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The Murderess of MaplesburgDisappearing Like Rabbits

Heather O. Bunn

© Heather O. Bunn 2019

Dedicated to my feline overlords to whom I am but a loyal vassal.

Chapter 1: A Bad Night

Bartholomew pulled the collar of his raincoat closer around his neck as another sharp blast of wind assaulted him with drizzle while he trudged home from another hard day at work. Though rush hour had ended and the streets were mostly empty, a faint remaining hint of car exhaust mingled with the scent of rain and occasionally a noisome waft from an overfull dumpster. Bartholomew was the personal assistant for one of the local newscasters, a notoriously persnickety feline named Ferdinand Gamboa. Today Ferdinand had decided to come to work with a cold, and Bartholomew had spent half of the morning hopping around downtown Maplesburg looking for a specific brand of herbal tea that Ferdinand was convinced was the only tonic that could alleviate his symptoms. Bartholomew himself was a short haired brown rabbit and wore a navy blue knit cap pulled partway down over his ears with their ends sticking out the bottom in addition to a midnight blue slicker.

Bartholomew stepped up his pace as he heard the bells of a temple a few blocks away beginning to toll out 8 o'clock. He had promised his wife Gretchen he would be home for dinner by 8:15, and he still had a few blocks to go. However, he paused when he noticed a haggard old coyote holding a cane in one hand and a bag in the other and struggling to open the heavy glass door to an apartment complex. Bartholomew bounded up the cement steps to the entrance.

"Sir, let me help you with that," he entreated.

Bartholomew had to jump to reach the handle on the coyote-sized door, but once he grabbed it, he was able to pull it open by pushing his right leg against the contiguous wall before dropping down to catch the door and hold it.

"Thank yuh, lad," the coyote said with a chuckle. "Let me see if I got anythin' fer yuh."

Propping himself against the doorway to free the hand holding the cane, he rummaged around in his bag. "I got a bit'er jerky here. Would yuh like that?" he offered.

"No thanks, I, er, don't want to ruin my dinner," Bartholomew replied politely.

"Okay, then." The coyote grasped his cane and continued through the door. "Well, have yerself a good night, sonny," the coyote called back.

"You, too!" Bartholomew replied.

He let go of the door and dashed back down the stairs. He almost collided with two darkly clad, burly figures as they stepped out from the shadows beside the staircase.

"Er, excuse me gentlemen!" he said, sidestepping to avoid them.

The figures moved with surprising agility for their size. Suddenly, Bartholomew found himself being held roughly with a knife pressed against his throat. He was still in such a state of shock as he was forced into the back seat of a black sedan and a burlap sack was tied over his head that the only thing he could think was that his wife was going to be upset when he was late for her braised beets.

After a drive that seemed to last over an hour, Bartholomew was shoved out of the car and led down a steep set of cold, damp stairs into a building that would have smelled faintly of mildew if not for the harsh scent of antiseptic. His coat was yanked off before he was-- seemingly effortlessly--lifted onto a metal table, and his arms and legs were tied down tightly. He found all attempts to struggle against this procedure useless as he was easily overpowered

by the herculean grip of his captors. Once he was bound, he heard his captors shuffling back out of the building and a dull whump as the door closed. He was then left in nearly perfect silence, except for a faintly dripping faucet, in the darkness of the burlap sack.

As Bartholomew waited long minutes listening to the muffled drip-drip drip-drip of the faucet, his shock and fear began to turn to dread and a sense of impending doom. Why had he been brought here? And what reason did anyone have to target him specifically? He didn't have any enemies he could think of, and he wasn't wealthy or well-known enough to provide a substantial ransom. He could only assume the worst. He had heard stories since childhood about secret carnivore cults that had never accepted the peace between carnivores and herbivores made possible by the invention of lab grown meat products. Even though these products had been available for over two and a half centuries, a few zealots clung to the ancient ways and kidnapped and devoured unwary prey animals. Until tonight, he had believed that these were merely stories told to him by his mother to scare him into behaving. Carnivores like his boss Ferdinand seemed too soft to still have the murderous instinct. His mind whirling with terrifying imagery, he would have jumped ten feet in the air, had he not been tied down, when an unexpected clawed hand began to trace the outline of his ribs across his belly.

"Seems we have a feisty one tonight," a feminine voice intoned, followed by a little giggle.

Bartholomew lay perfectly still as two hands much smaller than those of his captors worked gently to untie the sack around his neck. The sack and his cap were both pulled away leaving him completely unclothed and staring into the amber eyes of a petite red vixen. In such close proximity, Bartholomew couldn't help but notice the sweet lilac scented perfume she was wearing, lilac and something else he couldn't quite identify.

"What a cute boy this one is!" the vixen chirped with glee, running his right ear between her hands. "So velvety too! I'm going to have all sorts of fun playing with you aren't I, bun-bun?"

She finished her question by stepping back and giving him an appraising look like someone deciding to buy a piece of furniture. Her movement also allowed Bartholomew a full view of her: she was wearing a sleeveless, v-cut black dress with a ruffled bottom that ended just below her knees and black lace fingerless gloves that extended above her elbows. Her bushy tail swept back and forth as she contemplated him.

Somewhat relieved by her appearance and playful manner, Bartholomew found his voice, "I'm sure we could indeed have 'all sorts of fun', Miss, but please be so kind as to let me up off of this table first."

The vixen took two bounding steps back over to the table and leaned in with her left ear.

"What's that, bun-bun? Let you up? Oh, no. No no no, you aren't going anywhere. I can't let a cutie like you get away, bun-bun," she trilled with another giggle.

Putting on a firm voice Bartholomew responded, "Miss, I don't know what you've brought me here for, but I demand you let me go this instant! I promised Gretchen I'd be home at 8:15. She's bound to have missed me by now, called the police. It will be very bad for you when they find out if you don't let me go right away!"

The vixen pouted and crossed her arms, "Is rude Mr. Bun-bun saying he doesn't want to have fun with me?" she whined plaintively.

"If that's how you'll understand it, then yes! Let me go!" he shouted. "I'm not interested in whatever weird shit you have planned!"

With a huff the vixen turned around only to whip back around and slap his face, hard. Bartholomew was stunned by the force of the slap. He stared at the vixen with renewed fear and could feel a welt rising on his cheek.

"I see you aren't one to go for the cutesy routine," she drawled. "You wouldn't believe how often that tricks one of you prey, especially the males, makes them act like complete fools. The surprise on their faces when they finally realize what's happening is priceless after they've been playing along for so long."

Bartholomew's eyes widened to the point of bugging out of his head, "So you are part of one of those carnivore cults," he whimpered. "You're going to eat me!" He started struggling against his bonds, but they were too tight. He didn't feel any give at all.

The vixen just stared at him for a moment before throwing her head back in a raucous laugh. "Ahahaha! Eat you?!" she guffawed. "Ick! Why would I want your stringy flesh when I have all the meat I want? You shouldn't believe such old wives' tales at your age. Listen, whatever your name is."

"Bartholomew"

"Bartholomew, then. A bit long, do you mind Bart?"

"Yes, I do mi-"

"Bart it is! Listen, Bart. I don't need you for any basic survival nonsense. You're here to

have some fun! Well, for me to have fun with, to be more precise."

The vixen leaned in and grinned showing her sparkly white and dagger sharp teeth.

Finally, Bartholomew identified the second scent underneath the vixen's lilac perfume. He had only smelled it once before when he had made the mistake of venturing a glance in a dumpster behind one of the most popular carnivore restaurants in town. It was the scent of rotting flesh. The stench of Death.

"I don't eat prey, Bart. I only kill them."