Tiger cate, p.1
Tiger Cate, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Other than a few major cities and a certain delicious burger franchise, all names, places, characters, and incidents in this book are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, persons, or places is purely coincidental.
© 2023 Bonnie Ebsen Jackson (B.E. Jackson)
All rights reserved
For reprint rights and permissions, please contact:
B.E. Jackson
P.O. Box 256
Skull Valley, AZ 86338
bejacksonauthor@gmail.com
ISBN
979-8-9882980-1-4 (Paperback)
979-8-9882980-2-1 (Ebook)
Cover by: 100Covers.com
Interior Formatting by: 100Covers.com
Table of Contents
Part I – Homecoming
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
PART II – Consequences
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
PART III – History
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
PART IV – The Truth
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Epilogue
Dedicated to anyone who has ever burned with ambition, been told no, and did it anyway.
This story is for you.
Part I – Homecoming
“Life is just choices. You follow the voices
And hope they’re your friends.” — B. Christensen
Chapter 1
August 2, 2019 Los Angeles
Cate Finley dangled like a fly on a spider’s thread, high above Wilshire Boulevard on an early August morning. Moments earlier, she’d felt the floor give way beneath her feet and heard a splintering crash below her, wincing as the straps of her climbing harness grabbed her ribcage.
Sweat cooled on her temples and adrenaline shot through her torso and out her arms as she tried to listen to the voice in her head.
Release the paintbrush, Cate. Now grab the rope overhead and pull yourself up slowly.
Only after she was clutching the scaffolding frame that anchored her harness did Cate peer down at the platform where she’d stood painting moments ago. It lay in pieces on the concrete, a hundred feet below. She shuddered and hoped, at this early hour, that no one had been on the sidewalk.
The slick steel scaffolding she clung to shifted slightly.
No, stop, this isn’t happening!
Her lungs compressed as a scream sought an escape route. Eyes closed and jaws clamped, she told herself to breathe deeply through her nose as she listened to the strangely calm voice in her head.
Don’t panic. Someone will come. Just … hang on.
A siren blared in the distance. Was help on the way already?
Her sweaty fingers lost their grip, and she dropped back down, her stomach lurching as the harness grabbed her ribcage again. The momentum swung her into the side of the building she’d been painting, close enough to touch. But unlike the climbing walls she occasionally worked out on, there were no handholds, nothing to cling to. She was stranded next to its smooth, painted surface.
A twenty-year-old memory came to her — the scowling face of her father, “Doc” Finley, who had forbidden his teenage daughter to climb the enormous granite monument known as La Cabeza Rock, which loomed near their ranch in Arizona. The thrill of doing so on the sly was short-lived. When the mountain rescue team finally got Cate off the ledge where she’d gotten stranded, Doc had crushed her in a hug and wept.
“Wherever you go, Catie, you take our hearts with you. Please remember that,” he’d murmured in her hair. Then he grounded her for a month.
She often thought of that father and daughter moment shared at the Rock. How easy it was to dice into small pieces the hearts of those who loved you. Doc and her mother, Fiona, had been just days from boarding the private plane that would end their lives.
A breeze came up, sending her into a slow spin, like a reluctant circus aerialist. With each rotation, the unpainted spot on the mural came into view amid swirls of vibrant color — yellow, red, blue, and green. There was the blank spot she’d been reaching to paint with her artist signature “Catify” just before the platform collapsed.
Conner Ping, the L.A. Arts Council rep, had called her into his office and told her there were problems with the scaffolding.
“The Council said, do not do any more painting until we’ve had building maintenance check it out,” his raspy voice had warned.
“Aw, Conner, you know they take weekends off.” That meant not getting paid until midweek. They’d bonded over their mutual love of musical theatre and she liked to make full use of that. She’d dropped to her knees like an orphan in Oliver, pleading in exaggerated Cockney, “Please, suh, oy need moh porridge to eat and coal for the fuh-nace. Oy promises to be good.”
Cate’s theatrics never failed to amuse him. When he started to giggle, she knew she’d gotten her way. Now she’d catch heat for going rogue.
Now a fire truck pulled up below her and a handful of men scrambled, preparing to launch the ladder. A small group of spectators had gathered. Cate thought of the one person who would love — would even pay — to see her smash onto a sidewalk: Joseph Russo. Wait, was that him in the crowd? No, no, he was on the East Coast nurturing his political career. Still, a sliver of fear had found her gut.
Stay in the now, purred the voice in her head. Stay focused and survive.
Her paycheck, sent to a secure online account under the name Catify, would have been enough to live on if the work was more regular. This was only her third mural in the last ten months — and probably her last for the Council.
Up came the ladder, edging closer to her as the hydraulics whined on the fire truck.
“Hold still, miss. Gonna be all over soon,” barked a cheerful voice from just below her. She took a long shaky breath and held still to be rescued, once again.
When they deposited her on the sidewalk, Conner Ping was the first to greet her. With a tragic smile, he told her the Council board was suspending the mural projects for the foreseeable future due to, um, insurance concerns.
“You are such a talent, and it’s been such fun having you on the team, Catify … such fun.” He held out an embossed envelope. “Here, I’ve written this letter of recommendation for you, and your check’s in the mail, er, email,” he sang. He gave her an elfin smile, then turned to amble back down the street like a leprechaun wheeling away his pot of gold which, in a way, he was.
At the McArthur Park station, Cate hopped the Metro Red Line bus that would take her over the hill to San Fernando Valley. In the past eighteen months, she’d gradually made peace with LA’s sprawling public transit. It was hideously slow, but it beat the hassle of finding parking anywhere in the downtown area. Sure, there were rideshares for hire, but she’d grown leery of stepping into a stranger’s car.
In a perfect world, Cate would be selling her artwork for epic wages and living in a high-end loft. She would not be sleeping in a 1978 camper truck parked on various streets within sight of the Ventura Freeway. Getting the camper, which she’d named “Max,” had marked a new direction for her, after years of sharing roach - infested apartments with fellow artists in lower Manhattan. Once she’d arrived in L.A., though, Max had made a better bedroom and art studio than transport. The truck’s engine would need major repairs soon, something well beyond her current income.
Cate’s stomach growled, and she envisioned the breakfast her friend Levi would be making back in the camper — scrambled eggs with chorizo and a side of buttered toast. She turned on her phone and it chirped, startling her so much that she nearly dropped it.
Expecting to see Levi’s number on the screen, she saw instead two texts from an unknown number. She clicked on the first.
Cate, have you heard from Margaret? She’s missing.
She stared at the phone for a beat. Margaret? The only person she could think of was her older sister Margaret, whom she hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years. What did the text mean by missing? A single butterfly fluttered in her sternum. She clicked on the second message.
M. missing a week and they’re stealing the ranch. Pls call me.
An image of the last time she’d seen Margaret flashed on her mental screen. Her sister, leaning over a sick horse under the stable lights, as Cate made her stealthy way to the ranch Jeep with a packed suitcase and a plan for her life that did not include staying in rural Arizona.
She and her older sister hadn’t spoken much since that summer when teenage Cate had brashly raided the ranch office safe and hopped a bus to New York, chasing her dream of becoming an artist. Now someone in the dusty little town where she grew up appeared to be texting Cate’s prepaid phone. That was a mystery in itself. Besides Levi, only two people had gotten the new number after she’d changed it eighteen months ago. On a hunch, she texted one of them — a lawyer named Tyson, who kept her informed about Joseph Russo’s activities.
Getting strange phone texts. Joseph messing with me?
The “low battery” flashed on the phone screen and Cate pocketed it as the bus pulled up to her stop. She hopped onto the sidewalk, now feeling tiny spiders running loose between her ribs. A hulk of a man was jogging toward her, panting and waving his arms. Levi.
“Hey, they’re towing your truck!” He looked stressed and spent.
“What? How could — is street cleaning today?”
Levi nodded. “The guy showed me the statute. Said I could move it,” he panted as he caught his breath, “but it won’t turn over.”
Now they were jogging side by side, and Cate could see the tow truck’s blinking lights ahead. Max was hooked up — shackled like a prisoner — and ready to be hauled off.
“Crap!” She sped to a run.
“Cate, you just need to show him some paperwork!” she heard Levi shout.
The tow truck driver, sporting a Judas Priest t - shirt and a buzz - cut fade, was climbing into the cab when Cate reached him.
“No, please don’t do this.” Her voice sounded thin and whiny to her own ears.
“Miss, I’m just following orders. Take it up with the LAPD.” Was there a hint of sadism in that smug smile?
“But I — I have all my stuff in there.”
Her hiker’s backpack and its contents — a hoodie, change of underwear, toiletries, and about forty dollars in cash — were crammed below the tiny dinette. More importantly, the camper held her art supplies and the dozen portraits she’d painted over the past six months.
Judas Priest looked her over, studying the climbing harness hanging over her shoulder.
“Okay, but before I can let you in there, I need to see either a current driver’s license, a current registration, or an insurance card. Got ‘em?” He waited a moment, then sneered. “Didn’t think so. Plate tags are way expired.”
He flipped a business card out the window, shifted the diesel into gear, and pulled away from the curb.
“So, how do I get any of those without a physical address?”
But he’d already rolled up his window and cranked up the headbanger music.
Her throat tightening, she tracked the teal-and-white truck with its vintage white camper shell until it disappeared around the corner. Over the past few hours, she’d lost her job, learned her sister was missing and just watched everything she owned get towed away. An errant tear splashed on her hand as she picked up the card and read the address. The Northwest Valley Impound was at least a six-mile hike in her tattered running shoes.
Chapter 2
For the first time in their friendship, Levi looked upset with her when she told him what she was planning. As they sat on a park bench, he leaned forward to rub his face and scrape back his tangled hair. Cate hoped this wasn’t the start of one of his chronic migraines. Then he spoke, eyes fixed on the ground.
“Look, you can’t just sneak in there and steal your truck back, Cate.”
She prickled at the words. Imagine anyone telling her what she could or couldn’t do at this point in her life. Then she threw a glance at his worried profile. Hadn’t he been a military cop or something? If anyone had a right to shoehorn some common sense into her right now, it was probably this guy.
A year ago, Cate had pulled up to one of her usual overnight spots in the San Fernando Valley and noticed a mountain of a man snoozing on a nearby park bench. She’d watched from the safety of the cab as the derelict had slowly tilted to one side and caught himself just before spilling onto the ground. She couldn’t resist cracking her window and calling out, “Great way to bust your head open.”
Startled at first, he’d looked around until he saw her. Then she’d gotten back a smile so amiable and genuine, she’d felt herself melt a bit.
“Oh, been there, done that,” came his rich baritone reply. Then he yawned, stretched, and checked his watch like he’d been waiting for the bus. So, not drunk after all, just very sleepy. And he wasn’t kidding about hurting his head. A vivid purplish scar ran along his left temple, disappearing under a shaggy mop of black hair.
Built like a linebacker and medically furloughed from the U.S. Army after an IED explosion in Afghanistan, Levi Saaga became Cate’s first friend in California. She’d guessed he was in his mid-twenties, almost a decade younger than her. The mystery was why he was sleeping on park benches since he must have been drawing some kind of military pension. One morning, over a shared breakfast of burritos, he’d admitted he was working night shifts in the IT department at a local hospital and saving up to bring his mama over from American Samoa. For a second time her heart melted, and she’d made him an offer.
He could sleep in her camper from early morning, when he got off his shift, until late afternoon when Cate returned to paint on her canvases and sleep. With the amount of crime among the homeless in the area, it made sense to team up with a male twice her weight and almost a foot taller. He was polite, a good conversationalist, and he loved his mama — what more did she need to know? Even better, he somehow managed to make delicious meals in the camper’s tiny kitchen. Of course, with his hours, it was mostly breakfasts, but who could be choosy?
Now Levi’s mocha eyes were on her and his usual good humor was missing.
“Cate, that’s an LAPD impound. If you try to break in, they’ll jail you.”
“Don’t have a choice,” she said softly. “No current insurance or registration. All that takes money and a physical address.”
An expired New York driver’s license was the only searchable information on her in any database, and she’d worked to keep it that way — to stay one step ahead of Joseph and his people — since arriving in California.
The texts were haunting her like ghost children. Out came the phone, but now it wouldn’t even turn on. Her charger was in the camper.
Trying to keep her voice light, she asked, “Hey, IT, got a charger?”
“Not with me. Plenty at work if you — ”
“I need my pack, I need my pack,” she mumbled, half to herself.
Levi seemed poised to say something, even as he stifled a yawn.
“You look done in,” she told him. “Please go find someplace to sleep before your shift tonight.” Flicking the impound card with her fingers, she got up and started toward Van Nuys Boulevard.
“No, wait, dammit! Ah!”
She glanced back to see him massaging his head. A migraine had indeed begun, an effect of his head injury. On a normal day, she’d splurge on fuel and drive him over to the VA in West Los Angeles to get his migraine injection. In this harsh landscape of haves and have-nots, they had come to care for and about each other in such ways.
Cate sighed deeply, feeling the toll the day had already taken on her. Impulsively, she walked to where her friend sat, lifted his shaggy hair, and leaned down to softly kiss the scarred forehead. Suddenly his arms were wrapping around her, gently pulling her closer. His body felt strong and warm.
Startled at first, she relaxed into his embrace and lifted her arms to cradle his head. The first time they’d touched like this, really. It felt so natural … so soothing … okay, and also something more. Were they about to cross out of the friend zone?
