull his glove back on and flex his hand, stretching the leather.

I realize what a bare hand means.

Philip isn’t the one behind the stolen memories. Anton’s not the memory worker.

Barron is—he must be. He didn’t lose his memories because he was worked; he’s not absentminded. Every time he takes a memory from me or Maura or all the other people he must be stealing them from, he loses one of his own. Blow
back. I search my memories for an occasion when he worked for luck, but there’s nothing, just a dim sense that I know he’s a luck worker. I can’t even recall when I started “knowing” that.