She was facing a parking lot, its black surface drowned by fog. She saw no cars-it was empty. The mist was penetrated by one dim light at the far corner. Up to her left was the highway, with its swiftly running smears of light.
Yes, this was Dr. Firreti's clinic. The front of the building would be to her left, facing Highway One.
Her pain was more tolerable now. Maybe, as a human, her sense of pain was duller, as were her other senses. But she ached all over. She longed for a nice hot bath, a hot supper, and a nice bed. She slipped out and shut the door.
There were plenty of motels nearby. She'd just check in somewhere, maybe order in a pizza. She grabbed at her pocket to see if she still had her checkbook.
Yes, it was still with her-so there were rules of some sort; but her credit cards were in her purse, on the top shelf of her closet. What would a motel clerk think if she walked in with no credit cards? Some motels wouldn't even rent a room if you didn't have a credit card. And she had no car, no luggage. She'd been so frantic to get out of the house, to get away from everything to do with Jimmie that she hadn't planned at all.
Why hadn't she had kept some of the money from Jimmie's dresser? She'd been stupid to put it all back. How would he know if she'd kept a couple of bills. She didn't even have any loose change for a phone call.
She could go home. No one would see her in the dark and fog. Unlikely that Jimmie was home, he'd still be in Sheril's bed. Go home, get her clothes and money and her car.
But she was afraid to go home, afraid of Jimmie finding her there; and she was ashamed of her fear.
She crossed the parking lot and headed down the dim back street between fog-wreathed cottages. Only a few of the small houses had lights on behind the mist.
She had no notion what time it was. When she reached Ocean, the shops were closed, the streets were nearly empty except for a few parked cars. She turned away from the long block beside the automotive shop, and headed down into the village toward Binnie's. The little Italian restaurant stayed open late. They didn't have a pay phone, but they'd let her use the house phone. She hurried through the chill fog hoping a police car didn't come along and wonder about a woman out alone at this hour without a purse or coat. Hoping Jimmie wasn't cruising the streets looking for her. But fat chance of that, when he was playing games in Sheril Beckwhite's bed.
She couldn't leave it alone, the thought of Jimmie playing footsie in the conjugal bed of a dead man.
She could smell Binnie's garlic and spaghetti sauce before she reached the white-shingled, converted cottage. Gratefully she pushed into its warmth, in among the wooden booths and checkered tablecloths and the good smell of spices.
The cafe was nearly empty. There were only three customers, a young couple in the corner holding hands across the table like a couple in some fifties movie, and an elderly man in a dark suit, salt-and-pepper hair below his collar, sitting at the bar drinking espresso. He glanced at her without interest. She could see Binnie in the back, his dark, sleekly oiled hair, his long, solemn face above his white apron. He and the busboy were washing dishes.
She glanced through at them and waved, and picked up the phone; Binnie gave her a casual wave in return, nodding and smiling. Binnie's clock, behind the bar, said twelve-thirty.
She prayed Clyde would answer. Then she hoped he wouldn't. What was she going to say? Come get me because I can't go home? Take care of me because I have no home anymore and no money? Because I am a cat now, and have abandoned all human dignity?
The phone rang and rang.
Thank God he wasn't home. Oh, Clyde, please be home.
Maybe he had company, maybe he was not alone.
She had started to hang up when he answered. She clutched the phone. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know how to explain. It occurred to her that she could have walked down to his place, it wasn't that far. She felt as if, any minute, she was going to start bawling.
17
In the mist, the village was silent except for the muffled footfalls of the two men. Jimmie Osborne's oxfords pounded up the sidewalk but Wark's pace in his jogging shoes was almost silent; his soft walk made Joe's skin crawl. Following them, the cats drew closer, though Dulcie had restrained herself from launching in a clawed leap onto Wark's back. She moved quickly beside Joe, staying close to the shops where the fog was most concealing. Their quarry moved fast, jingling car keys.
The sour smell of liquor and cigarette smoke that clung to the men, absorbed while they sat in Donnie's bar, left a heavy trail behind them. Wark's voice was so soft the cats had to strain to hear. They caught a few indecipherable words, then Wark said, "No one'll link us to that."
"And the wrench?" Osborne said.
"It'll be found at the proper time. Don't fret."
When Wark turned to look at Jimmie, his head in profile seemed unusually narrow; his nose protruded boldly. "Quit worrying don't always be worryin'."
His low voice insinuated itself with an intimate penetration that made Joe shiver unpleasantly.
"You're sure Damen's prints are still on it?"
Wark's lilt sharpened with irritation. "They be on it. Quit fussin'. One phone call, the cops have the wrench and Damen's prints all over it."
"But all that handling, swinging it around while you chased the damned cat."
"Still had t'gloves on. Might be smearing it some, but it be full of prints, had t' be with Clyde using it every day. Back off, man. You be nervous as a cat your ownself."
"It's the damned cats that have me on edge. I didn't count on this when we… " He turned to look at Wark. "Where did the unnatural things come from? How do you think that makes me feel, my own wife… Did you take care of that?"
"I be workin' on it."
"You've had more than a week. You caught her once. Why didn't you… Now, who knows where she is?" He stopped to stare at Wark. "You're afraid of the damn things."
Dulcie had stopped, startled. She pressed against Joe's ear. "What's he talking about? What does he mean, about his wife?"
Joe thought about Kate Osborne, about her golden eyes that were not exactly like human eyes. He thought about the way she sometimes seemed to slip away within herself, dreaming-perhaps as a cat dreams private and delicious imaginings. He thought about Kate's catlike grace, about her easy, agile movements.
He thought about the time, when the two couples were in the backyard barbecuing, and he had trotted into the kitchen and found Kate alone, chewing on a raw steak bone. Clyde always cut the T-bone out before he grilled, he said you could plump up the meat better.
When Kate turned and saw him, her eyes widened. She had a speck of red meat on her cheek. She laid the bone down, embarrassed; then she seemed to laugh at herself. She knelt and picked him up, and tore off a morsel of the raw meat, offering it to him. "Hey, Joe Cat. What do you care what I eat?"
She put him down, and gave him another piece of steak. She left the raw bone on the paper wrapper on the counter, picked up her drink, and went back outside where the barbecue was smoking up the neighborhood.
Now, following the two men, he was quiet for so long that Dulcie said, "What? What are you thinking? Could Kate be… But that's impossible."
He thought about the rude way Jimmie treated cats and tried to avoid them. And about the rude, patronizing way he treated Kate.
This was incredible. Was he imagining this? Was he putting the wrong spin on the men's conversation?
Dulcie watched him with huge eyes, letting him work it out.
When he tried to imagine Kate Osborne as a cat, it wasn't hard to do. She would be a pale, voluptuous cat with golden eyes, very clean. He glanced at Dulcie and grinned. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe Kate is like us."
"I don't understand. How could she be? What- what would that make us? What…?" She let her words trail off, her eyes huge.
"I don't know, Dulcie." A shock of fear had gripped him. He didn't like this. He'd just gotten used to a cataclysmic change in his life. He wasn't ready for anything mor
e, not for the implications generated by this conversation.
But they had missed something up ahead; Jimmie had grabbed Wark by the shoulders.
"What did you tell her? What does she know?"
"Why would I be telling her anything?" Wark shrugged Jimmie's hands away, mumbling something they couldn't hear.
"She knows, doesn't she?" Jimmie growled. "That's why she ran away, she knows I want her dead. Well, you'd better do her, Wark. And soon. I don't like her roaming around loose. I wake up at night sweating. It's a nightmare that couldn't happen. I want it to stop happening.
"I wake up thinking it can't be happening, then I remember that cat you changed and killed. I remember how that cat looked." Jimmie shook Wark hard. "You'd better do her the same. And you'd better do those other two."
"Get your mind off t' cats. I be taking care of the cats."
"You haven't so far."
"I said, don't fret. I be doing it. And soon we be out of here, lapping up rum and playing with the girls, in Boca." Wark laughed. "But business first. We tend first to the job at hand. We've a long drive t'night. Might be we could tow one car, but I don't like…"
"Sheril's driving. I told you. It's not my fault your man got sick. Christ, he might have changed the VIN plate before he took off on you. I don't like doing that in the shop yard."
"We be back before daylight. T' tools all be there, only take a minute."
The two men stopped beside Jimmie's silver Bugatti; it waited low and sleek and bright, reeking of money. Joe had listened a dozen times to Jimmie's recitation of how fast the Bugatti was, how it could do over three hundred, and how much it would have cost if he hadn't got such a deal. Sure he got a deal. Five hundred thousand bucks worth of car, and Jimmie gave Kate the story that he got it cheap in a trade. He told Kate the Bugatti was a tax writeoff, good advertising for the agency. Joe wondered how much Kate swallowed of that. Clyde said a hired salesman would play hell trying to take a write-off like that.
Jimmie said, "You better ditch the key, in case of trouble tonight."
"There won't be no trouble. Unless Sheril be messing us up. And who would know-innocent little brass key."
As Jimmie opened the driver's door and the interior light came on, the cats drew back behind a planter, jamming their rumps against a shop wall. Jimmie's face, lit by the low interior glow, appeared transformed, and not in a pleasant way. He slid into the low, sleek car. "Let's get rolling, pick up Sheril, or we won't be back before daylight." He stroked the pearly leather interior, and softly shut the door. In a second the Bugatti's engine came to life, a soft and powerful purr like a giant, sleek silver cat.
Wark moved on down the street to a black BMW. When, a minute later, his headlights came on, the cats shut their eyes so they wouldn't reflect. The cars swept by them and were gone.
And Joe crouched in the fog fearing for Kate. She had left home, run away. Was that what Jimmie meant? It was about time. He hoped she was a long way from Molena Point. He wondered if she did know what these two had in mind for her.
But if she didn't know, and if she was still in the village and she went home, if Jimmie found her there, that could be ugly.
Dulcie said, "Where are they going tonight? What are they up to?"
"They could be stealing cars. A VIN plate is an automotive identification." He slitted his eyes. "Is this why Wark killed Beckwhite? Were they stealing imported cars, and Beckwhite found out?"
"But they wouldn't kill him just over some cars."
"Expensive cars, Dulcie, if they're foreign makes. Cars worth way up in the six figures."
"Should we call the police? You could…"
"And tell them what? We're only guessing. If the police went up to the agency tonight, and nothing happened, then what?"
"We could go up to the shop. We could get inside and watch them."
He smiled. "I was thinking the same."
"But we have all night," she said, "and I'm done for. I need to rest and eat, first. We've been going since early morning."
"Okay. We'll try to find Kate, and warn her, then we'll grab a bite. I don't know where the Osbornes live. We need a phone book."
Dulcie stood still, watching him, the tip of her tail twitching. "I need to eat now." At his expression, she tightened her ears to her head. "We've had nothing to eat since early this morning, and hardly anything to drink-a few laps of gutter water. If you don't want a dead cat on your conscience, we'll eat first."
He rose and turned back the way they had come, toward the bar. "There'll be scraps at Donnie's, plenty of scraps. And they'll have a phone book."
She didn't move.
He stopped and looked back. "We'll just slip into Donnie's, find some leftover hamburger, and find Kate's phone number. They're so crowded no one will see us, just slip in between people's legs."
"Sure we will. And get stepped on or kicked trying to snatch a mustard-soaked bun or a few chips and peanuts and find a phone book." She sat down, staring at him.
"We need to find Kate, don't you understand. She's in danger, Dulcie. We need…"
She rose and started off up the street away from the bar. When he didn't follow she turned; her look seared him. "Come on, Joe. Wilma has a phone book. And there's food at home." And she trotted away through the fog, her ears and whiskers back and her tail lashing.
18
The bubble bath was scented with vetiver. The water was deliriously warm, easing every muscle. Kate lay back in the tub, letting her body relax, absorbing the welcome heat and sipping her cold beer, listening contentedly to the comforting sounds from the kitchen, where Clyde was cooking spaghetti for her.
What other man would rise from sleep at midnight, get dressed and in the car, pick her up and bring her home, then draw a bath for her and cook her supper? Above the herbal scent of the bubbles, she could smell the wonderful aroma of the rich sauce and garlic bread.
She had already consumed a plate of cheese and crackers, which he had set beside the tub with her beer. What a nice man he was, what an absolutely comforting and comfortable and caring man.
On the phone, when she called him from Binnie's, he hadn't asked one question. He hadn't even asked why she didn't just walk down to the house from Binnie's, it wasn't more than ten blocks. He had just come to get her, had walked her out and had sat in the car gently holding her, letting her cry.
Clyde might not have a lot of polish, he might make rude remarks, and belch with good-natured humor, but he was a veritable paragon among men.
He had not only drawn a bath for her and waited on her, he had cleared out the spare room as if she were royalty, had put fresh sheets on the guest bed, had hauled away stacks of tool catalogs and a pile of folded sweatshirts, had shoved the heavy, movable parts of his weight equipment out of her way, under the bed.
He had, while picking up his sweatshirts from the desk, quietly slipped a small spiral notebook and a thin briefcase in between two shirts, and carried them away.
Something obviously private; maybe something belonging to one of his girlfriends. She imagined that the vetiver bubble bath would belong to dark-haired Caroline Waith. Or maybe the little redhead-she couldn't keep them all straight.
She finished her beer, and lay back. She had remembered what it was about Dr. Firreti doing something with cats. It was, after all, nothing alarming. Quite the opposite. He collected stray cats from somewhere, very likely the thin cats under the wharf. Firreti neutered the cats, gave them shots, and turned them loose where they had been found. She grinned. That was what she had smelled in the damp sand, the metallic scent of a trap, mixed with human smell, probably Firreti's scent. Though it seemed more like that of a young boy.
She stepped out of the tub and toweled off, enjoying the thick, huge towel Clyde had provided.
Looking in the mirror, she studied with distaste the purple smudges across her body, like the marks of giant fingers. Ugly souvenirs of the bashing Wark had given her small cat self.
She resisted putting
on Clyde's robe, though he had left it folded on the counter. She dressed in her jeans and shirt, and used his dryer on the edges of her hair. Then, limp and sleepy and content, she padded barefoot out to the kitchen.
Clyde turned from the sink. He was dressed in cutoffs and sandals and a faded purple T-shirt with a hole in the sleeve. He had set the kitchen table and was pouring her another beer. The fresh glass was white with frost from the freezer. She sat down at the table and petted the two old dogs who crowded against her knees.
But the three cats made no move to greet her. They sat in the center of the kitchen watching her intently, and not in a friendly way. She looked back at them uneasily.
She'd known these cats for years. They always ran right to her. All their lives she had held them and stroked them as they napped beside her or on her lap. She had played games with them, and had lain on the floor with all the cats asleep across her stomach.
But now, in those three pairs of eyes, was a look that chilled her. She daren't put out her hand and try to touch them.
Clyde seemed not to notice their wary behavior. Draining the spaghetti and pouring on sauce, he set the heaping plate before her. It looked so good she wanted to push her face in, slurping. He brought a bowl of salad and a basket of garlic bread, then found the grated cheese and a bottle of salad dressing.
He sat down across from her, toying with his beer and with a piece of garlic bread. She couldn't help gobbling. She couldn't take time to wind her spaghetti, she hardly cut it before she raked it in; she was almost panicked with hunger. Clyde busied himself with his bread and beer.
He not only ignored her unusual bad manners, but waited patiently, without questions, for her to explain her seeming abandonment to the streets without money or her purse, without her car.
When, halfway through her meal the first emptiness was satisfied, when the good hot spaghetti began to give back to her some warmth, she settled back and slowed that flying fork. Sipping her cold beer, she told the story slowly. She told him how she had found herself in the alley behind that old office building, standing barefoot among garbage, her clothes and hands filthy, and with no memory of going there, no idea of where she had been, no memory of leaving the house. She told him how, when she left the alley, Wark had chased her. She told him what happened when Wark's foreign, rhythmic words touched her. She told him how it felt to be suddenly small and four-footed, how nice her soft fur had felt, how nice it felt to run so swiftly and to lash her tail. When he didn't laugh, she described all the sensations she had encountered. She was telling him what she could remember about living under the wharf, when he came to life suddenly.
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