Cat Spitting Mad

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  She had vowed, before ever she fled the city, to make herself visit the Cat Museum, to lay to rest that part of her fears. She would not leave until she had made that short trip up Russian Hill.

  Last year, when she'd moved up from Molena Point to the North Beach apartment, she'd been eager to see the museum.

  Pictures of the gallery had so intrigued her, the lovely Mediterranean buildings tucked among their sprawling gardens, beneath the old, magnificent oaks. She'd been so eager to study the museum's amazing collection of cat paintings and cat sculpture. How strange that she'd lived in the city when she was younger and had known about the museum, but had never bothered to go there.

  Well, she hadn't known, then, all the facts about herself. Anyway, she'd been so busy with art school. Her museum visits, then, had been school related, to the San Francisco Museum and the de Young.

  Yet the art collection at the Cat Museum included work by Gauguin, Dubuffet, Picasso-fine pieces, housed in that lovely complex at the top of Russian Hill.

  It was only now, after going through a divorce and returning to the city-and after learning the shocking truth about herself- that she had a really urgent reason to visit there. Yet she'd procrastinated for over a year, unable to find the courage, unable to face any more secrets. Each time she'd tried to make that short journey, she'd become all nerves, and turned back.

  So they keep real cats, too. Of course they do. Everyone says those lovely cats wandering the gardens add a delightful charm to the famous collection.

  Well, but what kind of cats?

  That doesn't matter. No one will guess the truth-not even the cats themselves. And what if they did? What do you think they'd do? Come on, Kate. You're such a coward. Can't you get on with it?

  And on Saturday morning she woke knowing she would do it. Now. Today. Put down her fear. No more hedging. The morning was beautifully foggy, the way she loved the city, the wet mist swirling outside her second-floor windows, the muffled sounds of the city calling to her like a secret benediction. Quickly she showered and dressed, letting herself think only of the perfect morning and the beauty of the museum, nothing more. Debating whether to have breakfast at the kitchen table, enjoying her view of the fogbound city, or go on to her favorite warm, cozy coffee shop two blocks up Stockton and treat herself to their delicious Swedish pancakes and espresso and homemade sausage.

  Hardly a choice. Pulling on her tan windbreaker over jeans and a sweatshirt, fixing the jacket's hood over her short, pale hair, she hurried down the one flight and into the damp breeze that had begun to swirl the fog. Only once, striding along Stockton, did her thoughts skitter warily again, forcing her to take herself in hand.

  Slipping in through the glass door of the Iron Pony, she settled in her favorite booth, where she could look out at Coit Tower, fog-shrouded and lonely.

  From the kitchen, Ramon saw her, and brought her a cup of freshly brewed espresso, greeting her in Spanish and laughing. She returned his "Buenos dias. Como esta?” laughing in return. Ramon's English was impeccable, but, he'd told her solemnly, he spoke only Spanish when a patron angered him. He'd told her he had a violent temper, that he found it imperative sometimes to hide a sudden anger behind the barrier of language to avoid calling some customer names that would get him, Ramon, fired. If he pretended not to understand the insults, he need not confront them.

  A strange young man. Maybe twenty-five years old. Very quiet. And except when he'd been insulted, which she'd never witnessed, a content young man, she thought, seeming totally pleased with the world. Maybe he shifted as quickly as a cat from cool satisfaction to raking claws.

  Did she have to drag in the simile of a cat? She sipped her espresso crossly. Couldn't she think of some other description?

  She had the notion that Ramon's alabaster-pale skin offered a clue to the quick temper he described, that such bloodless-looking skin and slight build were signs of a person capable of deep rage. She had no notion where she'd gotten such an idea. Of course it was silly. Ramon's obsidian hair and black Latin eyes simply made him look paler-as did the birthmark that splotched his left cheek, the rust-colored deformity spreading from his eye to the corner of his mouth as dark as dried blood, in the shape of the map of India.

  She had never dared ask him, in the months she'd been coming here, if it was indeed a birthmark or was perhaps a burn scar- though the skin looked smooth.

  She enjoyed chatting with Ramon; she didn't have many friends in San Francisco except her boss, Hanni, and Hanni's uncle, Dallas Garza, a detective with San Francisco PD. She hadn't tried hard to make other friends, because of her situation. She felt uneasy with other people-as if they might be able to tell what she really was. Her casual acquaintance with Ramon allowed her to walk out of the coffee shop and that was the end of it, no social obligation, no secrets shared, nothing more expected.

  "The pancakes and sausage as usual, senora?"

  "Yes, and orange juice if you please, Ramon, it's such a beautiful morning."

  He seemed to understand that a beautiful morning called for orange juice. "The fog is going quickly-like a watercolor washing away. Look how the sun makes jewels."

  Together they watched diamonds of dazzle spark at them from the sidewalk where the sun sliced down through the vanishing fog. Ramon had a good eye; he was a student at the art institute where she herself had gone ten years before. It was so good to be back in San Francisco. Nowhere in the world, she thought, were the subtle city colors as splendid as on these hills. When soon the sun rose, every hill, with its crowding houses, would be alive with swift-running cloud shadows, the whole world seeming to shift and move. The city stirred such a fierce joy in her, made her want to race through the streets, turning flips and laughing.

  Ramon brought her breakfast and the morning Chronicle, frowning at the story that slashed across the bottom of the front page. The lead and first details were so gruesome that all the fear rose in her again, sour as bile. Why had he brought this paper to her? She wanted to wad it up and run out of the cafe.

  "This terrible thing," Ramon said, setting the paper down beside her plate. "How can this be, that a man could do such a bloody deed? For why would a man do this?"

  She did not look up at him. She thought she was going to be sick. She imagined far too vividly the poor dead cat hanging limp and twisted from a lamp pole, its throat constricted by a cord tied in a hangman's noose.

  "That man should be hanged," Ramon said. "Muerto. Debe murir."

  She looked up at him, and swallowed. Ramon wanted only to share with her his rage, share with another his own indignation.

  For the last week, all over the city someone had been killing cats, hanging the poor beasts by a twisted noose, choking out their gentle, terrified lives. There had been nineteen incidents, in Haight, Nob Hill, Russian Hill, North Beach, the Presidio. Shoving her plate away, she felt her hands clench and stiffen with what she would like to do to the cat killer.

  She did not want to read the accompanying article; she hated that Ramon had brought this ugly thing for her to see. She was about to toss the paper away when she saw the upper headline.

  DEATH ROW ESCAPEES STILL AT LARGE

  SACRAMENTO-Ronnie Cush, James Hartner and Lee Wark, the three death row inmates who broke out of San Quentin ten days ago, are still at large. None has been apprehended. This is the first escape from the maximum detention wing in the history of the prison.

  The breakout occurred when prisoners overpowered a guard. All staff in that section have been replaced. Prison officials believe that Hartner may have sought family in Seattle. There is no clue to where Ronnie Cush might be headed. Lee Wark may have returned to San Francisco, where he had numerous contacts. Any witness to the escapees' whereabouts will be kept in strictest confidence by police and prison authorities.

  Kate looked helplessly at her breakfast. She wanted to pitch the plate away. Ramon still stood watching her, so intent she wanted to scream. Why was he staring? As she looked up angrily, he turned
quickly back to the kitchen.

  But he couldn't understand how upset she would be, how the articles would terrify her. He could have no concept of how powerfully the cat story would hurt her. And no idea, of course, that the prison break was, for her, perhaps even more alarming.

  She was ice cold inside. She felt absolutely certain that Lee Wark had returned-to the very city where she had come to hide from him.

  Ramon returned with the coffeepot and stood beside her table, speaking softly.

  "Dark the cat walks," Ramon said, watching her. She looked up at him, startled. "Dark the cat walks, his pacing shadow small." Ramon's Latin eyes gleamed. "Dark the cat walks. His shadow explodes tall. Fearsome wide and tall."

  The shock of his words turned her rigid. Before she could speak, abruptly Ramon left her.

  She sat very still, trying to collect her emotions. Her hands were shaking.

  Why had he said that? What could he mean?

  Dropping the paper on the floor, she threw down some money and hurried out to the street, wanted out of there, wanted out of the city.

  What was Ramon telling me? Then, Wark can't know I'm here.

  Can't he, Kate? Remember, before, how easily he discovered your secret?

  If it is Wark who's killing cats, she thought, shivering, Ramon's right. He ought to be muerto. Debe murir.

  Hurrying back to her apartment, she locked herself in, sliding the new dead bolt on the front door, checking the window locks. She made some cocoa and curled up with a book, a tame, quiet read that wouldn't upset her, couldn't stir any sense of threat-a soothing story that offered nothing to abrade her raw nerves.

  She couldn't stop thinking about Wark.

  Wasn't the Cat Museum the first place the cat killer would go?

  Had he already been there, stalking the grounds? Did the museum staff not know? Or had museum cats been killed, and the museum had kept that out of the papers?

  Had some of the poor, dead cats that were found around the city come in fact from the Cat Museum?

  What kind of cats, Kate? What kind of cats is he killing?

  Was Wark saving the Cat Museum for last? Last and best, in Wark's sick mind-before the cops got too close and he had to flee?

  Was she imagining all this-the connection between Wark and this maniac?

  She didn't think so. A sick, sadistic killer was loose in San Francisco. Lee Wark reveled in that brand of cruelty. Lee Wark had escaped from prison only thirty miles north of the city.

  Coincidence? She had the terrible feeling that if she were to visit the Cat Museum, no matter when she went there, Lee Wark would be stalking those gardens.

  5

  AS CHARLIE GETZ turned her van up the quarter-mile lane that led to Max Harper's small ranch, the yellow light of the security lamps was mighty welcome. The dark roads were behind her, where perhaps a killer lurked, the hills pitch black, the sky black and starless.

  Heading the van down the lighted fence line toward the white frame house and stable, she prayed for the safety of the Marners and Dillon as she'd been praying all night.

  The idea of three riders missing was so bizarre-the implication of a child missing made bile come in her throat. Heading eagerly for the stable yard, she knew she was driving too fast.

  Slowing the old van, she studied the dark pools of night beneath the overhanging oaks, looking for the mare. She could see, up on the hills behind the ranch, flashes of torchlight jiggling and careening, and could see lights higher up the foothills, disappearing into the pine forest. Parking before the house, she cut the engine and headlights and sat listening to the far, faint shouts of the searchers.

  After the wash of light up the lane, the yard was too dark. Harper didn't like lights glaring in his windows; his yard lights were operable from remotes in his car and truck, and from inside the house and stable.

  Now, in the tangle of black shapes around her, nothing shifted or moved.

  She'd never been afraid at night, not in Molena Point, not when she'd lived in San Francisco. Tonight her fear made her weak.

  Slipping out of the van, she switched on her torch and started across the yard toward the stable, swinging her beam wide, causing the shadows to run and dance-probably only tree trunks, maybe a wheelbarrow.

  Then, beneath a far oak, a shadow shifted and turned.

  She aimed her light toward it like a gun-wished it was a gun.

  Her beam caught the whites of frightened eyes, the line of the mare's head and pricked ears. Redwing stood pressed against the fence, her eyes wide with fear.

  Gently Charlie approached her, aiming her torch away. The mare stood stiffly, holding one leg up. The reins were broken, trailing in the dirt. Harper's nice Stubben saddle hung down Redwing's side, the stirrup dragging, the girth loose where a buckle had broken. When she reached for Redwing, the mare threw her head and snorted, rearing to wheel away. Charlie grabbed the broken rein, moving with her, letting her plunge, then easing into her. Laying her hand on the mare's neck, she felt Redwing trembling. At the same instant, loud barking erupted from the barn where the two big half-Dane dogs had been shut in their box stall for the night. The sound of their voices eased Charlie-as if their bellowing would drive away danger. And the furor seemed to calm Redwing, too. The mare knew the dogs, she played with them in the pasture; she seemed easier at their familiar presence.

  Removing the saddle, placing it on the fence rail, she led the mare out to see if she could walk.

  The mare limped badly.

  Leading Redwing to the barn, Charlie flipped on the lights, found a halter, and carefully removed the bridle, touching it as little as possible. Maybe that was silly, but if someone had grabbed the reins and pulled Dillon off, there could be fingerprints.

  Harper would laugh at her. Maybe she read too many detective stories. Hanging the bridle on its hook, she put the mare in the cross-ties and went out to the yard to fetch the saddle, supporting it by two fingers under the pad.

  Maybe, when the saddle slipped, Dillon had fallen; maybe she was lying, hurt, up on the dark hills, confused or unconscious.

  But why would she be alone, without Helen and Ruthie?

  Ignoring the whining dogs, she wiped down the mare, cleaned her skinned knee, and daubed on some salve. Putting her in her stall, she fetched a flake of hay for her and filled her water bucket. The dogs continued to bark and to scrabble at their stall door. Too bad the year-old pups weren't trained to track; they could be of use tonight. But those two mutts, as much as she loved them, would only get in the way.

  When she had the mare bedded, she removed one of the two leashes hanging from the nail beside the dogs' stall and, by opening their door only a crack, managed with a lot of shouting and strong-arming and ignored commands, to let Hestig out and leave Selig confined.

  Leashing Hestig, she tied him to a ring at the side of the stable alleyway. He stood whining, watching her soulfully. She felt easier with the big pup near. The Great Dane part of him gave him a voice like a train horn, and he had the size and presence to intimidate any stranger.

  She and Clyde together had started training the two strays in obedience, but it was slow going. Dog training wasn't Clyde's talent. The pups had ended up at Harper's, and she and Max had been working with them in the evenings, taking advantage of the wide, flat acreage to teach them the basic commands. They were learning. But tonight, with the unusual routine, and having listened to the shouting from the hills, they were too excited to pay much attention.

  She remained still a moment, stroking Hestig. In the long, quiet evenings, she hadn't meant for her relationship with Max Harper to turn personal, hadn't meant to become so attracted to him-and the trouble was, it hadn't turned personal. She didn't think Max felt anything for her but friendship.

  Harper was Clyde's best friend. It wouldn't be like him to hurt Clyde. And he was a cop, his feelings all buttoned up and in control-or at least hidden, she thought wryly.

  Except, what about Crystal Ryder?

 
; That one had thrown herself at the captain and gotten a response. But then, the woman was gorgeous, with that tawny blond hair and big brown doe eyes and deep dimples and a figure that, to quote Clyde, was stacked like a brick outhouse. How could Max resist?

  While she, Charlie, was just a skinny, gawky redhead with no sex appeal and more freckles than brains.

  Crystal Ryder was the first woman Max had looked at since his wife died.

  How can I be thinking about such inanities, about my personal problems, when Dillon's lost and hurt?

  Shutting the mare's stall door, she unsnapped Hestig's leash from the wall and, with the pup at heel, she circled the stable yard, shining her light deep beneath the trees and up into the hay shed, keeping an eye on the lane, hoping to see a squad car turning in.

  But the dirt drive remained empty-empty and lonely. And the winding road beyond the lights was unrelieved in its dense and endless blackness. Feeling vulnerable, she pulled Hestig close to her, and headed for the darkened house.

  Using the key Max had given her this evening, and pushing open the back door, she felt Hestig cower against her, so her heart did a double skip.

  Quietly she told him to watch. To his credit, the big honey-colored dog came to attention with a surprised growl. Laying her hand on his shoulder, she reached inside and flipped the switch, illuminating the big country kitchen.

  No one was there, no one standing against the oak cabinets or lurking beneath the table. Beyond the two inner doorways, the dining room and hall were dense with shadow. She stepped inside, keeping Hestig close, reached for the phone on the kitchen table, and dialed Harper's cell phone.

  "Yes?" he said softly.

  "I'm in your kitchen. Redwing came home. No sign of Dillon."

  "We haven't found her."

  "The mare slipped her saddle, it was hanging down, a girth buckle broken, the reins broken."

  "Does it look like the mare fell?"