IT WAS ONE A.M. The lights in most of the ER rooms had been dimmed, only Pedric’s lights shone brightly behind the drawn curtain. Ryan had left the glass door cracked open, but the few nurses and attendants visible were busy at their desks, able to get computer records entered, now that most of the patients were sleeping. At this predawn hour a quiet lull held the ward, perhaps before the next sudden round of broken legs and stomach cramps that would have nurses hurrying again to minister to the wounded and accident-prone. Quietly, Clyde pushed in through the canvas curtain.
Pedric was sitting up in bed, in his skimpy hospital gown, a white cotton blanket around his shoulders, looking relaxed despite the fierce headache he said still plagued him. Beneath the blanket he held Kit safe, so happy to have her there. Ryan sat beside the bed, Clyde’s backpack near, in case someone came to tend to Pedric; nurses were never shy about waking patients from sleep to administer pills, to poke and prod and straighten blankets.
“I can remember only fragments of this week,” Pedric was saying worriedly, “a breakfast of Swiss pancakes, a cable car ride in the rain. Kit stretched out on Kate’s windowsill,” he said, smiling, “watching fog slip in beneath the Golden Gate. Whole mornings and evenings are blank.
“I remember Kate’s stories more clearly, the granite sky, those cavernous sweeps of stone lit by the green glow of the subterranean daytime, a winged woman with a . . .” He went still then as the canvas curtain moved and was eased aside.
A doctor in a white coat stepped in. “Dr. James Pindle,” he said, rigidly watching Pedric. He didn’t offer to shake hands with him, or with Ryan or Clyde. He was a thin-boned man, narrow arms and shoulders, small hands. Milk-white skin against ink-black hair, eyes so black you couldn’t see the pupils.
“I left orders for only one visitor at a time,” he said accusingly. “I don’t want him talking away like this, I don’t want him stressed. Didn’t the nurse tell you that?”
Ryan had risen, pretending to straighten Pedric’s covers as Kit slid deeper down; too late now to slip into the backpack, and they were terrified Pindle would lower the rail to examine Pedric.
“At least you didn’t let him fall asleep,” Pindle said. “I hope he hasn’t slept. The nurse must have told you that much, if you were allowed to stay in here with the curtain drawn. You must have been instructed what to watch for.” He glanced out toward the nurses’ station, where Nurse Evers seemed totally preoccupied at her computer.
“You do understand,” he said coldly, “that with a concussion he can’t have drugs or painkillers or caffeine, and that he will try to escape the pain by retreating into sleep.”
“We understand,” Clyde said. “He hasn’t slept. We’ve been very quiet, and he hasn’t talked much.”
“He just seems glad for the company,” Ryan said. She didn’t say which company had so pleased and calmed the patient. Pindle gave her a chill look and moved to the bed rail, forcing Ryan to step aside. He stood not inches from where Kit hid beneath the blanket, looking at Pedric. “One of you will have to leave. The patient is a bundle of nerves, surely you can see he’s disturbed.”
“Not at all,” Pedric said, smiling easily at him, putting out his hand for a proper introduction. “In fact, I’m feeling better, the headache is less severe. I’d like something to eat, if there’s anything available at this hour.”
Pindle’s face seemed frozen into scowl lines. “I’ll tell the nurse. Maybe some crackers and applesauce.” He looked at Clyde. “Is he still worrying about his cat?” he said with disgust. “This foolishness about a cat has him unduly upset. I can’t have him worrying, certainly not over something so inconsequential. I’m moving him to the ICU in the morning, until he’s stable. Blood sugar way too high, and that could mean any number of things. And the torn knee needs attending to. The hospitalist will be in shortly, he’s the one who will admit him. I don’t suppose either of you have a medical power of attorney?”
“We both do,” Clyde said coolly. “As do Ms. Osborne, Wilma Getz, and Mrs. Harper. Ms. Osborne is down the hall with Pedric’s wife. We are all listed on both of the Greenlaws’ health care directives. Mrs. Harper signed him in, so that should be on the chart.”
“Then there should be no problem if further tests are warranted,” Pindle said. “His wife will be kept in ER overnight. If nothing else shows up, she can go home. I’m on my way to look at her. We’ll keep Mr. Greenlaw until the concussion has healed and the torn meniscus in his knee is repaired, though we may find that other procedures will be needed.”
What other procedures, Ryan thought, here in a strange hospital? And who said Pedric and Lucinda weren’t alert enough to do their own signing?
“Maybe Dr. Carroll can deal with him,” he said without explanation, and without any comforting word to Pedric, he left the room, the canvas curtain swinging behind him. Ryan looked after him, rigid with anger, then hurried to catch up as he moved along the hall toward Lucinda’s room.
“I’m not sure,” she said, walking beside him, “that it’s wise to separate Lucinda and Pedric, to send Lucinda home alone.” She kept her voice loud enough to alert Kate and Wilma. One close call was enough, they didn’t need this man finding Dulcie. Dr. Pindle didn’t respond, he didn’t speak or turn to look at her. He pushed past her, was just entering Lucinda’s room when Ryan, glancing back, saw another doctor leave the room next to Pedric’s, heading for Pedric’s door.
Praying Kate and Wilma had heard her warning, she turned back again, to help Clyde get Kit out of there unseen, or try to get her out. But, stepping in behind the doctor, he didn’t alarm her as Pindle had; his movements were easier and unthreatening as he turned to look at her.
He wore the requisite white coat with its little brass name tag, same dark slacks as Dr. Pindle, soft-soled black shoes. But this man looked relaxed, he had an easy walk, a big man, big hands, tousled red hair framing a face that looked sunny and thoughtful. As he approached Pedric’s bed she saw Wilma hurry out of Lucinda’s room carrying her heavy tote bag, the canvas bottom sagging. Had Pindle seen Dulcie and angrily sent them packing? Or had Wilma moved fast enough to clear the premises before they found themselves in a nasty tangle of red tape and security guards, mired in a diatribe that would leave both the cats and humans shaken, leave the two patients sicker than they’d been when they were admitted?
EVEN BEFORE RYAN left Pedric’s room Kit was digging her claws into the mattress trying not to squirm, not to burst out hissing at that Dr. Pindle person. She felt trapped by his cold voice, trapped by the bed rails and the tightly tucked blanket that hid her, trapped even by the tubes and wires that confined Pedric, that seemed to confine them both. Hidden in the near dark against Pedric’s warmth, she couldn’t see out; she’d listened with growing anger to Dr. Pindle, had heard Ryan follow him out of the room, heard her voice moving away down the hall as if to warn Kate and Wilma, but still she felt he might appear again, and the man made her fur crawl. But then, crouched there listening, she sensed Pedric start to fall asleep. She felt Clyde shake his arm, prodding him awake. “Talk to me, Pedric,” Clyde urged.
Oh, don’t talk about the Netherworld again, Kit thought, but already he was saying, “A world so green, like the green underworld of the old myths,” and even as he rambled on again, to keep himself awake, she heard footsteps in the room next to them, a man’s soft-soled step. “Green drifting out of the granite sky . . .” Pedric was saying, and she pawed at him to make him be still. She heard the next door slide open, the scuff of rubber-soled shoes approaching Pedric’s door. She peered out searching for the backpack, but she couldn’t see it. Yes, there, Clyde was holding it open. She tensed to slip out but she was too late. Another doctor had stepped in and with no time to hide she pushed closer to Pedric, her heart pounding.
He came to stand beside the metal rail. He would be looking down at Pedric, looking right at the covers where she hid. She tried not to move even a whisker,
prayed not to sneeze or purr. Purrs weren’t always controllable, sometimes they just slipped out.
He didn’t smell like Dr. Pindle, he had a friendly scent, laced with a touch of spicy shaving lotion. His voice was easy, deep, and relaxed. “I was in the next room, Mr. Greenlaw. I’m Dr. Carroll. That was a fascinating tale you were spinning.”
Kit swallowed. There was a long, awkward silence. She listened to Clyde and Ryan introduce themselves, standing near the foot of the bed. And Clyde launched into Ryan’s explanation of Pedric’s seemingly wild talk.
“Pedric’s knowledge of Celtic folklore is remarkable,” Clyde said, “he—”
Dr. Carroll stopped him. “Not necessary,” he said. “I heard quite a lot, from next door.” He smiled down at Pedric. “Dr. Pindle doesn’t get it, does he?”
Pedric was silent, his body gone tense.
“The old tales are an interest of mine, too,” Dr. Carroll said. “In my Scotch-Irish family, I grew up on the Celtic myths. Dr. Pindle seems concerned that you’re delirious,” he said, laughing. “I don’t think that. Pindle has no feel for the ancient wonders. Maybe they frighten him.”
There was another silence, Kit sensed the two men looking at each other. Dr. Carroll said, “Pindle seemed concerned that you are unduly distressed, Mr. Greenlaw. Over the loss of your cat? I understand she escaped from your car, after the wreck? I suppose he didn’t understand why that would worry you. Has there been any word of her?”
Pedric’s voice came stronger now. “She . . . she ran up the cliff, into the woods. But Ryan and Clyde found her, she’s safe now, and that has eased my mind.”
“I imagine it has,” Dr. Carroll said, “and eased Mrs. Greenlaw, too.” Kit felt him touch the blanket, and before she could slide away or think what to do he’d pulled the covers back. She stared up at him, stricken.
Dr. Carroll smiled. He looked straight down into her eyes, and it was a look she could never have feared. He reached to stroke her, his big hands gentle. His nails were very short, clean and neatly trimmed. His blue eyes were full of light, his red hair curly and wild, his freckles dark across his square cheeks. He spoke right to her. “The next time you hide,” he told her, “you want to be sure you haven’t left a tortoiseshell hair or two, on the white blanket.”
Kit blinked, and then purred, but her poor heart was pounding so hard she knew he could feel it beneath his stroking hand.
He couldn’t know that she understood him, but he spoke as if she did, he looked at her as if he knew what she was. He scratched her ears, then looked up at Pedric. “I’m glad she’s safe, Mr. Greenlaw. I know you and your wife are relieved. Now that your little cat is here, I can already see the healing in your eyes, in your smile. This little lady,” he said, “is the best medicine you could have. Don’t be disturbed by people like Pindle. But,” he said softly, “do keep her hidden.”
He turned to look at Clyde. “Several of you came up from Molena Point to be with the Greenlaws?”
“Yes, my wife and three friends. Charlie Harper is the wife of our police chief.”
“I know Max. We talked on the phone just a little while ago. You’re not going back tonight?”
“Charlie got a couple of motel rooms, we plan to take turns sitting with Pedric, keeping him awake. If we’re needed.”
“It will be a big help. He mustn’t sleep, yet.” He gave Clyde a wink. “If you can keep their little cat close to them, maybe pass her back and forth, that will be good medicine for both patients.
“You’ve done well, so far, hiding her.” He glanced up at the screen above Pedric’s bed. “His vital signs are already stronger. Between the five of you,” he said, “you should be able to keep the staff from discovering her.”
“We’re doing our best.”
“Some of the nurses can get testy when a rule is broken.” He scratched Kit’s ears again, in just the way she liked. “If there’s a problem, call my cell number. I’ll be on duty all night, until six A.M.” He jotted the number on two cards, handed one to Clyde, the other to Ryan. He winked at Kit, his blue eyes still laughing. He turned away, slipped out through the glass door, shut it, and pulled the curtain closed.
16
IT WAS MUCH earlier that night when Misto, wanting company, prowled the cool night looking for Joe and Dulcie or his son, Pan, to share the late and secret hours. Thinking that Pan might be visiting Tessa, he galloped away through paths of moonlight, through shadows as black as soot, trotted across rough oak branches above the narrow alleys, making for the crowded cottages that rose just above the village. Soon, from the roof of Tessa’s small cottage, he looked down on the dark driveway where a reflection of light cut across from the kitchen window.
Backing down the pine tree by the front door and peering in, he watched Debbie at the kitchen table sorting piles of bright new sweaters and blouses and cutting the tags from them. He didn’t scent Pan, and when he moved on to Tessa’s window, there was no sign of him, no red tomcat. When he tried the screen, it was firmly shut and latched, and Tessa slept soundly. He wished she’d wake and talk to him.
He didn’t hide from the child as Pan did, to keep Debbie from knowing he was about. But he didn’t flaunt himself in front of the woman, either. Sometimes he’d come into the yard when Debbie wasn’t watching Tessa, and the child would follow him, slipping away from her mother and sister up across the deserted streets into Emmylou’s yard. If Debbie saw her, she’d drag her home again, she didn’t want the child wandering off after “some stray cat. First that cat up in Oregon, that red-colored cat always hanging around. The fuss you made over it. And now this scrawny yellow one. What is it with cats, Tessa? Can’t you play with one of your dolls and leave the dirty animals alone? I won’t have it in the house, a dirty stray sneaking in and out carrying fleas and germs and dead mice.”
But up at Emmylou’s, the older woman was kind to Tessa, she liked the shy child, she talked to her just as she talked to Misto, never expecting an answer, just rambled on, and that put Tessa at ease. She would soon curl up on a chair or on the bed close to Misto, watching Emmylou and listening to her random comments and stories, and then she didn’t look pale and pinched anymore. Now as he looked in at Tessa he heard Debbie’s step, and saw the kitchen light go out. He dropped from the sill down into the bushes.
Heading away again, on up to Emmylou’s house, he saw her windows were all dark, her lights already out, and he thought to curl up at the foot of her bed. It was lonely with his own family gone, even staying with the Damens sometimes it was lonely. Slipping in through the old, splintery cat door and through the dim house, he found Emmylou sound asleep. But before settling for a nap on her bed, he leaped to the dresser.
A finger of moonlight through the window reflected across the two pictures of Sammie. The little child. And the grown-up Sammie. Two photos taken sixty years apart, and that long-ago life nudged at him.
He thought about nine-year-old Sammie and how she had confided her fear of the man who followed her mother, and confided her dreams of her uncle Lee Fontana and his last big robbery, a lone bandit in the style of an earlier century making off with saddlebags full of stolen cash, never a hint of conscience or remorse, just a smug smile at the corner of his thin, leathery face. Was this, then, what these old musty bills were about, was this young Sammie’s legacy from Lee Fontana that he’d sent her after he fled the country for Mexico? Misto’s memory of that time was as fragmented as a shattered windowpane, only a few scattered moments coming clear, only a few snatches of that past life.
It was a noise outside from up the hill that drew him away, footsteps moving down the stone stairs from the little building above. Dropping to the floor and slipping outside again, he stood in the shadows of the porch, tail twitching, as the taller man eased down the stone steps carrying a bucket, a spade, and a heavy paper grocery bag. His jacket pockets bulged, too, and on the night breeze Misto caught the mon
ey scent. He watched him open the shed and disappear inside. The place was so small it was a wonder he’d gotten that long black car in there and been able to shut the door against its rear bumper. He came out again carrying only the spade and bucket. He knelt beside the stairs and began to dig, dumping crumbling dry earth into the bucket. There was a sense of hardness about him that Misto sometimes encountered in his travels, the cold brutality of some of the men around the coastal fishing docks that made him steer clear of them.
He expected the black car must be stolen, and he wondered what they’d done with their old truck. Maybe it had quit running and they’d traded it, in the way of thieves, for something far more grand. Easing down Emmylou’s wooden steps and then up the hill for a closer look, he veered into deeper shadows as the man carried the full bucket inside and shut the shed door, shut it right in his face, never seeing him.
There was no way to see inside, no windows. The door itself, though ancient, was so tight a fit there wasn’t a crack to peer through. The sounds from within were a dull clunking and gritty scraping, almost as if he were stirring the dirt in the bucket, and then a sliding, rubbing sound, then after a very long while there was another clunk and then silence. Waiting, he grew impatient, and at last he slipped on up the hill and up the stone stairs to the stone room to whatever he might see there.
The one window was crusted with grime, its screen fallen off, lying far away overgrown with weeds. The small pane of glass stood open to the autumn night, and he leaped up to the sill to look in. He could smell the stink of soured food in dirty cans, and of dirty clothes, could see a pile of clothes flung in one corner. The room smelled of the tall man, and of the smaller man and, sharply, the stink of sickness and blood.
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