Cat Playing Cupid

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  She did have a phone? he thought. She must have, she ran her own business, surely she carried a phone. Had she already called the station to tell them what she was doing? Would there soon be officers behind them, to take over this unprofessional surveillance before it turned into a chase?

  Or would she think Dallas wouldn't pay any attention to her if she called? Would tell her not to mess in police business, to lay off and go home?

  She had her windows cracked, and the smell of pine trees filled the car, soon accompanied by the salty iodine smell of the bay where Highway 1 would be near the shore. Now, on the left, he could see only sky through the windows above him, and once in a while a gull sailing over. He knew they were moving north.

  Was Gibbs only heading up the coast to one of the small beach towns? Or was he running, making for a connecting freeway, for some distant destination where, if they stopped, a cat might find himself forced out of Lindsey's car for any number of reasons? Where a cat had no backup, where a cat could find himself abandoned in a strange town, alone and on his own?

  29

  RIDING CROUCHED on the floor of the backseat, Joe couldn't see anything but sky, and, despite the fact that this was a nearly new, upscale car, the noise and vibration on the floor were singularly unpleasant, and he was breathing gas vapors that humans apparently didn't notice. But more frustrating, he couldn't see the road signs. Couldn't see where they were headed, he only knew they were still going north.

  Also, unable to see the traffic and see what the driver was doing, he worried about Lindsey's driving skills or the lack thereof. With the way she was changing lanes, he felt sure she was still on Ray's tail, trying to stay out of sight but not lose them.

  What was she thinking as she followed them? Wondering if she'd alerted them so they'd drive farther and longer, trying to ditch her? He wasn't proud of himself that, apparently, either Ray or Ryder had been lurking among the ruins all morning and he nearly hadn't seen them at all from his broad vantage point on the roof.

  Well, but Rock had missed them, too, even with his tracker's nose. Weimaraners were adept at both sight and scent, bred to both kinds of hunting. But this morning, honed in on his all-consuming objective to track Clyde, the good dog had apparently not seen or smelled their stealthy presence.

  Careening up the freeway on the floor of the car, unable to see much but sky, Joe thought that right then, he would sell his kitty soul for a phone to call the station, a chance to whisper into the speaker and hear a cop's friendly voice.

  Getting soft, Joe thought crossly. Relying too much on human technology. On the electronic conveniences that had become so much a part of his life. But he liked the luxuries of the human world, no denying it. Liked using the phone both to call in tips to the department and to spy on and harass the perps-to say nothing of calling his favorite deli.

  Clyde had once suggested a collar with a tiny, voice-controlled cell phone attached. But despite any excuse they could think of for a cat wearing a phone, such an encumbrance would generate too many prying questions. Besides, he hated the thought of a collar, which seemed to Joe nearly as bad as a straitjacket.

  ***

  THE WOODS WERE growing dark, but the sky was still silver beyond the dark branches that laced above Charlie and Kit; hurrying ever deeper through the black woods, they had tracked Sage for over a mile. Charlie couldn't believe he'd come this far, hindered by the cast and bandages, yet stayed ahead of them. But Kit still followed his fresh scent, and Charlie, following Kit, stared into every shadow, watching for the young tom's pale coat and the white gleam of bandages.

  She had, shortly after starting out, made Kit wait for her, safe in the branches of a pine, while she hurried back for a flashlight and a bottle of water and, feeling silly but thinking better safe than sorry, had strapped on her holstered.38. The woods would soon be pitch-dark, and there were coyotes and sometimes a bobcat that would be a danger to Sage and Kit. Even an occasional cougar visited these wild hills, and cougars living so close to humans had grown bolder than Charlie liked; several dogs had been killed, as well as a neighbor's nice yearling colt; that had truly sickened her.

  Kit stopped suddenly, staring back at her. "Did you hear that?" she whispered. "A twig breaking, something moving…" Then Kit leaped ahead so fast that Charlie had to run to keep up and made too much noise, stepping on twigs. Unlike Kit, she couldn't run in silence; blackberry vines clawed at her, tripping and slowing her. The next time Kit spun around, Charlie stopped dead still. This time they'd both heard it. A scream. Loud and blood chilling. A cat's scream of rage and challenge-answered by the high, yip-yipping of coyotes.

  Hastily Charlie scooped up Kit to keep her safe, tucking her flashlight under her arm and releasing her holstered.38. Another series of yips and another scream of rage, and the dry scrambling of claws on a tree trunk. Kit clung to Charlie's shoulder with claws deep in her jacket. The enraged scream could only be Sage, and as she swung the light around, snarls greeted them. Two big coyotes were leaping up the trunk of an oak tree. Above them Sage clung barely out of reach, barely keeping his balance on the thin branch, his bandaged leg hanging down as the beasts scrabbled and leaped at him.

  Kit tensed on her shoulder, ready to leap at them but Charlie dropped the light and grabbed her. Kit fought to get free. Charlie held her tight, the beam from her fallen flashlight canting off uselessly into the treetops, barely showing the beasts-until suddenly the larger coyote spun around and faced her, his eyes caught in the light. He was nearly on her, Kit clawing into her shoulder to leap at him, he was inches from her, he seemed right in her face when she fired.

  He dropped, twisting, then came at her again. She ran backward away from him, fired again, two shots. He dropped and lay still. His companion, who had paused among the trees, suddenly charged her. This was behavior she would not have expected from coyotes. She fired twice more and he dropped. Only one shot left. Feeling in her pocket for her reloader, she stood staring down, sickened, at the two dead coyotes lying at her feet, hoping there were no more. On her shoulder, Kit was shivering.

  "Could you ease up a little, Kit? Before you claw me to death?"

  Kit eased back her claws and lay more gently across Charlie's shoulder. Above them, Sage still clung to the branch, his eyes huge, his injured leg dangling. Charlie holstered her gun and reached up to him. She got one hand on the pale little cat but was afraid to drag him off, afraid to injure him even more.

  ***

  IT GREW HOTTER on the floor of the car. Traffic was heavy and fast. Lindsey did a couple of uncomfortable swerves that made Joe wonder if he'd get out of this in one piece, with his sleek silver hide intact. He had no idea whether she'd lost the navy blue Honda or was still on its tail, but from the way she was changing lanes, ducking in and out of traffic, he was convinced she still had them. Twice he heard her rummaging in her purse. Looking for her phone? Trying to find it down among the incredible debris women carried in their purses? Or…? Oh, hell! She hadn't left it at home?

  She didn't have her phone? She hadn't called the station? No help was on the way? He remembered Mike laughing once, because she so often left her phone at home.

  "What good is a phone, Lindsey, if you don't carry it?" They'd been cozied up after dinner, on the couch, Joe and Rock stretched out on the rug before the fire.

  "I carry a phone when something's urgent," Lindsey had said, "which isn't often. You think that's weird?"

  "I guess not. Maybe that's sensible," Mike said, frowning and drawing her close. Sometimes this budding romance made Joe feel warm and safe, at other times he'd wondered where it was headed, and had wished both he and Mike knew Lindsey better. Had she scammed Mike once, then left him? And now was deceiving him again?

  They were approaching Watsonville, he could tell by the smell of green vegetable crops and strawberries. If he could see out the window, there would be miles and miles of strawberries. She changed lanes again suddenly and sped off the freeway, slowing as she curved up the ramp.
Above him through the window loomed a sign announcing FOOD/GAS/LODGING. She changed lanes fast again, and swung into a gas station; gas fumes were sucked into the car. She made several turns, as if pulling around back. Moving out of sight of Ray and Ryder? If, indeed, she was still with them.

  When she left the car, when Joe heard her walking away, he peered up through the back window, ready to dive down again. She moved away fast, glanced once at the gas station's phone booth, which stood in plain sight, but didn't pause.

  Across the side street was a Burger King, and there was the navy blue Honda, parked at the far side. Through the reflections of the restaurant window, he could just see Ray and Ryder standing at the counter.

  Lindsey, keeping several parked cars between herself and the Burger King, hurried inside the gas station's little convenience store.

  Now it was hard to keep her in sight through the sign-cluttered glass. Slipping up onto the back of the front seat where he could see better, Joe lay along it watching her speaking with the clerk behind the counter, an overweight grandmotherly type. The way the signs were placed, the clerk was more visible. Grandmother or not, she looked surly and rude. Soon they were arguing. Joe guessed that was a pretty stressful job, behind a gas station cash register, never knowing when some innocent-looking customer would pull a knife or a gun and you'd be cleaning out the till, praying he wouldn't kill you after you'd handed over the cash.

  The clerk shook her head again, scowling at Lindsey. Lindsey seemed to be pleading with her while at the same time turning to look out the front window, across to the Burger King. Joe could still see Ray inside, watched him step down a short hall, maybe toward the restrooms. Or maybe there was a phone back there? Who would he be calling? Had they made Lindsey? Had he some plan to get her off his tail?

  When Joe peered into the convenience store again, Lindsey was doling out money to the clerk. The next minute she was dialing the phone on the counter, making Joe wish he could read lips. Her eyes hardly left the Burger King. Was she calling the station? Had she dialed Mike? His ears pricked up when she got someone on the line. She was talking fast, using her free hand to gesture across the street as if the listener could see her. She hung up quickly as Ryder and Ray came out of the Burger King carrying two white paper bags.

  Slipping out the door, she double-timed it behind the gas pumps and slid into her car. Joe was on the floor again, crouched behind the seat, tucking his white paws under, keeping his white nose down. As Lindsey slammed the door and started the engine, he would have given one of his nine lives to know if she'd reached the department. To know if they could expect some backup before things got dicey.

  30

  THEY WERE ON the highway again, still moving north. Joe was getting used to the vibration on the floor of the Mercedes, which seemed to have turned into a rumbling purr and was making him sleepy. Was he actually going to drift off while roaring down the highway not knowing where he was headed or what would happen to him?

  He had no idea who Lindsey had reached on the phone, but certainly she must have called the department. Had she talked with Harper? Dallas? Had they put out an alert on the navy blue Honda? Or did they not have enough on Gibbs to do that? So far, Ray Gibbs was really only a "person of interest."

  They were still on Highway 1, he could smell the sea. He kept wondering why, if Ray and Ryder were trying to avoid arrest, they'd chosen this slower route. Why hadn't they taken the busier, multilane 101? After they seemed to be in a hell of a hurry to get out of the village, here they were tooling along by the narrow, scenic route like a couple of tourists.

  Did they think they'd be expected to go the other way? Think that with more cops on the 101, maybe watching for them, they'd be spotted more quickly?

  Or were they not running? Had that not been Ray's Honda leaving the ruins? Was this some big fat coincidence, could both he and Lindsey be wrong despite the couple's hurried departure? Were those two simply driving up the coast for the weekend, with no notion that Ray's dead wife might have been found? Were they maybe headed innocently to visit friends in Santa Cruz or Half-Moon Bay?

  If this was a wild goose chase, and if Clyde learned about it, he'd never hear the last, Clyde would rag him for the rest of his nine lives.

  Which, given his present situation and Lindsey's erratic driving, might not be too long.

  But what if that dark figure slipping through the ruins had not been Ray or Ryder searching for the possibly valuable old book?

  He wondered what Nina might have told Ryder about her aunt Olivia at the time the two were friendly, before they both set their caps for Carson. Would Nina have bragged about some rare old book in the family, a book that had vanished when Olivia died?

  He wondered if Olivia, finding herself very ill, had hidden the book, not wanting Nina to have it and sell it. Not wanting to destroy it, but vowing to keep the cats' secret, she'd have no other choice but to hide it.

  Olivia dies, but Nina knows about the book and has a nice little drama to recount. She tells Ryder, and then after Nina disappears, Ryder thinks about the story, and starts going up to the old estate looking for Olivia's treasure. Starts looking again after she returns from L.A., maybe venturing down into that labyrinth of old, crumbling cellars and up into the unsafe rooms among the mansion's fallen walls?

  But she didn't find it, did she! he thought, smiling.

  ***

  DULCIE WAITED AROUND the station for nearly an hour, fidgeting and biting at nonexistent fleas, but Joe didn't come bolting in. She was burning to know what had gone down this morning. Dallas was back in his office, very likely filing his report. She wanted to go back there and read it. Or should she join Mike in the conference room where he, too, was recording the morning's events while stoking up on stale coffee?

  She was about to head for the conference room when a sleazy little woman in pink tights came in the front door to complain about a traffic ticket. And then, at the desk, Mabel routed a call through to Dallas that, in seconds, brought the detective double-timing up the hall shouting at Mike. "It's Lindsey, she's following them!"

  Both men raced out the front door, piled into the Blazer, and spun out of the parking lot, their red light whirling. At the radio, Mabel put out an APB on Lindsey Wolf's tan Mercedes and on Ray's Honda Accord. The little woman in her pink tights had backed up against the holding cell, out of the way. Dulcie felt cold clear to her paws-now she knew where Joe was.

  Call it instinct, call it feline perception. She felt certain that, somehow, Joe had hitched a ride with Lindsey.

  Everyone else was back from the ruins but Joe. Dulcie didn't know the details, but instinct told he'd slipped into Lindsey's car. Or, worse, had managed to crawl into Gibbs's car. Either way, Dulcie's paws were icy with dread.

  She sat thinking for only a moment, weighing her options. And as a trio of uniforms hurried in, she slid out the front door, past their ankles, skinned up the oak tree, and took off across the roofs, speeding for Joe's house and Clyde.

  ***

  DESPITE HIS NERVOUS state and the fast and careening ride, Joe dozed; he woke to the rumble of heavier traffic, as if they were now on a busy freeway. And soon, peering up through the windows at a sky turned hazy with smog, he glimpsed a dark airport sign flash by overhead: SAN JOSE INTERNATIONAL. Lindsey had turned inland, he could hear the big planes taking off, one coming right over them, nearly deafening him. Was she still with the Honda? She had the air-conditioning on, and he could see by the flat, smoggy sky that it was hot here, a haze-filled scorcher.

  If Ryder and Ray were headed to the airport to catch a plane, would Lindsey try to get a ticket, maybe on standby, and follow them? Right. And leave her locked car in short-term parking among acres of empty cars, leave him shut in a sweltering vehicle. He stared up at the door lock, wondering if he could open it. Every make and model was different, and this one didn't look easy.

  If he couldn't slip out before she slammed the door, he'd be imprisoned alone with no phone and no one to
hear his yowls for help. Trapped in the hot car as the heat built and kept building…How long could he live in heat that would peak at far over a hundred? How long before he keeled over from dehydration, turned up his claws, and breathed his last?

  Shaken by the thought of increasing thirst and a slow and agonizing bodily shutdown, he prayed fervently to the great cat god that he could open that lock-yet even hidden by the back of the seat he was reluctant to reach up an exploring paw and try it, afraid he'd make some little noise or that she'd glimpse his paw in the space between the seat and the door. Tempted as he was, he remained crouched in a frightened funk as more airport signs flipped by overhead on their tall poles. She slowed at the sign for short-term parking.

  They sat idling, as if there were cars lined up ahead. Was the Honda up there in front of them? He heard the gate arm rise five times, as the drivers ahead stepped on the gas and pulled through.

  Was Ray leading her into a trap? Wanted her to park inside that cavernous, covered, fenced lot, where he could get at her?

  As wild as that seemed, if Ray or Ryder had killed Carson, and maybe Nina, what difference was one more murder? Had Lindsey thought of that? Did she realize how foolish she might be to follow them?

  He kept puzzling over why, after their argument in the condo, the couple was fleeing together. It had sounded as if each was conning the other, as if either one could be the killer. Now, the only conclusion was that whoever was the killer had at last confided in the other, that they had fled together, partners to the end.

  Unless he was reading this all wrong. Unless, despite Ray's hatred of cops, both were in fact innocent.