Catsby: A Novel

Chapter 32

The moment I returned to Catsby's mansion, I passed out in the foyer. It had been a long day, and maybe I'd had a few more drinks at a bar on the Shore. Maybe. That's the thing about blackouts: you don't remember what exactly caused them. You just wake up the next morning on the linoleum in a puddle of sweat and tears.

I glanced at the television in his living room, but didn't turn it on. Surely the murder would be all over the news, but the last thing I wanted to do was relive the horror. I showered and changed. On my way back downstairs, the front door opened. Catsby walked in. Alone. His grumpy expression somehow looked sadder in the early morning light.

"Where's Dandelion?" I asked. I knew damn well where she was: with her husband.

"She just needs more time," Catsby said, slamming the door. "She just needs to sort things out with Tucker."

"You should leave the country, then. Get a headstart. I'll let her know where you're at, and she can join you later."

He hopped into an empty refrigerator box he liked to sulk in from time to time. "I'm not leaving without her, Old Spice," he said, his voice muffled by the cardboard.

The doorbell rang. He poked his head up.

"The police," I said. "Head out the back door. I'll stall—"

He leapt out of the box with surprising speed for a man in a full-body costume. "What if it's not the police? What if it's Dandelion?"

Catsby threw the door open—

The gunshots rang throughout the mansion, echoing in the halls. I dropped to the floor, covering the back of my neck like I was in the middle of a sharknado drill at school. I think I might have wet myself, but when wasn't I wetting myself that summer? The shooting continued—six shots in all, according to the police report. Catsby's body careened backward and landed in a heap next to me. I didn't hear him hit the tile. My ears were ringing. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, like a Zach Snyder movie. It was equally as violent.

When the shooting stopped, I glanced up and saw the murderer, smoking gun still in hand.

Lima.

She appeared to be in a trance. I raised my palms to indicate surrender. I was slowly getting to my feet when I felt something whisk over my head. The next thing I knew, a throwing star was stuck in Lima's forehead.

She fell forward and landed on top of Catsby. I turned my head to see the butler striking a karate pose, his legs spread and bent, his arm still extended after releasing the throwing star. We both paused a beat, catching our breath from the excitement.

Together, we rolled Lima's body off Catsby. His orange fursuit was stained bright red, matted down with her blood. There weren't any visible bullet holes in Catsby's costume, but there was no doubt he'd been hit multiple times—blood had soaked through his backside and was pooling underneath him. I rolled him onto his side, frantically running my hands through his wet fur in search of a zipper.

There wasn't one.

"How do we get him out?" I asked.

"We don't."

"There has to be a zipper or something. What do you do when he takes a shower?"

He rolled Catsby onto his back again. "It's sewn on, Mr. Narroway. The only openings are in the headpiece and down below, for using the toilet."

I stared at Catsby's open eyes—not the big anime eyes that were glued onto his headpiece, but his real, human eyes visible through the slits beneath the cartoon eyes. His real eyes were lifeless. I reached a finger in and closed each of them, putting the man I knew as Jay Z. Catsby to rest. If he had nine lives, he'd spent them all.