Cat of Many Lives

By Shelby Vick

Cat has fought evil since caveman days, going from one host to another in his battle against crime. He has, without his knowledge, been followed by his evil twin for all this time. At the end, awareness comes and he knows he is fighting to prevent his enemy from not only taking Cat over, but the entire world!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shelby Vick
• Release date: Oct 28, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452360539

Shelby Vick

Born in 1928 and have been writing since I was seven. Sold five short stories at 19, sold four paperback action books around 1960, and have pubbed many of my own stories on my emagazine, Planetary Stories, which is over five years old. Just pubbed issue 20. Blind in one eye. Pretty good health otherwise. Widower. Spend about ten hours a day on my computer, seven days a week.

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CAT OF MANY LIVES

by

Shelby Vick

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Shelby Vick on Smashwords

Smashwords ISBN: 978-1-4523-6053-9

Cat of Many Lives

Copyright © 2010 by Shelby Vick

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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Dedication

There is one person I’d especially like to thank, because I owe him so much.

Rob Shelsky, I wish to acknowledge you for your loyalty, dedication, mountains of help, and always just being there for me. Again, thank you, so very much.

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CAT OF MANY LIVES

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CHAPTER 1

CAT

TERRILL CARPENTER

Shit, I was going to die again!

This is breaking the cigarette habit the hard way, dumbass, I thought to myself.

In ten minutes the bomb would go off and this ship, with its all-criminal crew and its terrorist arms, would go down to the bottom of the sea--but, dammit, I wasn’t supposed to be on it then!

Why did a handful of Mafia bastards have to pick this time to wander around down here gawking at things?

One consolation: At least Giovanni, the sonuvabitch, would be going with me--he might not be down here in the cargo hold, as I was, but I’d heard one of his punks say he was with the captain. That meant he wouldn’t sell any more arms and also that he’d ruined his last teenaged girl.

Although we’d met once, Giovanni didn’t know my name was Terrill Carpenter. He knew me as a thorn in his side, in a way, but under my nickname --

Cat. (I’ve worn many names in the past but only the nickname has stuck.)

Right now, I could use the eyes of a cat.

The cargo hold was hot and dimly lit; an oily smell was everywhere. The hold was big--had to be, for all the stuff Giovanni was selling: A couple hundred crates of high-caliber arms and ammunition, two small tanks and a dismantled jet.

It had taken me too goddamn many days to find out about this frigging ship and its thoroughly motley crew. It was in San Francisco Harbor the night I located it, and was scheduled to sail the next day.

So I’d come on board as a stevedore--and the crate I carried held a bomb of my devising. I’d stowed away until the ship left port, then set the timers--not twenty feet from where I stood now, between the inner hull and a stack of crates. The top of the stack here was higher than my head. Nearing where I was, but on the other side of the stack, were the excited, gloating voices of a few of Giovanni’s shitheads--who were not only blocking my way out on this side of the ship but situated so that I’d have to cross right in front of them to get to the other. Man, look at all the stuff piled up here! one of them, a guy with a shrill voice, said.

You know what this is, Amaldi?

Sure, Mutt! It’s guns and ammo and the like, Amaldi told him in an aggrieved tone that asked Mutt if he thought maybe Amaldi didn’t have any eyes in his head.

Huh-uh! Mutt shot back, laughing. It’s babes and champagne and new cars--it’s the green stuff!

Both the bastards were wrong. It was dead women and kids, burning villages and terror in the streets.

But it was one load of death and destruction that was set to backfire; it would never make it to the point of delivery.

Now, if only there was just some way I could fix it so’s I didn’t blow up with everything else. . .

Damn, why didn’t I bring a gun?

. . .A million reasons. I was being cautious. Besides, I’d planned to set the goddamned bomb and just get the hell out of here, over the side. Because, too, a stevedore packing a piece in any noticeable way would’ve caused suspicion--and packing a piece taped to my leg or under my armpit would’ve meant I’d have had to toss it away, since it would have been ruined by the salt water during my swim back to shore.

Okay, so I’d been penny wise and pound foolish. I didn’t have a gun. But I still had my brain--and, if my mental clock wasn’t totally off, about nine minutes to use it in to come up with a solution.

But what?

Those goons were coming down an aisle made by stacks of wooden crates

crates that had FARM MACHINERY stenciled on their sides. (Yeah. The only crop their contents were ever intended to raise was bloody havoc.) There was a gap in the crates just ahead of me. I could probably surprise the first one through, pull him back to where the others couldn’t see me or him--but then what? If he had a gun, it might help. If he didn’t, I’d have alerted the enemy and I’d be in even deeper shit.

So what to do?

Then it hit me like a .45 slug in the gut: If I didn’t stop them, and stop them soon, they’d find the bomb! I hadn’t bothered hiding it. Sure, I should’ve put it back in the crate after I’d armed it but, hell, there wasn’t any reason for anyone to be down here! Who could’ve known these bastards would decide to take a leisurely stroll through the cargo hold just as they were setting out to sea? Dammit, even if it meant another death for me, I couldn’t let them deliver this cargo.

I was glad the goons were taking their time and enjoying the view of the neatly-stacked boxes as they strolled along. I looked at the stack of crates and then at the inner hull. The ship was heavily loaded so there wasn’t much room between the hull and this particular stack.

Okay, ‘Cat’--time to use some of your mountain-climbing skills!

I pressed my shoulders against the crates behind me, bent my knees and put my feet against the rust-flecked metal of the hull. Hurry!

Their footsteps sounded closer--a lot closer.

Like a mountain climber making it up the narrow space between two slabs of rock (what they call a chimney), I edged my shoulders up against the rough wood of the big boxes, one shoulder blade pressing while I forced the other shoulder blade up, then one of my feet up the metal wall, above the other foot. Once my right foot slipped an inch or so on the metal--I increased pressure sharply and froze, my leg trembling; I stopped partly because I was afraid they might have heard the slight noise I’d made but mostly because I had to concentrate to get my heart out of my throat and back down in my chest. Or out of my left big toe--wherever it had gone, I wasn’t sure.

Then, gritting my teeth and squaring myself, I continued the process and edged up again.

We could take San Francisco with all this!

Closer!

Sure, ‘til the army moved in. Wise up. Let the revolutionaries and patriots bleed and die--it’s the money we want.

NOW!

I was near the top of the crates. With all the strength in my body, I straightened my knees, pushed with my shoulders and felt every grain of the rough wood pushing its firm lines into my back.

These damned boxes were heavy and they weren’t going to-- Wait!

With a wooden groan and then a protesting sliding shriek, the crate shifted.

I pushed harder, not knowing where my energy came from and the crate tilted and toppled--taking me with it.

I called on all my skills of balance and muscular control then as I brought my knees up to my chest, rolled, then pushed away from the falling crate and spun around so that I landed, feet first, a couple of yards in front of the huge wooden box as it shattered on the floor between me and the others, scattering rifles everywhere.

Even as I backed away, another crate followed.

What the hell--

LOOK OUT!

•and a scream, suddenly cut off in a bubbling gasp, all mixed up with the sounds of boxes crashing.

It may or may not have been a glorious sight; I can’t say because I wasn’t

waiting around to see what happened.

On the other side of the hold, some steel steps led up to the deck. If the mess I’d caused didn’t stop those punks, they’d at least be too busy getting out from under, and then running off after me, to find the bomb. And if I could get myself through the obstacle course formed by the cargo without getting caught, maybe I could still make it over the side in time.

Maybe I don’t have to die again. . .just yet.

Crates and machinery were everywhere, as well as some steel I-beams holding up the deck above. I detoured around cargo, climbed/scrambled over other crates, feeling my old enemy Death panting eagerly at my heels. The bitter taste of fear was setting my teeth on edge.

Yeah, I was scared. Only a goddamned fool wouldn’t’ve been. But I struggled with my fright and succeeded in locking it in a cage at the back of my mind where it wouldn’t interfere with what I had to do.

Somebody’s down here! I heard one of the men behind me shout. I wasn’t trying to be quiet. If they’d been dumb enough to believe that stuff had just toppled over by accident, they damned well knew differently by now. A shot twanged off a steel beam about three yards away from me. Other shouts and shots followed but I managed to ignore the former and evade the latter.

Where was that damned stairway? Or ladder, or whatever sailors called it today? (I’d lost touch with nautical terms--or most of them, anyway. I might not be such a landlubber that I’d tell people I was headed toward the sharp end of the boat, but the last time I’d been an actual sailor, all ships were made of wood and sailors really sailed.)

Uh-oh!

A flashlight beam showed me where the steps were, but the flashlight itself was held by a man with a .38, who was standing at the top of the steps.

Damn!

What’re you idiots doing down there? the newcomer shouted. Voices echoed in the hold: Get ‘im! Watch out! Don’t let him out!

I was still hidden in the dimness but the beam of his light punched swaths in the dark as I ducked behind another crate of Farm Equipment.

The beam slid by.

How much time was left? I had to get by an armed man. I’d done that before, of course, but now there might be only seconds to spare. . .still, I wasn’t about to quit.

It was even darker under the steps and, always assuming I could get there

quickly and quietly enough not to be seen, his flashlight beam would be deflected

by them.

The steps--solid metal with patterns of bumps on them to help keep feet

from slipping--were maybe fifteen feet from the box that sheltered me. Quickly I

slipped off my shoes, tied their laces together, swung them around like a bolo

and threw them behind me.

Who’s there? the guard shouted, shifting the flashlight beam to the interior of the hull. That was another factor which might help me--I mean, who, after all, practices sharp-shooting with a pistol in one hand and a flashlight in the other? It may not be a lot of distraction but it’s at least some distraction --or so I told myself.

As the beam moved, I ran swiftly and silently to the shelter of the steps.

I made it. When necessary, I can move as fast and almost as silently as my namesake--and right now it was damned necessary.

The guard was standing about ten feet above me. There was no side to the stairway, just a metal rod for a guardrail on my left and the hull of the ship on the right.

He’s over here! the guard above me shouted. I heard him!

Shoot the bastard! the one called Amaldi shrilled. That goddamned box crushed Mutt! But save a piece of the son of a bitch for me--we’re climbing over this mess now.

I wasn’t nearly as worried about them joining this guy as I was about the timer on my bomb giving its last tick. I crouched down, guessed at the distance--and jumped.

My hands slapped onto the edge of the steps, I pulled with my arms and swung up--arching my back and bending my knees so my body curved over the rail. My stockinged feet contacted the guard’s shoulders with a satisfying thud; he dropped his gun and tumbled down the steps as I landed on the platform. I scooped up his pistol, stumbled against the door, gasped in a breath and reached for the handle.

A bulky muscleman holding a .45 in one hand and a pipewrench in the other was just beyond the door as I opened it. I put three closely spaced slugs in his forehead.

I was going to make it!

Amaldi! a guy from the other side shouted, fear burning in his voice. "I

think I found a bom–"

His words and life were cut off by the explosion.

There was a fusion of sound, of flying metal, of pain, of blinding light, of pressure, of pain, of searing heat and of pain.

Maybe Alley Oop had been right--maybe you shouldn’t oughta go up against Giovanni Allesandro. . .

CHAPTER 2

CAT

SAM KUBIAK

When I went to sleep that night, I had attached the new gadget to my head by a couple of electrodes. It was an experimental device designed – the scientists hoped – to record dreams. I called it the Dream Machine. Scientists had known for a long time that the sleeping brain seemed almost unlimited in its potential. How many great ideas had come from dreams? Take Mary Shelley waking up with the concept of an entire new type of fiction, as one example. Then others thought that many of DaVinci’s great ideas came in his sleep, or when in a trance.

In any case, it had appealed to me, enough so that I had agreed to test it.

I had no idea what it was going to develop.

CAT

It hurt, leaving Terry Carpenter. Literally.

I have died many violent deaths but few are as agonizing as being blown to pieces. That microsecond stretched out unbearably and every molecule of my physical being seemed to shriek with pain as it was torn asunder.

A violent termination is traumatic and to be avoided as often as possible.

There’s no serenity in expiring from a knife in your back, a bullet through your throat or acid melting the flesh from your bones. Unfortunately for me, those are about the only kind of endings I’ve ever experienced.

As you may have assumed, dying isn’t my favorite pastime.

Since it would take a detectable segment of eternity, my dying thoughts weren’t a replay of my lives or even my life as Terry Carpenter--just the last few weeks.

CAT

TERRILL CARPENTER

San Francisco. Hills, history and humidity; the Bay and the gays--cable cars and Fisherman’s Wharf. On a clear day you can see, for about an hour or so, but only if you’re lucky.

As Terrill Carpenter I was in a small bar in a warehouse district when I got my first break.

She was young.

She was also as edgy as a broken beer bottle and wore more makeup than Tammy Faye Baker, including thick purple eye-shadow and what I couldn’t help but think of as Texas Chainsaw mascara painted on her lashes. Trying to hide under all that gunk was a scared girl who couldn’t be more than eighteen years old.

You’re buying information about Allesandro, right?

Standing next to me in the dimly lit bar, she whispered the words to her reflection in the mirror behind assorted bottles. Her glossy red lips hardly moved.

Don’t look at me! she hissed frantically as I started to turn my head. I’m dead if they know I talked to you.

Fear gibbered in the reflection of her black-rimmed eyes. I knew even her frantic warning wouldn’t have carried to the bar-tender at the far end of the bar, while the nearest slob on a stool was seven or eight feet away and interested only in his beer. It was near closing time and there weren’t many customers.

I’m buying, if you got what I want, I told the mirror.

"Names, addresses and the combination to a safe where they keep records

if that’s what you want. But it’s gonna cost."

I got a thou on me.

She giggled nervously and I knew then that she was dancing on the rim of hysteria. No, she whispered back, and it took a lot out of her to keep panic from chasing her out into the night. I’ve got to get away. I’ve got to get to where they can’t find me. I’ve got to have enough to run far and set up a new life.

Nodding, I said, Fine. Let’s talk. My car’s a dark green Saab, parked across the street. In just a few seconds I’ll go to the john; you stay here a minute or two, then go wait in my car. Putting a bill on the polished bar by my glass, I turned and went to the back of the bar.

The owner had gotten cute; the door I went through said Buoys while the one immediately beyond it said Gulls.

I hate cute.

As I pushed the door open, I glanced back. She was smart enough to still be there, polishing off her drink.

. . .Or maybe she needed the rest of the drink to give her the courage she needed to follow through on what she’d started.

I walked into the sickly sweet smell of unwashed urinals, relieved my bladder of some of the beer I’d downed and wondered if she’d really go to my car or if she’d break and run. Neither would surprise me.

| I lit a non-filter Camel. Filters were taking over everywhere but I’d seen the trend coming and bought a couple of cases. I keep them in cold storage, and thaw a carton at a time. Sure, cigarettes are harmful and these, I guess, the worst of all. But if you’re going to smoke, then smoke. After I smoked up all of them, I guessed I’d quit. . .or learn to break off the filters.

I’d been in San Francisco for two weeks. In a way, I was working for the government--or maybe with would be more like it. As always, I had only one drive: Get the bad guys. Corny, huh? Well, you ain’t heard the half of it. I–

Ahhh, no; it’s the wrong time and place to start, so more about that later, if I get time.

Anyhow, I’d been tipped that a major arms dealer was working out of the Bay Area, selling guns and arms and tanks and planes and other ‘fun’ things to the highest bidder. If I could nail him and prove my case, it would be one more successful step. Better yet, I hoped I could tie him in with a bastard on the East Coast, even higher up the line.

I knew who the higher-up was, a top executive named Carlo Sturmbellini. But knowing and proving are two different things; there was no proof and, to people who didn’t know what I did, Sturmbellini probably seemed squeaky clean. I wanted to prove the clean sonuvabitch had other people’s blood under his well-manicured fingernails.

I also wanted to succeed in cutting off this arm of crime’s Hydra.

I took a last drag on the Camel and ground the butt out in the sand-filled standing ashtray.

Time to go.

When I stepped outside the place, my first thought was that the chick must’ve bolted; the streetlights