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 Prowler  (41 ratings)by Margaret L. Carter Page 3 of 4 Emily collapsed onto the bed, weighted down by despair. I mustn't give up. There has to be a way. Too bad she didn't have a link with a huge, fierce dog, instead of a skinny cat. She abruptly sat up, staring wide-eyed into the darkness of the cellar. Maybe she didn't need ferocity; perhaps feline stealth could save her. Once again she searched for her furry companion. She felt a moment's terror when her first probe met nothing but silence. Suppose her target had roamed out of reach? Extending her range, Emily found the cat on the next street, headed away from "home." Her sleek limbs moved at a near-run, as if bent on a particular destination. The dirty, cluttered streets appeared luminous in the moonlight. A pungent aroma tingled in the air. Emily realized it was the scent of other cats. The calico was hurrying to defend her territory -- or perhaps to meet a tomcat on the prowl. Heat coiled in the creature's stomach and spread a flush over Emily's sweat-dampened skin. Shaking herself, Emily shaped her concentration into a sharper focus. She grabbed the mental "reins" and pulled. The cat fought the compulsion. Here, kitty, this won't take long. Please. The cat came to an abrupt stop, ears back, hissing. Emily's thoughts poured into the animal's brain and flowed through nerves, veins, and muscles. For a few seconds longer, the cat dug her claws into the ground and lashed her tail. With an effort that made her head throb, Emily nudged the creature around and forced each leg to move in the right direction. Once started toward the kidnappers' lair, the calico ceased to resist. At Emily's command, the cat's pace sped up, and within minutes she'd reached Bert's front door. Now to get her inside. Inducing the animal to make noise wasn't hard, given the cat's rage at being a helpless puppet. She yowled at the top of her voice. The caterwauling provoked several shouts of, "Shut up, y'stupid beast," and numerous profane variants. One man passing by threw a pebble at the cat. At the sting on her flank, she streaked into the alley. It took all Emily's strength to urge her back to the front stoop. Finally the door opened. Ralph leaned out and aimed a kick at the animal. "Get lost, you damn flea-bitten --" The cat dashed between his legs and ran through the shabby sitting room to the kitchen behind it. Linked with her, Emily heard the pounding of Ralph's footsteps. She directed the cat through the half-open door of the pantry, to hide behind a sack of flour. The cat huddled, trembling, while Ralph stomped around the kitchen. He made no serious search, though, only yelled, "Bert, that bloody cat's in the house. Didn't I say you shouldn't feed it?" "Pipe down!" Bert's voice called from the upper floor. "Who the hell cares? We're trying to get some sleep here." Muttering to himself, Ralph clambered up the stairs. Emily couldn't tell how many minutes she held the cat immobile on the pantry floor, terrified that one of the men might come downstairs to investigate after all. Only when the sharp feline ears caught the sound of three different snores did Emily urge the cat out of her refuge. Now, where was the key to the basement door? The cat's night vision helped, since the kitchen that would appear dark to human eyes looked like a sketch in shades of gray. A cat's eyes, however, weren't used to recognizing human artifacts. Emily had to make a special effort just to get the creature to look above floor level. With no food exposed on the table and no birds or insects fluttering near the ceiling, why should a cat bother to glance up? Her head pounding, Emily forced the cat to pad over to the door that led to the cellar stairs. Sure enough, a shiny object gleamed on the wall next to the door. Emily ordered the cat to stand on her hind legs, braced against the wall. Even at full stretch, the animal couldn't reach the key. Very well, she could jump more than high enough. Not that she wanted to. The odor of metal held no attraction. Emily tugged harder at the imaginary reins. As if making a marionette dance, she urged the cat to leap at the wall. The first jump fell short; the second, though high enough, veered to one side. The cat hissed in frustration when Emily increased the pressure. Emily fed her an image of a fluttering moth that alighted upon the key. The cat sprang once again, and her paws knocked the key to the floor. Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2001 Margaret L. Carter, sffworld.com. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author. The author has submitted the work in accordance with and in agreement with the following Submission Guidelines. |
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