Cat and Mouse

he left her at our house?

Chapter 30

    I FELT like a traitor to my kids and also to poor little Rosie. I was feeling subhuman as I drove thirty-six miles to Quantico the next morning. I was betraying the kids’ trust and possibly doing a terrible thing, but I didn’t see that I had any other choice.
    At the start of our trip, I had Rosie trapped in one of those despicable, metal-wire pet carriers. The poor thing cried and meowed and scratched so hard at the cage and at me that I finally had to let her out.
    “You be good now,” I gave her a mild warning. Then I said, “Oh, go ahead and raise hell if you want to.”
    Rosie proceeded to lay a huge guilt trip on me, to make me feel miserable. Obviously, she’d learned this lesson well from Damon and Jannie. Of course, she had no idea how angry she ought to be at me. But maybe she did. Cats are intuitive.
    I was fearful that the beautiful red-and-brown Abyssinian would have to be destroyed, possibly this morning. I didn’t know how I could ever explain it to the kids.
    “Don’t scratch up the car seats. And don’t you dare jump on top of my head!” I warned Rosie, but in a pleasant, conciliatory voice.
    She meowed a few times, and we had a more or less peaceful and pleasant ride to the FBI quarters in Quantico. I had already spoken to Chet Elliott in the Bureau’s SAS, or Scientific Analysis Section. He was waiting for Rosie and me. I was carrying the cat in one arm, with her cage dangling from the other.
    Now things were going to get very hard. To make things worse, Rosie got up on her hind legs and nuzzled my face. I looked into her beautiful green eyes and I could hardly stand it.
    Chet was outfitted in protective gear: a white lab coat, white plastic gloves, even gold-tinted goggles. He looked like the king of the geeks. He peered at Rosie, then at me and said, “Weird science.”
    “Now what happens?” I asked Chet. My heart had sunk to the floorboards when I’d spotted him in his protective gear. He was taking this seriously.
    “You go over to Admin,” he said. “Kyle Craig wants to see you. Says it’s important. Of course, everything with Kyle is important as hell and can’t wait another second. I know he’s crazed about Mr. Smith. We all are. Smith is the craziest fucker yet, Alex.”
    “What happens to Rosie?” I asked.
    “First step, some X rays. Hopefully, little Red here isn’t a walking bomb, compliments of our friend Soneji. If she isn’t, we’ll pursue toxicology. Examine her for the presence of drugs or poison in the tissues and fluids. You run along. Go see Uncle Kyle. Red and I will be just fine. I’ll try to do right by her, Alex. We’re all cat people in my family. I’m a cat person, can’t you tell? I understand about these things.”
    He nodded his head and then flipped down his swimmer-style goggles. Rosie rubbed up against him, so I figured she knew he was okay. So far, anyway.
    It was later that worried me, and almost brought tears to my eyes.

Chapter 31

    I WENT to see what Kyle had on his mind, though I thought I knew what it was. I dreaded the confrontation, the war of the wills that the two of us sometimes get into. Kyle wanted to talk about his Mr. Smith case. Smith was a violent killer who had murdered more than a dozen people in America and Europe. Kyle said it was the ugliest, most chilling spree he had ever seen, and Kyle isn’t known for hyperbole.
    His office was on the top floor of the Academy Building, but he was working out of a crisis room in the basement of Admin. From what he’d told me, Kyle was practically camping out inside the war room, with its huge Big Board, state-of-the-art computers, phones, and a whole lot of FBI personnel, none of whom looked to happy on the morning of my visit.
    The Big Board read: MR. SMITH 19 — GOOD GUYS 0, in bright red letters.
    “Looks like you’re in your glory again. Nowhere to go but up,” I said. Kyle was sitting at a big walnut desk, lost in study of the evidence board, at least he seemed to be.
    I already knew about the case — more than I wanted to. “Smith” had started his string of gory murders in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He had then moved on to Europe, Where he was currently blazing a bewildering trail. The latest victim was a policeman in London, a well-known inspector who had just been assigned to the Mr. Smith case.
    Smith’s work was so strange and kinky and
unhinged
that it was seriously discussed in the media that he might be an