The Feline Spy by Jos Van Brussel

Author:Jos Van Brussel
Language: eng
Format: mobi

Chapter 20 - Brutus Has a Theory

I sagged a little, for the last thing I wanted now was to get into a tussle with that horrid Persian. “Just passing through,” I said casually, as I picked up my pace. Once in my own garden, Brutus usually backs off. Zack has a way of chasing him away that doesn’t appeal to the big brute’s sense of self-esteem. No bully likes to be bullied by the bigger bully. Not that Zack is a bully, but he is big, and he hates Moppett’s guts, a sentiment he courteously extends to all things Moppett, including Brutus.

I was just about to hop through the fence to the safety of my own yard, when Brutus cut me off. He’s one of those cats who likes to play with his victims before pouncing on them. Much the same way I like to play with a mouse before… Now that I come to think of it, perhaps this, once again, is Karma at work?

“Tell me something,” Brutus snarled, blocking my safe passage. “Have you told anyone about our little conversation?”

I frowned. “What conversation?” So much had happened that night that I honestly didn’t remember.

He looked none too pleased at the deficiency of my memory. “The ghost,” he barked. “The napmares I’ve been having about the dead broad. You remember? You told me to see Dana about them.”

“Oh, that’s right,” I said, greatly relieved. “You did tell me about those.” I now realized that Brutus seemed oddly perplexed. And what I’d mistaken for his usual ruffian demeanor was merely a front to hide his perturbation at a phenomenon he didn’t understand and therefore feared.

“Well, I went to see Dana.”

“And how did it go?”

“Not too well,” he said gruffly, as he stared at his paws. “She was with three ugly-looking brutes who told me to take a hike the moment I approached her. Dana herself was busy, she said, and if I could come back some other time. Too busy,” he scoffed. “Can you beat it? Too busy to help out her fellow cat?”

“I met those Peterbalds,” I said, for lack of anything better to say. “They’re not nice.”

“Not nice! That’s the understatement of the year, buddy!”

It was the first time that Brutus had ever referred to me with this epitaph, which was definitely a step up from his usual meatball or fathead. I didn’t know what to say. “Yeah, well…”

“Those guys are animals,” he said, and his voice suddenly took on a conspiratorial note. “I bet they come from Southridge.”

It’s one of those facts of life that, faced with a common enemy, old enemies become friends. Southridge is our neighboring town, and whenever bad things happen in Brookridge, the blame invariably falls on Southridge.

“I bet they do,” I said. I had a theory that the Peterbalds were probably manufactured in a secret FSA lab somewhere, but I refrained from voicing this idea. I was, after all, an FSA agent now, and even though I had yet to sign a formal agreement, I was presumably bound by a long list of confidentiality clauses and whatnot.

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