The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller Read online

  He thought of his son and how the boy wouldn’t hesitate to slaughter such a small animal if he got the chance. He’d already been caught pelting cats and dogs with bee-bees and paintballs. God only knows what else he might have done to them. Face it, Owen. The boy’s a budding psycho.

  Gravel crunched under his tires as he swerved onto his driveway, which cut the last twenty feet through the woods before entering the cleared acre surrounding his house.

  He headed straight for the open garage but halfway inside he slammed on his brakes and jolted to a stop.

  Wally’s mud-splattered dirt bike was laying right where it shouldn’t be. On the floor of the garage, waiting for the careless youth to take it out and thrash it to death on some rocky hillside. Unless it was run over first. Goddamn cretin. How many times do I have to tell him?

  As the Sheriff opened the back door to enter the mudroom, a gray streak darted past his legs and disappeared under the utility sink, moving so stealthily that Owen never noticed it.

  As he opened the door leading into the kitchen, the slinky critter once again slipped past him unseen.

  “Wally, I’m home.”

  No response.

  “Wally?”

  The house was quiet and dark, lit only by a timer-controlled table lamp in the living room. The asshole must be out running around with his pack of junior assholes. Getting into more trouble. Hopefully not getting caught this time.

  He headed straight for the liquor cabinet. Happy to put another tedious day behind him. He enjoyed writing traffic tickets and lording his power over ordinary citizens, but this had been one of those rare unsatisfying days when nobody seemed to be in a hurry. He wished his own son was as easy to handle as the townies he had trained like Pavlovian dogs to tow his party line or keep the hell out of his way.

  He poured himself a shot of bourbon… then topped it off with an extra splash.

  I just hope the little fucker doesn’t bring home anything too big for me to handle.

  Old lady Pemberton had approached him after the last town meeting and warned him that the complaints about his boy were getting out of hand. Had anyone else in town offered him such a genteel threat, he’d have laughed it off, or worse. But Mrs. Pemberton was the doyenne of Greenville’s founding family, and her heirs would be running the county for years to come, in what everyone knew was an ironclad dynasty.

  Eldest son Sanders was already serving his third term as Mayor, having succeeded his father at the helm. And there were plenty of kids and grandkids ready to step up to the plate.

  The Pembertons had founded the town and locked up control of the county long before Owen’s grandfather settled there. Owen understood full well that just like his forefathers before him, he served under the Pembertons’ aegis.

  Owen was the third generation of Sheriff Sutters, an honor and privilege he didn’t take lightly. The Pembertons appreciated his heavy hand, which made it clear that the town was not a playground for miscreants, a reputation first established by granddaddy Sutter and his Colt Army Special.

  But by now it was clear that Owen’s only son would not be fit to carry on the family tradition. Nobody in the county wanted to see Wally wearing a badge and a gun. The family tradition would retire with Owen.

  He threw down a second shot of bourbon, his nightly attempt to drown out the lingering certainty that the day was fast approaching when he would have to inflict true justice on his boy. On that day, he would lose a son and take down a bona fide criminal.

  But he knew when that day came, he wouldn’t flinch from the task. The Sutter legacy will not be spoiled by one rotten apple that has rolled too far from the tree.

  As he tilted his head to shoot back another fiery jigger, the furry gray creature scurried past him and scooted silently up the stairs.

  ***

  Felicia paused in the second floor hallway, still adjusting to the strange new perspective of her cat vision.

  Her sense of smell was overwhelming. She never would have imagined that a cat’s sense of smell was so strong. Many times stronger than it had been in her human form. Right now she was reeling from an olfactory gangbang.

  But one smell in particular drew her attention… the scent of teenage hormones festering in piles of unwashed clothing.

  Her nose twitched. Her mouth opened to suck in a broader taste of the hallway air. A sophisticated array of sensors analyzed the scents and locked on the one she was after.

  Focusing on the telltale odor she tracked it to a closed door at the end of the hall.

  Her eyes moved up and down the door, quickly studying the seemingly impassable barrier. The doorknob hung loose on its spindle, and the thick layers of old chipped paint on the door and the doorjamb told her all she needed to know.

  Rising on her hind legs she swatted at the doorknob with a front paw while rolling her slinky torso against the lower edge of the door. Just as she anticipated, the door popped open a few inches. She punched her head through the gap and slipped through the narrow opening.

  Wally’s room was the messy teenaged wasteland she’d expected. Death metal posters and sleazy magazine spreads covered the walls, which were crudely painted with cheap black paint over layers of ancient wallpaper. Piles of dirty shirts, socks and jeans with skid-marked jockey shorts still tangled in their legs covered the floor.

  Felicia recoiled from the odor. The unmistakable odor of Wally.

  A lively smattering of voices sounded downstairs. Her ears flared open and shifted direction to catch the aural vibrations and identify the speakers. Like her sense of smell, her hearing was greatly improved. With even more range than a dog’s.

  From the sounds downstairs she knew that Wally and his crew had arrived, and were getting a measured earful from Mr. Sutter.

  Dismissing his father’s reprimand with a flippant remark, Wally led his gang up the stairs. Felicia heard the pounding of their approaching footsteps and quickly scanned the bedroom for a hiding place. She scooted under the bed just as the door banged open.

  “And keep the fuck out of my room, ya snoopy fuck!” Wally shouted testily, aimed in the general direction of his father downstairs.

  “Chill, man,” one of his comrades gently urged.

  “Screw that sneaky fuck,” Wally replied. “Dumb fuck left my bedroom door wide open. He’s too frickin’ stupid to cover his tracks.”

  “He’s still the frickin’ sheriff, dude. No sense pissing him off. How many times has he had your back when you got into trouble?”

  Felicia recognized Sparrow’s warbly voice. No surprise there.

  “Fuck him. He knows the day he crosses me will be a day he’ll soon regret. Sheriff’s badge or not. I don’t play games. Not even with my own sperm donor.”

  “All’s I’m saying is don’t push him when you don’t have to.”

  “The Birdman’s right,” chimed Marky Muller.

  Marky Muller. Felicia recognized his voice immediately, with the sibilant slur he’d acquired after falling headfirst down a rocky slope while making an ill-advised audition video for the MTV show “JackAss.” Marky wasn’t the sharpest pin in the cushion and the boys tolerated his company just to see how far they could push him. Wally was always duping him into attempting suicidal stunts, and took pleasure in teasing him that he was expendable.

  “Fuck you all,” Wally sneered. “I grew up with the stupid dickwad. I can handle him just fine.”

  Felicia flattened her furry belly on the dusty carpet beneath the bed as the boys flopped onto the mattress. The box spring sagged precariously under their weight. The ancient slats made cracking sounds and the musty linen cover dipped onto her back.

  She crawled to the side of the bed, ready to bolt if the bed frame collapsed. Sparrow… Marky… Wally… come on… speak up boys. Who else was with you that night?

  She counted four boys total in the room. Four of the five who’d assaulted her. Listening to their voices as their feet dangled from the bed or paced the floorboards in front of her, F
elicia quickly established which heavy boots or dirty sneakers belonged to whom.

  “Where the fuck is Oogie?” snarled Wally. “I said this meeting was mandatory.”

  Oogie. The thought of that disgusting creep laying hands on her, and worse, was enough to make Felicia sick. But of course he would have been there. He was the one who set it all up. The one Crystal saw in the hallway, carrying what she thought was Mrs. Cuddles.

  “I told him to be here,” said Sparrow.

  “The fuck better not be bailin’ on us.”

  Oogie… Marky… Sparrow… Wally… and…?

  She realized the fifth boy was lying on the bed just a few feet above her. But he hadn’t yet spoken a word.

  Wally stomped across the room to his supermarket boombox and popped a CD in. Felicia eyed his steel-toed Doc Martin’s and realized how vulnerable she would be if he caught her and decided to kick her guts out.

  I need to see who that last boy is, and figure out how to get out of here. Fast.

  Her furry ears folded shut as a deafening hip-hop beat thumped across the floor. The bass was obnoxiously thick and dull and it rattled the cheap voice coils of the speakers. Only someone with damaged eardrums could possibly think that sounds good.

  But a moment later the music crackled and skipped and gave way to a loud electronic hum. “Fuck!” Wally hopped off the bed and ran back to the stereo and started pounding on it angrily. “Cheap Chinese junk!”

  “Stop hitting it, dude. That ain’t gonna help.”

  Wally finally gave up and switched it off, silencing the offensive hum. “Every time I crank up the fuckin’ bass, the piece of shit craps out on me.”

  A moment of silence followed. The boys were too afraid to suggest to Wally that he really needed to get a grip. To control his crazy temper.

  “Must be something loose inside,” said the mysterious fifth boy quietly. Felicia tried but couldn’t quite place his voice. The loud bass music had done a number on her delicate eardrums. They were still ringing. “Probably just needs a hit of solder.”

  “Fuck it,” Wally replied. “It’s easier to boost a new one at Wallfart. I’ll use this piece of shit for target practice.”

  Felicia backed under the bed as Wally’s boots clomped toward her.

  The sound of the SUV starting up and pulling out of the garage drew Sparrow to the open window. “Hey, your dad’s leaving.”

  “Of course he is. It’s Friday night. He’s goin’ down to Murphy’s to get shit-faced like he does every Friday. Tomorrow he won’t even remember we had words. I told you dips not to worry. I know him like a fuckin’ book. Here, fire it up.”

  Wally plopped his ass on the bed, which groaned and bowed even lower, almost pinning Felicia’s body to the floor. Her whiskers tickled as they sunk into the ratty shag carpet and the dust bunnies almost made her sneeze. She heard a cheap lighter being flicked several times before finally catching fire, followed by the unmistakable bubbling of water in a bong.

  “Anybody hear anything?” Wally asked.

  Someone coughed and a cloud of smoke rolled like a waterfall down the side of the bed. Felicia tried to hold her breath as it spread in her direction but couldn’t avoid sucking in a lungful of the musty pot smoke.

  “Heard what?” boy number five asked, his voice a pinched whisper as he did his best to hold in a lungful of smoke. Then he coughed loudly, and another dragon’s breath of smoke floated down to assault Felicia’s tiny cat lungs.

  “Heard what the fuck do you think I’m talking about, asshole?” snapped Wally. “I’m talking about Felicia.”

  “I didn’t hear nothin’,” said Sparrow. “I don’t think the little cunt was brave enough to tell anybody anything.”

  Felicia bristled with feline fury. But she was also getting worried, and with good reason. After gathering the information she came for, making a clean exit was going to be dicey. The pot smoke was overwhelming her. Even a second hand hit was a huge dose in her diminutive lungs. She wondered how steady she’d be on four stoned legs. Could she make it out the open door or window without being seen?

  “That fucking bald-headed bitch stopped me in the hallway,” said Wally, “And told me some shit was going down.”

  “Ruta?” said Sparrow. “You can’t believe nothing that bitch says. Everybody knows she’s a stoned psycho. Has been… ever since we…”

  “Yeah. If anything was going down we would have heard about it by now.” The fifth boy was speaking again. His voice sounded teasingly familiar but Felicia still couldn’t place it. Her ears were still a little off.

  “No doubt,” Marky added. “If anybody reported anything to your dad, or if Felicia had gone to the hospital or some shit, they would have started an investigation by now and believe me, we’d have been the first to know.”

  “I guess you guys are right,” Wally conceded, sounding a little less anxious. “Rootie-toot-toota was probably just jerking my chain. She prob’ly figured I had to feel guilty about something. Since at any given moment I usually am guilty of some shit, y’know.”

  “She’s probably just trying to provoke you so you’ll give her more attention. Chicks love bad boys.”

  “We should drag her out to the Point for another work-out.”

  “Yeah. Bald head or not I’d still hit it.”

  “Her and Felicia,” said Sparrow, “We could get them to put on a show together. The lickety split girls.”

  Wally snorted an explosive laugh and coughed out a huge cloud of smoke. Under the bed, Felicia was burning with rage but making a concerted effort to restrain her feline temper. She was whacked half out of her head on pot smoke and trying to plot a way out of the room before she was too stoned to walk.

  “I’m definitely ready for an encore with Felicia,” said boy five, his voice low and smooth. “That shit was tight.”

  “Well she did claim to be a virgin.”

  Felicia’s lips curled over her fangs and a hiss escaped before she could stop it.

  “Shh!” It was Marky. “Did you guys hear that?”

  “Hear what?” asked Wally.

  “I heard it,” said Sparrow. “Sounded like a snake hissing.”

  “You guys are fuckin’ losing it.”

  “Maybe your house is, like, haunted or something. That would be cool.”

  “Haunted by a snake?” Marky asked. “Do snakes even have ghosts?”

  “Shut up and hand me the bong.”

  The bed creaked as someone leaned across the mattress to pass the bong.

  “Watch it, dude!”

  “Whoa!”

  “Look out!”

  Suddenly the plexiglas bong clattered to the floor, dumping a pile of glowing ash that was quickly extinguished by the foul-smelling water spilling out.

  “Fuck!”

  Felicia recoiled from the overpowering stench of tar as the filthy brown water seeped into the carpet spreading toward her. Suddenly Wally’s hands slapped down on the floor and his face appeared just a foot away, dangling upside down in front of her as he reached for the fallen bong. His eyes went wide when he saw her under the bed.

  “What the fuck?!”

  “What?”

  Wally somersaulted off the bed, his boots thumping hard on the floor. “There’s a fucking cat in my room.”

  “Cat?”

  “Under the fucking bed.” He dropped to his knees and made a sudden grab for Felicia, but her reflexes were faster and she scurried back out of reach.

  “It looks like the same fuckin’ cat from the other day. The one we treated to a free paint job.”

  “No fuckin’ way.”

  “It must like you, dude. It followed you home.”

  “Maybe it wants a touch-up.”

  “Or wants to get fucked up the ass. After all, it came to your bedroom.”

  “I’ll give it a fuckin’ touch-up alright. Well, come on. Don’t just sit on your lazy friggin’ asses. Help me catch the little prick.”

  Felicia retreated to the wa
ll and cowered under the head-board as the boys climbed off the bed. She watched helplessly as their feet surrounded the bed.

  “Here, kitty kitty. Come out, come out… and get your pretty neck wrung.”

  “I wonder what cat meat tastes like.”

  “Tastes like pussy, what else?”

  “Tuna?”

  “You are what you eat, right?”

  “Dude, I don’t want to get scratched. Where’s your fucking paintball gun? We can drive it out in the open.”

  “Forget that shit, it’s down in the garage. Just use your belts to scare it out.”

  “Capitol idea.”

  They slipped their belts off. Heavy nickel buckles clunked on the floorboards. Then they squatted low and started swinging their belts wildly under the bed. Felicia flattened herself against the wall. The metal buckles whipped past her with deadly intent, cracking occasional sparks as they smacked into each other or hit the metal legs of the bed frame.

  “Ow! Watch it!” someone cried as a buckle hit a knuckle. “Damn that shit hurts.”

  “Hold it, hold it!” Wally yelled. “Stop a minute. Here, whoa, let me in there.”

  The buckles stopped flailing. A moment later Wally’s beefy arm slid under the bed, clutching a foot-long screwdriver. Felicia darted from side to side as he stabbed at her blindly with the long metal shaft, trying to impale her.

  A ripple of feline rage rolled up her backbone and her eyes blazed with anger. As the screwdriver jabbed past her again she lashed out with a lightning quick paw. Her claws snagged the soft flesh near Wally’s thumb and dug deep as he jerked his hand back for another strike.

  Wally screamed and dropped the screwdriver, rolling away from the bed. He clutched his injured hand. Blood ran freely from the torn webbing near his thumb. “Motherfucker! Close the goddamn window. Quick!”

  “What happened?”

  “Close the goddamn window, goddammit! The little fucker nailed me. I’m gonna make sure I squash that little shit into a bloody cat pancake.”