Cat Coming Home

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  MAUDIE WATCHED THE trackers from her studio doorway as long as she could see them, listened to them crashing up the black hill. She’d wanted to follow in her car, to be there when they found Benny, but Dallas had other ideas. “You’d be in the way of the dog,” he’d told her, his square Latino face serious with concern. “Driving along after him, your headlights behind him, you’d distract him, make him lose the trail.”

  Maudie wasn’t sure this was true, but she didn’t want to impede the search. “I can keep up, on foot,” she’d argued.

  “That could confuse him, too. You have Benny’s scent on you. You’d have him doubling back sniffing at you. We want him to follow fresh scent.”

  Maudie didn’t know whether Dallas was speaking the truth at all, or simply wanted her out of their way. But she couldn’t argue with him, she surely couldn’t jeopardize the search. The police thought Kent might have kidnapped Benny, but she was certain it was Pearl. And if Pearl had him, she was terrified for the child.

  “You’ll help most by staying here,” Dallas had said, “in case Benny somehow manages to escape and find his way home. You need to be here for him, Maudie. To comfort him, and to let us know he’s been found.”

  She prayed to God he’d be found. She thought about Jared being part of that gang, and she felt sick. Could you trust no one? Soft-spoken, clean-cut Jared. Sleeping in the guest room alone with Benny. Had Jared had a hand in this, had he helped get Benny out of the house? And exactly when had they taken him? Behind her back as she stood on the porch watching the police? Or when she’d left the house to go down to Alfreda’s? This all had to be connected, the invasions, the theft of her keys, the rifled and stolen storage boxes, the invasions. All linked together with Benny’s kidnapping. But for what purpose?

  Standing at the kitchen sink wrapped in her woolen robe, she watched the dark yard, praying Benny would appear out of the night, that somehow he would break free and find his way home. Praying to see his small shadow slipping along through the neighbors’ dark yards, making his way home. Praying to see him free of Pearl, and safe. Turning to the stove to pour the rest of the cocoa into her cup, she caught her breath at a sound behind her. Turning, she spilled hot cocoa on her hand. Pearl stood by the table, her thin face smeared with blood, her windbreaker torn and bloody, her expression smug. A bloody gash ran up her face into her kinky, bleached hair. She held a small automatic, aimed at Maudie.

  “Where’s Benny?” Maudie whispered. “What have you done with him?” She dabbed at her hand with the dish towel, edging the towel toward her pocket.

  “Give me the ledger pages Caroline had,” Pearl said. “And your bonds. You’ll sign them over to me. Then I’ll bring Benny here.”

  Maudie just looked at her.

  “I want the pages now, or you won’t see Benny again. You’re alone in the house, David’s gone, there’s no one here to help you.” She glanced at the dish towel. “If anything happens to me, you’ll never get Benny. No one will ever find him.”

  “You wouldn’t kill your own child.” But Maudie wasn’t sure that was true.

  “No woman has ever killed her own kid? I never wanted Benny. All these years, he’s only been in my way. Why would I want him now? Except to use in trade,” Pearl said, smiling.

  “And Jared was in it all along,” Maudie said. “You and Jared and Kent did those cruel invasions together. And that man with the black beard. But why? Who is he?”

  “Get the pages.”

  “You’ve already been through Caroline’s things. If you didn’t find what you wanted, then it isn’t here.”

  “Do you want me to bring your grandson back to you, dead?”

  “It’s too late to trade,” Maudie said. “The LAPD has a copy of what you’re looking for, and there’s a warrant out on you.”

  “I’m losing patience. I want the pages. Without them the boy’s dead.”

  “What makes you think there isn’t more than one set of copies?”

  “If there is and I find out, I’ll come back and kill him.”

  “From behind bars?” Maudie said, laughing.

  Pearl clicked off the safety. Her dark eyes were cold, her face as pale and hard as stone. Was this how she looked across the blackjack table, dealing out a crooked hand, taking the players’ money? Pearl glanced down at the gun, lifting it slightly so it was aimed at Maudie’s throat.

  “There’s only one set of copies,” Maudie said, resigned. “In my safe-deposit box.”

  “And the bonds?”

  “And the bonds.” It was the middle of the night, they’d have hours to wait before the bank opened. Maybe this would give the searchers time to find Benny, maybe time to find and arrest Pearl? In that moment, she knew she should have made another copy. She’d thought about it, but had decided the pages would be safe enough, locked in the bank vault.

  “We’ll be at the bank when it opens,” Pearl said. “You’ll give me the pages plus whatever cash you keep in the box, and sign over the bonds. You always kept cash in your safe-deposit box.” She smiled. “You didn’t know I knew that.”

  All Maudie could think was, she wanted Pearl dead. Beneath the dish towel, her hand was so close to her pocket. Could she be quick enough? Shove her hand in, shoot through her pocket, never revealing the gun? But Pearl stood so close to her, still with the safety off the automatic. She was trying to think how to do this and not die herself when she heard a man’s voice from somewhere above them. Startled, she glanced toward the ceiling. Pearl stiffened but didn’t look up, didn’t take her eyes from Maudie.

  There was no one upstairs, Maudie knew that. Unless that officer down the street had seen Pearl slip in and had followed her? Maybe he’d come to the kitchen window and seen Pearl holding a gun on her? Maybe he’d somehow gotten in upstairs. Not likely, that portly cop climbing on the fence or up a tree. She wondered if the construction ladder was still outside, lying beside the garage wall. Maybe he’d called a second cop and they were ready to come down the stairs behind Pearl? Except, they wouldn’t be talking, knowing they’d be heard in the kitchen below.

  But then, when the voice spoke again, it seemed to come not from the rooms above at all, but from over the garage. Or maybe from someone out on the street, maybe it was one of her neighbors, his voice deflected by the house walls. She shifted the towel, rubbing her hand with it as she eased toward her pocket.

  But what if she killed Pearl, and Benny was badly hurt somewhere, and the tracking dog didn’t find him? What if help didn’t come in time, if they found him too late because she’d killed the only person who knew where he was?

  How badly had Pearl hurt him? Pearl’s face and hand were bleeding; what was that about? Had Benny fought hard enough to injure her like that, to make that deep wound down Pearl’s cheek? What would Pearl have done to him in retribution? Maudie’s heart pounded with fear for her grandson, far more fear, even, than the storm of hatred that she felt for Pearl. As Pearl gestured with the gun, quietly Maudie laid down the dish towel and slid into a chair at the table. Prepared to wait for morning, to wait for the bank to open. Prepared to do as Pearl ordered—praying that, one way or another, Benny would be safe and unhurt.

  42

  PEARL WATCHED MAUDIE sitting so patiently at the table, snuggled cozily in her robe as if she weren’t afraid of the gun, as if Maudie didn’t believe she’d kill her. Certainly she wouldn’t kill her until morning, until she had the ledger copies and the bonds and hopefully some cash. Then she’d decide what to do.

  Getting rid of Maudie’s body would take time. It might be easier just to leave her tied up somewhere and give herself the chance to get away, change her looks again so she could travel unnoticed. Maybe she’d dye her hair red this time, straighten it to a sleek bob. Her distinctive bone structure was a hindrance. Even her long, pale hands were too easily recognizable—a dealer’s hands, swift and clever. But ruined now, her hands bleeding and ugly from the cuts and bruises. She winced, looking at her pretty hands so cut up;
she’d always taken care of her hands, babied them, had regular manicures, carefully selected polish. Hands were important, men watched your hands at the card table, trying to catch you up or thinking how those silky hands would feel on their bodies.

  It would take the abrasions a long time to heal, the ugly, broken nails a long time to grow out and be perfect again. There was blood on her face, too, she could feel it pulling as the wound began to dry. That frightened her. She didn’t want a scar marring her face, her smooth white skin; she didn’t want to come out of this ugly, she depended on her looks.

  Well, the damned car was a loss, that was sure. It was while she was climbing out that she’d cut her hands so badly. And all the while, the driver of the other car wailing and carrying on, loud enough to be heard blocks away. He’d been drunk, she could smell the liquor, the whole thing was his fault. There’d been no witness to report the crash, but she supposed by now someone had come along the road and called the cops and the place would be crawling with them. Maybe they wouldn’t find the kid, though, the way he was hidden.

  Him whining and crawling into the bushes, that had bought her some time. She’d dragged him a long way but at last had left him, making her way back to Arlie’s place. She knew that was foolish, but cops or not, she had to have a car. Why were the cops there? Had they caught Arlie, arrested him? She’d fled the house the minute she spotted a second cop car coming up the street, had gotten out of there fast, but she knew they had Arlie, he couldn’t have gotten away. Were they now watching for her? Or for Kent? They wouldn’t be looking for Jared, she thought, smiling. He’d been safe with Maudie, pretending to have just awakened. Though he’d planned to leave Maudie’s before she found the kid gone. He didn’t want to be pressed into searching for him, didn’t want any part of that.

  After the wreck, she’d wanted to clean up at Arlie’s and change her clothes. She’d already checked out of the motel, of course, but could check into another, the town was crawling with motels. But going in looking the way she did, bloody and her clothes torn and without luggage, and in the middle of the night, even the dumbest desk clerk would call the cops.

  When she’d gotten back to Arlie’s place, staying in the shadows, the cop cars were gone. Easing around a corner, she’d stood in the blackness across the street beside a sheltered porch, watching and fingering the keys in her pocket, keys to the house and to his car. She’d stood there a long time, but saw no dark uniform standing in the bushes or in a doorway, even as far as several blocks away. When she felt sure the cops had given up and moved on, she’d slipped into the house, easing quietly through the dark rooms, calling out softly to Arlie so if he was there, maybe sitting in the dark, she wouldn’t surprise him. The house seemed strange, didn’t seem right. He hadn’t lived there long, but had taken great care with the placement of every piece of furniture, he was so damned picky. A living room chair was out of place so she nearly fell over it, a window shade crooked, a closet door had been left open. Prowling with her gun drawn, she’d found Arlie’s flashlight in the kitchen drawer and had gone through the place again shielding the light. Several pieces of furniture had been moved, papers on the desk were in disarray, not the way he kept them. The cops had been there, all right. Or someone had. Quickly she’d retrieved her bag, didn’t look to see if someone had rummaged through her clothes but had headed for the garage.

  She could have gone back for the Cadillac, which Arlie had left parked four blocks from Maudie’s, but by now the cops had probably found it. Sliding into the leased Jaguar, she was glad now that he was such a damned high roller he had to have a second car. She’d started the Jag, liking its faint but deep-throated rumble. The garage door made hardly any sound. She’d backed out, closed it with the remote, and driven sedately away—thinking Arlie wasn’t such a high roller now, with his ass cooling in the local tank. As for her, her next stop would either gain her the ledger copies and bonds or drop her straight into the cops’ laps with Arlie.

  Leaving the car on a tiny side street, she’d walked the three blocks to Maudie’s. The yard lights were still on. One cop car was still parked in front of the invasion house four doors down, and she’d drawn back against an oak tree. Stayed still, then, as car lights came up the street and that contractor’s pickup pulled up in front of Maudie’s. What was this about? Ryan Flannery and her husband got out, they had that big gray dog with them. They took the dog inside, and in only a little while they came out again through the studio, the dog on a leash and moving fast, jerking Flannery up the hill following the route along which she’d dragged Benny—the dog was tracking Benny. A chill had iced her, she’d wanted to turn and run.

  She wasn’t sure a tracking dog could follow a moving car. Unless there was scent on the outside of the car, she thought, remembering Benny clinging so desperately to the tire. If the dog picked that up and got to the wreck, where they’d been on foot again, he’d find their trail. Likely he’d find the kid. But would he keep on, then, tracking her? She’d watched until they disappeared, then looked to where Maudie stood at the kitchen window, looking out. Pearl could picture her twisting a dish towel, worrying over the kid. Using the key she’d taken, she’d slipped inside, and into the kitchen—and here she was, she and Maudie having a nice little chat, Maudie whining about the boy.

  But now it was time to move on, she’d been here long enough, she wanted to get away before they found the kid and came back. “Get dressed,” she told Maudie. “You can’t go in the bank looking like that.”

  “We can’t go to the bank, it’s the middle of the night.”

  “Move it,” she said, gesturing with her gun toward the stairs.

  Silently Maudie went up. Pearl followed, checked all the rooms, then watched while she dressed. When the man’s voice came again it sounded almost like he was right there in the other bedroom, but that wasn’t possible.

  “Get a move on,” she told Maudie. “Hand me the belt from that robe.” She was reaching for the belt to tie Maudie’s hands when the man shouted an urgent, panicked cry accompanied by a muffled banging on a window.

  “Stay here, get your shoes on. You leave this room, you’re dead.” She moved toward the hall, glanced back to see Maudie hanging up the robe and reaching for a jacket.

  Slipping into the guest room, she found it empty. And no one at the windows. No one could be, there was only a thin lip of roof running along outside beneath the glass. Could the man have been at the front door and some trick of the wind made him sound like he was inside the house? Returning to the bedroom, she bound Maudie’s hands behind her, forced her out of the room and down the stairs. Hurrying past the front door, she pushed Maudie on out through the studio, through the yard, and up the street, staying to the darkest shadows, heading three blocks up where, beyond a curve, the maroon Jaguar waited out of sight.

  PEARL DIDN’T SEE, on the roof behind them, the two cats watching, nor would she have paid any attention, she certainly wouldn’t have looked closely enough to see that one of the cats, a dark tortoiseshell, was placing a call on a cell phone. Hurrying away from the house, she didn’t hear the soft female voice that set in motion a BOL on the Jaguar, bringing into action the cruising street patrols—nor did she see the yellow cat stifle a laugh.

  The old cat had found it wildly liberating to shout at Pearl; and when his shouts and paw-pounding on the guest room window distracted and unnerved her long enough for Maudie to slip the gun from her robe into her jacket pocket, that was a fine example of feline/human teamwork—even if Maudie didn’t know she’d had help. Now, both cats, following along the roofs above, wanted to whisper a word of encouragement to Maudie as she was forced up the street. All they could do was race after them over the shingles following the dark, sleek car, determined not to lose Maudie.

  PUSHING MAUDIE INTO the backseat, Pearl engaged the safety switches and locked the doors. Her eyes felt gritty, she longed to clean up and tend to the wound on her face, try to prevent a disfiguring infection, but she didn’t dare
return to Arlie’s house. As she headed up into the hills, she could see a convergence of lights near where the wreck would be, the lights of cop cars reflected up through the trees; when she cracked the window she could hear their radios. She hoped the driver wasn’t dead, that would complicate matters. Hoped they hadn’t found Benny, she didn’t want the kid blabbing. Maybe she shouldn’t have left him, should have gotten him away, hidden him somewhere they’d never find him even with the dog.

  But maybe he’d stay away from the cops, maybe he was trying to find his way home, wandering lost up through the black woods. When she was above the wreck, heading higher into the tangle of hills, she watched for a place to park unseen among the darkened houses, maybe near where that canyon ran down. If the cops came nosing around up there, if she had to get away from the car, the canyon could be useful, even though she hated getting torn and scratched again by fallen trees and bushes. Once she had the papers and money, she’d decide what to do with Maudie. Pulling onto a twisting side street, she heard dogs barking somewhere to her right, as if she had disturbed them. But then in a moment someone must have shut them up, the night was still again, and she settled down to wait.

  43

  ONCE PEARL LEFT him and Benny had come out from his hiding place and hobbled up into the woods, hurrying away from the direction his mother had gone, his leg didn’t hurt so bad. Not as bad as he’d let on, he’d wanted her to think he couldn’t walk much. Circling through the woods, past the metal heap of the white Toyota and the truck, he could see a porch light burning, in the house just above. Avoiding the man and woman who stood by the truck arguing, slipping around them, he couldn’t help the brushy sounds of his bare feet in the wet leaves. He thought they didn’t hear, because they didn’t stop arguing. Twice he stepped on sharp rocks and had to swallow back a yelp, and then a twig poked into his ankle. The woman’s voice was mean, as scratchy as a nail scraping the sidewalk. “Why the hell didn’t you look when you backed out of the damn drive?”