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Chapter 16

It isn't until we're well out of sight of Mrs. Wolfowitz's townhome that Jackie finally asks about what's going on. We're nearly three blocks from Savannah's apartment, from where this all began, before I even attempt to explain my thought process. That's mostly due to how insane it sounds even to me: that Jacob Catwright and Howie Wolfowitz not only knew one another, but worked with each other, at least temporarily. So I try to take it slow.

I tell him that I found nothing upstairs in Howie's duffle bag. That wasn't completely unexpected. And there was nothing otherwise out of order in their bedroom. I choose to skip over the part where I discovered the puppy's bedroom. It doesn't feel right and I don't want to ask that question right now, not when my mind is comfortably at work. So, I move onto the vase we didn't notice on our way in, that I saw upon my descent from the second floor.

It couldn't possibly be coincidence that a predator becomes homicidal, I tell him, and we find work clothes at his home bearing the logo of some courier service that is also found at another predator's home after that one doesn't come home. My theory is that something happened in those missing minutes between Jackie taking pictures on the street and the ones he took on the balcony, something horrible. And whatever it is, it may have gotten to Howie as well, something I didn't want to say in front of his distraught wife. Exactly what or why, I don't know.

Thankfully, Jackie is at least trying to be understanding. He doesn't shoot down every word I say with a sarcastic comment about my motives or question my intelligence or abilities. In fact, other than the quiet nod here and there, he doesn't say much of anything. He just listens, even when I feel like I'm rambling, or nearing a panic attack. When I look over to read his face, worrying that he's judging me, I find him sitting in stoic silence, those piercing blue eyes watching me patiently.

I finish telling him that I don't believe that these incidents are some freak accidents, or even some isolated events. Even though I alluded to it when we were at his home, I tell him again that nothing fits right in my head. I describe it like putting together a jigsaw puzzle with two or three other animals, and when the puzzle is finished, finding that a hundred pieces are missing. And upon pointing it out, having the other animals treat me like a mental case.

Jackie, to his credit and my relief, just smiles and tells me we can follow up. He admits he doesn't have a great springboard on the Wolfowitz case anyways and the only thing we lose by coming here is time. That at least calms my nerves, makes me feel comfortable for the rest of the ride. I park in the alleyway beside the apartment building, beneath the fire escape that Jackie found himself atop of just twenty four hours ago. Yellow tape, loose papers, and litter from the media circus and police response flutter about in the low wind. It may be another wild weather night.

"What exactly do you think happened?" Jackie asks as we climb the stairs to the third floor.

My hooves echo off of the empty halls, though noise from each door we pass buzz in my ears. Televisions playing sports, muffled arguments, loud music, and crying infants, the natural sounds of the city. The truth is that I don't know or even have a semblance of it. My only guess is that it isn't natural, that no one, predators or not, just becomes homicidal. Not like this.

"I don't know," I reply. "So far, everyone just says it happened because predators are violent by nature. I feel like, as long as they have a fall guy in a hapless predator, as if they aren't interested in an explanation."

"And you don't believe that, that we're just violent?" Jackie asks, though his tone is too vague for me to understand.

"No, of course I don't!" I insist to him as I reach the top of the stairs. "Jackie, you know I don't--!"

"Hey, Jane, calm down," Jackie interjects, smiling. "I'm not saying you are. I'm just trying to understand what you're thinking, ok?"

As he steps up beside me, I look to him and feel stupid for my overreaction. I've felt so awkward all day, with too many conflicting thoughts, too many competing emotions. I give my head a rub, hoping it'll clear my mind and turn around, humming. The hallway at the top of the building is almost exactly how we left it: annihilated. While most of the destruction has been roped off from the public, it's not completely separated as there is another apartment directly across the hall.

If I were them, I wouldn't want to come home to this. The walls are still torn up, gashes reaching deep into the woodwork, and the floors are destroyed, torn up at the joints. Splinters from the door are scattered everywhere, with the larger pieces having been photographed and moved to leaning positions next to the hollow doorway. The window at the end of the hallway is covered poorly with construction plastic and flutters with the light breeze outside.

At least they were decent enough to mop up the blood. Unfortunately, they did leave all of the numbering, the yellow tape, and whatever debris they didn't want to clean. Dozens of officers, forensic scientists, and administrative personnel walked these halls in a circus of animals, so they left behind a mess. I'm sure the super will lose his mind when he finds out.

"So, if not nature, than what? Catwright had gone completely homicidal by the time I came to the rescue. The only thing he seemed interested in was eating your neck," Jackie continues to ask, trying to follow my train of thought.

"That's just it. When I found him, he was lucid, crying, scared, just some frightened cat hiding in his safe spot. Does that sound like a vicious murderer to you?" I reply thoughtfully.

I look back to see him shake his head and shrug. So I continue.

"There were minutes missing, Jackie, when you climbed up the fire escape," I try to explain as I walk across the dimly lit hallway towards the apartment door, "when there were no pictures. Something happened in those minutes. Something made Catwright transform from a docile, upstanding citizen, into a berserk maniac. There has to have been a cause. One that's being ignored."

"And you think you'll find something here?" Jackie asks, more encouraging than doubtful.

"I think it's the best place to start," I tell Jackie confidently, my tail flicking. "Honestly, none of this makes a lot of sense and I'm still trying to understand it myself. But, it feels good in my stomach. And this is where it all started. If I can just pinpoint where things fell apart, maybe I can find an explanation, one that makes sense."

Jackie hums in agreement, making my tail flick with encouragement. I begin to feel warm again. The doorway leading into Savannah's apartment is dark and covered in a wall of plastic only secured at the top by tape. A cordon of yellow and black police tape forms an ineffective barrier in a small arch in front. It rustles, half ominously, half invitingly, buffeted by the wind gushing in the open window on the other side.

I slip under the yellow tape and then part the plastic over the door. It's completely dark inside, and flipping the light switch just inside doesn't help much. I hear a loud buzz from the other side of the room and the ceiling fan that hung over the living room-slash-dining room flickers on. The singular fan blade that remains attached makes a half-hearted attempt to spin before giving up. The light cast by the one unbroken bulb only accomplishes the feat of making this place seem even more dark and threatening.

Not much furniture remains intact in the room, but what does remain cast sharp, monstrous shadows across the half-ruined apartment, threatening to eat anyone who dares enter. A dining table and a couple of chairs are situated halfway between the small, open kitchen and the living room, shoved during the struggle. A coffee table is flipped over in the living room next to a couch that is all but shredded and a television that smashed into the carpeting after tumbling from its stand.

A record console and a box of albums sits along the left wall, near the television, its lid open and inviting despite being stained with blood. The walls have been all but ruined, with deep lacerations from claws and holes from kicking hooves marking up paint and wallpaper alike. In some places it makes a marked improvement. And while a lot of places are stained red, the large, crimson red mark at the center of the carpeting stands out, a sick reminder of what happened here.

As bad as that is, the only thing worse than how the apartment looks is how it smells. Yes, it smells like death, but it's death mixed with despair and a pinch of decaying food thrown in. As I walk in past the small foyer, I look past the open closet door and see there are dirty dishes in the sink, on the counter as well. It looks like they did have dinner, dinner that was never cleaned up. The breeze coming in from the open window helps, but not by much.

"Looks like they had a nice dinner," I comment as Jackie ducks under the plastic behind me.

"It smells like a seafood kitchen after hours," Jackie replies.

And rotting flesh, but I don't say that, despite knowing he can smell it. Canines have very, very sensitive noses, among other senses. As I look around the room, I start trying to reconstruct what happened here. If I can get the order of events right, I might be able to pinpoint what happened, when it happened, and go from there. I look around and try to visualize Catwright arriving. Jackie fades away from my sight, as the door opens. Jacob's wearing a nice suit, coming to see his girlfriend.

She lets him in, they're happy. Then they embrace. Maybe a little more, she leans up to kiss him. She already has dinner ready and, keeping his suit jacket on, they sit down and have a nice meal. From the smell, I'm thinking it's something with pasta and tomato sauce, inoffensive to either party. Maybe he brought some prepared fish. It sure smells like it. They put the food away afterwards and then disappear for a little bit. There was a small hole when Jackie couldn't see what they were doing. A little of me wonders if they went to screw.

I watch Jackie as he walks forward, across the room. Naturally, he's drawn to the record player and all of her LPs. It's a guilty pleasure for him, but I don't mind. At least he has a passion, an interest outside of work. I wish I could relate. But, watching him makes me think, his paws touching the carpeting silently, walking across the big black mark unknowingly. He chuckles as he looks down at the record that was queued up on the turntable. The player makes an audible 'click' when he resets the needle.

"It's Sitka," he mutters and looks to me, showing me the record's a-side. "It's one of her latest albums. Some piece of disco dance garbage. Seems like most of the records Savannah has are disco and pop. Donna Squirrels, the Hummps, Jesus, what is it with prey and disco? Sitka was alright, but she hasn't been the same since she left her folk rock days behind. Then again, it's still better than when she was married to Junior Burrow. That show they had was awful, both of 'em."

Honestly, I'll admit, though not to Jackie, that I actually like Sitka's music. It doesn't have the same depth and personality that Jackie, or his heroes, have, but it's time filling and entertaining. I'll never admit it to him, but, I thought Knock on Wood and Take Me Home were alright songs on an otherwise forgettable album. They were danceable and fun and sometimes that's all I want. Wait, danceable?

"They danced," I blurt out.

Jackie turns to me, surprised, his fingers touching the spine of the albums in the milk crate they're stored in. Stepping forward, I realize I must be correct. The door to the bedroom to my right is open still and it was completely untouched, so they didn't go in there to have sex, unless they're a couple that don't mind doing it wherever they please. And they were away from the windows, here in the middle of the room.

"What?" Jackie asks, a bit confused.

"Catwright and Savannah," I reply. "That's why they disappeared for a little. They were dancing, here in the middle of the room."

"All that from a record?" Jackie asks. "You sure notice the smallest details. I didn't see the sticker on that vase and I don't remember his work clothes either. Then again, I was fighting to keep you safe at the time."

Hmm, keep me safe, yeah. Stepping forward, I attempt to follow what happened afterwards, following their spinning features from the edge of the living room to the couch. That's where Jackie said he saw them last, sitting on the couch, watching the now-shattered television. A bowl of popcorn is thrown into the corner, its contents half crushed. It looks like this may have been where the fight started.

"Then what do you notice?" I ask him, not wanting this dark place to feel so quiet. "Aren't you supposed to be a detective too?"

"I mostly notice animals," Jackie replies, smiling. "My job is usually focused on them. You know, the way they talk, hold themselves, and interact. Like, I noticed how uptight your boss is. That elk? Very ambitious, dangerous even. I bet he'd sell his mother for a promotion. I noticed how uncomfortable Diana Wolfowitz was with you, until you comforted her. I didn't want to say at the time, but, that was a smooth move for a cop."

I look over and see him give me a proud nod before returning the record to where it was found. Without thinking, I return it and try to move onwards, on with my investigation. I imagine the two of them dancing, embracing, maybe getting a little more physical, as dances are supposed to. He's much larger than her, in breadth and in height, and she looks up at him lovingly. As the song winds down, they pirouette towards the couch.

"And I, uh, I notice how carefully, hmm, you choose your words around me now," Jackie says quietly.

The two lovers turn to mist and I look to Jackie, expecting, well, not sure what I'm expecting. But I find him, looking down at the records as if he'd never said anything. Not sure how to respond, I choose not to and return to my task. I step forward, consciously avoiding the place where Savannah died, and commence searching around the TV area.

Right inside the large casement windows where Jackie crouched to take his final photographs, the couch has been torn to shreds. Kernels of popped popcorn blow as the wind flutters in, pulling and caressing the dark purple curtains that frame the window. A bowl is dumped at the very foot of the couch, half filled with a snack meant to be enjoyed during a movie.

"Then they watched television," I tell him and hum. "Whatever caused Catwright to lose it, it happened here. Call me crazy, but, I'm wondering if this was all caused by his collar."

"Caused by his collar? Look, I dislike my collar just as much as the next predator," Jackie replies, disbelievingly. "I've never once blamed it for any of the bad shit I've done, let alone making someone go crazy."

"No, no, I don't think the collar _itself_made him crazy," I try to clarify. "I think maybe the collar was a catalyst. When I found him, his collar was torn to shreds, as if he had been fighting to get it off the entire time. A bit of me wonders if he had connected the dots, at least subconsciously."

"Ok, sure," Jackie replies, as if he's now just humoring me. "What about getting shocked would make him devolve? And what could've made him get so angry to cause the collar not only to shock, but to shock hard? I mean, dinner, dancing, a movie. What more could a lady want?"

Honestly, I don't know. He is right to think they must've had a really happy, sensual date. This seems like something I would want, or at least I assume I would. Having somebody over, eating something we both love, retiring to somewhere private. But, then life happens and we're called to work, or maybe we find out the person we liked isn't the kind of person we thought they were. Or maybe they wanted something we didn't.

I kneel down in front of the couch and turn the popcorn bowl over. It was marked and dusted when forensics came through. A lot of this stuff was. The popcorn tumbles out awkwardly and then crunches when I let free the glass container. Jackie is still fussing with those records, happily humming. For a second, I watch him over my shoulder and see his tail giving a slight wag or curl. He lifts the albums up and appraises them. I see the one for Sitka's latest album sitting out. It's her covered in gold clothing, chains running to some predator models who crowd around her in an explicitly sexual pose.

She loves that image, those predators. Seeing them now, I guess they aren't as disgusting as I had previously thought, though it still strikes me as at least odd. She does a lot of things like that. I've heard her shows are intense, with her rutting against her band, them rutting against her. She's always been provocative, pushing the boundaries of what we do as predator and prey, as male and female.

"She really loves Sitka, doesn't she?" Jackie absently states. "There's some Rolling Bones, Beagles, Teeth, Claws, and Fur, but mainly Sitka and disco. I hate her music, but I respect her. At least she pushes for free love. She needs to make up her mind what genre she belongs in, though, and what her name is. Bubblegum pop, then folk rock, then disco. The next thing you know Sitka Sarkudian La Jacque Barrow Allhog be performing at the SheePGB with spiked hair and fake horns doing the punk rocker thing. If you started wearing fake antlers, I'd stop talking to you."

Free love?

"Yeah, there were posters in her bedroom," I reply, glad for a bit of distraction. "She seemed to really like her. She liked her band a lot more."

Jackie hums at that observation, not creeped out by it at all. So, what, they were watching a movie on television? They had just finished eating, at least that's what Jackie thought they did, and they were here on the couch. Obviously they were getting close, maybe even getting physical. I think Savannah probably thought the same way, about free love, pushing the boundaries. Maybe she finally found hers.

"What do you think she saw in him?" I ask Jackie as he continues to thumb through the albums.

"Why ask me?" Jackie asks sharply, pausing his perusing and flicking his tail.

"I'm just thinking aloud," I reassure him. "This is your investigation as much as mine. Plus, you were following her around for quite some time. Maybe she liked the danger? They obviously loved each other. So much so that she was willing to cheat and he was willing to risk getting caught. She must've known the risks if she was dating Catwright."

"She was also dating an insurance adjuster. About as dangerous as riding the bus," Jackie replies, taking his hands away from the records. "If she wanted to live dangerously, don't you think she would've taken her relationship more public? In my opinion, love is love, and they were adults. If she wanted to date a big cat, what's so wrong with that? It isn't hurting anybody, except for old rabbit and rodent sensibilities."

He turns around, crossing his arms. Instinctively, my eyes run over his shoulder and see a bit of red poking out and staining his shirt. Maybe his bandages need to be changed, but he hasn't said anything. I stand and lean back against the arm of the couch. Then I fold my arms, trying to have a productive conversation now that he's finally done appraising her collection.

"I'm not saying the relationship was wrong, I just . . ." My brain freezes, having never had this kind of discussion.

My mind wants to say that I don't like the fact that she was seeing somebody who wasn't her species, but, when I look at Jackie, I get the distinct feeling that he wouldn't like to hear that. It seems like something my father would say, that we need to stay in our prescribed boxes in life, that prey are on top and preds are on the bottom and intermingling of the species is unnatural. And I can't find it in me to say that, even if I find what they did to be at least a little odd.

So I sigh and say, "What if Catwright wanted something more? What if he wanted sex and she didn't. What if she thought she did and then changed her mind?"

"What, do you think he tried to rape her?" Jackie asks, though not defensively.

"I don't know," I say, shaking my head, letting him know I didn't mean it like that. "I'm just thinking about what could have set them off. An argument over sex just seemed natural, especially on such a sensual night. If they had been dating for long enough, maybe he wanted to take it to the next level. Maybe she wasn't ready and they let an argument escalate."

"I guess an argument over sex seems normal to prey, but, the discussion of sex isn't the same for predators," Jackie says, his face obviously pained. "I just don't think he would've forced himself on her."

"W-what do you mean?" I ask him, confused by both his words and his expression.

Jackie looks to me, surprised. His brow furrows, as if he's unconvinced of something, and then his face softens. Nervously, he reaches up and rubs the back of his neck and for the first time since we left Mrs. Wolfowitz's house, I notice his collar. It blinks yellow a couple of times, sending out a resounding beep, while his eyes dart around the room, looking for somewhere other than me to look.

"Having sex as a predator," he begins, awkwardly, "it comes with certain . . . risks. Getting that excited, getting that kind of aroused, especially with someone you really love, it, ah, with the collar, it could be . . ."

He looks to me and blushes a little. I try not to avert my gaze, because I think I know what he's going to say. I just watched him collapse on stage at his future club because of how happy he was to be sharing something special with someone he trusts. I guess I can extrapolate from there. When I look at the ground I think Jackie understands that I got the message. He sighs loudly, his shoulders drooping.

"It's why a lot of predators choose not to have pups or kits," Jackie says, his voice a little more controlled. "The act of making them is dangerous for us. Get too into it, and you could end up with a seizure, being shocked through your most sensitive parts. Being a lover, a parent, they're supposed to be some of the best parts of being alive. But for us, it could be painful. That's why knothouses and Nip exist. And then having the pup comes with risks, too, if you manage to get that far."

My eyes flick up, a chill running through my spine. I think deep down, I kind of knew. Maybe I had guessed it some time ago and had no reason to think of it. Hearing it now, it makes my mind sputter, my heart ache. I can't believe that we would force predators to wear such a thing, thirty-five percent of New Haven's population. And they can't even have sex, unless it's passionless motions? If that's difficult, what else is? My thoughts drifts back to Mrs. Wolfowitz's place, that room.

"When I was at Mrs. Wolfowitz's house," I admit, trying to look into Jackie's eyes, but only managing the open top of his shirt, "there was a room on the second floor. It was dark, but, I knew what it was. It was a nursery. I saw her photo, the one she gave you. She was pregnant, wasn't she?"

"Yeah, she was," Jackie replies, his voice low, barely above a whisper. "She lost it a few months ago, about the time her husband started acting weird. I had had the thought: that her husband goes off to do some crazy stuff out of grief, anything to avoid losing another pup. I couldn't bring it up, too personal, not enough information. I'm pretty sure you can guess how she lost the puppy, too."

"The collar?" I ask him, finally meeting his gaze.

His lips just stretch into an uncomfortable grimace and then those sky blue eyes drift away. Yes. The answer is a definite and resounding yes. Jackie's words come back to me once more and know for certain that prey don't know or think about this kind of stuff. If they knew, they wouldn't sleep at night. They'd be too guilty to. Hell, I feel guilty and I had no hand in any of it. I just enforce the laws. Why doesn't Jackie blame me for that? Wouldn't I in his stead?

I sigh and turn, unable to focus on any one thought for more than a moment. There's work to be done, in the least. My eyes try to find some distraction in the ugly, mostly destroyed couch before me, upholstered in some godawful fabric that reminds of curtains my mother would buy and hang to admire. I'm running my hands over the cushions when I feel something bump my palm. Surprised, I kneel down and look harder.

Reaching back, I search for the bump. Finding it, I delve my hands between the cushions and discover something surprising: a little jewelry box colored a deep, ocean blue with gold accents. I draw it out, stunned silent. My mind catches pavement and I'm off to the races. They didn't fight at all; at least I don't think so. In fact, it looks like he gave her a present, a ring or a necklace. Cracking open the box, I find it empty save for a Yaks on Serengeti Street embroidered logo and a pinch of white powder that sieves out, accompanied by a sweet aroma.

"Holy shit!" I exclaim as it flutters to the couch cushions.

"What, what's wrong?" Jackie responds, startled.

"I found something," I tell him. "They didn't fight. He gave her something, something from Yaks. Jesus, he had enough money to shop there? And it's covered in something. You recognize it?"

Before I know it, Jackie is next to me. I present him with the ring box and he takes it. I then run a finger across the scant amount of residue that originated within, giving it feel between my thumb and forefinger. It's thin, though thicker than flour. I give it a tentative sniff and find that saccharine scent wafting thickly from it. It makes my mouth water. Finally, it's colorless, save for an almost undetectable blue tinge. Honestly, it looks like course flour.

"It looks like coke to me, but thicker. Could be Nip, maybe to chill him out so the collar wouldn't shock him when they were going at it. But, it doesn't look like Nip, and there isn't enough for me to know," Jackie replies, returning the box to me. "So what happened here, Jane?"

I turn to Jackie, filled with passion, finally finding that link, that something that everyone else overlooked, or ignored. He watches me with the same surprise, the same excitement I have, though his collar stays green.

"I still don't know, but I think I have an idea," I tell him, rising to my hooves slowly. "I need more of whatever this is, to run a sample. If he breathed this in, or took it, it could have poisoned him."

"Poisoned him?" Jackie asks, completely unconvinced. "Who would want to poison a courier?"

"Someone who wanted to make its users kill," I tell him and roll it around in my mind. "Or maybe kill its user. If it's a drug, like you said, he could've taken it, maybe to prepare for his night with his love. But it makes him sick. Sicker than sick, it drives him crazy. Maybe the other victims were exposed to it, maybe even the others who went mad. If I get enough of a sample, I can run it against the tox screening. The one they, uh, never performed."

I groan.

"And where would we find that?" Jackie asks. "Didn't you say the boys in blue swept his apartment and found nothing?"

He makes a good point. Then I realize something: Catwright didn't have his overcoat on when I found him at his apartment. The suit he was wearing was completely destroyed, decimated during his rampage, his flight across the city, and his final tussle with Jackie. Looking around, I search the room for any familiar shapes in the room. Jackie begins to look as well, confused by what I'm doing.

"His overcoat," I tell him. "When we found him, he wasn't wearing his overcoat. I remember he was wearing one in the first photo you took, when he was arriving. What if he put this box into his pocket, what if he bought it today for her?"

"And put into the pocket that contained whatever this powder is?" Jackie questions, finishing my thought. "He took it off when he got here, right?"

"The closet," I say confidently.

Without even thinking, I hurry across the room and tear open the slotted door separating the closet from the outside room. The first thing that is revealed, stuffed over clothes owned by Savannah, is a large overcoat. Using my nose to lead me, I rifle through pockets and after rustling almost every one of them, I discover it in the front, right side pocket: a large pile of unknown white powder. No bags, not ties, nothing, just a palm full of the stuff. That's really strange.

"Jesus what is this stuff? My best guess is Nip, but, it doesn't look right," Jackie asks as I begin to scoop it into the ring box for safe keeping, "smells weird."

"I don't know, but that's a job for toxicology and forensics back at the precinct," I tell him.

A bit of me hopes it isn't Nip. Nip is a drug that hit the markets since the rise of the collars. While it was originally designed for felines, thus the name 'Catnip' or simply 'Nip,' its use has expanded to predators of all stripes and colors. It has lovely street names like Nip, Vertigo, and Crank. It also has a decent following in the prey community as well, since it has a similar effect on any animal that inhales it, though not nearly as pronounced.

It's a downer, a mellower, which is why it's so popular with predators who can't use many drugs. It's also a major hallucinogen, causing the user to perceive the world differently in ways that are unique to the individual. But, it can be dangerous, like any drug, as it causes their user to become detached from reality. It's addictive and larger doses can stop your heart. It's doubly dangerous for anybody wearing a collar. So if Catwright had whatever this is, my next question is where he got it from.

Jackie goes to say something, but, suddenly is cut off. I tense up as well, my ears perking and my tail flagging behind me. Something bangs out in the hallway and both of our heads turn in the direction of the open door. Heavy footfalls resonate from outside, climbing noisily towards the third floor. Someone's coming, and I don't think they're aiming to go into the apartment across the hall.

Not knowing who they are, or what they want, I make a split decision: hide. The last thing we need to have happen is be discovered tampering with a crime scene. I don't want to give anybody reasons to fire me. Jackie's already on the same page. Without asking, he steps around me and ducks into the closet. I snap off the light switch around the corner and back into it as well, bumping into him and making him kneel down under the rack bar. I pull the door nearly shut as I hear them mount the steps outside.

"Jesus, the cat did this?" a voice asks.

"Yeah, that's what I was told," another one replies, one with a much lower timbre.

"Must've went twenty kinds of nuts, that one," the first voice replies. "Just like the other one uptown."

The footsteps cross the tiled hallway and then I hear them pushing open the plastic covering the door. Through the crack in the door, as well as the slats, I'm able to lean forward and watch as two unknown males enter the apartment. The first one flicks on the light, which barely illuminates halfway across the apartment. When bodies appear, I instinctively back up a step, bumping into Jackie. I hear him stifle a pained gasp, but can't focus on him. I don't know who these two are, but they shouldn't be here. And they look dangerous.

The first that appears is a ram. He's large, taller than I and much heavier. He wears a striped shirt of odd colors with a pair of red-and-brown plaid pants held up by suspenders. He sports a grey flat cap that hides most of his face in shadow. After him follows a boar who is shorter and heavier set. He wears a cheap, one-button leisure suit that's a gross red over a dirty button-down shirt with a wide collar.

"Jesus fucking Capybara!" the boar, the one with the higher voice, exclaims. "He sure lost his shit. No wonder they tracked his crazy ass down."

"Yeah, he lived, and he went completely psycho," the ram, with the deep voice, comments. "Apparently killed the gazelle that lived here. Savannah something."

How do they know that? How do they know any of this?

"Sure looks that way. What're we looking for again?" the boar asks.

"You know damn well what we're looking for," the ram replies, annoyed. "Anything material. The boss bought us a lot of time by keeping interested fuzz away, so don't fuck it up. I don't care if we have to burn down the whole goddamned building to cover our asses. Thieving fucking feline shit."

They begin to bang about in the room, knocking things to and fro. Their hooves clatter clumsily on the hardwood floor and stomp across the soiled carpeting. Leaning forward so that I can see what they're doing, I peek through the slats. The ram is at the center of the room, looking over the blood soaked couch and carpeting. He kneels down and runs a finger across the carpeting, where the powder dumped out. I can see him rub his forefinger and thumb together before smelling it. I think they're looking for what I have, tucked safely in my pocket.

Then he stands up and begins to survey the room, apparently unsatisfied. What he wants is missing. The flat cap on top of his head projects in what direction he peers. The boar is out of sight, most likely in her bedroom. Things bump about, and I can hear him snorting while he roots around. Who are these animals and what are they doing here? I'll worry about that later. I know they're dangerous and that we have to get out.

Looking over my shoulder, I see Jackie, shoved into the back of the closet. His legs are wrapped around my waist and I can feel the heat radiating from his form. It feels a bit awkward, but I can ignore that for now. Jackie looks to me and reaches into his pocket. He produces his brass knuckles and slips them on, nodding his head, ready to rumble. I quickly shake my head and point to his shoulder. He glances to it and exhales. He knows he can't fight and I do too. We have to run and hope for the best.

"Do you think he fucked her?" I hear the boar yell.

"Probably," the ram replies. "There's residue all over this couch, but nothing else. No bags, no powder. Dirty fuckin' preyo. Probably stole some to even him out. What a surprise he was in for. Anything?"

"Nothing yet," the boar answers. "You don't think the cops did their job, do you? Got everything?"

"Would we be here if he hadn't leaned on them? We didn't find any of the stuff on him or at his place, so it's gotta be here. So keep looking!" the ram orders. "If we get back there and we've left anything for the five-O to find, anything linking us, we're screwed six ways to Sunday. Forget about losing a contract, the boss would probably tear our hooves off with pliers."

"Yeah, yeah, it's just hard to look in this dump."

Tentatively, I open the door. The ram is turned away from me and the boar is out of sight. The door is only a couple of feet away, around the corner. Looking over my shoulder to Jackie, I see his collar is yellow. I can tell he's terrified and his shoulder doesn't look very good. We have to get out of here and quick. I nod to him, trying to assure him that I have control of the situation. But just as I'm about to stick my head out of the door, the ram turns. I dart back inside and sit quietly, hoping he didn't hear me. Jackie stifles another pained moan as I bump into him, putting my back into his chest.

The ram loudly snorts. Then I hear his hooves falling on the hardwood floor, making their way in our direction. My heart beats through my ribcage, and my mind fogs as I feel Jackie's body heat against me. The footsteps grow nearer and nearer until it sounds like they stop just outside. Then comes a few more snorts before I hear him exhale loudly. I know canines have great noses, but what about sheep?

"Jesus Capybara, they didn't even clean up their mess," the ram says loudly. "It smells like a garbage dump and a knothouse had a fucking kid."

I exhale with a bit of relief.

"At least it doesn't smell like preyo-predo sex, huh?" the boar guffaws from the other room.

"Isn't that what the knothouse part was about, you dipshit?" the ram yells back, angrily.

Silence from the other room. The footsteps make their way off to the left, towards the kitchen. Feeling confident enough that we can slip away, I open the door and peak through the slats. The ram stands in front of the sink and then turns towards the fridge. I stand stock still as the ram opens the fridge door with a hiss, the motor rumbling to life.

"At least the fridge is still stocked."

His head disappears and I know it's now or never. The longer we stick around, the greater the risk. Stepping out, I push the door completely open and then beckon Jackie out. Holding his injured shoulder, he sneaks forward and then squeezes between me and the wall. Following behind him, I watch as he rounds the corner and approaches the plastic.

But just as Jackie is about to lift up the plastic, I hear a can snap. Then the fridge door closes. I glance over my shoulder just as the ram takes a swig of beer and looks directly at me. He visibly recoils at the sight of us and then the beer can hits the floor.

"Hey!" he screams, spitting beer out. "Who the fuck are you?!"

"Run!" I yell to Jackie and then push him forward.

Jackie barrels through the plastic just as the ram kneels down to put his shoulder and long, curled horns between me and him. Then he digs his hooves into the linoleum and charges full force in my direction. I dart to follow Jackie, but my hoof catches a rut and I tumble over. The ram misses me by a mile and plows into the wall at full force. The whole damned apartment shudders. As I'm crawling away, trying to climb up onto my hooves, a hand grabs my ankle.

"You're not going anywhere, you stupid bitch!" the ram curses.

Flipping over onto my back, I stare at him just as the ring box tumbles out onto the floor, but doesn't break open. The ram looks to it and his brow rises in surprise at the powder-covered box. Shit. We meet eyes and I snatch the box up. As I'm tucking it away, I waste no time kicking him directly in the muzzle with my sharp hooves, drawing blood and loosening his grip. He screams loudly and stumbles backwards, dropping down in front of the closet with enough force to send some of the coats tumbling over his form. He cries out in pain and fury and swipes at his trappings, trying to throw them off.

"What the hell is going on out--Jesus fucking Capybara!"

I look up just as the boar appears from within the bedroom, a bunch of Savannah's personal items stuffed under his arm. Boxes of jewelry, money, and personal effects hit the floor with a clatter as the boar charges in my direction, his tusks down and ready to strike. I barely regain my footing as the boar barrels down on me, giving me just enough time to slip under the plastic barrier.

The boar squeals as his tusks dig through the plastic and his momentum brings it fluttering down over him, tripping him and throwing him to the ground. As he curses and yells, throwing sharp hooves and teeth randomly, I gun across the empty corridor. My hooves ring off the empty hallway as I make a mad dash for the stairs. I'm going so fast, my heart and mind racing, that I slam my shoulder into the wall, pinball off, and descend the stairs two steps at a time.

Swinging around the bannister on the second floor, I hear the boar finally free himself, followed closely by the pounding of heavier hooves as the ram re-enters the bout. Just as I'm rounding the top of the stairs towards the ground floor, the ram appears at the other end of the hall. His eyes are wide with rage and pinned on me, blood streaking down his off-white wool.

Gasping, adrenaline flowing to every inch of my form, I look to the open door as a safe haven and focus only on that. But the hooves gain on me and just as I'm at the bottom of the stairs, a hand grabs the back of my jacket and lifts me from the ground. Then arms wrap around me, hugging my chest tight to something hard, and squeezing me with all the strength they have.

"I've got you now, you stinking cunt!" the ram hisses into my ear. "You won't tell nobody what you saw here! And once I'm done with you, I'm going to find your chomper boyfriend, you fucking predo!"

I watch as he loosens one of his arms and then produces a blade from his pocket, short and heavily used, covered in stains and overly sharpened. He twists it around in the light shining in from the panes in the doors, giggling into my ears with anticipation as he draws it closer to my neck. Breathing hard, while I can still raise and lower my chest, I know it's now or never.

Swinging my free lower half forward and then back with as much force as I can muster, I dig both of my exposed hooves into his crotch and he cries out in pain. His grip loosens just enough that I'm able to push away and slip down onto the ground. The cold, dirty tile greets me with a thud and I spin around just in time to see him cup his crotch. Giving him no reprieve, I throw my entire weight into my right arm and catch him near the eye with a haymaker.

This finally does it. The ram screams in horrid pain and stumbles backwards, the knife tumbling to the ground with a clatter. One hand covers his balls while the other covers his eye, his face soaked in blood from the kick I gave him upstairs. It runs onto his arm and drips onto the tile.

"Jesus fuck!" the ram screams, looking at the blood in his hand.

Apparently he hasn't had enough as he stumbles forward to take another swing at me, knife or not. And it sounds like the boar has finally freed himself, as snorts, squeals, and the clack of hooves on tile resonate from somewhere above. I rear back to give him another swing when a hand grabs his shoulder and swings him about. He looks on, shocked, as a form appears from the darkness behind.

Having hidden in a space beneath the stairs, Jackie appears and wastes no time sucker punching my assailant with everything he has. The brass knuckles make contact and I can hear the crunch of hard bone against metal. The ram goes down with a resounding thud, his hat tumbling off his head and skittering across the tile. His form goes limp just as the boar is rounding the top of the stairs.

"Run, Jane!" Jackie orders, his collar blinking yellow rapidly.

I waste no time and dart towards the front door. Jackie is right on my tail and we skitter out into the night. The boar never catches up to us, even with the time we waste getting the car started, with Jackie's collar giving him a few short, sharp shocks about the neck. We're both calming ourselves down about a few blocks away when we make eye contact. Then I feel the box in my pocket and wonder what I've stumbled into.