Chapter 1
It was another cold December night; the 21st in fact the longest night of the year. The old medic had just finished filling the wood stove, now his gnarled fingers curled around his bourbon; fingers that used to pop IVs in spider veins while going sixty-five on a country road without pause were judged useless now by those who didn’t know better. He didn’t need the wood stove; rather, he liked the dry heat on his old, achy bones. He no longer wore a uniform after he was “retired” during the last buyout a few years ago. So, he had taken off his blood soaked boots for good. He was in reasonably clean jeans, only two days off of the line, faded and worn like him; a heavy, L.L. Bean wool shirt, green and thick with woolen socks. Poor circulation was his curse for wearing EMS boots for so many years. He had always liked the solid colors over the hunter patterns that his father wore when he walked the earth. A Detroit Tigers hat on his head pulled low rather faded and beaten up just like his dreams for one more Ring once before he died.
The low ceilinged room was rather toasty warm, dark even though the drapes were open so he could watch the quiet hamlet down below. The only light provided by the ruddy fire that flickered from the open door of the cast iron stove. There was a bit of snow falling, still not enough to stay, nor was it really cold enough yet. The snow dampening whatever sounds there were, and of course keeping any moonlight from shining though. His thoughts meandered here and there, not really on anything important. After all, what important thoughts did an old man have that anyone wanted to hear?
So his thoughts rattled ‘round, echoing like the sound of faded laughter from this old house. The last of the kids had moved out over thirty years ago, and they barely even called, let along came back north for a visit. They just didn’t have time for a salty old man who could expose the best hidden mistruth with the quirk of an eye. His wife had been in her grave ten years, so there was just him, and his thoughts no one wanted.
He was contemplating about going to Midnight Mass for Christmas, even if it was held at 20:00 now. The Vigil never had room, and the mothers really didn’t appreciate that he wound up their little … ‘kids’ when the Homily was boring, or couldn’t be heard over people who came only on Christmas and Easter and didn’t know how to behave in church. Little did they truly understand the simple joy and happiness of innocent children. He had wrestled with the ugliness of adults for years. He’ll take joyous laughter any day of the week.
Somehow his glass was empty and he poured himself a few more fingers of Elijah Craig Single Barrel, adjusting his outstretched feet when he noticed the cat. The cat walked up to him full of cattitude, pulled out a chair as he sat down by the stove and held out a glass, which the old man filled about halfway with a sigh.
They sat there in silence for some time enjoying the heat of the whisky and stove, when the old medic noticed that the cat’s glass was approaching bottom, snorted a small snort, and spoke, “I guess then it’s about that time.”
“Time for what?” asked the voice from beyond the white cat with a black tail, sweetly.
“Time for you to do whatever you came here for,” replied the jean clad man, “after all, this is your show. I’m just the audience.”
Sighing deeply, the voice from the darkness asked earnestly, “What gave me away?”
Taking a sip of the well-aged single barrel, the medic replied slowly, “The cat. He doesn’t drink bourbon. He prefers rye.”
The smile was heard through the darkness, “Really?”
“Yup. He always had a twisted taste.”
A snort and then, “If you keep this up, I will hurt you.”
“You’re making that painfully obvious.” as he lifted the glass to his smirking lips.
The cat reached out his glass for some more and plopped back into the chair after he was obliged. Then he spoke anew, “You know, you aren’t acting like you should. You aren’t screaming, or begging or anything! You are just sitting there unafraid. Few ever are. That’s not normal.”
Now it was his turn to snort. “I don’t think anyone has called me normal in sixty years or more.”
“Isn’t that when you started on this path?” the cat asked politely.
“I believe so.” he said contemplatively over his glass.
“So why aren’t you afraid of me? The stories and fear of Judgment and Eternal damnation scare Popes, Rabbis and the ‘Righteous’ into wetting themselves, but not you. Why?” he asked, actually curious.
“Oh, I’m a bit apprehensive;” but the cat waved his paw with the fine bourbon indicating that was nothing, so he continued, “you and I have worked together on so many scenes for so long, that I’m not too concerned. You know how to do your job, and you seem to do it pretty well.”
“BAH! That’s not it. And golly, gee whiz! Thanks for the ‘compliment!’”
Another snort, “I didn’t think I’d get that one past you.” he muttered.
“So why aren’t you afraid?”
“You have a … sense of, hmmmm, I don’t know, call it … ‘fair play’, I guess.”
Sitting forward, the cat dissolved into a human like figure wearing a dark cloak, “Go on.” it commanded.
“When you came, you generally took pains to make sure no one suffered needlessly. That old lady with the horrible heart just before Covid, asking me to Pray the Rosary with her …”
“You remember her? Great person, she went gently.” the form recalled aloud.
“Good, I’m glad I didn’t misjudge her. Do you remember the young history teacher with Covid and leukemia? The ‘vid took him before he suffered the indignities of the cancer. Sad, but gentle all things considered.”
The dark head nodded while stretching out a paw for more of the Elijah Craig bourbon, he pressed the old medic more details, “This is really good bourbon, but please, two people do not prove any sort of a case or pattern when you consider all the deaths over the millennia.”
Filling his own glass again, wondering how long the whisky was going to last, the old man replied, “True, on both accounts. You remember that idiot drug dealer who roofied that girl off of Pumpkin Hollow?”
Laughing, the dark form said, “Yes! That was one of my more creative ones! The girl passed out, falling onto him due to the drug he gave her, causing him to lose control of that Porsche 911! He never put his seatbelt on and when they crashed he was ejected out the windshield, snapping his neck incompletely, dying slowly, with the full realization of what he had caused to happened. And the girl? She slept through the whole thing! A few bumps and scratches, nothing more. She did learn to cover her drink and is … yes! She’s still with us!”
The old man laughed at this, a smile for the first time in ages breaking across his face, “That’s good. She seemed like a nice kid.”
Sitting back, the cat sighed contentedly, “I do see your point.” Lost in thought he looks out the window beyond the old man, “Hmmm … interesting. Really? Oh-ho! That was you?! Well played! Hmmm …”
The old medic wondered which calls were being reviewed, and shrugged. Not much he was going to do now. He did the best he could with what he had. There were regrets, but there were also … triumphs. Not victories, for no one wins here, but successes. That time getting the kid out of the line of gun fire was pretty good. Of course he thought, getting a write up for saving a kid’s life was funny. Maybe they were right, he wasn’t normal. That time he broke in through a window to open the choking old man’s airway was another good one. Some triumphs were short term, others, like that girl from years ago, still alive!
Finishing his drink, the cat put the glass down, “Well, I am sorry to say, I have other business tonight, so we must be abou … hold that thought. Yes?” obviously talking to something not in the room, “ Hmmm. Interesting. Well, okay, you are the boss.”
Seeing the cat smile, the old man sighed, thinking, ‘Now what am I goin …” as a pure, white light filled his eyes.
The end?
