Nine Lives

Lights from a passing ambulance swept across his line of vision and broke his musing. His belly growled from hunger as a cold gust of wind rocked the truck. He shivered slightly and quickly started the engine. As soon the motor warmed up, he put the truck in gear and drove to work.

He put in several hours at his office, then sent his receptionist home when the weather began to worsen. He set the phones in the office so that they would ring at his apartment, then locked up and went home.

Due to the freezing rain, traffic was heavier than normal. There appeared to be some kind of pile-up on the freeway he normally drove, so he took the closest exit and wound through a small business district before driving into a residential area.

He couldn’t help but notice the colorful Christmas lights decorating the outsides of the homes. He tried to imagine what it would be like to drive up one of the driveways and be met at the front door by a loving family. There would be kids—maybe three, two boys and a girl—and a wife who, after fifteen years of marriage, still rocked his world.

In the middle of the fantasy, a car sped out of a side street and cut in front of him without caution. If it hadn’t been for Wilson’s quick reflexes, he would have broadsided the other vehicle.

“Dumb ass,” Wilson muttered, as he watched the man drive away. He had everything Wilson wanted and didn’t have the good sense to take care of it by even looking where he was going.

A muscle ticked at the edge of Wilson’s mouth as he shifted mental gears. Obviously he didn’t want that kind of life bad enough, either, or he would have done something in the last ten years toward making it happen. His parents would be ecstatic if he ever committed himself to a woman. Of all their children, he was the only hold-out. His brothers and sisters had married years ago, making him an uncle many times over.

A short while later, he drove into the parking lot of his apartment complex. His steps were dragging as he entered the building. When he got inside his apartment, he dropped his smokey clothes in the floor of the utility room, turned up the thermostat and headed for the shower. As soon as he was clean, he dressed in an old pair of sweat pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, then moved to the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten all day, except for a Coke and a package of cheese crackers he’d gotten from vending machines in the hospital, and he was hungry for real food.

The contents of his refrigerator were slim, but there was enough to make a decent-sized cheese omelet—one of his favorite quick meals. He finished it off in front of the TV, watching an old Chuck Norris movie and washing it down with the last of the Coke.

Remembering the pile of dirty clothes he’d left in the utility room, he went to put them in the washer. As he was going through the pockets, he found the cat charm again. Fingering it lightly, he set it on a shelf, poured in the soap and started the machine.

The phone rang as he was going to the bedroom. He could tell by the ring that it was a call being forwarded from the office. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been called back to some jail to bond someone out, and he frowned as he answered.

“McKay Bail Bonds.”

“Um…hey, Wilson, old buddy. It’s me, Shooter.”

Wilson’s frown deepened. “Well, old buddy, you better not be in jail again,’ cause if you are, then you’ve just wasted your free call.”

Shooter Green shifted to whining.

“Aw…now, Wilson…it ain’t like you think. They’ve got me on a bad rap and—”

“I’m serious,” Wilson said. “You and I aren’t doing any more business. The last two times I bonded you out, you let me down. The first, you were a no-show. If your public defender hadn’t sweet-talked the judge on your behalf and gotten you a second appearance date, you would have cost me my money. Then, the second time I bond you out of jail, I have to go after your ass…remember?”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts, Shooter. Sleep tight, and don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

Shooter was still begging as Wilson hung up the phone.

Cat slept fitfully through the night, reliving the trip down the stairs with Brownlee over her shoulder so many times that her legs were actually aching when she woke up. She rolled over on her side and opened one eye just enough to see that it was after ten in the morning. With a sigh, she sat up in bed and ran her fingers through her hair. The urge to lie back down and sleep away the day was strong, but there were a couple of things she’d been planning to do, and one of them was taking her best friend, Marsha, out to lunch.

There weren’t many people that Cat Dupree called friend, but Marsha Benton was one of them. She and Marsha had been fostered to the same family just before their seventeenth birthdays and had become fast friends. Their bond had lasted, even after they’d been processed out of the system.

Cat and Marsha often laughed at how different their lives had become once they’d been on their own. For the past eight years, Marsha had been a private secretary for Mark Presley, CEO of a company with worldwide distribution rights for farm implements, while Cat chased down bad guys with a taser and a gun.

Marsha was a little over five feet tall.

Cat was almost six feet in height.

Marsha was a curvy redhead who loved to eat.

Cat often forgot to eat, which accounted for her lanky build.

But they spoke the same language, laughed at the same jokes, and were the only family each other had.

Cat stretched languidly and then reached for the phone, punching in the number for Marsha’s office from memory. She was already smiling to herself as she waited for Marsha to answer.

“Presley Implements.”

“Hey, Mimi, it’s me, Cat. Are we still on for lunch today?”

There was a moment of silence, something Cat hadn’t expected.

“Hey, girlfriend…are you there?”

Cat heard what sounded like a stifled sob; then Marsha answered.

“Yes, I’m here, and lunch sounds great. Where do you want me to meet you?”

“Um…how about Billy Bob’s?”

“Good,” Marsha said. “One o’clock?”

“Yeah,” Cat said, and then added, “Are you okay?”

“Absolutely,” Marsha said. “See you later. I’ve got to go.”

“Okay,” Cat said, and disconnected, but she was still frowning as she got out of bed.

She knew Marsha well enough to know that something was wrong. She’d heard it in her friend’s voice. Then she shrugged off her concern, knowing that once they got together, Marsha would talk. She never could keep secrets.

Cat got some clean underwear and headed for the bathroom. Even though she’d washed her hair last night before going to bed, she imagined it still smelled of smoke.

A short while later she was blow drying her hair and trying not to think about the missing cat charm. The loss was something she wasn’t going to get over any time soon, but dwelling on it wasn’t going to bring it back. Sick at heart, she hoped seeing Marsha would help. Maybe a reminder of what they’d overcome in their young lives would put the loss of a simple charm into perspective.

As she was going through her closet for something to wear, she abandoned what would have been a normal choice. Marsha would be dressed to the nines, so the least Cat could do was leave her gun at home and wear something besides leather. A cold blast of wind rattled the bedroom windows, which reminded her that whatever she chose, it needed to be warm.

A short while later she was dressed, unaware of how her choices had softened her appearance. Instead of denim and leather, she wore a soft white cable-knit sweater and a pair of brown wool slacks. Her brown alligator shoes looked great, although they were a pair she’d owned for several years. Today she chose them for comfort, rather than style. She pulled her hair away from the sides of her face and fastened it at the nape of her neck with a tortoise shell clip.

She glanced down at her fingernails and frowned. The nails were short and unpolished, with one broken to the quick thanks to Nelson Brownlee, but they were clean. In her line of work, polished fingernails were the last thing she was concerned with.

After swiping her lips with a pale, glossy lipstick, she flipped off the light as she exited the dressing area, grabbed her coat and headed out the door.

Considering the number of holiday shoppers out on the streets, the drive to Billy Bob’s went smoothly. When Cat pulled into the parking lot, she quickly spotted Marsha’s silver Lexus with her personalized license plate, ALLMINE. It never failed to make Cat smile.

As she got out, she caught a whiff of the faint scent of burning hickory, a tempting hint of meat grilling inside. She was already pulling off her coat as she entered the restaurant and threw it over her arm as she scanned the room for her friend. When she saw Marsha stand up and wave, she began weaving her way between the tables.

“Hey, you,” Cat said.