Elaine Faber

An edited scene from Black Cat and the Lethal Lawyer

 

Wilbur parked his Jeep about a quarter mile from the barn behind a pile of boulders. He stuffed a pair of black gloves and a lady’s stocking into his jacket pocket. He crept along the desert, moving from one clump of shrubs to the next until he heard music coming from the barn where the dance was already in full swing. The aroma of spicy barbecued chicken drifting through the air made his mouth water.

Wilbur swallowed and licked his lips. It had been a long time since lunch. His stomach growled. Waves of nausea spread through him, partly from hunger and partly from nervousness, thinking of what he was about to do.

The shrubs and garden structures concealed his movements as he circled the yard and approached Mrs. Milton’s house. Wilbur opened the screen door and tiptoed through the kitchen. He paused to listen. No sound except for the faint music drifting from the barn. He crept up the back stairs, knowing Mrs. Martin hadn’t attended the barn dance due to a sprained ankle.

The hallway was in semi-darkness except for a small scented candle burning on the hall table. Wilbur removed the stocking from his pocket and pulled it over his head. He tightened his fingers around a heavy metal flashlight as he approached Mrs. Martin’s room, where a thin stream of light shone beneath her bedroom door. The sweat felt sticky inside his gloves as he reached for the doorknob. He paused, hearing voices inside the bedroom. She was awake, and someone was in there with her.  

Wilbur hurried across the hall into the bathroom, left the door slightly ajar, and peered through the crack in the door, willing the person to leave so he could get on with his task.

He stood in the dark, thinking about what he must do. It was a shame he had to kill her. He actually liked the old woman, but now she was talking about leaving her fortune to one of her grandchildren and he had to act before she changed her will.

It seemed like hours until the housekeeper came out the door, carrying a dinner tray with the little marmalade cat winding around her feet.

“Alright, little one. Come with me to the kitchen and I’ll get you a treat,” he heard her say. The cat turned and looked back. Wilbur froze. Had she heard something? Would she come back and give away his hiding place? Wilbur closed his eyes. Within a few seconds, he heard the kitchen door click. He let out his breath with a gasp and realized he’d been holding it.

The hallway was quiet. Mrs. Lassiter’s light went out. He stood in the dark, counting to 1000, waiting for her to go to sleep, going over every detail; how he would kill her with the flashlight, then run down the back stairs to his Jeep, rush back to the motel, and pretend great shock and disbelief tomorrow when he heard of her most unfortunate demise.

When he felt enough time had elapsed, he gripped the flashlight, held his breath, slowly turned the doorknob, and pushed open Mrs. Lassiter’s bedroom door.

****

The big black and white cat lay snuggled close to her side, drifting between wakefulness and sleep, comfortable and warm, listening to the music drifting through the window. The sound of the doorknob turning brought him fully awake. His ears pricked forward. He jumped silently from the bed onto the floor and then eased to the top of the dresser by the door. He crouched, his gaze riveted on the doorknob as it gradually turned. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His muscles tensed.

He waited.

The door inched open.

The next moment, the door flung open and a dark figure rushed across the room to Mrs. Martin’s bed. The intruder swung the flashlight, striking the sleeping woman’s temple. Blood flowed from the wound, and she lay still as blood seeped into the pillow beneath her head. Thumper shrieked and leaped from the dresser onto the killer’s back, digging his claws into the man’s shoulders.

Wilbur screamed and dropped the flashlight. He jerked from side to side, trying to dislodge his attacker. Thumper’s fangs sank deep into the flesh of his neck. Wilbur grabbed the squirming cat around the throat, yanked him loose, and flung him across the room. He screamed again as the cat’s teeth left a gaping hole where his teeth had been embedded in the flesh. Blood poured from the bite, dripped down his back, and spattered across the bed. Thumper’s body whacked into the dresser, and he lay still on the floor. Wilbur rushed from the room and down the back stairs. His heart pounded as if it would explode through his chest.  The scratches around his ears stung, and the bite in the back of his neck throbbed. From time to time, he reached up and touched the wound in his neck, cursing the beast.

All his plans were in ruins. His alibi was in shambles. His blood and DNA were at the crime scene, thanks to the cat. It wouldn’t take the police long to connect the dots, and his alibi wouldn’t hold water. He had planned that by the time the body was found, he would be safely out of town.

Now the cat was literally out of the bag, and the house was in an uproar, and he was nowhere near his motel and an alibi.

Wilber clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, furious that a cat had foiled his plan. He hoped the damn thing broke its neck when it hit the dresser. He smiled at the thought and stumbled on through the darkness. He felt a sense of relief when the shadow of his jeep loomed in the distance.

Now he had to decide what to do. Should he go back to the motel and tough it out? No, they would be able to test the blood in the bedroom and prove he was the attacker. There wasn’t any choice. He had to leave the country.

He smiled at the sight of his 1945 Jeep. A smile flitted across his face and quickly disappeared when another stab of pain surged through the back of his neck.

He grabbed the steering wheel and flung himself through the open door into the driver’s seat. He turned the key and pressed the starter on the floor. There was a click as the solenoid tried to engage the starter motor, but it didn’t have enough power to turn over the engine. He pressed it again. There was a click and then silence as the battery went completely dead. Vintage cars were always temperamental.

Wilbur slammed the steering wheel with the butt of his hand. Now what? The Mexican border was only four miles away. And how would that work? They’d be watching for his car at the border. Oh, look there. Here comes the only 1945 restored Jeep in the state of Texas. Do you think it's Wilbur Breckinridge, the guy with no alibi, a chomp out of the back of his neck, and blood all over his clothes? Do you think?

Forget the border. Wilbur scooted down in the seat to sleep, stifling a yawn. He’d make a better plan in the morning.

He awoke with a start. For a moment, he wondered what he was doing, sitting in his jeep in the middle of the desert. He shuddered at the memory of Mrs. Martin’s blood-soaked head. My God, I did it. I killed her. 

Pain pulsed through the back of his neck. He touched the cat bite, and his hand came away with tinges of blood on his fingers. He wiped his hand on his pants and cursed.

Wilbur’s heart leaped with the thought that maybe the Jeep would start this morning. He turned the key, hit the starter, and crossed his fingers. Click. Click. Nothing.

He stepped out of the Jeep and pulled his rifle from its vintage scabbard by the front fender. He slammed the bolt back and then forward, chambering a round, and set the safety. With the sharp metallic clank, all the desert sounds went silent. Wilbur ran his hand lovingly over the front fender, bidding his beloved vehicle farewell forever, and started walking toward the canyon and the destiny that awaited him.

***

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