On the one hand, those cats didn’t know flip about hunting. Pan himself had hunted for a few of them, but they were frightened and shy, even of him. Sometimes he’d thought, They’re better off in a shelter, but then he’d think, They’re better off trying to learn, better off taking the challenge to survive or die, and he’d argued with himself, back and forth, until he didn’t know what he thought. Sometimes he’d dreamed of starving cats, too, thin and scruffy cats that lived in ancient, rough villages, centuries past, cats from the stories his pa had told when he was just a kitten. His pa’s tales of other times had frightened him, the cruel life among the wattle and stone cottages that crowded close along dirty, cobbled streets. Pa told of rats bigger than a kitten, as big as a dog, lurking in the thatched rooftops, of stinking sewers slimy with offal, of thin, shaggy donkeys straining so hard to pull their overloaded carts that they collapsed, lay untended until they died.
As he grew older, those stories made him think a lot about staying alive, himself. This world was better now, but in a way, it was more dangerous, the machines and fast highways, a world not built for a cat’s survival. Especially when you hitched rides with humans, folk who might truly care about a lone cat—or might only take him in to torment him.
Well, he was traveling south, and these women were harmless enough. He could only pray this bus was going to the right destination, to Pa’s rugged cliff along the sand, with its little caves and fishing dock, tall pines and crowded cottages, to the shore his daddy had painted for him with such longing.
At last the women ceased arguing and settled down to nap or read, looking up now and then as the tall bus was buffeted and rocked by a rising wind blowing from the west, carrying the smell of the sea and of coming rain. He woke twice, thirsty and hungry. He eyed the shoe box that smelled so enticingly of sausages, but it was taped shut all around the edges, and tied with heavy, knotted string. What did the owner think, that someone would try to tear into it and rob her of her sausages? He considered the matter, but he would make too much noise ripping the tape off. He tried to force himself back to sleep, to avoid thinking about food and water.
He woke fully when the bus slowed and turned off the highway, descending a residential hill. Below, small cottages crowded close together, a tangle of shops among pines and cypress trees, that already looked familiar. A misty rain veiled the village, and the wind smelled briny, too, deeply of the sea. As tree branches swept across the bus windows, the passengers stirred and began to gather up their belongings. Bags and bundles and jackets, scarves and water bottles. When the round, gray-haired woman waddled to the back and pulled her shoe box of sausages from his lair, Pan pressed under the seat against the wall, hiding himself from her view.
He waited until the bus had parked, the engine died, the doors opened, and the ladies had all filed out, then he slipped out on their heels. The minute he hit the ground, the rainy wind swept at him and the smell of the sea came stronger. Overhead, a gull screamed, making him smile. He could hear the breakers crashing, but as he reared up, drinking in the smells, a passenger spotted him.
“A cat! Oh, look, a little cat! It can’t have been on the bus with us!” When she dove to pick him up, he headed away fast down the sidewalk, dodging shoes and pant legs and leashed dogs that lunged at him, their barks echoing between the crowded shops.
He evaded them all and soon left them behind, leaving the main street for a side street, trotting down a less crowded sidewalk past small and charming shops built of stone, adobe, stucco. Tubs of flowers by their doors, the smell and the hushing of the sea ever stronger as he wove past shop doorways and their bright gardens; the crashing surf ever louder, and the smell of brine stronger, and the sure sense this was the right village.
There—the first gleam of choppy water, and a wide white beach. He reared up, looking, then headed fast for the sand, dodging humans and dogs, slashing a lunging nose, and racing on.
Only a few people on the shore, a few hardy children running, chasing their unleashed dogs. To his left the land rose up, big houses sprawled up there behind a grassy meadow. The meadow stopped suddenly in a steep cliff that dropped straight down to the sand. The view was familiar from Pa’s words, and from Debbie’s photographs, too. This was his father’s place, this was Pa’s first home, he was sure of it.
As he hurried up the steep cliff, the sea was soon below him. To his left beyond the meadow, the handsome houses stood, built of stone, of brick set in fancy patterns, of pale stucco with roofs displaying richly curving shingles. Between the houses and the meadow ran a narrow street, lined on his side with spreading cypress trees.
Not many cars were parked along the street, and those were spaced far apart where the cypress branches didn’t hang so low. An old battered sedan was nosed in between the trees, its back door open and a thin woman leaning in rummaging in the backseat among a tangle of paper bags and boxes, her jeans worn pale and threadbare. Thin, knotty legs. Worn jogging shoes. A short-sleeved T-shirt clinging so he could see her spine. A whiff from the car smelled of cat, but he saw no cats. He wasn’t sure what made him stop to watch her, but he eased deeper into the tangle of grass, held by an amused curiosity. Maybe the old woman and her cats would lead him to the cats his pa said lived on this shore. Maybe he’d even find cats who knew his pa, maybe elderly cats as lanky and lean as this old woman herself. Maybe, he thought, hardly daring to think it, maybe somewhere here, on this strip of shore, he would find his pa.
18
Earlier, while the three cats were busy tossing Alain Bent’s house, down the hill among the smaller cottages Ryan’s sister Hanni had pulled her van into the drive of her own remodel. Billy Young sat in the cab beside her, feeling shy of the beautiful woman. Even in frayed jeans and a faded T-shirt she was elegant, her short white hair curling carelessly around the perfect oval of her smooth, tanned face, her dark lashes and brows making her hazel eyes look huge, her hands long and elegant, busy with a clanging of jade and silver bracelets.
Hanni glanced over because he was looking at her, and gave him a wink. Now, with her construction work nearly finished, she’d brought over a load of plants, and had picked Billy up at the ranch knowing he’d be glad of the work. She’d chosen pink and red tea trees, two mock orange bushes, and a dozen breath of heaven plants; their common names pleased her more than the Latin ones, which she never bothered to remember. All of these were showy, but so hardy they lent themselves well to a rental. She had wanted oleander with its bright red or pink blooms but the bush was poisonous, and that would rule out renting to a family with little, leaf-eating children.
The sky was low and threatening, and the wind chill. Getting out of the van, she pulled a warm cap over her short white hair, pulled on a ragged jacket to keep out the wind. Preoccupied with planning the garden, she was unaware she’d had a visitor during the night. While Billy unloaded the plants, trying to shelter them from the wind, she opened the garage—and stopped.
The back door was ajar, swinging back and forth in the wind, wasn’t locked as she’d left it. She remembered distinctly pushing in the simple thumb lock before she turned out the light. When she crossed the garage and stepped outside, she could see where the faceplate was bent and pried half off, fresh tool marks on the newly painted door and on the frame. She touched nothing. Stepping back inside, she stood quietly assessing the rest of the single-car garage to see what building supplies and tools might be missing.
The boxes of hardware she’d left stacked on the worktable were still there, and the cartons of new lighting fixtures that stood on the floor against the wall. Nothing seemed to be missing, but, in fact, there appeared to be more boxes than she’d left there, the pile was half again as large.
Examining the cartons, still not touching, she found seven that were unlabeled, no brand insignia or bar codes or shipping instructions. Reaching for a screwdriver, she chose the largest blank carton, pulled on her gloves, and pried the lid open—maybe that was dumb, she knew she should have handled
it differently but she was too curious.
There were cleaning materials jumbled inside, a collection of solvents, ammonia, drain cleaner and, strangely, several drugstore bags containing cold medications: a combination that made chills creep up her back. She stood looking for only a minute, then closed the box and used her cell phone to call the department.
Coming up the hill she had seen the police stakeout still in place, two officers she knew, wearing water company uniforms, kneeling at the curb tinkering with a water meter, watching the meth cottage that had been raided. Now, as she talked with dispatcher Mabel Farthy, she returned to the driveway; she didn’t want to move around in the garage and maybe scuff through someone’s faint footprints, didn’t want to destroy anything more than she already had.
When she’d hung up she stood by her van looking in the side mirror, pretending to adjust her cap, watching the uphill reflection. She saw Officer Blake answer his phone, glance briefly down at her and then away again. The two officers didn’t leave their post, she assumed they’d been told to stay put.
But it wasn’t five minutes until a car appeared answering her call, not a black-and-white, but Detective Juana Davis’s pearl-colored Toyota slipping up the hill to pull into the drive behind her van. A black-and-white appeared behind Juana, pulling to the curb. As the detective stepped out, Hanni had to hide a little smile. Juana always looked so serious, her square face so forthright and no-nonsense, the severity of her dark uniform and black stockings and hard black shoes, black cap pulled down over her smooth hair, dark Latino eyes that could look as flat as a wall. Or could, with her friends or with an unfortunate victim, turn deeply kind and caring. Now, most likely, Juana would make Hanni’s cottage part of the crime scene, locking it into their investigation of the meth operation.
That was fine with her, if they rooted out this scum. At least four men had been seen by neighbors coming and going from the meth house, two Caucasians, one Asian, and the Latino man who was now taking his meals courtesy of Molena Point Jail. She joined Juana, pulled on the cotton booties Juana gave her, and followed the detective into the garage, where Juana first used an electronic device to scan for footprints. Behind them, a white police van slid to the curb, a vehicle big enough to haul away the cartons. Officers McFarland and Crowley got out, young McFarland with his clean good looks, Crowley towering over him, his big-boned body maybe six foot five, broad shoulders, the broad hands of a farmer.
Juana pulled off her booties and stepped out to talk with them, then the two men began to walk the perimeter of the house, moving with care, scanning for anything dropped, and for footprints. Hanni watched them, thinking about the drug dealers hiding their supplies in her garage. Had they thought that because she was Detective Garza’s niece, the cops wouldn’t search here? Maybe they thought she wouldn’t notice the extra boxes right away? Maybe they’d meant to haul them out again in a day or two, maybe they were setting up a new operation somewhere else. She didn’t like that some of these guys were still around, she’d made an investment in this neighborhood, and so had Ryan and Clyde, they wanted to see this area turned back again into the charming neighborhood it had once been.
She’d bought the house eight months ago, before the surrounding houses began to stand empty, and before that enterprising parolee, who was now in jail, had started his mom-and-pop meth business, before the neighbors began to wonder about the many different cars suddenly parked on that street, and so many strangers going in and out, and called in a report. Early on, though, she’d begun to see stray cats slipping around the empty houses, wary and hungry, and she’d put out food in unset traps, luring them in, getting them used to the open wire cages. So far, she’d trapped five, who were now in a temporary shelter, but she was still seeing strays.
This morning when she’d told Billy about the trapping operation, driving down from the ranch, he’d asked a lot of questions about how the trapping was done, about the people who were sheltering the cats. He was an animal-oriented kid, good with horses and dogs as well as the cats he’d taken in. Before they’d left the ranch, he’d shown her their new home—he was touchingly proud of his little brood and really happy with their cozy new accommodations.
But then when he’d gotten in the truck and they were headed down the hills, he was quiet again, and looked so sad. She knew he was grieving for his gran, but thought there was something more. “What is it?” she’d said softly.
He’d looked at her helplessly. He didn’t say anything for a long time, then, “I just hung up from talking with my aunt Esther. Why would she call me? How did she know I was there at the Harpers’?” He went silent, looking down at his hands, then looked up at her, his dark brown eyes questioning. “I don’t want to live with her,” he said angrily.
“She asked you to live with her?”
“No, she didn’t ask me. But what else could it be? She said she wanted to come up and see me. Why would she want to see me, she never has before. She never came to see Gran, even right after Mama died. She never came when Mama was alive, either, not that I know of.”
“You must see her around the village?”
He nodded. “She acts like she doesn’t know me, never speaks to me or looks at me.”
“This morning, did she say anything else?”
“No, but she had something on her mind. She asked about the fire, asked if everything was gone, if we’d saved anything.” He was quiet, then, “She sounded real caring and friendly. She said twice that she’d be coming up to see me.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I couldn’t talk any more, I had to go to work, that my ride was waiting, and I hung up,” Billy said, his cheeks coloring.
Hanni laughed.
Billy looked at her, frowning. “Can she make me live with her? She is my aunt. Does she have some kind of . . . claim? Some legal way to make me live there? Why would she want me? Except to work, maybe, like in the old days when kids were adopted out to do farm work. But people don’t do that anymore.”
Hanni reached over, took his hand. “You see that on TV?”
“We don’t have TV. I read it.”
She smiled. “Esther won’t do that, this isn’t the eighteen hundreds. Max Harper wouldn’t let her do that.”
“If I don’t go there, will I have to go to a foster home?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I can take care of myself.” But then he looked at her shyly. “What I really want?”
She nodded.
“I want to stay with the Harpers.”
“And they want you there,” she said. “They both do. Max knows a few people,” she said lightly, “he has a little pull.” She smiled wickedly, gave him a wink that made him blush. “I know enough dirt myself about some of the folks working in Children’s Services, enough to pull a few strings.”
Billy looked at her, surprised, and then laughed. “Can you do that?”
“Try me.”
He looked as if he wanted to hug her, and then as if he wanted ask something more. Instead he looked away, out at the dropping hills and the village roofs below. And that was where they left it, with Billy’s worries eased, but Hanni wondering just what Esther Fowler had wanted.
The three cats were crowded together on the roof of the house across the street from Hanni’s, shivering in the cold; the wet wind was dying now, giving way to colder, misty rain. They were watching Officers McFarland and Crowley load seven large cartons from Hanni’s garage into the back of the police van, when Dulcie let out a low hunting cry and took off across the roofs where a thin figure was slipping away behind a sagging fence. Joe and Kit saw little more than a shadow, an impression of jeans and faded T-shirt. Emmylou? Dulcie meant not to lose her again; she’d followed her, lost her twice, seen her trying to get into Alain Bent’s house, and then lost her yet again. Now there she was appearing suddenly out of nowhere, but then gone again. She glanced back to see Joe following, pushed along by a last gust of wind, but behind him, Kit had
paused.
Lifting her paw uncertainly, Kit watched Joe and Dulcie race away in pursuit of the hurrying shadow, then turned to watch the interesting activity around Hanni’s cottage, and she shivered with indecision. But she was caught even more powerfully in her own agenda. Leaving all the human excitement to play out below her, she spun around and streaked down the dropping rooftops for the center of the village, her head full of the medieval painting that so fit Misto’s stories, full of lost centuries and ancient dreams, and she raced away to tell the old tomcat about the wonderful mural.
It was too early for the ferals’ feeding time, but maybe he’d be there, the day was growing cold and dark and maybe John Firetti would feed early. She was only vaguely aware that something else, besides those ancient times, might be drawing her so powerfully; she raced down across the roofs like a wild thing, her own urgency startling and puzzling her.
Joe caught up with Dulcie two blocks above the Damens’ cottage, as she paused to look over the roof’s edge down into a scrappy yard: brown earth, bare beneath overhanging branches, the narrow house made of rough brown boards, an old house, dour and neglected. “Emmylou vanished in there,” Dulcie said. “Maybe she broke in, I heard glass break.”
He moved close to her, in the cold drizzle. “Could she mean to camp in there? Break into a stranger’s house to get out of the cold? Is that what she was doing, all along, poking around up here, looking for the best empty house to crash in?” The dark brown house was sheltered from its neighbors, jammed in between two huge cypress trees, their heavy branches sweeping the roof like the tails of giant beasts. A tentlike acacia stood at the back, hiding the house behind. The yard itself was thick with broken cypress branches fallen across the cracked cement walk. Backing down a rough trunk, they paused among the browning cypress fronds that were wet now in the mist. On the little cement porch, a stack of wet newspapers lay moldering. Lace curtains, limp and gray, hung crookedly over the windows. The cats could just detect Emmylou’s trail, overridden by the fresh scent of a man, a nervous smell and fearful.
Cat Telling Tales Page 16