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CAT AND MOUSE By BLUTO Mick Montana had seen a lot of strange things since he became a working detective seven years ago, but this was the strangest of them all. Five members of the Gamboli Family, some of the most ruthless and bloodthirsty gangsters in operation today, were in his modest Manhattan office begging him for help. He had his doubts about working for such unsavory clients, but the money they were offering was very good indeed. "So, you see, Mr. Montana, our backs are against the wall," said Salvatore Gamboli, who was acting as spokesman for the group. "We can't go to the cops and our own boys don't seem to have a clue. Three members of our family have been killed, murdered, in as many months and we haven't a clue who's doing it or why." "You don't think it's another family doing this?" Montana asked. "All the families are in a truce now," Salvatore said. "What with the competition from the Russians and the Colombians and the gang-bangers, we can't afford to be fighting among ourselves." "Well, maybe one of those groups you just mentioned is responsible," Mick suggested. "Maybe it's a territory grab." "Naw, we thought about that, but what would be the point?" Salvatore said. "The killings were all done quietly, late at night, at home. If they were organized hits the word would get out who was doing it and what they wanted. Why kill three men and make no demands?" "What about one of those mystery men who are in the news all the time?" Montana asked. "Maybe one of them is looking to play the vigilante, like The Eliminator or Night Man, perhaps?" "Night Man doesn't kill, he makes a big deal out of that fact," Salvatore said. "And The Eliminator uses bullets, not fangs and claws." "Yes, you said each victim was ripped to pieces, as if by a wild beast," Montana said. "Not only that, but each body had some parts missing that we couldn't find any trace of," Salvatore said with a shutter. "It's like they was eaten alive." "Well, sounds like it's either Hannibal Lector or the Murders in the Rue Morgue," Montana said, as he stroked his chin. "Huh, murders in the what?" "Murders in the Rue Morgue," Montana repeated. "A famous detective novel by Edgar Allan Poe. It's about a series of impossible murders that take place in Paris in the 1850's. Nobody could figure out how the killings were being committed until someone realized that a trained orangutan was the killer." "So you think some trained animal might be doing this?" Salvatore said incredulously. "Could be, could be any number of things," Montana said. "Have you found any unusual hair or fur at the crime scenes or any large foot or paw prints?" "You see, you see," Salvatore said to the other members of his party. "I told you this guy was on the ball. No wonder Nicky Greao recommended him. Yeah, we found some brownish yellow fur at every house. Wasn't sure what to make of it until now." Mick Montana was a friend of Nicky Greao from their college days at NYU and had helped Nicky out of a few jams before. Nicky was gay, but Mick knew he had some mob connections, until now he simply had no idea how important those connections were. Not every member of the party was as convinced as Salvatore that Mick Montana was the right person for the job. "I don't know, Salvatore, do you really think this is a good idea?" said Tony Bass, at 35 the youngest member of the group. "I heard some things about this Mick Montana. I heard he was a fruit, a cross- dresser. I mean, look at 'im. He's a damn midget." Mick had been waiting for this. The fact that he was less than five feet tall did seem to be disconcerting to some of his clients. And since he was friends with Nicky it was probably reasonable that they'd think he was also gay. As far as being a cross-dresser, well. "Shut your mouth, you leccaculo," Salvatore said. "We are not here to insult this man" "Oh, that's alright," Mick said. With that, he stood up, hopped on top of his desk, did a double flip into the air and landed on Tony Bass's head. A quick nerve punch and the burly thug was out like a light. "I may be small but I know how to take care of myself," Mick said, as he went for a pitcher of water in the office refrigerator. "I do most of my work undercover and what do you think the best disguise is for a 5' tall man? As a 5' tall woman I draw a whole lot less attention to myself." He took the pitcher and splashed cold water in Tony Bass's face. "Ha, ha, ha, ah, Tony, that's what you get," Salvatore said as his drenched associate regained his senses. "Look, Montana, we'll pay you 20 Gs to find out who's doing these killings. Five now and the rest when you bring us the killer." "What if I can't find the killer?' Mick asked. "I don't want you boys coming after me." "Eh, just do your best, kid," Salvatore said. "Try your best and you can keep the five even if you don't find the scum what's doing this. Okay?" "Sounds fair to me," Mick said. "I just want it clear I'm not doing anything illegal for you and I'm not joining your organization. I am an independent contractor." "No problem," Salvatore said, as he snapped his fingers. One of his underlings brought him a briefcase from which he removed $5,000 in cash. He gave the money to Mick Montana and they shook hands. "I'll get right on it," Montana said, and he escorted the thugs, including a wet and chastened Tony Bass, out his door. *** Mickey Montana had to bear the burden of his height, or lack thereof, for all his 28 years. His father was a champion jockey, winner of two Kentucky Derbys and a candidate for the racing hall of fame. His mother was an Olympic gold medal winning gymnast from Eastern Europe. They both stretched the tape at less than 5', so Mick was actually taller than either of them. Not that that was much consolation when it came time for his friends to chose sides for neighborhood basketball or football games and he was never picked. "Jockeys always marry women a foot taller than they are," he sometimes thought. "Why did my dad have to fall in love with someone his own size?" He endured all the expected nicknames in school: Shrimp, Peewee, Tiny. But the worst name was his given name. He had no idea what his parents were thinking when they named him Mickey, MICKEY of all things. His mother told him it was because he was so tiny and cute when he was born she couldn't call him anything else. So through 12 years of public education he had to put up with being called Mickey Mouse. Nor did it help that he had a face that could only be described as... cute. He had jet black hair, big blue eyes, a button nose and full, naturally red lips. He was a cute baby, a cute boy, and, heaven help him, a cute almost 30-year-old man. He was Peter Pan come to life. He couldn't even grow a decent beard. Fortunately for Mickey, or Mick as he preferred to be known, he also inherited his parents' athletic abilities. He was as strong as a man twice his size and he was a first class gymnast. He could ride a horse and shoot a pistol with the best of them. He never had to worry about money or a part-time job, so he spent most of his spare time growing up training his body and his mind. When he got to college he majored in pre-law with the idea of either becoming a lawyer or getting into law enforcement, but he decided being a lawyer was too boring and he was too short to be hired by the police as anything but a clerk. So, with seed money from Dad, he opened his own detective agency. He got an office in Manhattan and endured a few lean years until he discovered his niche in the business. His college minor was theater and he especially excelled at costuming and make-up. So he started taking jobs that required him to go undercover. He tried many disguises at first; child, old man, etc., but he found he did his best work dressed as a young woman. He made a very passable woman with a minimum of makeup and the criminal types he dealt with never seemed to catch on. He had always been able to handle himself and if someone tried some rough stuff he'd prove to be a rather tough "babe," as Tony Bass had found out. Mick didn't consider himself a cross-dresser. He never put on a dress unless he was on a job. And he certainly wasn't gay, although he didn't date much and didn't currently have a girlfriend. Unlike his father, he wasn't attracted to girls his own size. He liked the Amazon types, taller than average women, but they tended to look at him with amusement and dismiss all of his advances. So he pretty much stuck to his chosen career. He was still young, he reasoned, and there was time for romance later. Salvatore had supplied him with plenty of information about the three victims. These were not police reports, of course, because the Gambolis didn't go to the police for anything. Each death was reported to the media as due to natural causes and, because the family owned its own funeral home where what was left of the bodies were taken, there was no way for the police or the newspapers to prove otherwise. The first victim was Vito Gamboli, 62, Salvatore's uncle, who was involved in prostitution and illegal gambling. Vito was an enforcer in the old days, a huge man who specialized in breaking the backs of those who rubbed him the wrong way. Even in his 60s, nobody in his right mind would challenge Vito to hand-to-hand combat. Additionally, Vito was a dog fancier who kept three very large, very vicious Rotweillers in his house. Yet someone had overpowered Vito at his Jersey City, New Jersey home and left his body 20 feet up in an old oak tree, minus most of it's internal organs. Two of the Rotweillers looked as if they'd been run over by a Mack truck The third was never found. One month later the same person, or thing, visited Thomas Melan, 44, ace mob hit man who had a dozen murders to his account. Once again he was taken at his home, in Secaucus, NJ. Melan kept a .44 magnum by his bedside and he emptied it into whoever attacked him. No bullet holes were found in the walls. Melan was an expert marksman and never missed what he aimed at. But it didn't do him any good this time. His body was found the next day in the basement and this time both legs were missing. A little less than a month ago the third victim was taken. This was Camoro Gamboli, 74, another uncle and the second in command of the entire family. He considered himself semi-retired, but he kept his hands in the operation. All mob hits had to go through him and he could condemn a man to death with a grunt. He always had at least two bodyguards around him day or night. They found the bodyguards at their posts with their necks neatly broken. They found Camoro's body in his bed, minus his head. "Whew, rough stuff," Mick said as he looked over the material Salvatore had given him. He felt no particular sympathy for the wiseguys who'd been whacked. He had to admit to himself that they all deserved it. But he was repulsed by the sheer ugliness of each murder. To kill somebody was one thing. To cannibalize them, that was beyond the pale. But the study of all the information reminded him of something that was in the back of his mind. In addition to his other assets Mick had a photographic memory. Once he read something it never completely left his mind. He went to his computer and logged on to the Internet. There he did a search for Camoro Gamboli and found the photo he was looking for; a shot taken for an article on organized crime that appeared in The New York Times less than six months ago. There were four men in the picture, all the dead men and Antonio Gamboli, 90, head of the family and the most notorious mob boss who wasn't dead or in jail. The article told what city each of the four lived in and gave a list of each of their alleged crimes. Mick thought, "If someone had a grudge against these men, or just against the mob in general, this would be the place to start." He checked and saw that each of the three murders took place on the eighth, ninth or tenth of the month, during the full moon. The height of the full moon this month was just a few days away. *** On the night of the full moon the ailing Mr. Gamboli had a new nurse. She was a cute little thing with long black hair, a turned up nose and big blue eyes. She also carried twin .45 automatics in her bag and went by the name Mick. Montana had Salvatore secretly take his father to a hotel far away from his usual haunts. All that was in the bed now was a dummy with fake IVs attached. The house was swarming with thugs carrying heat and Mick was there undercover to make sure nothing went wrong. All the muscle present was courtesy of Salvatore, who promised they were all the best. They were all big, Mick noted, and, unfortunately, some of them thought they were ladies' men. "Hey baby," one particularly big, especially stupid one named Geno said to him at the beginning of the evening. "What are ya doin' tomorrow? I know how to show a cute chick like you a good time." Before Mick could say anything the goon's partner smacked him in the face. "Fool, weren't you paying attention at the briefing?" he said. "That there nurse is the detective Salvatore hired to find the killer. So keep your hands off!" "Thanks," Mick said. "No problem, doll face," the mobster said with a smile. "Any more problems you just come see me, 'Two-Ton' Gallento." "Oh great," Mick thought. "My defender thinks I'm really a woman too." Time passed slowly that night and even with loads of coffee Mick was having a hard time staying awake. Because of all the coffee he had to make frequent trips to the restroom. He was coming back to the main bedroom after one of those trips at about 3 A.M. when he noticed a strange odor in the air. Kind of gamy, pungent, wild. He opened the door to the bedroom and saw a flash of something tawny brown. A tremendous force smashed into his face and he was out like a light. Mick awoke quietly to the sound of a thousand bees buzzing in his skull. Even in his disoriented state Mick knew that he had been assaulted by the killer and that he had better be careful how he moved. He opened his eyes halfway and was greeted by the sight of Mr. Two-Ton Gallento, his erstwhile protector, lying on the floor next to him with most of his insides outside his body. The sight and the stench of this horror would have been enough to send the diminutive detective screaming for the exit, but he was on a job and he forced himself to be a disciplined pro. The gamy smell was very strong now, in addition to the unpleasant odor of spilled guts. He moved his head just a bit and saw something in the dark dining on the remains of the late, unlamented Geno. Mick could hear the smacking of lips and grinding of bones in huge teeth. The sounds were coming from close by, but the room lights were all out and he could see nothing clearly. Mick knew his twin .45s were in the inconspicuous bag hanging on the back of the chair he used as he pretended to tend to the fake Mr. Gamboli. But how could he make it to his chair before whatever was in the room with him stopped him? Suddenly, Mick heard voices in the hallway. "Yeah, somebody turned off all the circuit breakers and you know that was suspicious, so I tried to call Geno or that cute nurse on the bedroom phone and I got nuttin," the voice said. "So after we turned the lights back on, me and Rico decided to call you and haul ass upstairs. I'll let you know what we find, Salvatore." Now Mick was in a real dilemma. If he tried to warn the thugs not to come into the room he would almost certainly die. But if he let them come in without warning they would be slaughtered. He had no doubt these men were bad types who had killed ruthlessly in the past, but did that give him the right to stand by and allow them to be killed without lifting a finger? "Geno! Two-Ton! Are yous bastards in there?" the voice outside the closed door asked. Mick had to act. "Get out of the house!" he shouted as he stood up. "There's something horrible in here and you can't handle it!" Whatever was snacking on the dead mobsters already knew there was someone waiting outside the door to the bedroom and hadn't seemed very concerned about it. It had continued munching away and slowing grinding bones in its massive mouth. But it stopped now upon hearing Mick and slowly turned in his direction. All Mick could see of the thing were two glowing yellow eyes. It had been silent up to this point, but now it started a low, throaty growl. Mick was going to try for his bag and his weapons but he knew there was no chance he'd have time to get them out before whatever was in the room with him added him to the menu. Suddenly the bedroom door exploded. Without regard for his safety or his warning the thugs had decided to enter the room behind a hail of gunfire. One was armed with an Uzi machine pistol and the other had a pump shotgun. Mick hugged the floor as bullets and buckshot whizzed all around him. The light from the hallway half illuminated the room and there, amid the heavy shadows, Mick got his first glimpse of what was behind all this carnage. The sight took his breath away. It was tall, very tall, at least seven feet tall. It was covered in tawny fur, like a lion, but it stood on two legs and it did not seem to be wearing any clothes. This was an important point because whatever it was, it was unmistakably female. It had a mane of wild black hair that cascaded down past it's massive shoulders and a face that was a curious mixture of animal and human. It had a massive pair of breasts that jutted improbably far out on its chest and nipples that were prominent in spite of the fur. The arms, legs and torso were heavily muscled, yet its waist was relatively trim. There was no visible fat on its body. Its hands were big and stubby, almost like catchers' mitts with long, black claws attached and its feet were more like paws, so it seemed to be walking on tiptoes. And it had a long, fur tipped tail that originated at the base of its spine and was at that moment swinging back and forth. The two mob guys were stupefied by what they found in the room and hesitated for one fatal second. In a flash, the lion-thing was on them, grabbing each of them by the neck, one in each paw-like hand. They were big men, both over six feet tall and well over 200 pounds apiece, but she lifted them like they were children, seeming to take pleasure in their useless struggles. Mick decided there was no time like the present so he scrambled off the floor and dashed for his weapons bag. As he fumbled for his guns he looked up to see what the lion-thing was doing. She was still holding the struggling men in the air and turned her head toward Mick. She looked at him with her yellow-green cat eyes and grinned, showing off three-inch fangs and a mouth full of sharp, blood covered teeth. Then with the slightest of exertions she squeezed her hands and Mick heard a sickening snap. She casually threw the now dead mobsters away like a petulant child would a couple of rag dolls and turned to face Mick. Mick wondered if this might be the moment for a brave speech. But he didn't feel particularly brave so he just blasted away with the .45s. Curiously, the lion-thing didn't try to avoid his fire. She just stood there and absorbed every bullet. She shuttered slightly every time a steel jacketed slug hit her body, but Mick wasn't sure if he was doing any damage. He emptied the clip from each gun and reloaded and started firing again and still she didn't move. By the time he was out of ammo the lion-thing was tottering and seemed to begin to fall. He scooped up the dead thug's pump shotgun and blasted her three times in the face. That would have removed the head of any other living thing, but the lion-creature simply fell in a heap - dead. Shaken, Mick poked the thing to make sure it was dead. It did not move, nor did Mick see it take a breath. The relief of tension threatened to make Mick collapse like a puppet with its strings cut. He was suddenly aware of his surroundings again and he realized he was in a charnel house, a room full of horror, death and unpleasant odors. Mick left the room and made his way back to the restroom. The mirror showed him he had a gash on his face from the lion-thing's assault and his neat, white nurse's outfit was splashed with blood, his own and that of others. He used the toilet for a long postponed need to vomit and the sink to try to sponge away some of the blood before it dried completely. Then he called Salvatore on his cell phone. "Mr. Gamboli," he said, while still wiping his mouth. "You'd better get back here as soon as you can. We got the killer, but I'm afraid all of your men are dead." "Figlio di puttana," Salvatore shouted into the phone. "More dead? Who is this killer?" "Mr. Gamboli, I really don't have the words to tell you," Mick said. "You need to come out here and see her for yourself." "Her? HER?" Salvatore said incredulously. "Are you telling me some wacko bitch has killed a third of my organization? Look, it's going to take me a while to get there. I got to make sure Dad's taken care of before I leave. Don't you go anywhere, I'll be there in an hour." Mick didn't like the idea of hanging around in this house of death, but he knew he had to satisfy Salvatore to get the rest of his money. In any other neighborhood the tumult and gunfire would have brought the police in force, but the neighbors knew better than to send the cops to the home of Antonio Gamboli for any reason, so Mick knew he'd have to stay here alone until Salvatore arrived. He straightened his wig, checked his makeup and left the bathroom. Upon re-entering the bedroom Mick had a very unpleasant surprise - the lion-thing's body was gone! He turned the room lights back on to confirm it and yes, that massive body was nowhere to be seen. A swirl of thoughts welled up in Mick's mind and none of them were very welcome. Either someone else had entered the house and stolen the body or... no, it couldn't be, it just couldn't. Mick quickly grabbed his bag. He had a small .22 automatic in it, as well as a switchblade knife and a blackjack. He couldn't imagine any of them being much help if what he feared had happened had happened. The bag also contained his makeup, a comb and other feminine knick-kacks. Mick hadn't brought a change of clothes along so he had stuff to keep up his female disguise; he even had a pair of fit-any-size panties. Just then Mick noticed footprints going through the abundant Mafia blood on the floor. Bare footprints. Large human footprints that looked like they badly needed a pedicure. "Will anything that happens this night make sense?" Mick thought. He picked up the Uzi, saw that it still had half a clip, and followed the bloody footprints out the room. The prints led to the stairway and then to the first floor. By this time, Mick heard the television in the living room blaring out an infomercial for some exercise product. The fading prints led to the living room so that's where Mick went. Before he entered the room he caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. "What the hell?" he thought. "Who's in there enjoying a smoke at a time like this?" He decided to take the slow and easy approach and carefully crept into the room. There, on the living room sofa, he saw a completely nude woman, watching the television, taking a drag on a Winston and guzzling a beer pilfered from the refrigerator. Whatever Mick had expected to see, this was not it. Who was this woman? How had she gotten into the house? Why in God's name was she naked? And where was the lion-thing? "Hello, little nurse." Mick nearly jumped three feet in the air. The woman had spoken to him. "Hey, no need to be nervous, Honey, not the way you handle a couple of .45s," she said in a deep, melodious and disconcertingly cheerful voice. "How'd you know I had a couple of .45s?" Mick asked, squeezing the Uzi tighter in his grip. "You weren't in the bedroom when I was using them were you?" "Of course I was, Babe," she said, in her irritatingly lighthearted tone. "I'm the one you were using for target practice." "No, no, that's impossible," Mick said, as his head began to swim. "How could you be that, that thing." The woman neatly crushed out her cigarette in an ashtray and placed her beer can in a coaster. Then she stood up. She was at least six feet tall and built like an Amazon. She walked toward Mick and grinned broadly. It was then that Mick noticed the woman had some extra long, extra sharp looking teeth. Her eyes were hazel, not yellow-green like the lion thing, but they were too big and too oddly shaped to be human. Her skin was covered in what looked like very fine, very smooth hair, not coarse and unattractive, like most hairy people, but like fine fur, smooth and inviting. The woman got to within four feet of Mick and then turned her back, revealing a cute little tail that came out of the base of her spine. It was no more than 20 inches long, and it was real. "How about a beer, Nursey?" the woman asked. "I hate to drink alone and I think we're the only two here left alive." "What are you?" Mick asked, in a shaky voice. "Are you a mutant? A werewolf? A werelion?" "I'm an archeologist, Sweety," she said. "Name's Katherine Filin, but my friends call me Cat. Kind of fits now, doesn't it? Now, how about that beer? Sorry, but all I could find was light. Wimps." Mick, so incredulous he was numb, nodded his head and the woman, Cat, cheerfully opened a can and handed it to him. Mick noticed she had long, elegant fingers, tipped by thick, inch-long nails. She sat back down on the sofa and Mick, getting into the bizarre spirit of the situation, also took a seat on the sofa, but not too close to her. "Wait a minute," he said, his brain finally beginning to work. "Katherine Filin. Archeologist. Katherine Filin, famous black, female, American archeologist. Kidnapped by rebel forces in East Africa and presumed dead for almost a year. I've read about her, but you don't look anything like her." "Believe me, you wouldn't look like yourself either if you'd been possessed by a demon," the woman said, as she lit another cigarette. "Care to hear my long, sad story?" "Ah, Cat, I don't know if we've got time for a long story," Mick said, as he looked at the living room clock. "The boss of all these men you killed is on his way and he'll be here in less than an hour and he's going to be rather pissed off." "Oh, don't worry about Mr. Gamboli. I'm sure he'll be delighted to see me after all the mischief I've done," she said, matter-of-factly. "Besides, I'll bet he owes you some money for my capture. You aren't a real nurse, are you? I mean, they wouldn't need a real nurse to stick IVs in a dummy." "No, I'm a detective, ma'am," he said, going along with the surreal situation. "Name's Mickey, I mean Mick Montana." "Mickey? You mean Minnie, don't you?" Cat said. "That's Mickey's girlfriend, isn't it?" "Ah shit," Mick thought. "Even this fruitcake thinks I'm a girl." "No ma'am," Mick said, as he took off his wig. "The name is Mick and I was working undercover." "Well blow me down," the woman said, as she howled with laughter. "You know, the only reason I didn't kill you was because I thought you were a woman. How about that?" Mick quickly aimed the Uzi at the laughing woman. "And now that you know I'm a man?" he asked. "Don't be afraid, little mousey," she said. "Cat is full. No more killing tonight." The woman was definitely insane, but Mick wanted some answers. He knew she wouldn't be in any position to answer any questions after Salvatore got here. "Look, Cat," he said. "I want to hear your story because I want to know what just happened here. But before you start, please put these on." Mick handed her the one-size-fits all panty from his bag. "I'm not a prude, but you sitting there bare assed is very distracting," he said. "Would you please put these on?" Cat looked at the unattractive blue garment and sniffed it once. "I'd prefer a thong, but I didn't bring one and I assume this is all you have," she said. "All that would fit you," he replied. "Okay-dokey," she said cheerfully. "On it goes." She stood up and put one leg at a time into the panty, being careful not to shred it with her toe claws. Then she shimmied it up her legs until it rested just below her little tail. It was somewhat tight in the crotch but it managed to hide most of the details of her vagina. She slowly turned around so Mick could see her from all angles. "Satisfied, Mr. Montana?" she asked, then she grabbed her formidable breasts. "Don't you find these distracting also, little mouse?" Mick was starting to turn red. "Uh, yes, sure, but I don't have anything that could begin to cover those things up," he said. "Oh, I might be able to find something," Cat said, and she suddenly leapt off the couch and was back on the second floor in two bounds of the stairs. In a minute she reappeared at the top of the stairs and jumped downstairs in a single bound. She sauntered back to the sofa wearing a T-shirt that just a few minutes ago belonged to the unfortunate Rico. "How's this, Minnie?" she asked as she stuck out her chest, stretching the shirt to the limit. "Peachy," he said. "First, tell me how you decided to go after the Gambolis." "Oh that," she said. "I was staying with a bunch of homeless people and an old copy of The New York Times was part of the bedding. Reading material was short so I read the paper and found a lovely and informative article about the Gambolis. Let's just say instincts took it from there." Mick nodded. He was right! "Now, tell me what Katherine Filin has to do with all this insanity," he said. "I was on a trip to East Africa sponsored by the Chicago Museum of Natural History," she said, as she laid back on the sofa and got comfortable. "I was the head of an expedition and there were four of us along with eight locals; translators, porters, bodyguards, and a professor named Dr. Henry Mustafa. It was Mustafa's work that had brought us to the Kenya-Somalia border area because he claimed to have found a map with directions to Aramatoto, the legendary Home of the Lion Gods. I'm sure you understand that Africa is no longer 'The Dark Continent' of so many Tarzan movies. Many African nations are just as civilized as we are and no one goes over there in the 21st century expecting to find King Solomon's Mines. But if Mustafa could actually lead us to Aramatoto it would put the world of archeology on its ear." "Why?" "It would have to be the oldest find of its type ever on the continent," she said. "It would be older than the oldest pyramid by 1,000 years or more. It would be as important a finding as the fossils that proved man first stood upright in Africa." "Go on." "The only problem was there was a war going on," she said. "A rather common occurrence in this part of Africa, and the map put the Home of the Lion Gods in the middle of no-man's land between the government forces and the rebels. Dr. Mustafa swore that he'd gotten permission from both sides to look for the prize and that we'd be left alone. On reflection, I guess I should have been more cautious about taking his word for that, but what good does such speculation do me now? So we made our way to a sparsely populated part of the countryside and began our dig. We were at it for almost a month and had just reached the beginning of a maze of underground tunnels when we were visited by Manitobe Wazuri, a local warlord and a particularly vicious one. He was affiliated with neither the government nor the rebels and I could tell right away that he was going to be trouble. "Dr. Mustafa went to reason with him but soon they were both shouting and waving their hands wildly. Then, without warning, Wazuri drew his machete and hacked off Dr. Mustafa's head. Our bodyguards opened fire and the rest of us dove for cover. There was a firefight that lasted a few minutes, then shouting in the local dialect, then the barrels of several AK47s aimed right at us. We emerged from the bush to find all our helpers dead or on the run. We were brought to Wazuri, who laughed and told us not to be afraid, we were too valuable to kill. It seems kidnapping and ransoming foreigners was his major source of income and we were his guests until our government or our families could pay up. "We were on the move for more than two weeks; we never stayed in the same place two nights in a row. We were given rice and green bananas to eat and kept marching all day. I must have lost 20 pounds and I felt sicker after every day. Our rambling journey eventually took us back to the dig where we were to spend the night. Wazuri was upset because he'd had no response to his ransom requests. He gathered us around him and shouted for 20 minutes what he would do to us if our government didn't pay. I pointed out to him that the American government doesn't pay ransoms and doesn't deal with terrorists. He didn't like hearing that. "Then we will give your government a present from the freedom-loving peoples of Africa," he said as he pulled out his trusty machete. He took the right hands of all four of us and personally hacked off the little finger of each hand. These, he said, would be sent to America to show he meant business." Cat held up her right hand for Mick to examine. It had four fingers. The little finger was gone. Mick hadn't noticed before. "The shock, the pain, I can't describe it to you," Cat said. "We were given no painkillers, no antibiotics, not even a Band-Aid. I decided I needed to get away from this madman or die trying. "Just then we heard a whizzing noise and a tremendous explosion. It was followed by more explosions and shouts of panic from Wazuri's band of cutthroats. It was either the rebels or government troops attacking. I told my three companions this was the time to get out of there, but they were too frightened to move. Can't say I blame them. But I simply couldn't stay so I dashed for the dig. I entered the tunnels we had just uncovered and figured to hide until the fighting ended and Wazuri was killed or gone. Next thing I knew a mortar shell made a direct hit on the dig and it felt like I was caught in the middle of an earthquake. The ground gave way and I was pulled down with a ton of dirt. I was knocked unconscious and have no idea how long I was out, but when I awoke it was totally black and I couldn't see a thing. I was buried alive and I've always been slightly claustrophobic, so I was very near to panic. I wanted to shout out, but what good would that do? It looked like I was going to die in this black hole. I thought of my 84-year-old father who lives in a nursing home. Who would take care of him? I had no one else, no husband, no really good friends, no children. I thought, well, maybe it's the best thing to die, what have I got to lose? "It was then that I heard its voice for the first time: 'You don't really want to die, do you Katherine?'" it said. "What? Who's that?" I said. "Who's down here with me?" "Someone who has waited for you for a long time, my sister," the voice said. "You don't really want to die, do you?" "No, of course not," I said, still not sure who I was talking to. "But it would take a miracle to get us out of here." "And a miracle you shall have," the voice said. "Move your left hand in front of you until you touch something cold and smooth." "I did as I was instructed. It took all of my waning strength to reach the few inches necessary but my fingers finally touched something cold and smooth. It was a small sculpture of some sort and by the feel of it the workmanship was quite advanced for an object so old. "Now say my name and your problems will be over." "What is your name?" I asked. "Or have I gone mad and am simply talking to myself?" "My name is Malato-Zu." "I vaguely remembered hearing that name before, it was the name of a very obscure figure in African mythology; one of the lion gods. This was too much. How was some pagan god going to save me? "Say my name or die!" the voice insisted. "So, with no other hope, I said the name: "Malato-Zu..." and things started happening right away. "I heard a drumming in my ears, Thump - Thump - Thump. I wondered where that noise was coming from, then I realized it was the pounding of my own heart and it kept getting louder and faster, THUMP-THUMP-THUMP- THUMP. My skin started to feel tight as a drum, like I was being stretched on a torture rack. At first I felt heavy, not just heavy from the weight of the dirt on me, but heavy like I'd swallowed a cow. Then, the heaviness left me and I felt light as a feather. At exactly the same moment my vision returned, but it was like I was looking through those night vision glasses the military uses. Everything was in a dull green haze and what I saw was more shapes and impressions than any concrete details. I was finally able to see the object in my hand. It was a terra-cotta figurine, extremely old, but still in good shape. The craftsmanship was exquisite, of a quality unknown for the age and location. The figure was of a woman's body with a lion's head. The body had the exaggerated sexual characteristics of a typical fertility symbol and it held a smaller figure in its arms as if nursing it. Yet the expression on its face was anything but motherly and there was another small figure at its feet, with arms raised as if begging for mercy. "There was some pictographic writing at the base of the figure of a type I'd never seen before. But I could somehow read it as if it were written in plain English: "Behold Malato-Zu, Bringer of Life and Death." "And then my mind received a single command: 'Dig.'" "Without a second thought I carelessly dropped the figurine, managed to turn on my stomach and started to dig with my hands like a dog. But they didn't look like my hands anymore. Instead of hands, I saw two huge paws in the gloom, furiously shoveling the dirt in front of me behind me. I quickly covered up the figurine, the reason for the whole expedition, and never saw it again. The pain of my amputated finger was gone, as was my tiredness and sickness. My whole being was suffused with one goal and desire - dig, dig dig. "I don't know how I was able to tell up from down, but I assumed I was headed for the surface. I don't know how long I dug, but it must have been for days. I might have been buried in as much as 50 feet of dirt and I dug through every inch. The air was stale, fetid with my own sweat, but I kept digging. I never rested for more than a few minutes at a time. I knew that what I was doing was impossible, but I just accepted it and kept digging. "Finally I smelled fresh air. I dug a few more feet and at last I was on the surface of the earth - in the middle of a rainstorm. But the rain was welcome. It washed away the dirt and mud that clung to me from my long dig and I suddenly realized I couldn't recall the last time I'd had a drink of water. I knelt down to drink from a small pool of rainwater, but instead of cupping the water in my hand and bringing it to my lips, I instinctively started to lap the water up with my tongue, my long, broad tongue. It was nighttime and still raining so I didn't get a good look at myself reflected in the water, but what I did see was frightening - I saw a big mouth filled with huge teeth and two evil looking yellow-green eyes. I told myself there must be some kind of wild beast behind me, so I whirled around, and saw nothing. Something like a rope lashed my side and I grabbed it in my paw-like hands. I yanked at it and felt a slight pain in my lower back. It was a tail and it was attached to me. "By now I figured I must be hallucinating, there couldn't be any other explanation. No matter how real everything seemed it must all be a dream, a nightmare. What I didn't know was that the nightmare had barely begun. I spotted a tall tree with some big branches about 12 feet off the ground. Once again I heard some inner voice. It said, "Jump." I squatted down and leapt to the lowest branch on the first try. "This is one hell of a dream," I remember thinking, then I laid down and went to sleep." Mick was patiently listening all this time, trying to figure out what kind of nut this strange woman was. It was obvious she was a schizo with multiple personalities. She didn't say a word when she was rampaging around the bedroom. Then she turned into a saucy, if somewhat irritating, goofball in the living room. And now she sounds completely rational, almost scholarly, like she really was a world-renowned archeologist. "I'm not sure when I awoke, but it was well past daybreak," she continued. "I was about to climb down from the tree, when I heard voices. I stayed on my branch and waited to see who it was. The wind changed direction and suddenly I knew exactly who was there. Wazuri! I'd know his odor anywhere. I sniffed the air and there was no doubt in my mind; Wazuri was back. I crouched down and soon enough he appeared with three of his men." "Do you think it wise to return here so soon, Generalisimo," one of the men asked. "We suffered some big losses the last time we were here." "True, Hamani," Wazuri said. "We lost six men and our hostages to those government stooges. But they are gone now and they won't expect us to come back so soon. We have some new recruits coming in today, so we make camp and prepare to spend the night." "I stayed in that tree all day and I didn't have any thoughts of trying to flee," she continued. "In fact, I found myself hoping Wazuri had a lot of 'new recruits' coming." "Wazuri had his own tent, but the rest of his men had to sleep under the full moon. I waited until all but the sentries slept. One of the sentries wandered under my tree and I dropped on him noiselessly. I barely swatted him in the head and his neck broke like a dry twig. I didn't even think about it and went looking for the other sentry. I crept up behind him and put my hand/paw over his mouth and nose. I have never seen such a look of terror as I saw in his eyes. He struggled, but it did him no good. His struggles soon ended, as did his life. I visited each of the sleeping mercenaries and killed them one by one. There must have been a dozen of them and I killed them all with ease. "Finally, I visited Wazuri in his tent. The fat bastard was snoring loudly and he wasn't alone. He had a woman in his bed. I didn't know if she was there willingly or not, but something told me not to kill her. I gently awakened her. She took one look at me and started screaming like a banshee. Wazuri awakened and immediately went for an automatic rifle at his bedside. I swatted the gun away and just stood there, glaring at him. I smelled a new odor; Wazuri had defecated on himself. He trembled in his own filth, asking what I was and begging for his own life. I spotted his machete, his beloved machete. I picked it up and handed it to him, never saying a word. He looked at the big blade and then at me. He shouted and came after me. He was pathetic. To me he moved like he was walking through mud. I snatched the machete from him, and, with a laugh that sounded like a roar, hacked off his head with one blow. "Blood gushed over the tent, over me, over the woman, who was still screaming. I put my finger to my mouth as to tell her to be quiet. Then I pointed to the tent entrance. She took the hint and scampered out into the night. I returned my gaze to Mazuri's headless body and once again I heard the voice: "Eat," it said. At this point, Mick noticed hesitation on the woman's part. She actually had tears streaming from her eyes. "And, and, I ate," she said, in a voice full of anguish. "I couldn't help myself. I stripped the flesh from that man's body and ate it all. All the time I kept asking myself what kind of monster have I become? But I continued to eat until only bones remained. Part of me was sick to the stomach; part of me was satisfied and desirous of sleep. I ran out of the tent and, after lapping up my fill of water, jumped back to my tree perch and to sleep like nothing had happened." At that moment Mick's cell phone started playing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." "Hello?" Mick said, happy for the interruption in the woman's awful story. "Mr. Montana, this is Salvatore. We're about five minutes from the house. You know, you never told me if this killer was alive or dead." "Ah, she's alive, Mr. Gamboli," Mick said. "In fact I'm sitting in the living room with her right now." "What the hell?" Gamboli roared. "Is she tied up? Is she under control? It's not that I don't trust you but I have no intention of blindly walking into an ambush." Mick looked at the woman. She gave him a toothy smile and blew him a kiss, then nodded. "Ah, I don't think you have anything to worry about for now," Mick said. "I'd just suggest you have your guns ready when you come in." Mick put away his phone and looked at the still-smiling Cat. "I did tell him the truth, didn't I?" Mick asked. "You aren't going to try to kill them, are you?" "No, dear sweet Mousey, I'm not," she said. "I'm not even going to run away. I could, you know, and there'd be nothing you could do to stop me." "So you're just going to wait for them," Mick said. "Why?" "Three reasons, Precious," she said, as she slid closer to him. "Number one, you're so darn cute. Number two, I want you to get your money from Mr. Gamboli. And number three, they just may be able to kill me." Mick thought Cat couldn't do or say anything else that would catch him unaware, but he was wrong. "You want to die?" he asked. "Wouldn't you?" she replied. "Would you want to spend the rest of your life roaming the countryside, killing indiscriminately and eating your victims? I'm not a monster, I'm not a fiend, but I am cursed and I can't help myself. You tried to kill me, but you couldn't. I hear these Good Fellas are experts at killing. Perhaps they can do the job." "They won't just kill you," Mick said. "For what you've done they'll torture you, they'll subject you to unspeakable pain, pain that could last for days, weeks, months or longer if you don't die." "I welcome the pain," she said, as she heard many footsteps approaching the front door. "Consider it partial atonement for my terrible sins. And if I don't die, I won't be with them for more than a month. Now point your Uzi at me to give them a good show." Salvatore and a half-dozen goons burst into the room with a truly impressive array of weaponry at the ready. Whatever they were expecting to see in the living room, this wasn't it. A very large, somewhat strange-looking woman dressed in nothing but a T-shirt and panties, sitting quietly on a sofa with a tiny nurse pointing an Uzi at her. "Mick, is that her, is that the one?" Salvatore asked, as his boys surrounded the sofa. "Yes, sir, this is the killer," Mick said, not sure he really wanted to do this anymore. "Tie her up, boys, and shoot her to pieces if she moves a muscle," Salvatore said. "We got plans for you, bitch. Big plans." "Oh goody," Cat said, as she was bound from head to toe, "it's just like Christmas and I'm the Christmas goose." "Gag that crazy broad," Salvatore shouted. "She'll be singing a different tune soon enough." The mobsters finished immobilizing Cat, then three of them packed her out the door to a waiting van. As they passed by Mick, she gave him a wink. "Boss, wait 'til you see the bedroom," one of Salvatore's lieutenants said. "I never seen anything like it before. I don't know how anybody survived that mess." "Yeah," Salvatore said to Mick. "How did you survive?" "She thought I was a girl," Mick said, truthfully. "She thought I was too cute to kill." Salvatore and a few of his boys exchanged quizzical looks and then burst into laughter. "Haw, haw, all right, 'cutey', here's the rest of your money," Salvatore said, as he handed Mick a briefcase with the cash. "This is yours for a job well done." The sun was rising in the east when Mick left the house for his car. He could do with some breakfast, but he didn't feel like going into a restaurant in his nurse outfit. So he got a Big Breakfast at the McDonald's drive-through. The girl at the window noticed the dried blood on Mick's white uniform. "Ooh, looks like you must have been working on a bad accident or something," she said. "Did anybody get killed?" "Yeah, a lot of people got killed," he said, as he took his bag of food. "And I'm afraid a lot more are going to get killed as well." End Episode One