Still breathing heavily, Curtis stepped out to see what had darted in front of him, or rather what scurried to avoid being hit. An orange tabby looked back at Curtis, paw raised, before turning to limp across the street.

“Fuck,” Curtis said under his breath, then repeated it at the shattered window.

He squeezed his eyes with a thumb and index finger, took a deep breath, then glanced around. Following the trail of burned rubber from behind the truck through a haze of dissipating vapor, he saw the tabby about twenty yards from the other cats. As it hobbled toward them, it stopped once again and looked back. His heart sank, now wondering if he might have clipped the creature. He deliberated; a feeling of sorrow loomed over, almost boarding despair, momentarily paralyzing him. He shook it off, but the sensation made him uneasy.

Calmly, he crossed the street, noticing a small trail of blood and partial paw print. The tabby, up ahead, continued to hop along, stopping every few feet to look over its shoulder. His pace tapered so as not to startle the injured animal. Ten feet out, he dropped to all fours and crawled toward the cat, which continued to take small steps in the opposite direction. He held its gaze while it stared in scrutiny through the hairline of brilliant golden eyes; it grumbled, ears back, followed by a low, lengthy hiss. As he gently raised his hand, the cat coward down, then rolled to its back, paws up in defense. The other cats took notice and stood from their lounged position. From his peripherals, Curtis also noticed, wondering if they would attack or run, albeit never breaking contact with the tense tabby.

A foot away, he could now see the cat’s affliction—a thin shard of sooty glass sticking a half-inch from the side of the cat’s paw pad, difficult to spot, no less, through tufts of amber fur. Gradually, Curtis reached back with the opposite hand, and from his utility belt wedged between crimpers and measuring tape, pulled a pair of needle nose pliers.

“I’m not gonna hurt’cha, fella. I’m—not—gonna—hurt—cha…”

Another hiss, this one slightly more penetrating.

“Hold—still—there—little—buddy…”

The cat was petrified.

With considerable patience, Curtis reached with open plyers as the grumble turned to growl. They locked eyes. The second the needle-nose grazed the shard, he yanked, freeing the feline from agony. In response, it rolled out of reach and darted into the woods. He looked up to find the others had mysteriously gone as well. Before tossing the glass, he spotted traces of dried blood along the sharp edge, indicating it had been there for some time before he arrived. A strained sigh of relief.

After briefly reassessing the damage to the truck, shaking his head, he lit a cigarette and continued toward home.

The street was comprised of only four Cape-style houses with a narrow strip of wooded area interspersed with lofty pines on either side of the road. Each had a considerable amount of land surrounding it and was far enough apart to maintain a decent level of privacy. If nothing else, the backyard waterfront view made the isolation largely favorable. The property at the start of the street belonged to Curtis, while the last belonged to old man Cavanaugh.

“Christ, what now…?” He mumbled under his breath.

Flashing lights ahead caused Curtis to slow down. He recognized the town constable standing center in the street. It was difficult not to with a small-town police barracks; there were only seven of them—they likely knew you, and you certainly knew who they were. Troop-K, the state police weren’t far away; their headquarters bordered the Norwich/Chesterville town line. They mostly just hid out on the interstate, ready to hand out citations for speeding down route 11 and I-395. Curtis was familiar with all of them unfortunately.

A rapid succession of visions assaulted his already throbbing head; blinding red emergency lights, cold steel handcuffs too tightly applied, being stuffed hurriedly into the back of the squad car. It all flashed through his head as he approached the perpendicularly parked, black and white police cruiser. In the distance, an interminable cloud of grey smoke permeated over the treetops. Standing in front of his vehicle, the constable waved him over, Curtis stopped less than a foot from his highly polished black shoes.

The name tag read: Sergeant Rick; he was clad in the Connecticut standard drab uniform of dark gray and matching Stetson hat. In complete contrast (one Curtis thought to be ridiculous), a royal blue tie hung from his over-starched shirt with blue piping and gold patchwork decorating the chest and sleeves. He was tall, stocky, and had to lean down to reach Curtis’s driver’s side window.

“Mr. Reynolds.” Sergeant Rick said monotonically as he tipped his hat.

“Sergeant.” Curtis returned.

“We have the road closed ahead. There’s been a fire on the Cavanaugh property. It’s a real big mess over there. Been here since early this morning. A real, real big mess.” Sergeant Rick revulsed.

“My wife called. Any word on the Cavanaugh’s?” Curtis glanced at the sergeant, then back out through his cracked windshield.

“The Mrs. was taken over to Lawrence Memorial late last night. She was unconscious. Unfortunately, Frank didn’t survive. Can’t exactly say what happened—the wreckage is pretty bad, but it doesn’t look good—say, uh, you get in an accident? Your back window is all smashed to hell.” Sergeant Rick noticed the bags under Curtis’s eyes as he looked him up and down; the smell of stale cigarette smoke stung the nostrils.

Curtis looked behind him at the damage and back at the sergeant. “Probably vandals. I think a buncha kids were fucking around the mall parking lot all night while I was at work. Am I going to be able to get to my house, officer?” Curtis said, eager to change the subject.

Sergeant Rick hesitated before answering, giving the truck a quick visual once-over before conceding. “Yeah, you should be fine up to your house. Just be careful—there’s a bunch more emergency vehicles up ahead.” He warned, then stood and watched suspiciously as Curtis pulled away.

Curtis, finally reaching the driveway of his chipped, white, two-story abode. It hadn’t seen a coat of paint since long before he took ownership, and was in desperate need, the costal salt air levying a constant assault against the dilapidated coating. He pulled in the drive, threw the shifter in park, and sighed deeply. His head dropped, throbbing, pulsing in his temples; he finally reached for a bottle of ibuprofen in the glovebox, dumping several pills into his mouth haphazardly and swallowing them without a chaser. Frank’s house—what was left of it—was barely visible in the distance, Curtis noticed glancing over, trying to identify the disarray. Since there wasn’t much to see beyond the flashing lights and smoke, he continued to the house through the open garage, stopping for a moment to pan the sun-bleached, blue shutters on each window. It was all on a long list of things to do.

Amy was waiting in the kitchen.

“You look tired,” Amy said apprehensively, also thinking he appeared thin, as she glanced him up and down—much thinner than the last time she’d seen him, but she decidedly kept that to herself.

“I’m exhausted. I’m usually asleep by now.” Curtis, apathetically. He found himself mostly detached when in any conversation with Amy.

“I just got back a little while ago. I haven’t slept either. Did you see Sargent Rick on your way in?” Amy continued to tread cautiously.

“‘Sergeant Rick’? Yes, I saw him on the way in—he stopped me at the top of the street and then analyzed my truck like I’m some sort of degenerate. My blood pressure went up, and I started to have a goddamn flashback. Since when is he, ‘Sergeant Rick’?”

“I’m sorry, Curt.”

“You know… I haven’t seen him since the—the damn accident. I mean, it’s been a long time since, but seeing him standing there, it made it feel like it was fucking yesterday.” Curtis said morosely. As he stood there further thinking about it, he regretted calling Amy or even leaving Mondo-Mart. Maybe if he had waited to the evening after he’d slept to call, she would have been less hysterical and not have expected him to return.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here—it’s been some night. Mrs. Cavanaugh fell into a coma as soon as they brought her into the hospital.” Amy quickly changed the subject.

“I thought you said she was yelling incoherently.” Curtis ran his fingers through his hair, trying to recall the earlier phone conversation.

“This is when I got to the house and found her. The whole night was just strange, Curt. There was this bang, and the power went out. Then later, I heard this loud blast, looked out the window, and saw this flash of light over their house. Giant flames were pouring out of the house all over, and smoke and shit everywhere. I don’t even know how I found her. And she was just covered in debris, Curt, and… blood.” Amy recounted, still in shock, recalling the incident.

“Jesus Christ. I can only imagine what that was like. She was in the explosion?”

“No, but something happened there, I don’t know what, but she was saying… she was saying someone—murdered Frank. And she kept repeating it until she was out. It was just the craziest thing, Curt. I have never seen such a thing in my life. I couldn’t believe it.” Amy said, unnerved.

“Wow, so you think she flipped her shit, stabbed her husband to death, and blew the house up?” Curtis, aghast.

“Well, I mean, that’s a bit absurd; I doubt it. Do you know how old they are!? I’d be surprised if one of them wasn’t using a cane at this point. I can’t remember the last time I saw either of them, let alone Frank. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even leave the house anymore.

“But anyway, what was even weirder was that there were these random stray cats watching from the edge of the woods there across the street while I was waiting for the police, just, like, milling around. I’ve never seen so many—ever.” Amy stood, arms folded, staring out of the window behind the kitchen sink.

“I almost hit one on the way in, in the middle of the street. They were just lying there. Like they were—on guard...

After a slightly awkward silence, Curtis, wanting to flee the room, sheepishly asked, “You okay?”

“Yeah, it was just a lot, is all. Thanks.”

“I’m off the next couple days. Spoke to the territory supervisor. With this storm coming, they want everyone to be cautious. I really don’t know why; it’s just a bullshit tropical storm that’s just going to pass through in a few hours anyway, but whatever. I need to go to bed.”

“I’ll be around today. I called out of work, obviously.”

“That sucks you had to miss a day this early in the school year since you only started in this district not two months ago.” Curtis offered as he walked out of the room, feeling slightly more composed now, no longer face-to-face.

“Your son will be excited you’re home when he gets home from school. Oh, which reminds me, the basement door is jamming shut. Wes keeps getting stuck down there when he plays. If you could find time to fix it, that would be nice.” Amy cautiously smiled.

Curtis, already halfway up the stairs, didn’t respond.

His head hit the firm, cold pillow on a neatly made quilted comforter tautly stretched over a full-size bed in the spare room at the far edge of the long hallway. A small, three-drawer dresser—a hand-me-down from Amy’s parents when they first married—along with a round bedside table, barely large enough to hold the dusty lamp and pink alarm clock which lay upon it, comprised the room—an eclectic afterthought at best. The silence, stifling, as if all the air had been sucked out, was almost deafening, save for the high-frequency squeal of his recrudescent tinnitus. He sat concentrating on it—an act of subconscious meditation, which would sometimes help alleviate the barrage of thoughts and voices—his voice, an incessant narration.

Next Chapter: CH. 6 - RONALD HAVERHILL