Cat in the Dark

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Her green eyes widened. "You're serious."

  "Harper showed Clyde. He took it from the evidence room after it wasn't needed anymore."

  "No wonder you hang around home when the law comes over to play poker. It's wonderful, the things you learn from Max Harper."

  "You needn't be sarcastic."

  "I'm not being…" She stopped to listen. They heard the front door open and close and footsteps going away. Leaping to the roof's edge, they crouched with their paws in the gutter, peering down.

  Below them, the sidewalk was empty. No sign of man nor cat. But footsteps whispered away, around the corner. Joe crouched to drop down to the awning. "We need a phone-need to call Harper. Maybe a squad car can pick them up before they get away."

  "Not this time," she said softly.

  He turned to stare at her, his yellow eyes wide. "What's with you?"

  "You want Harper to know that one of the burglars is a cat?"

  "I don't intend to tell him about the cat."

  "So you don't say a word about the cat. Harper picks up the burglar. You know how tough he can be. There's no sign of forced entry, and Harper keeps at the guy about how he got in, until he caves. Tells Harper that a cat let him in, that he uses a trained cat."

  "Come on, Dulcie. The cat is his secret weapon. He'll protect that beast like Fort Knox."

  She gave him a long look. "There'll be cat hairs all over the store, on the guy's clothes, and around the skylight. Even if the guy keeps his secret, Harper will be suspicious. You know how thorough he is-and how paranoid about cats. You know how nervous he gets when there's a cat anywhere near a case."

  Over the past year, Joe and Dulcie's telephone tips to Max Harper, in the guise of interested citizens, had led to key arrests in three Molena Point murders, resulting in six convictions. But each time, the cats themselves had been seen in embarrassing situations. This, and the fact that some of their tips had involved evidence that couldn't possibly have been discovered by a human informant, tended to make Max Harper nervous. He had, in short, some well-founded suspicions involving the feline persuasion.

  "We don't need to add to his unease," Dulcie said. She looked deeply at Joe. "Let's leave this one alone. I have a bad feeling about this."

  "Dulcie, sometimes you…"

  Below them a shadow moved in the blackness at the edge of the awning. And the blackness exploded up at them-the black cat hit the roof inches from Joe, his fangs white in the moonlight, his claws gleaming sharp as knives, going straight for Joe's throat.

  Dulcie charged between them.

  The black torn froze, staring at her.

  Joe and Dulcie faced the black cat, rigid with challenge.

  Not a sound, not a twitch.

  Then the torn relaxed, leering at Dulcie, his tail lashing provocatively, his neck bowed like the neck of a bull; when he smiled, his eyes burned keener than the fires of hell.

  "I am Azrael."

  Joe circled him, rumbling and snarling.

  "Azrael," Dulcie said, moving between Joe and the black torn. "Azrael means Death Angel." She watched the cat intently.

  The presence of another like themselves should be a cause for joy. Where had he come from? Why was he here in their village? As Joe moved again to attack, she cut him a look of warning. What good were teeth and claws, if they found out nothing about this cat?

  "Azrael," she mewed softly, recalling the dark mythology. "Azrael of the million dark veils. Azrael who can spin the world on one claw.

  "Azrael whose golden throne gleams in the sixth Heaven," she purred, glaring at Joe to be still. "Azrael of the four black wings and the four faces, and a thousand watchful eyes."

  The tom smiled and preened at her but glanced narrowly at Joe.

  "Azrael who stole from that store," Dulcie said, trying to sound amused. "Azrael who helped that man steal."

  The black torn laughed. "And what do you think we stole? That junk furniture? Did you see him carrying away old chairs and hat racks?"

  "You took her money."

  "If we did, little queen, that's none of your affair." His purr was a ragged rumble; he towered over her, slow and insinuating; his amber eyes caressed her, devoured her-but when he reached out his nose to sniff her tail, she whirled, screaming feline curses, and Joe exploded, biting and slashing him, sinking his claws into the tom's back and neck. The two toms spun in a clawing, yowling whirlwind across the roofs, raking fur and swearing until Dulcie again thrust herself between them, fighting them both.

  They spun apart and backed off, circling and snarling, crouching to leap again for the tender parts.

  Joe attacked first-blood spattered Dulcie's face. But the torn sent him flying against a chimney. Joe shook his head and bolted into Azrael, cursing a string of human insults until Dulcie again drove them apart, battling like a wildcat; neither torn would hurt a queen.

  "You want to bring the cops?" she hissed at them. "There are apartments above these shops. You make enough noise, someone will call the station."

  The black torn smiled and turned away. He began to wash, as casual and easy as if there had never been a battle. But soon he paused, and drew himself up tall and erect like an Egyptian statue carved from ebony. "You two little cats," he said, looking them over as if they amused him. "You two little cats-I see death around you."

  He studied them haughtily. "Do you not sense death?" He licked his paw. "There will be death in this village. Human death. I sense death-three human corpses. Death before the moon is again full.

  "I see you two little cats standing over the bodies. I see your foolish pain-because humans are dead." He laughed coldly. "Humans. How very silly. Why would you care that a human dies? The world is overrun with humans."

  "What do…" Dulcie began.

  But a whistle from the street jerked the tomcat up, a call as soft as the cry of a night bird. He turned, leaped down into the awning, and was gone. They heard a muffled oof of breath as he hit the street. Heard his human partner speak to him, then footsteps.

  Looking over the roof's edge, they watched the two drift away, up the street into darkness. Joe crouched to follow, but Dulcie pressed against him, urging him away from the edge.

  "Don't," she said. "Please don't-he frightens me." She was demure and quiet. If she had ranted and snarled at him, he would have been off at once, after the pair.

  "He scares me," she repeated, sitting down on the shingles. Joe looked back at her crossly, knowing he'd be sorry he hadn't followed. But he was puzzled, too. Dulcie was seldom afraid. Not this shivering, shrinking, huge-eyed kind of fear.

  "Please," she said, "leave him alone. He might be like us. There might be a wonderful mystery about him. But he terrifies me."

  Later, in the small hours when Joe and Dulcie had parted, as she snuggled down in the quilt beside Wilma, she dreamed of Azrael, and in sleep she shivered. Caught by the tom's amber eyes, she followed him along medieval lanes, was both frightened of him and fascinated. Winding across ancient rooftops they slipped among gargoyles and mythic creatures twisted and grotesque, beasts that mirrored the black tom's dark nature. Azrael before her, drawing her on, charming her, leading her in dream until she began to lose all judgment.

  She'd always had vivid dreams. Sometimes, prophetic dreams. But this drama woke her, clawing the blankets, hissing with fear and unwanted emotions. Her thrashing woke Wilma, who sat up in bed and gathered Dulcie close, her long gray hair falling around them, her flannel nightgown warm against Dulcie. "Nightmare? A bad nightmare?"

  Dulcie said nothing. She lay shivering against Wilma, trying to purr, feeling very ashamed of the way the black torn had made her feel.

  She was Joe Grey's lady; her preoccupation with the stranger, even in dream, deeply upset her.

  Wilma didn't press her for answers. She stroked Dulcie until she slept again, and this time as Dulcie dropped into the deep well of sleep she held her thoughts on Joe Grey and on home and on Wilma, pressing into her mind everyone dear to her, shutting
out dark Azrael.

  It was not until the next morning that Joe, brushing past Clyde's bare feet, leaping to the kitchen table and pawing open the morning Gazette, learned more about the burglary at Medder's Antiques. He read the article as Clyde stood at the stove frying eggs. Two over-easy for Clyde, one sunny-side up for Joe. Around Clyde's feet the three household cats and the elderly black Labrador crouched on the kitchen floor eating kibble, each at his or her own bowl. Only Joe was served breakfast on the table, and he certainly wasn't having kibble.

  Clyde said kibble was good for his teeth, but so were whole wheat kitty treats laced with fish oil and added vitamins from Molena Point's Pet Gourmet. Choosing between P.G.'s delightful confections and store-bought kibble was no contest. Two of P.G.'s fish-shaped delicacies, at this moment, lay on his breakfast plate, which Clyde had placed just beside the newspaper. Clyde had arranged four sardines as well, and a thin slice of Brie, a nicely planned repast awaiting only the fried egg.

  It had taken a bit of doing to get Clyde trained, but the effort had been worth it.

  Standing on the morning paper sniffing the delicate aroma of good, imported sardines, he read the Gazette's account of the burglary. The police did not know how the burglar had gotten into the store. There had been no sign of forced entry. No item of merchandise seemed to be missing. Fifteen hundred dollars had been taken, three hundred from the cash register, the balance from the locked safe. The safe had been drilled, a very professional job. Joe didn't know he was growling until Clyde turned from the stove.

  "What? What are you reading?" Clyde brought the skillet to the table, dished up the eggs, then picked Joe up as if he were a bag of flour so he could see the paper.

  Joe dangled impatiently as Clyde read.

  Clyde set Joe down again, making no comment, and turned away, his face closed and remote.

  They had been through this too many times. Clyde didn't like him messing around with burglaries and murders and police business. And Joe was going to do as he pleased. There was no way Clyde could stop him short of locking him in a cage. And Clyde Damen, even at his worst, would never consider such a deed- never be fool enough to attempt it.

  Clyde sat down at the table and dumped pepper on his eggs. "So this is why you've been scowling and snarling all morning, this burglary."

  "I haven't been scowling and snarling." Joe slurped up a sardine, dipping it in egg yolk. "Why would I bother with a simple break-and-enter? Max Harper can handle that stuff."

  "Oh? Those small crimes are beneath you? So, then, what's with the worried scowl?"

  Joe looked at him blankly and nipped off a bite of Brie.

  Clyde reached across the table and nudged him. "What's going on? What's with you?"

  "Nothing," Joe said coldly. "Is there some law that I have to tell you all my business?"

  Clyde raised an eyebrow.

  "So there's a new cat in the village. It's nothing to worry you, nothing for you to fret over."

  Clyde was silent a moment, watching him. "I take it this is a tomcat. What did he do, come onto Dulcie?"

  Joe glared.

  Clyde grinned. "What else would make you so surly?" He mopped up egg with his toast. "I imagine you can handle the beast. I don't suppose this cat has anything to do with last night's burglary?"

  Joe widened his eyes and laughed. "In what way? What would a cat have to do with a burglary? It's too early in the morning for dumb questions."

  Clyde looked at him deeply, then rose and fetched the coffeepot, poured a fresh cup.

  "You get the Sheetrock all torn out?"

  "We did, and hauled it to the dump. No more Sheetrock dust, you and Dulcie can hunt mice to your little hearts' content without sneezing-until we start hanging new Sheetrock, of course."

  The five-apartment unit that Clyde had bought was a venture Joe considered incredibly foolhardy. No way Clyde Damen was going to turn that neglected dump into a sound rental investment. The fact that Clyde was working on the project himself turned Joe weak with amusement.

  The only sensible thing Clyde had done on the venture was to hire his girlfriend, Charlie Getz, who operated Charlie's Fix-It, Clean-It. Charlie's business was relatively new. She had only a small crew-just two women-but she did good work. Her cleaning lady was sixty-year-old Mavity Flowers, who was a tiny, skinny creature but a surprisingly hard worker. The other employee, Pearl Ann Jamison, was a real find. Pearl Ann not only cleaned for Charlie, she was handy at light carpentry and could turn out professional Sheetrock work, from installation of the heavy wallboard to mudding and taping. The rest of the work on the building, the wiring and plumbing, Charlie and Clyde were farming out to subcontractors.

  Joe finished his breakfast, nosed his plate out of the way, and began to wash, thinking about the burglary. He supposed the antique shop had been the first, as he'd seen nothing in the papers about any other similar thefts. He didn't let himself dwell on the nature of the black torn or where he came from but kept his mind on the immediate problem, wondering what other small village businesses the man and cat planned to hit.

  But maybe this had been a one-time deal. Maybe the pair was just passing through, heading up the coast-maybe they'd simply needed some walking-around money. Maybe they were already gone, had hauled out of Molena Point for parts unknown.

  Sure. The village should be so lucky.

  No, this burglary hadn't been impromptu. The planning was too precise, the team's moves too deliberate and assured, as if they had done their research. As if they knew very well that the quiet village was a sitting duck, and they knew just how to pluck it.

  He hated to think that that cat might have been prowling the shops for days-maybe weeks-and he and Dulcie hadn't known about it, hadn't scented the beast or seen him. He imagined the cat and the old man idling in Mrs. Medder's antique shop getting friendly with her, the old man making small talk as he cased the place looking for a safe or a burglar alarm, the black torn wandering innocently rubbing around the old woman's ankles, purring and perhaps accepting little tidbits of her lunch while he, too, checked the layout, leaped up to stare into the drawer of the open cash register, and searched the shadows for an alarm system.

  He didn't like that scenario. It was bad enough for a human to steal from the village shops. A cat had no business doing this stuff.

  Leaping from the table to the sink, pacing restlessly across the counter and glaring out the window, Joe wished he'd followed those two last night. He wouldn't make that mistake again. Dulcie could find excuses to avoid confronting the black tomcat if she chose, but he was going to nail that little team. Licking egg from his whiskers as he watched the rising sun lift above the Molena Point hills, Joe Grey's lust for justice flamed at least as bright as that solar orb-burned with a commitment as powerful and predatory as any human cop.

  4

  CHARLIE GETZ had no reason to suspect, when she woke early Saturday morning, that she was about to be evicted from her cozy new apartment, that by the time most of the village sat down to breakfast she'd be shoving cardboard boxes and canvas duffels into her decrepit Chevy van, dumping all her worldly possessions back into her aunt's garage-from which she had so recently removed them. Thrown out, given the boot, on the most special day of her life, on a day that she had wanted to be perfect.

  She'd already spent three months sponging off Aunt Wilma, had moved in with Wilma jobless and nearly broke and with no prospects, had lived rent-free in Wilma's guest room after abandoning her failed career.

  During that time she'd launched her new venture, put what little cash she had into running ads, buying the old van and used cleaning and carpentry equipment, hiring the best help she could find on short notice. She was twenty-eight years old. Starting Charlie's Fix-It, Clean-It and renting her own apartment, taking responsibility for her own life after wasting six years in San Francisco had been one big strike for independence. A huge step toward joining-belatedly-the adult world.

  Now here she was back to square one, homeless
again.

  She had loved being with Wilma, loved coming home to a cozy house, to a blazing fire and a nice hot meal, loved being pampered, but she valued, more, being her own provider.

  Now, waking at dawn before she had any notion that an eviction notice was tucked beside her front door, she snuggled down into the covers, looking around her little studio with deep satisfaction. The one room pleased her immensely, though the furnishings weren't much, just her easel, her single cot, her secondhand breakfast table, and two mismatched wooden chairs. Open cardboard boxes stacked on their sides like shelves held her neatly folded clothes. But through her open windows a cool breeze blew in, smelling pleasantly of the sea, and above the village rooftops the sunrise, this morning, was a wonder of watercolor tints, from pink to pale orange streaked among islands of dark clouds.

  The coastal foothills would be brightening now as the sun rose behind them, casting its light down on the small village, onto the narrow, wandering lanes and dark, leathery oak trees and the maze of slanted, angled rooftops, and reflecting from the windows of the little restaurants and shops-the morning sun sending its light into the windows of the Aronson Gallery onto her own drawings, picking out her work with fingers of light.

  What a strange sensation, to think that she belonged to a gallery, that her work was to be part of a real exhibit. She still couldn't believe her luck, not only to be included with six well-known artists but to see her drawings occupying more than half the gallery's front window-a real vote of confidence for a newcomer. The exhibit had been a bonus out of nowhere, unforeseen and amazing.

  Four years of art school and two years trying to find her way as a commercial artist, a dozen trial-and-error, entry-level advertising jobs that she knew weren't right for her, nor she for them, had led at last to the realization that she would never make a living in the art world. Her failure had left her feeling totally defeated-a misfit not only in her chosen field but in life. Only now, after she had abandoned all idea of supporting herself in the arts, had anyone been interested in her drawings.