Or, she had joined someone who’d always followed them, now watching him from a distance, waiting to see what he did, where he went, when he was alone again.
It didn’t make sense, either scenario, with Revienne cast as either villain or victim.
He knew what he had to do: keep moving, keep supplying himself with stolen and soon-ditched credit cards, get to a large city. Find some way to arm himself with more than a hokey carved cane, although no ideal weapon came to mind.
“Max” had been facing a lot worse for half a lifetime from what Garry Randolph had said. And his legs were really pretty good, considering. Too bad there wasn’t a tiny bit of level ground in this whole damn handkerchief country . . . !
He recognized the fear underneath his anger at this sudden change in circumstances, this desertion. That he didn’t know who he was or where he could go and he didn’t dare tell anyone that, because then he’d be revealed as vulnerable and enemies could come circling like mad dogs.
Around him the life of the square bustled on. The shriek of the huge buses’ brakes, the rush of babbling tourists in and out of shops, the tinkling fountain, all the ordinary sounds scraped his nerves raw.
No one noticed him. As far as he could tell.
He felt like a kid lost in a department store. Mommy!
Ridiculous! He didn’t need a keeper, or an anchor. It was time he was truly on his own, then.
High time.
Maybe he’d retrieve his survival instincts by finding out what had happened to Revienne. Why would she have deserted him after hauling him so far, with so much effort? Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she’d been snatched.
Maybe she was also a target. After all, she’d been interrogating him for days.
He started over the cobblestones, so quaint and damnably uneven, leaning as little as possible on his cane. A truly lame man stood out. A tourist enamored by an Alpine souvenir didn’t.
He’d start in the shop where they’d bought the new clothes. He’d have to concoct a likely story for his inquiries.
His wife had left the inn to get some extra film for the camera. Wait. No. Everything was digital these days. Some . . . sunscreen for the thin mountain air. Blond, you remember? Very sensitive to sunburn. Had anyone seen her this morning? His beautiful blond wife.
The description felt alien, but a magician was an actor at heart. He could sell any illusion.
His beautiful blond wife.
Like his sanitarium patient name, Michael “Max” Randolph, that just didn’t feel right. Not the blond part. Not the wife part.
From his unease in the role, he gathered he wasn’t the marrying kind.
Midnight Louie
Has Issues
What is a self-respecting PI to do?
Here I thought I was off on a festive stag jaunt with the Fontana boys, and we end up surrounded by mad and murderous dames, and worse, rescued by dames.
There is no sanctuary for us manly dudes these days, not even at a notorious Nevada chicken ranch. And that is another thing. I do not get why they call these establishments “chicken” ranches. They are not ranches and they do not have any chickens I noticed hanging about the place. Besides, chickens are not usually notorious, unless they are running around telling everyone the sky is falling.
It seems to me that if the done-wrong bridesmaids wanted to make a point about being overdue for matrimony, or at least engagement rings, a bordello is not the logical place to do it.
Although I do understand the “last stand” notion of a bachelor party, in which lewd dudes drink and ogle and carry on, hopefully knowing when to stop, although some do not and that is when weddings are canceled.
Not this wedding. It was quite the classy event, I thought. Of course, me and my extended family (and, oi! it is ever-extending, all on the distaff side), are delighted to be guests and are always dressed in formal black to play key roles for such occasions. Miss Kitty saw to it that Miss Satin came along in a lacey off-white cape, and Midnight Louise managed to sneak Ma Barker in for the food line poolside, although the fireworks had her hackles at attention most of the evening.
The only black cat I am missing at this event—besides my old man out at Temple Bar on Lake Mead—is Mr. Mystifying Max.
And what is my esteemed collaborator doing on her own authority, putting him in dire circumstances in a far place?
That is cruel and unusual punishment for a poor guy who broke both his legs and misplaced his memory. That psychiatrist strikes me as highly suspicious. You will recall that the treacherous, or at least disloyal, Persian honey, Yvette, claimed to be French. And you see how she turned out. A little German on the father’s side is not going to cure the French part. Those French females are all femmes fatales.
I suppose I am going to have to nibble my nails over what is happening overseas, where I am not likely to go or be taken. This is a cheesy operation, if I say so myself. There are gambling mec-cas on the Riviera, in Bangkok and Macao, on cruise ships. Why could we not have the occasional holiday case there? Midnight Louie, Intercontinental Op.
My only consolation is that I can look forward to escorting my Miss Temple to her own nuptials. I have become resigned to domestic change. These human beings are terribly independent and self-involved and not trainable, and they will not listen to reason.
It is like herding lemmings.
I, and my millions of kin worldwide, still try our best to make them behave.
And so I will continue to do, as little as I am appreciated for my efforts.
Midnight Louie, Esq.
If you’d like information about getting Midnight Louie’s free Scratching Post-Intelligencer newsletter and/or buying his custom T-shirt and other cool things, contact Carole Nelson Douglas at P.O. Box 331555, Fort Worth, TX 76163-1555 or at www.carolenelsondouglas.com. E-maiclass="underline" cdouglas@catwriter.com.
Carole Nelson Douglas
and Nitpickers
Usually, Louie, I don’t interfere with your closing comments at the end of our books.
You are, after all, mentioned on the cover and the spine, just like me.
I am politically correct in your case. I’ve never found anybody lesser for having four feet instead of two. I realize you contribute a lot to our mutual enterprise.
But you must recognize that some people, perhaps not felines, are very much interested in Max Kinsella’s fate and future. I might point out that having one member of the cast at large in Europe is quite enough.
If you were so longing for a Continental outing, you should have arranged for a history as an international counterterrorism agent and for someone to try to assassinate you.
That said, I think you have truly stretched yourself in this adventure. You’re becoming quite the executive, overseeing the situation and sending your agents out to do the leg, and ear, work for you. Also, you are playing much better with others.
I am even gratified to hear that you’re accepting the inevitability of a change in your domestic landscape with good grace.
On the other hand, I’m also worried that something is very, very wrong.
This is just too good to last.