The sight of him there in the gardens made her blood run cold. She looked and looked. She was nearly sure it was Wark. As he moved away behind the wisteria vines, the white cat stepped out of the bushes, warily following him.
"We will process the application quickly," the woman was saying. "Meanwhile, the museum publishes two books, one on the collection, and the other a short biography of McCabe. Both are for sale."
Frightened and edgy, she bought the biography and dropped it in her shoulder bag. She would not run. This time she would not run from him. She would sensibly use the phone, call the police.
But was it Wark? How embarrassing, to summon the police if that man was not Lee Wark.
She needed to see for herself.
There was no one around, no one to stop him if he attacked her, only this little woman.
She thought how brave Charlie had been, getting Dillon out of Crystal's garage, getting her away while Stubby Baker was shooting at them. Charlie, too, had been afraid.
Well, she could just go out there into the gardens, get a look at him. If it was Wark, she could dodge him, run back inside, and grab the phone. She had to do this, or she would never be free of him-and he would be free to hurt others.
Slipping out the side door, warily she approached the pergola.
Nothing moved around her. She could see no cats; not a cat was visible.
Had they all gone? Or were they hiding?
Heart pounding, she moved into the pergola, staring into the shadows. The wisteria vines brushed her cheek, startling her.
Wark stood under the vines, his cold eyes full on her. She backed away. He lunged, grabbed her, twisting her arm. What had made her think she could escape him?
"Jimmie still wants you dead, missy. That divorce made Jimmie real mad. Jimmie still means to pay for you dead. And I plan to collect."
He began to whisper; she didn't want to hear him. As he spoke, she had a sense of being watched. When she felt his hands on her throat she fought him, biting and hitting him. He twisted her arm; hot pain shot through her.
But suddenly the cats were there, springing at him, leaping down from the trellis, appearing out of the vines, launching themselves at him, so many cats, dozens of cats. The white cat exploded out, flying at his face, biting and raking him; cats swarmed over him, snarling and clawing. Kate felt nothing for Wark. She stood frozen, watching him cower and cover his face, and she could think only of the poor animals he had hurt.
But then suddenly she'd had enough, she didn't want to see this, didn't want this to be happening.
"Stop," she whispered. "Stop. Let him go."
The cats stopped and looked at her. In that instant, Wark ran, cats dropping off, leaping away.
She watched him disappear down Russian Hill. She had started inside to call the police, when she knew she couldn't do that.
Covered with bleeding scratches, Wark must not be reported from the phone in the museum. Let Wark get as far away as his running feet could take him.
She fled the garden in a cab, got out at Stockton Street to use a pay phone. Then she hurried home, running past the Iron Horse with the closed sign in its window and up her own steps, into her apartment to bolt the door.
She spent the rest of the afternoon huddled on her couch, wrapped in a blanket, sipping hot tea, mindlessly watching her locked windows and bolted front door. Wondering if the police had found Wark. She had not given the dispatcher her name. She was heating a can of soup, watching the little TV in the kitchen, when the local news came on.
Wark's picture filled the screen.
"The first of the three escapees from San Quentin was apprehended this afternoon at Fisherman's Wharf." The anchorwoman was dark-haired, her black-lashed blue eyes looking as if every item she ever broadcast touched her deeply. "Lee Wark, serving a life sentence for murder, was found in the men's room of a Fisherman's Wharf restaurant by a restaurant patron who called the police. Wark had fainted, apparently from loss of blood, from what police describe as hundreds of scratch wounds. Neither police nor hospital authorities have offered an opinion as to what caused his injuries."
The picture on the screen did not show the scratches; the station had used the same mug shot they had been broadcasting since the three men escaped.
"Lee Wark was serving a multiple sentence in San Quentin for murder and attempted murder and for car theft and counterfeiting. He escaped from prison over four weeks ago, along with James Hartner and Ronnie Cush, who are still at large, wanted by state police. During their escape, the three men seriously wounded a guard. Anyone having information about the two escapees, or about Wark's present injuries, is asked to contact San Francisco police or prison authorities at San Quentin. They will have full assurance of anonymity."
The relief that flooded Kate was more than she would have dreamed. Wark's capture swept away an unimaginable weight. She felt, for the first time since she'd learned of her dual nature, no unease, no fear. If she harbored the nature of a cat within herself, she was what she was. Now, with Wark locked up again, there would be no one to hate her and want to harm her-her private nature would be her own secret.
But she had to smile. She bet the museum's feline population had vanished. She bet no cat would be seen in those gardens until this news was old and stale. Certainly the white cat would have vanished.
She was eating her soup when the phone rang.
"Kate, are you okay? Have you seen the news? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Clyde. Yes, I saw the news." She put her hand over the phone, feeling giddy. "I'm fine. Where are you?"
"At home. Drinking a beer and watching the San Francisco channel. Joe and Dulcie are doing flips, they're so happy. Were you… How did Wark…?"
"Leave it alone, Clyde."
"All right, Kate. If you say so. I've ordered in fillets to celebrate. Wish you were here. When are you coming back? We miss you."
"I just left."
"I miss you."
She didn't answer.
"Kate?"
"I thought you were dating Charlie."
"Charlie and Max are up at his place, celebrating his return to the department. I think the chief needs her, Elate. And I think Max is what she needs, not a bumbling auto mechanic."
"And you, Clyde?"
"You make me laugh, Kate. You always have. When are you coming home?"
27
PACING HIS CELL, Stubby Baker looked mad enough to chomp the metal bars, with the sort of rage that made men trash hotel rooms and beat their wives. Baker might be a handsome, boyish-looking fellow, Dulcie thought, with a smile to charm the ladies, but none of that was apparent at the moment. The two cats, looking down at Baker from the high open window, watched Baker's attorney leave the cell and the guard slam and lock the door.
Bars and wire mesh covered the window. The wire-reinforced glass had been cranked open to the warm afternoon. On the sill, Joe and Dulcie crouched beneath the higher branches of the oak tree that sheltered the dead-end alley, the back door of the police station, and the jail. The tree was their highway, their path to all manner of case-related information. It was huge, with rough bark, sprawling twisted limbs bigger around than a cat, and dark prickly leaves. One had only to leap from its sturdy branches to the broad sill to observe the daily lives of the duly incarcerated. A cat could eavesdrop on any conversation that might occur among the residents or between an offender and his jailer or lawyer. The discussion that had just terminated between Baker and his portly attorney had been strictly confidential. The cats grinned at each other, amply rewarded for their three-hour wait atop the hard concrete sill.
Baker was enraged that he'd been picked out of the lineup. Was furious that Crystal had double-crossed him, that she had been hiding Dillon all along. He was mad that Kendrick Mahl and Jimmie Osborne had instructed Crystal to pay him only half the agreed amount, claiming that Wark, not he, had done Ruthie Marner. He said Wark had not been part of the deal, that Wark's escape from Quentin didn't mean h
e had a right to horn in on a private business arrangement. The attorney, scratching his pale, stubbled cheek, couldn't have agreed more; but he reminded Baker that he had been picked out of the lineup, that morning. When the potbellied, bearded lawyer said he was considering how to deal with that little setback, Joe glanced at Dulcie and nearly yowled out a bawdy cat laugh.
The lineup, in which Dillon fingered Baker as Helen's killer, had, in the cats' opinion, been a highly entertaining occasion.
Garza had gathered seven tall, thin people into one of the station's conference rooms, all dressed alike in worn Levi's, western shirts, and boots, their identical western hats pulled low over their faces, and the collars of their jeans jackets pulled up. The subjects had included Stubby Baker, Max Harper, Crystal Ryder sans makeup and with her hair pulled up under her hat, and four strangers whom Dillon wasn't likely to know. Dillon's parents had wanted to be with the child, but Dillon had opted to view the group alone, with only Detective Garza and two attending officers present.
She had not deliberated for more than a moment.
The cats, sneaking into the station during the change of watch, slipping under officers' desks and back through the squad room, had managed to stay out of sight until they were safely concealed beneath the last row of chairs in the appointed conference room. They had peered out at the lineup fascinated. The tall figures, all dressed like the killer, were alarmingly alike, their arms hidden by the long sleeves of their jackets, only small portions of their lean faces visible beneath the broad-brimmed hats. It was hard to tell which was Max Harper-until they looked at the eyes.
The killer's eyes spoke to Dillon, too, the dark, mesmerizing eyes of Stubby Baker. Dillon rose from her chair and drew close, looking up at Baker, then stepped back quickly, swallowing.
"That man. It was that man who killed Helen Marner."
"Are you sure?" Garza asked her.
"Yes. That man, riding the captain's horse." She had gone pale, looking at Baker. Baker's eyes on Dillon burned with such rage that Joe Grey feared for the child. And as he was led away, he cut a look at Harper, standing in the lineup, a fierce and promising stare that chilled Joe.
But Baker would be locked up now, where he couldn't reach Harper or Dillon. And before anyone left the room, the cats had slipped out and raced down the hall, and out to the courthouse lawn, to roll over, purring.
They had contributed in a major way to Max Harper's exoneration. They had discovered Crystal's purchase of Helen's duplex and had found Crystal's phone tapes and gotten them to Garza. The kit had found the barrette, by which Officer Wendell helped to incriminate himself when he didn't report it. They had, most important of all, found Dillon and called in the troops, who had gotten her to safety.
"And," Dulcie whispered, "you very likely prevented Crystal from sneaking down into the Pamillon cellar-from surprising Harper and Charlie.
"You were wonderful," she said. "I was so worried when you left the cellar. But if Crystal had come down there, who knows what might have happened?" She rubbed her whiskers against his. "If Harper hadn't seen you streaking up the steps, he wouldn't have been there to fire those shots and scare away the cougar."
Joe Grey smiled. He felt pretty good about life. And he would far rather see Crystal stand trial than see the puma kill her, if only for the sake of her testimony.
But also, because a cougar who kills a human is in deep trouble. And while he feared the big cat, Joe respected him.
The cats had visited Crystal, over in the women's wing, before settling down to spy on Baker. She'd been in a worse mood than Baker. And she looked like hell, Dulcie had observed with satisfaction.
The bandages on her shoulder and arm were clearly visible now under her loose prison smock, her honey-colored hair was limp and oily, her dimpled smile replaced by a scowl. Her orange prison jumpsuit made her skin sallow. While they watched her, she spoke to none of her neighbors in the adjoining cells, and no one came to see her. They had grown bored at last and headed for Baker's cell, but they were not the only eavesdroppers.
Attached to the cell window, in a position where it could not be spotted by the inmate, was a tiny tape recorder, the smallest model Joe had ever seen. Property of Molena Point PD, it had been in position when they arrived on the windowsill. It appeared to be the kind of machine activated by sound, that would stop recording during periods of silence. The grid for its microphone was directed downward toward the cell. The recorder smelled of hand lotion, the brand worn by Detective Kathleen Ray. Joe was shocked at Kathleen, and highly amused.
There was nothing illegal about a police department installing such a recorder on its own premises. Once a citizen was arrested, the privilege of privacy ceased to exist. The cops had every right- except for the present meeting.
Conversations between a client and his attorney were privileged information-could not legally be recorded.
Kathleen had to know that, Joe had thought, studying the small machine.
But he needn't have worried about Detective Ray's intentions. The conversation between Baker and his attorney was not recorded; the machine didn't activate. Joe thought Kathleen Ray must have been watching for the attorney, and must have a remote control in the station. When the lawyer left, Joe hissed into the machine, and the tape started rolling. It stopped when he stopped. He wondered what Kathleen had taped, what would be added to Dallas Garza's report.
Baker had been formally charged with murder, and Crystal Ryder with three counts of conspiracy to commit murder, and with kidnapping.
Lee Wark was languishing once again in San Quentin, nursing his wounds-about which Joe and Dulcie had done considerable speculation. Wark was facing, as well as the state's charge of escape, a charge of murder in the first degree. Wark's blood had been found on Ruthie Marner, and fibers from his sweater on her clothes.
And Joe Grey felt warm and smug. Three no-goods were about to receive the benefits of the American legal system, the system they had tried to manipulate.
The cats had come to the jail directly from the courthouse, from a gathering in Lowell Gedding's office in which they had again assumed the roles of unseen observers, behind the curtain of the bay window.
The city attorney had called the small group together to ease tension among those involved, to clear the air and set matters to rights before the trial began. Those present had included Molena Point Chief of Police Max Harper, duly reinstated; his officers and detectives; San Francisco detective Dallas Garza; Dillon Thurwell and her parents and a few of their close friends; four members of the Marner family; the mayor and five members of the city council; and Clyde Damen, Charlie Getz, and Wilma Getz, who had sat with their backs to the bay window, effectively blocking any chance glimpse of its occupants.
Gedding had made no accusations as to possible collusion among the city council and the offenders. No innuendos slipped into his statement, yet the cats observed a coolness on Gedding's part, as if perhaps in the next election he might do some heavy campaigning against certain council members. Joe Grey had watched the proceedings with a more-than-relieved air.
The night before, he'd had a nightmare that left him mewling like a terrified kitten. He'd dreamed he was in Judge Wesley's courtroom, that Max Harper stood before the bench facing the judge not as a police officer called to testify, but to be sentenced himself for first-degree murder. The nightmare had been so real that Joe had waked fighting the blanket, growling and hissing with rage.
"Stop it, Joe! What's wrong?" Clyde had poked him hard. "What's the matter with you!"
He'd awakened fully, to find himself lashing out at Clyde. Shocked, he'd stared confused at Clyde's lacerated hand.
"Wake up, you idiot cat! Are you awake? Are you having a fit? You clawed me! What's wrong with you!"
From the angle of the moonlight seeping in under the window shade, he'd guessed the time at about 2:30. Rising up among the rumpled blankets, he was still seeing the Molena Point courtroom, watching Max Harper sentenced to life in p
rison.
A dream.
It had been only a dream.
He'd tried to explain to Clyde how real the vision had been. His distress must have gotten to Clyde, because Clyde got up, went down the hall to the kitchen, and fixed him a bowl of warm milk. Carrying it back to the bedroom, Clyde let him drink it on the Persian throw rug, one of the few really nice furnishings in their rough-hewn bachelor pad.
"That was very nice," Joe had said, licking his whiskers and yawning.
"You didn't spill on the rug?"
"I didn't spill on the rug," he snapped. "Why can't you ever do anything nice without hassling me?"
"Because you spill, Joe. You slop your food, and I have to clean it up. Shut up and come back to bed. Go to sleep. And don't dream anymore-you don't need bad dreams. Harper's been cleared. He's back home, back at work, and all is well with the world. Go to sleep."
"The trial hasn't started yet. How do you know-"
"Go to sleep. With the amount of evidence the department has, what's to worry? Much of that evidence," Clyde said, reaching to lightly cuff him, "thanks to you and Dulcie and the kit."
That compliment had so pleased and surprised him that he'd curled up, purring, and drifted right off to sleep.
But then, all through the meeting in Gedding's office, which amounted mostly to friendly handshakes and smiles, and then later hearing practically a confession from Stubby Baker, he still found it hard to shake off the fear-hard to shake the feeling that this was not a good world with some bad people in it, but a world where any decency was temporal. Where any goodness was as ephemeral and short-lived as cat spit on the wind.
In the cell below them, the lawyer had left, and Joe was prodding Dulcie to do the same when Officer Wendell came along the hall, pausing at Baker's bars.
Wendell looked like he'd slept in his uniform. He spoke so softly that the cats had to strain to hear. Joe glanced at the tape. It was running.
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