The Hour of the Cat

by Peter Quinn

  They reached the road in a few minutes. “We’ll walk from here,” Anderson said.

  “Bet nobody thought to bring a flashlight,” Roberta said.

  “The moonlight will suffice.” Anderson set off into the woods.

  “Wait up,” Dunne called.

  Roberta slouched behind the wheel. “I’ll stay here. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Beneath a partial moon half-hidden by clouds, Anderson stumbled over fallen trees and underbrush, his curses alerting Dunne where to tread carefully. They came into a clearing as the moon escaped the clouds and shone on a towering slab of concrete. They drew close to it. Atop was a bronze eagle, a wreathed swastika clutched in its talons. Beyond the meadow was a neat row of cabins. Anderson tried the door of the first. It was unlocked. Each side of a central aisle was lined with metal-frame bunk beds. The door on the other end was flanked by pictures of George Washington and Adolf Hitler. They stopped and listened. On the path of pebbles that connected the cabins, came the slow, cautious, unmistakable crunch of footsteps. Anderson pointed to the ground. He lay flat, and Dunne lay beside him.

  The footsteps stopped. Dunne felt the thump-bump, thump-bump of his heart against the ground. A beam from a flashlight appeared in the window directly above, darted around the cabin and spilled through the floorboards. Anderson crouched, in a running position. Dunne got set to dash behind him. A second light appeared on the side of the cabin and approached rapidly. The instant the person carrying it turned the corner, Anderson jumped up, drove a forearm into his throat, and landed a hard punch to his stomach. The flashlight rolled on the ground. Anderson grabbed it, turned off the beam, and used it as a bludgeon. The blow made a distinct thud.

  The backdoor of the cabin flew open and the beam of the other flashlight pinpointed Anderson astride the person he’d just clubbed into unconsciousness.

  “Move, and I’ll shoot!”

  Dunne tucked his immobilized hand beneath his left arm, aimed his shoulder at the knees of whoever was standing directly above him on the cabin steps, and leaped forward. A shot went off as Dunne toppled him. Anderson was on him in an instant and hit him with the flashlight until he lay still.

  “You weren’t hit, were you?” Anderson said.

  Dunne got up. “No, it was a wild shot.”

  Anderson pointed the light to the man at their feet. He was moaning.

  “Turn off the light.” Dunne knelt, put his head on the chest of the man, and took his pulse. “He’s not dead. But, congratulations, you’ve knocked out two FBI agents.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “This one’s name is Agent Lundgren. We’ve crossed paths.”

  “It was self-defense. They made no effort to identify themselves. We should stay and explain ourselves.”

  “Self-defense? You beaned the first guy before he knew we were here. We should get the hell out of here before they haul us off to the federal pen.”

  They blundered their way through the woods, back to where Roberta was parked. She was visibly upset and fumbled with the choke. “I thought I heard a shot.”

  “You did. Let’s go.” Dunne jumped in the front seat.

  The car didn’t start. She tried several more times before the engine turned over. She pulled onto the main road. “Where to?”

  “It might help if you could see the road.” Dunne reached over and switched on the headlights. “Make it seem you know where you’re going and aren’t in any hurry. Anderson, get down on the floor. This way we’re just a man and woman out for a spin.”

  They drove for several minutes in silence before Roberta spoke: “What happened back there?”

  “Anderson decided to murder the bugler.”

  From the back seat came Anderson’s muffled voice: “I didn’t decide to murder anyone. It was pitch dark. I acted in self-defense.”

  “He knocked out two FBI agents. Lundgren was one of them.”

  Roberta put her hand to her forehead. “Oh, Christ.”

  “You helped, Fin. You tackled the chap on the steps,” Anderson said.

  “After you’d KO’d the first one, I didn’t have much choice.” They drove on a narrow, winding road through a heavily wooded area that emerged in a treeless expanse of cultivated fields. They continued until they reached Riverhead. The town was deserted and closed up for the night.

  “What now?” Roberta parked in front of a gas station that was dark and shut tight. “We don’t have much gas left.”

  “Ten to one, Lundgren and his companion weren’t by themselves. They’ve probably been found by now. If there’s a roadblock, it’ll most likely be west of Yaphank looking for cars headed back to the city. Best thing for us to do is keep driving east.”

  Roberta followed his instructions to drive slowly, as though returning from a church meeting or dinner with friends. Dunne watched the roadside. When he spied what he was looking for, a dirt road that veered toward Peconic Bay, he told Roberta to turn. The car jolted violently over the pitted, rutted surface.

  Anderson popped his head up, “Have we lost our way?”

  “I’d say so, but consult our navigator,” Roberta said.

  “Straight,” Dunne said. “It should be right ahead.”

  The headlights rested on a one-story cabin with a sagging roof. “I hope you made reservations. Looks like it’s all booked up.” Roberta turned off the headlights.

  Dunne switched them back on. “I need the light.” He got out of the car and stepped onto the front porch. “Doc?” he said. “Anybody here?” He opened the door. Warm, mildewed air, wafted past. Doc Cropsey, it seemed, had yet to start his retirement. Dunne turned on the bulb that hung over the ice box and opened the windows. He went back on the porch and told Roberta and Anderson to come inside.

  Anderson’s eyes had a dazed, distant look. He seemed not so much unsure of where he was as oblivious. “Are we staying the night?”

  “Got a better idea?” Dunne said.

  “Not at the moment.” He bowed slightly. “The day’s activities have left me quite spent.” He removed his jacket, draped it over a kitchen chair, and disappeared into one of the two rear bedrooms.

  Dunne retrieved one of the beers he’d bought earlier. He took an opener from the kitchen drawer. There was no sign of Roberta. He presumed she’d lay down in the other bedroom. He sat on the front steps and sipped the beer. The stars were visible and numerous, but faded. A lone sliver of cloud nibbled at the lower edge of the moon’s half sphere and moved on.

  “Star light, star bright, what’s your wish tonight, Fin?” Roberta was standing at the screen door behind him.

  “Thought you went to bed.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about what happened to Lina. I caught a glimpse. It was sickening. I’d hate to see them get away with this.”

  “Sparks once told me that he admired my persistence. Well, now he’s going to find out firsthand.”

  “Where did Anderson come from?”

  “Friend of a friend.”

  “Doesn’t he seem a little strange?”

  “Not after you get to know him.”

  “What’s his real interest in this? One minute he seems so removed. The next, he sounds as though he’s out to save the world.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “And sad?”

  “One of the many. He’s in love with a dying woman.”

  She came outside, sat on the bottom step and stretched out her feet. “Doesn’t feel like the last night of summer. Still seems like July.”

  “Want a beer?”

  “No thanks.” Leaning back, she peered up at the stars. “They look tired.”

  “Maybe they can’t pay the electric bill. Join the club.”

  Without a word, she pushed herself up and strolled to the water’s edge. She dropped her dress, removed slip, garters, and stockings, and stripped to her skin. She walked into the water up to her buttocks, raised her arms above her head and dove in.

  He waited for her to reappear
, but the surface stayed still. He put down his beer and called her name. Other than the gentle pulse of the bay’s insignificant waves, there were no sounds. He pulled off his shoes and socks and ran to the water. He called her name again.

  A breeze ruffled the vacant bay. Hampered by the cast on his hand, he tore off a button as he removed his shirt and was unbuckling his belt when, far from where she’d submerged, Roberta rose gracefully from the sea. The water cascaded off her hair. She swam several yards farther out, stopped and cried, “Come on, Fin, it’s beautiful!”

  He removed the rest of his clothes and walked into the water up to his waist. Roberta swam toward him. Still several yards away, she arched her body and resubmerged. Something brushed against his legs. Before he could turn, she came up behind. She tried to swim away, but he caught her ankle. Her body was slippery. It shimmered in the silver glow of the moon. He drew her close and kissed her. Her wet body angled into his, a neat fit.

  They gathered their clothes and went back to the house. Despite the raucous protest of Doc Cropsey’s bedsprings, unaccustomed to the prolonged and boisterous repetition of compression and release, Anderson’s loud snoring in the next room continued uninterrupted. Rain pounded the roof and then stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Near dawn, she got up and covered them with a blanket. The birds screamed in berserk anticipation of the sunrise. Dunne nestled into the sinuous curve of her body. He whispered in her ear:“Oh, how I hate to get up in the morning

  Oh, how I’d love to remain in bed.”

  He draped his arm over her. She took his hand in hers and sang softly:“And then we’ll get the other pup,

  the guy who wakes the bugler up

  and spend the rest of our lives in bed.”

  They left Doc’s place late morning, amid a pale, motionless mist. Shelter Island was Roberta’s idea. She found a road map in Doc’s kitchen and pointed out that if they used the Shelter Island ferries, they could reach the south shore of Long Island and return to the city without retracing their steps or coming near Yaphank. They filled up with gas at the first service station they came to and drove to Greenport. The line for the ferry on Main Street was only two cars long. Anderson wanted to go into the restaurant next to the ferry line for a cup of tea. Dunne convinced him it would be better if they waited until they reached the South Shore. Anderson sat glum and unhappy in the back.

  The ferry arrived in a few minutes. Once they were on, it left for Shelter Island. Cap pulled low over his eyes, a ferryman came to collect the fare. He held out a receipt in a hand missing two fingers.

  “See that sky?” he said.

  The morning mist was gone; a rising wind stampeded a herd of gray, dark-bellied clouds eastward, toward the open sea. “The clouds?” Roberta said.

  “Nope.”

  Dunne sat motionless, staring down into his lap. He recognized the ferryman: Clem Payne, the man who had taken him fishing earlier in the summer. Anderson stuck his head out the window and quickly withdrew it. “No gulls.”

  “Yep. Mornin’ like this, wind or no wind, they’d be swarmin’ over them trawlers tied up at the docks, waitin’ for the scraps be throwed ’em. Not today,” the ferryman said.

  “Could be, they went back to the city with the summer visitors,” Roberta said.

  “Gulls got more sense than city people. They know when bad weather is movin’ in. From the look of things, I’d say we’re ’bout to get ourselves a nor’easter. Maybe worse. Either way, seems Mother Nature might have somethin’ up her sleeve.” He put his receipt book in his pocket and readied to tie the boat to the pilings as it docked in the ferry slip.

  Roberta waved at the ferryman as they drove off the boat. He nodded rather than waved. “Did you have to be that rude?” Roberta said. “You barely looked at him, Fin.”

  “We’ve met before. I wasn’t eager to jog his memory.”

  “Unlikely,” Anderson said. “He’s a country person. They’re the same the world over. To them, all city people look alike.”

  Shelter Island had the appearance of a deserted village. Many of the houses were already boarded up for the winter. The single road they followed from the north ferry to the south was only lightly trafficked. The boat ride was significantly shorter than on the north side, but the wind continued to pick up. They had to roll up the windows to keep from getting soaked by the spray from the choppy water.

  Sag Harbor was as forlorn as Shelter Island. Only a few cars were parked on the main street. A wind-driven spiral of papers and leaves rampaged across it. When they reached the Montauk Highway, they turned west, toward the city. After a brief while, they stopped so Dunne could relieve himself. The clock in the office said 12:15. He looked at his watch. It was five after two. “Your clock has stopped,” he said to the attendant.

  The attendant laughed. “Only thing workin’ around here today is me. Look at the barometer ’neath the clock. This mornin’ was well over 29. Now it’s down under 27.5. Ain’t never been that low before. It’s like the damn thing just up and died.”

  Anderson wasn’t in the car when Dunne returned. “‘Mutiny on the Bounty,’” Roberta said. “I told him to wait for you, but he said he couldn’t wait any longer for his cup of tea. He’s up the street in that greasy spoon.” She pointed to a luncheonette several storefronts away.

  “We might as well join him,” Dunne said. “It’s a straight drive west from here to the city. Guess it can’t hurt if we eat first.”

  They left the car at the gas station. Roberta tied a silk kerchief over her head. The roiling black sky looked ready to burst. The wind came in spurts, dying down for a moment before a fresh, fiercer gust arrived. It almost ripped the kerchief off Roberta’s head. She ducked into the doorway of a florist’s shop to retie it. Dunne turned his back to the street, cupped a match in his hand and lit a cigarette. He did the same for Roberta. She lowered her head toward the flame. The small sign in the window behind her advertised END OF SUMMER SALE. EVERYTHING MUST GO. Except for a few pots of golden chrysanthemums and a box of sea lavender, everything had.

  Roberta touched the flowers in the window box. “These are pretty,” she said. “I wonder what they are.” In the glass above the box was the weak reflection of street and sky. The clouds moved with menacing speed. A black car pulled up across the way. A woman got out, looked around, and ran to a pharmacy.

  “Impatiens,” Dunne said. “Their time is almost up.”

  “You’re the last man I’d ever think would know anything about flowers.” She dropped her cigarette and stepped on it.

  The woman across the street rapped on the door of the pharmacy, which seemed to be closed. She turned and glanced about. Finally, the door opened and she went in.

  Dunne gripped Roberta’s arm with his left hand and held her back.

  “Fin, let go! You’re hurting me!”

  He kept his grip. “Go to the car right now. Pull around to the front of the luncheonette. I’ll get Anderson. Do it fast!”

  “What’s got into you?” When he released her, she rubbed her arm and stayed where she was.

  He stared past her, into the window. “Look over my shoulder. See that car? It’s being driven by Irene Loben, one of Sparks’s accomplices.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” She ran back to the car.

  He pulled down his hat, securing it against the wind, and rushed into the luncheonette. Anderson was at the far end of the counter. The counterman brought him his tea and buttered toast.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” Anderson said as he lifted the cup. “Cheers.”

  Dunne held the door ajar. The wind surged in behind him. “Let’s go.”

  “Close that damn door,” the counterman snapped.

  Anderson sipped his tea. “What’s the hurry?”

  “Sparks’s friend is parked across the street.”

  “Good God.” Anderson dropped his cup. The contents splashed across the counter. He slapped a quarter on the cash register and followed Dunne outs
ide. Miss Loben was exiting the pharmacy. Last time he’d seen her was on the steps of the Hermes Sanatorium, a look of horrified surprise on her face. Now, expressionless, she lowered her head and ran to the car, got in, and drove east, in the direction of Montauk.

  Roberta drove toward them and made a screeching U-turn in front of the luncheonette. A bread truck just missed hitting her. The driver screamed and shook his fist. The car stalled. She started it again, slowed down enough for Dunne and Anderson to hop in, and sped away. Rain suddenly beat against the windshield in blinding sheets. “I can barely see.”

  “Just keep driving.” Dunne opened the glove compartment and rifled through it. He reached to the back and removed a compact, silver-plated, snub-nosed pistol.

  Roberta glanced at him. “How’d you know it was in there?”

  He made sure the pistol was loaded. “Checked your clothes and your purse. Wasn’t there, so I figured it had to be here.”

  “That’s what I love most about you, Fin. You’re such a romantic.” The sky had turned pitch black. She turned on the headlights. The road ahead was layered over with leaves and broken branches. “We have to pull over,” she said, “I can hardly make out the road.”

  Directly ahead, the red glow of tail lights was suddenly visible. “Damn it, stay behind those lights!” Anderson yelled.

  “That could be anybody.” Roberta erased the vapor on the window with a swipe of her sleeve.

  Dunne helped her. “Won’t know unless we follow it.”

  They trailed at a short distance. Several times they inched around giant elms that had been toppled by the wind. The car ahead picked up speed and skidded through a pond-sized puddle. Roberta stepped on the gas. A few yards beyond, the car veered off the highway, rode up on the shoulder, and smashed a picket fence. They could barely keep the tail lights in sight as it raced in the direction of the beach. Crossing over a small bridge, they encountered only darkness. The car had vanished.