Free Red Stripes by Matt Hilton

had been meant as sarcasm. Right now they elicited the required response: a wry smile. Knight errant? That was just one fancy term that had been leveled at me. I suppose it was better than vigilante , which was more often the case. At least the term carried the honorable connotations that I hold dear. Without my sense of decency, I accept that I could very well be labeled alongside those other balaclava-clad hooligans who take the law into their own hands. But then—it’s all a matter of perspective. To some I’d still be seen as a man of questionable morals. Perhaps I was the type of knight who wore tarnished armor.
    As I walked a cat kept pace with me.
    It was a gnarly old tomcat, and judging by the scars that crisscrossed its body, it had fought a number of battles during its lifetime. We had a lot in common. It watched with luminous yellow eyes from the opposite sidewalk, perhaps recognizing its human familiar.
    Occasionally cats have questionable morals, too. Some people judge them as cruel killers, but not all their kills are for fun. Sometimes they have to kill to survive, or to protect their young.
    This took me right back to Millie, and to Brook’s children. My friend, Rink, who runs a successful PI outfit down in Tampa, had brought me up to speed on Brook’s death and the family she’d left behind: her husband, Adrian Reynolds, and nine- and six-year-olds Beth and Ryan. Don was an ex-cop, and, judging by the photograph I’d seen of his son-in-law, Adrian was no stranger to a gymnasium, so they could look after themselves. It was only Millie and the two kids I was worried about.
    I was uncomfortable about walking away from them. But I couldn’t believe that there was any truth in Don’s concern. How could a dead man be a threat to him or his family?
    Don was hurting; he was stricken with grief and grasping at anything that would make sense of Brook’s seemingly pointless death. In the same circumstances, some people raged at the world, or at their cruel god, while others looked for excuses. Don was clutching at old hatreds in order to add reason to his pain.
    But then he wasn’t the only one allowing hatred to shadow his judgment, was he?
    Someone must have sent that bloody e-mail.
    I stopped walking and looked across at the cat. The old tom mirrored my movement. We stared into each other’s eyes. I was the first to blink. The cat sat down and began licking its old wounds. In my pocket, I again flexed my fist.
    The cat stood up and slunk forward, and now I was the one who matched it step for step.
    I got the message. The time for licking wounds was done, and I should get back to doing what I did best.
    I was near the 7-Eleven where I’d left my car. On my right was an open lot full of weeds. Beyond it the forest that encircled Bedford Well swayed under the bitter wind, undulating like a pitch-black sea. Across the way, the cat was all that stood between me and the forest on that side. The cat had come to another standstill, but this time it was staring past the convenience store to where I’d parked the Audi. Its shoulders hunched and its ears flattened on its head; its mouth opened in silent challenge, baring teeth that glinted red under the moon.
    Suddenly the cat bolted, heading away into the cover promised by the forest. But I wasn’t going to run.
    I continued forward, to meet the two men who were resting their weight on my car. Once again I flexed my hand, pleased to find that the bubbling warmth flooding my body had anesthetized the pain.
    It was near four in the morning: too late for revelers and too early even for day-shift workers to show up at the convenience store. Their black SUV was parked a dozen yards away, and yet they chose to sit on the hood of my car. They were waiting for me and there was no good reason for it. I didn’t need the cat’s reactions to tell me that these men were dangerous.
    “You mind, guys? The car’s a rental and I have to pay for any damages.”
    Both men