THE CAT MURDERER

Chapter Three - Spite

CHERRY GROVE - SATURDAY, OCTOBER 15, 2014; 7:16 AM

I didn't sleep much that night. I tossed and turned, trying to figure out what to do the next day. The thought that ran through my head over and over again was, "How can I keep this from happening again?" as I kept opening my eyes and looking over at the lump that was Milo curled up under the covers next to my feet.

The next morning I was working out in my garage, which only had one car in the bay (my mom's red Ford Explorer) while the other was cluttered with my dad's workbench that he never really used, essential tools, the washing machine and dryer, dusty cardboard boxes and plastic totes of various sizes, and an adjustable bench, a barbell set, a rack of dumbbells, and a haphazardly-built cable-and-pulley weight system. 

I was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, even though a chilly breeze was blowing through the open garage door, carrying in the sound of rustling leaves and wind chimes. My mom kept bustling in and out as she was doing the laundry. Sunlight flooded in from the raised door, so I had to squeeze my eyes shut as I was bench pressing. The sun was warming me up as well as the blood pumping through me. For a moment, I was relaxed and grounded, despite everything that was happening. Whenever I had a lot of pent-up energy and frustration, working out always helped. It was a useful coping mechanism for many reasons.

Suddenly, a gruff voice shouted right next to my ear, "HUP TO, FLETCHER!"

Startled, I let out a scream as my eyes flew open, and I abruptly threw the barbell back onto its hooks. I sat up to see Lynne doubled over, roaring with laughter. 

"Jesus Christ!" I shrieked, out of breath. "Are you trying to kill me?!"

"I'm sorry," she wheezed, standing upright and shaking out her messy curls. "Hey, you need to stay alert, man! There's a cat murderer on the loose."

"Ha, ha. Very funny." I replied dryly.

She started tugging on my arm. "Come on, go put on some deodorant and let's go." Then she gets distracted and squeezes my arm. "Ooh! Muscley,"

I stood up and put on my flannel, rolling my eyes. "I'm not even that sweaty."

Lynne ducked behind me and started to push me forward. "Then let's go!"

"Where are we going?" I stuttered as I staggered out of the garage. 

"I'm buying you breakfast. Get in the Jeep." she said vaguely.

"What?" I exclaimed as she walked around to the other side and got in. I didn't get an answer, so I sighed and climbed into the passenger seat.

"Where are we going?" I reiterated as she turned over the engine.

"We're going to Hal's. He's bound to know something."

Hal's diner was our safe haven. Not only was he a great guy who makes great food; he was exceptional at eavesdropping and spying on the people around town. If something happened within our 5-mile radius, Hal was one of the first to know about it.

We arrived in downtown Mableton at Hal's diner, which was an old, small brick building simply called "EAT" by its big buzzing neon sign on the roof that almost took up more space than the actual restaurant did. Lynne and I walked through the front, and Hal heard the bell jingle and looked up from behind the counter. He was a big Canadian man in his 50s with a round belly, beefy arms, and a shaved head with a grey goatee, wearing a white t-shirt with a chest pocket and a green coffee-stained apron. His watery, beady blue eyes smiled along with the rest of his face. As usual, he seemed elated to see us.

"Hey, hey! What can I get ya, kids?" he boomed over the din of the townsfolk conversing over breakfast and the humming and sizzling of various kitchen appliances.