Cat In An Alien X-Ray

“It’s my fault,” Temple said, sitting back with a sigh. “Louie just reminded me. He did that paper-cutting trick the other day, which is what made me think of cat scratches at the same time I made the connection between the dead man and Santiago.”

“Uh,” Devine said, “you’re attributing a lot of motive to a cat. Not only in the first place, but in the miffed second place.”

“Get used to it,” Max put in.

Temple glared at them both.

So did Midnight Louie.

Chapter 40

Frank Talk

Matt sat in his living room directly above Temple’s. He was glad she couldn’t see through ceilings, or read thoughts. His fingers were entwined, prayerfully, but the grip was white-knuckle tight and he didn’t know what to pray for.

He ran what he knew through his troubled mind.

Two armed and masked people in Darth Vader–like garb had confronted members of a secret cabal of magicians calling themselves the Synth. They’d invaded the group’s hidden clubrooms at the now-defunct Neon Nightmare club. Temple had just found and entered the scene, undetected. So apparently had Midnight Louie and his alley cat cohorts.

Matt had seen the cat act as Temple’s guard dog and realized Louie shared a remarkable bond with his onetime rescuer. So Matt wasn’t surprised that a gang of cats had gone feral-wild and attacked the invaders from behind, climbing their robes and clinging to their masks and inflicting multiple claw trails on their bodies.

Matt supposed it was like having Freddy Krueger’s razor-tipped gloves slicing you on Elm Street. He’d never liked horror movies, but he’d had one razor wound from Kathleen O’Connor that earned her the Cutter nickname. He remembered the painless puzzlement of the strike and then the shock and burning sensation. That was just from one cut. Having your body used as a scratching post for a pack of fifteen-pound cats clawing and hanging from your skin would be like medieval torture.

No wonder the corny but scary shrouded figures had dropped their weapons and escaped the way they’d come.

Now a prominent international artsy architect had been found stripped and striped with vertical healed wound tracks on his rear torso and legs. One Darth Vader down. One to go.

Neither Temple nor Max knew—and could not know—that Matt had been blackmailed into consorting with the number one suspect for the role of Darth Vader Number Two. Kathleen “the Cutter” O’Connor.

He looked at the expensive watch the TV producers had given him as part of the courting procedure for his own TV talk show. It was only 5 P.M. His Midnight Hour advice radio show ran from midnight to 2 A.M. By two thirty he’d be at the Goliath locked into another battle of wills with Kathleen O’Connor.

She needed to prove any priest, even an ex-priest like him, was corrupt and seducible. He needed to keep her busy so Temple was safe. He could tell no one.

Now, he needed to see the bare back of her torso and legs to discover whether or not she’d been with Santiago that Neon Nightmare night.

Dear God, how was he going to do that without confirming her contention that all men were corrupt? Without losing all chance of keeping her hooked on an interaction that was more about finding and growing some tiny remnant of trust in the heart and soul of a psychopath than playing cat and mouse with a career seducer.

Drugs? Was there something mild but effective he could dose her with? Kinsella might know, but Matt couldn’t do anything that might make Kathleen’s other targets aware of Matt’s desperate game. Kinsella would be sure to interfere and defeat the whole point.

His cell phone rang. He jumped as if guilty of something, then dragged it out of his pocket. He hesitated to check the caller ID, hoping it wasn’t Temple, because he’d have to lie to her again.

But the caller wasn’t Temple.

“Frank,” Matt said, hearing the unconcealed relief in his voice.

His spiritual director from seminary heard it loud and clear. “Matt. Anything wrong?”

“Uh, no. Just a lot of stress at work.”

“You’re the one who made yourself a nightly sitting duck for every crazy out there in Radioland.”

“Only five nights a week, and most of them are just uncertain and lonely, not crazy.”

“Listen to you.” Bucek chuckled. “Made to minister.”

“Everybody’s gotta have a vocation,” Matt said, a bit offended by the glib line.

“Listen, I’m in Vegas. This is sudden, but are you available for dinner?”

“Yes.” Matt jumped at an unexpected lifeline. Maybe he could get some inspiration from a veteran ex-priest now in law enforcement. “This another quick visit?”

Bucek’s vigorous baritone didn’t boom right back. “Uh, no. I’m staying for a while this time.”

His tone and the vagueness told Matt his former mentor was not going to reveal more. Handling anonymous calls in the night had sensitized Matt to vocal nuances.

“Great, Frank. Where do you want to meet and eat?”

“What else? A steakhouse. How about Planet Hollywood at seven?”

“Done.”

“I’ll make reservations. It’ll be good to see you again, Matt.”