Nine Stones

Chapter 1-2

Felix slammed his hands against the steering wheel, his growl of frustration filling the car. The laptop he’d dumped on the passenger seat threatened to slide down onto the floor, and he threw himself over the gear shift to catch it.

If he could strangle Mr. Diaz, his boss, and get away with it, he would. Perhaps he could? Who would suspect the geeky administrative assistant? All he did was keep track of numbers, deadlines, and rules. He was the one keeping the company afloat while the bosses and directors took the credit. Not that he wanted their jobs—figures he understood, people not so much. And in all honesty, he’d be a terrible killer, because he’d analyze the situation to death and end up missing the opportunity.

He’d never be accepted into the secret society of cool assassins and ninjas.

He stared out the window. What if assassins had a secret society? His fingers itched to reach for his phone so he could Google it. He would do it later. No longer would he be surrounded by secret assassins who believed they had him fooled.

The car was a hot box, and he wiped his forehead where sweat threatened to pearl. He squinted at the sun, wishing autumn would hurry up. This sticky heat had to end. With one last glare at the laptop, he turned the key. The air condition spluttered to life, but the air coming out of the vent wasn’t nearly as cold as Felix had hoped. A dull throb built behind his eyes and he ground his teeth.

It should be illegal to dump a shitload of work on someone on a Friday, especially after lunch on a Friday. Felix had things to do this weekend, lots of things. He should…mow the lawn—unless it got too hot, then he wouldn’t. And he should remove Sunny’s cage. It had been two weeks now, he couldn’t put it off any longer—unless he got too emotional, then he’d leave it for next weekend.

There simply wasn’t room for any sales reports, his weekend was packed.

He turned out of the parking lot and steered toward Willow Point and his quiet corner at the end of Silver Row. He might’ve been a little too heavy on the pedal, a little too foulmouthed, and maybe he was gesturing a little too much at his fellow commuters, but once he signaled his turn toward Willow Point calmness settled on his shoulders. It was Friday, the evening was warm, and he could do the paperwork tomorrow morning dressed in nothing but his glasses while slowly drowning himself in coffee if he wanted to.

When he reached Silver Row he was whistling, his hold lax on the steering wheel as he squinted and tried to shield his eyes from the sun with one hand.

There was a bang.

The breaks squealed as Felix slammed his foot down. Cold poured over him.

He’d hit something.

His hands were shaking. He’d never been in an accident.

Maybe it was a ball or perhaps someone had dropped something? His heart thundered in his ears. He hadn’t seen anything. The sun had been in his eyes, but he would’ve noticed if there had been something on the road, wouldn’t he?

He looked out the windshield. His house was right there, less than a minute’s drive away.

On wobbly legs he got out of the car and slowly walked around to the front of it. The first thing he took in was a limp tail. A sob climbed his throat, and he knelt down.

The cat—Kirk’s cat.

Felix wasn’t sure that it was Kirk’s cat, but it was where he’d seen it.

“Hey, kitty, kitty.” He touched an unmoving hind leg, but the cat didn’t react. “Damn, you’re big.” And beautiful. It was spotted and striped like a mix of a tiger and a leopard. The fur was a yellowish brown with black patterns. For a second Felix believed he’d hit a wild animal…could this be a domestic cat?

It was right next to the tire. Had he taken a second longer to react he’d have run over it, not only collided with it. He pulled it forth, dreading to see blood—there was none. The cat looked like it was asleep, but it wasn’t. There was no breathing, and while Felix had no idea how to tell if the heart still was beating, he felt around the body searching for a pulse. There was no sign of life whatsoever.

A tear trickled down his cheek, but he wiped it away and got to his feet, lifting the cat. It weighed more than he’d figured. He hugged it to his chest and jogged toward Kirk’s house.

New tears rose in his eyes as he banged the door and rang the doorbell. Why wasn’t he opening? Kirk never left the house. Felix had no idea what he did for a living, but apart from Kirk going to get groceries on Thursdays, Felix never saw him go anywhere but around the neighborhood.

“Kirk!” He leaned against the railing, cradling the dead cat with one arm as he knocked on the door until he feared his knuckles would bleed. His sobs grew louder and louder.

“Felix?”

He jumped and whirled around. Old Mrs. Henderson was clinging to her cane, and she peered at him from Kirk’s mailbox.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Henderson.” He wiped one cheek, not bothering with the other, as he hurried down the stairs to get to her.

She gripped his arm and squinted at the cat. “Oh dear.”

“I didn’t see it. I came driving and…I think it’s Kirk’s.”

“Kirk’s?” She tilted her head to the side. “Better bury it.” She patted his arm and continued her slow walk up the street.

“Bury it?” He clutched the cat to him. “But I have to tell Kirk.”

She stopped, shrugged, and took another step. “It’s just a cat. Kirk is a nice young man, he’ll understand. Get him a new one if you want to make amends.”

Get a new one? Felix gaped. She clearly didn’t understand the bond between a person and his pet. If someone would’ve tried to replace Sunny, Felix might have gone rabid. Sunny. A new sob overtook him.

He didn’t know how it had happened. He’d been at work, and when he got home Sunny was dead in his cage, the flowerpots in the kitchen window were crushed on the floor, one chair had toppled over, and the mail that had been sitting in a neat pile on the kitchen table was scattered over the room. The kitchen was the only place disturbed, though. Felix couldn’t figure out what had transpired in his absence, but Sunny hadn’t made it through.

* * * *

Felix glanced at the cat. He’d put a towel in a cardboard box and laid the cat on it. It looked cozy, as if it was resting, except there was no breathing.

He’d been over to Kirk’s several times, but no matter how hard he knocked or how long he pushed the button on the doorbell, the door didn’t open. So far he hadn’t needed to see Kirk’s devastatingly handsome face with the strange eyes contort in sorrow when Felix delivered the news.

He slumped down on a kitchen chair and fisted his tousled hair before removing his glasses and rubbing his stinging eyes. In front of him was Sunny’s empty cage and on the chair next to him the cat. It looked like it belonged in the jungle, like it should be roaming free, climbing high trees, and chasing pretty birds—like Sunny. Instead, it was dead because Felix hadn’t been paying attention.

He was a cat murderer.

In the fridge the two bottles of white wine called to him, he took one and poured himself a glass. The cool, fruity liquid worked as a balm to his throat, and the glass became empty too fast. He filled it again, glanced at the cat, and gulped down the wine before heading to the door. He hadn’t seen any sign of life at Kirk’s, but perhaps he’d managed to sneak in without Felix noticing despite having kept guard through the kitchen window.

The night air was refreshing, a few birds were tweeting as he crossed the road. Kirk didn’t open this time either. Felix rubbed his neck. What was he to do?

He couldn’t keep a dead cat in the kitchen all weekend. Maybe Kirk had gone on a trip or something. He hadn’t been away one single day since he moved in, but perhaps this was the weekend he’d gone to visit his family or a friend, maybe he’d booked a flight to some exotic place Felix only would see in magazines.

But would he leave his cat unattended?

Felix walked back on heavy feet. When he entered the kitchen, a fly was buzzing around the cat.

“No! Shoo!” He waved his hands to scare it away, but the fly was persistent.

Felix dreaded going out to the corner of his garden but he couldn’t allow flies to feast on the poor kitty. Perhaps Mrs. Henderson had been right after all.

He carefully lifted the cat into his arms and headed for the back door. When he reached the corner of the garden, he put the cat down on the ground and went to get a spade. He dug a hole right next to the stone marking Sunny’s grave.

Gnats attacked him while he worked, their burning bites were nothing less than he deserved. He wiped his tears, placed the cat in the hole, and covered it with dirt. He put a stone the size of a melon at the head of the grave and stood there for a minute watching the two stones—one for Sunny, one for Kirk’s cat.

When he got back inside, he went straight for the wine.