Chapter Eight

Gadget shook her head at Devin as he disappeared into the dark hallway. "Lights are definitely a priority," she decided. One of the biggest factors giving a haunted-house effect to the hideout was the lack of good illumination. Almost every bulb in the place was smashed, even the extras stashed away in the spare-parts room. It seemed as though the vandals had gone on a search-and-destroy mission, for though the destruction was widespread, nothing else had suffered the same careful violence directed at the lighting fixtures. Invariably she or Devin had found lamps untouched or only slightly cracked, while inches away their bulbs had been stomped on with obvious fury, ground nearly to a crystal powder. And they'd always taken the time to unscrew the light bulbs from the bases. It felt ritualistic, or at least very well planned—the miscreants had brought their own light sources. Scattered throughout the dwelling were dozens of burned-down candle stubs, leaving trails of wax dripping down the sides of tables and boxes like limestone cave formations in miniature. "Why did they hate the electric light in here?" Gadget thought out loud, and opened her notebook again to get the question down in writing. Maybe the thought would percolate in there and in her mind for a while and boil itself down to an answer.

When she opened the spiral pad to jot the note down, a folded piece of paper fell out. Gadget slapped her forehead. She hadn't bothered yet to read the letter dropped off by the reluctant messenger pigeon. Her stomach took a churning drop as she recognized the paw-writing on the front. Shakily, she unfolded more trouble, and read:

Dear Ms. Hackwrench:

I will not pretend to say I am sorry for the loss of your friends, the Rescue Rangers. As you know, you and they have been thorns in my side for far too long. In fact, I am sorry that it was not I who sealed their fates. Still, I will give them their due: they were worthy adversaries with hearts far truer than mine--I'm just a business-cat, after all. The closest thing from sympathy you will get from me is this: even I would not have chosen such a cowardly way of killing your friends. They would have seen it coming.

Besides, someone has robbed me of the pleasure. Rest assured I want to know who it was. I really, truly want to know. As a matter of fact these freelancers, these riff-raff who have taken it upon themselves to annihilate your friends without so much as offering me a front-row seat—from all reports (I have my sources, never you fear) they're very sloppy. Your friends were quite careful and organized, which is why they lasted so long--all of my sloppy enemies are quite dead, and I plan to add the Rangers' killers to that list.

Until that day, I swear: if a dark shadow falls upon you, it will not be mine.

For what it's worth,

Fat Cat

Artwork by Keith Elder

Gadget dug her claws into the letter, eyes squeezed shut. "Oh, Lord," she muttered. This was not the sort of ally she needed right now. She was intimately familiar with Fat Cat's methods, and she felt very lucky to not be on the receiving end of his current cold rage. No other villain had given the Rangers such close calls; no one had put them through as much terror and torment as that feared and vicious feline crime boss. Still, Gadget had almost hoped Fat Cat was responsible for the horrors of the past few days. It would have put her on familiar ground at least, but now the creep was going out of his way to distance himself from any of it. If Fat Cat had planned her miseries, he would be taunting her openly, proud to have brought her down. Instead, he'd come as close to condolences as he was capable of. The thought of being on the same side as Fat Cat, even for this once, gave her a cold chill. This was the most unwelcome sort of help coming out of the woodwork at just the wrong time.

Button images by Keith Elder