Cat Striking Back

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Rearing up beside the open door, he could just reach the key. The door was heavy, most likely a solid core, and hardly moved under his weight. With a quick paw, claws gripped around the key, and twisting his whole body, he was just able to turn it-the dead bolt slid noiselessly out. When he turned the key again with another hard, shoulder-wrenching twist, it slid back. He heard the guy returning and dove back into the shadows beneath the table, pushing in between Dulcie and Kit; and the minute the man left with another load, the tomcat laid out his plan. “I’ll be the bait,” he told them.

  “No,” said Kit, “you’re stronger. I’ll lure him inside. You and Dulcie shove the door and turn the lock, I can dive out faster!”

  “No!” Dulcie and Joe said together-but they heard him coming back and it looked like this would be the last load, the closet was nearly stripped of packages. “No!” Dulcie hissed again as Kit dove into the closet, concealing herself behind the remaining boxes like the good hunter she was, waiting for her victim.

  25

  KIT WAITED DEEP in the closet, crouched and still. As the burglar stepped in and reached to take the last boxes she leaped at him, exploding in his face with a bloodcurdling yowl that made him stumble backward and fall, crashing into the shelves, thrusting out his hands to ward her off-she looked twice her size, fur standing out, bushy tail lashing. When she screamed again, he scrabbled at the shelves as if to climb away from her. She advanced on him, forcing him back as Joe and Dulcie crouched to leap at the door. Their timing had to be fast and exact, Kit racing out and the door slamming closed. Run now! Dulcie thought, wanting to scream at her. Run out now! Her muscles quivered, primed to leap the moment Kit bolted through.

  But now, instead of trying to escape from Kit, he grabbed a long package and began to beat at her. She dodged and he missed. As he swung again, Joe and Dulcie sprang at him, forgetting the door. He yelled, knocked the cats off with hard blows and bolted past them out the door, hitting Joe as he slammed it in their faces.

  They heard the key turn, the dead bolt sliding home.

  Joe staggered up and jumped at the door, clawing uselessly at the knob. He fell back to the floor, staring up where the inner knob of the lock should be. They were locked in, they were trapped. They pushed close together, fear gripping them, and Kit began to pant.

  At first they heard no sound from without, but then, pressing against the door, they could hear him breathing-as if he was standing just outside. Already the air felt close and hot, already the walls were pressing in. They thought about cats trapped in the holds of airplanes, about kittens falling into some hidey-hole where they couldn’t get out, about cats locked in abandoned houses. They stared at the heavy door, wanting to claw through it and knowing cat claws couldn’t penetrate an inch of solid wood.

  The fact that they’d meant to imprison the burglar as they were now confined, made them feel all the more helpless, made their plight all the more horrifying. Theirs had been an honorable plan. They hadn’t meant to leave him here to die, they’d intended that he be rescued.

  But what did he intend? Was he smiling, hoping no one found them until it was too late?

  HE STOOD STARING at the locked closet door, feeling smug that he’d trapped them but shaken by their attack. He leaned against the wall, fishing in his pocket for the inhaler, and found he’d left it in the RV. Where had those cats come from? It couldn’t be the same three as in the Longley house, but they looked the same. And how would they get into either house? Cats didn’t go through locked doors, he thought, shivering.

  Earlier, as he’d hurried to load up the books and paperweights, could they have smelled his stress and fear? Could that have made them follow him? He’d always believed that the smell of fear would make a cat come after a person. He was still so sick from their attack that even after he returned to the RV, when he couldn’t find the inhaler, he could only sit miserably behind the wheel gulping air, trying to get his breath. When at last he could breathe again he searched under the seats then moved into the back, searched frantically among the boxes and packages that he’d loaded, searched every inch of the floor that he could reach. He wanted to go back in the house, to look in all the rooms, but there wasn’t time.

  He remembered when he’d watched that couple from above the empty ranch, he’d had the inhaler then, he remembered using it, the comforting feel of knowing it would help him. And he’d had it when he buried her, had used it then. Before he hauled her down the ladder he’d taken it out of his pocket, didn’t want it falling out as he bent and dug and heaved dirt. He remembered laying it on the worktable. He couldn’t remember his hand on it again, couldn’t remember putting it back in his pocket.

  It wasn’t only that it was a prescription inhaler, that he couldn’t stop in a drugstore and pick one off the counter. It was that his fingerprints would be on it. He looked again through the glove compartment and the console, but it wasn’t there. He’d have to go back to the remodel, go in the garage again where he’d buried her, see if it was on the worktable. Yes, he was sure of it, when he grabbed and threw the hammer, he’d been so upset he’d forgotten it.

  These last two houses would take only minutes and he’d be done and could go get the inhaler. In these houses, all he wanted was the small stuff, and in both cases the collections were all in one place. The jewelry wouldn’t take any time to gather up, and Theresa’s miniature paintings would fit in a couple of boxes. He didn’t want to leave those, there were some name painters in there who would bring a good price. Get the stuff quick and he’d be done. Swing by and get the inhaler, then hit the road.

  Starting the engine, he activated the garage door and backed out, shutting the door behind him. With the successful completion of the major part of his plan, with her put safely to rest, and when the sound of those cats clawing the door could no longer reach him, his confidence returned. Couple of hours from now he’d be up the road, tucked comfortably into a motel under another name, a drink in his hand and his stash safely locked in the RV, ready, in the morning, to trade for cash and a new start.

  He had no notion, thinking about his plans, that when he returned to the empty house he would again be watched. If he’d known, he might not have gone back, he might have left the inhaler and prayed that no one would pay attention to it, that it would be tossed out with the rest of the trash.

  26

  “I’M GETTING REALLY paranoid when Joe isn’t in for the night,” Ryan said.

  “Shank of the evening,” Clyde said as he turned out the living room lights and they headed upstairs accompanied by Rock and Snowball. “You have to learn to live with it.”

  “You don’t worry?”

  “I worry all the time. I put it on the back burner, like a dull toothache.”

  “That is really very encouraging,” she said, moving up the stairs beside him.

  In the master bedroom Clyde lit a fire and pushed the sliding doors open between the two rooms so they could enjoy the cheerful blaze from the study. His desk was littered with the car ads he’d placed in various newspapers and magazines, with the “car collectors” columns from various newspapers, and with faxes and notations of phone calls to answer.

  Ryan had set up a folding table next to the couch to serve as a temporary work space. This was stacked with real estate fliers and notes on the dozen pieces of property they were considering. The two of them were so jammed into the small study that neither one could move their chair without disturbing the other. Sitting down to sort through their prospective purchases, she looked up at the newly installed door that led into the new construction, eager to be finished and move into her spacious new studio. The big space was dried in, the roof on, but there was the tile floor still to lay and the rest of the interior to finish; she could hardly wait, she wanted her work space, wanted to get on with the bids on two new jobs plus whatever project she and Clyde decided on. As she considered the real estate material, Rock came to nose at her hand, restless and needy.

  The big dog had
paced the house since supper, and it was obvious he was looking for Joe, returning again and again to the downstairs cat door to sniff hopefully for any new scent. Now he looked pointedly at Ryan then directed his gaze to the rafters above, to the high and unreachable cat door that led out into Joe’s tower.

  “Why’s he fussing?” Clyde said. “Joe’s out at night a lot, Rock never paces like this. Or does he only want a run?”

  “He’s been with Dad and Lindsey all day, walking. They must have done ten miles, up in the forest.”

  “I thought Lindsey didn’t like hiking in the rough outdoors.”

  “She likes to hike with Dad,” Ryan said, smiling complacently. She was very much in favor of her widowed father’s romance. “What she doesn’t like is overnight camping-all the bugs and cooking on the bare ground and no shower.”

  “But with an RV-”

  “An RV isn’t camping. I mean real camping, that’s what Dad likes, but that isn’t for Lindsey.” She shrugged. “He doesn’t care, they do everything else together.”

  Lindsey Wolf had only recently come back into Mike Flannery’s life after a long absence. He’d been working a cold case for the department, the ten-year-old murder of Lindsey’s fiancé. That case soon involved a second murder-it was the cats who’d discovered the body. Without their nosiness, Ryan thought, and without their stubborn efforts to bring that hidden grave to the attention of the law, that victim might never have been found, might have moldered among the Pamillon ruins until the world ended.

  But with Joe’s involvement in the case, nudging the law to follow his lead, the gray tomcat had been stranded alone in a strange area fifty miles from home. A plight that, by the time they’d found and rescued him, had driven Ryan to tears though she seldom cried.

  Now, as she and Clyde worked, silent and preoccupied, Rock at last gave up pacing, climbed up on the leather couch, and flopped down with a huge sigh. He left just enough room for Snowball, curled up at the far end on the afghan. The white cat woke long enough to lick the big dog’s nose, then went back to sleep. But as Clyde worked at getting the best prices for his collectors’ cars, and Ryan estimated the cost of a major remodel for her favorite of the houses they were considering, both remained tuned to the roof, listening for the sound of soft feet trotting across the shingles and for the flap of Joe’s cat door.

  There remained only silence, Joe did not appear on the rafter above their heads yawning and demanding a late snack. It was an hour later that the phone rang, startling them both. Clyde glanced at the caller ID and picked up. Turning on the speaker, he imagined Wilma sitting up in bed with a book in her lap, her white hair loose around her shoulders, a cup of cocoa by her side, a fire burning in the cast-iron wood-burning stove.

  Her voice was crisp with tension. “Is Joe home? Have you seen Dulcie or Kit? Lucinda just called, they haven’t seen Kit since their walk up in the hills late this afternoon.”

  “Well, that isn’t-”

  “Pedric’s worried, too, and he seldom worries. Lucinda said they were somewhere below Ryan’s remodel when Kit met up with a new cat, one of the ferals. She said the two went racing off toward the village. She’d thought that when it got dark, Kit might bring the little thing home, not let her go back alone to the hills, but…Clyde, a clowder cat has never come to the village like that, except when there’s trouble, when there’s some urgent need.

  “The Greenlaws haven’t seen either cat since, and I haven’t seen Dulcie or Joe since Charlie came by, around noon. Have they gone up among the ferals in the middle of the night? I can hear coyotes and they sound pretty close.”

  “I expect they’re all right,” Clyde said reassuringly, trying not to telegraph his concern. “Ryan’s here, the speaker’s on. Have you called Charlie?”

  “I was about to. It’s so foolish to worry, but…”

  Ryan moved closer to the phone, leaning into the speaker. “It gets no better, does it? Over time, you don’t worry less?”

  “I still worry,” Wilma said reluctantly.

  “Call Charlie,” Ryan said. “Then call us back.”

  “Yes,” Wilma said, and hung up.

  They waited, Clyde uneasily shuffling papers. Rock had left the couch and resumed pacing, with that quizzical Weimaraner frown on his face that made Ryan even more uneasy. Why were they all so tense? The cats were gone many nights, hunting. Joe would come in, in the small hours, and hop on the bed, nosing at her, his cold muzzle smelling of raw mouse-she was getting used to that. Now, watching her good dog worry and wondering what he sensed, she felt like pacing, too. When Rock looked at her again, the worry on his face even sharper, she went into the bedroom, turned off the gas logs, and stepped into the closet to change her slippers for jogging shoes. She had pulled on a sweater and was getting Clyde ’s coat when the phone rang.

  Clyde switched on the speaker. Charlie said, “I’m in the car. This afternoon, before we chased that guy, Joe and Dulcie were really focused on the vacation houses, asking a lot of questions. I think…I have keys. You want to meet me there?”

  “Yes,” Clyde said. “We’re on our way.”

  Ryan tucked the afghan around Snowball and turned off the desk lamp. Clyde turned on the stairway lights and they hurried down. Grabbing Rock’s leash that hung by the front door, they headed for the roadster, which was handier on the narrow streets; with the top down they could better watch the yards and rooftops. Ryan wondered if they were being foolish, were overreacting. On the seat behind her, Rock paced from one side of the car to the other, staring into the night and up at the rooftops, sniffing the wind with such intensity that he made her even more nervous.

  27

  THE NIGHT WAS still, and the sky was clear, now, above the Harper ranch, the stars glinting where, an hour earlier, rain clouds had threatened. The silence was broken only by the rhythm of the sea away beyond the pastures and below the cliffs, and by the distant singing of coyotes in the hills to the north. In the barn the horses dozed. In the house only one lamp burned, near the flickering hearth fire. Max Harper sat in his favorite chair watching the flames, an open book on the table beside him, the two big dogs sprawled on the hearthrug. Charlie’s chair was empty but still warm, her half-empty cup of tea forgotten beside the mystery novel she’d been reading. Before she’d rushed away, setting the phone down beside her book, the world had been perfect, just the two of them in their own corner of the universe, a rare evening when Max had gotten home early for a leisurely dinner and a night, he’d hoped, without interruption.

  Frowning, he picked up his book again and poured the rest of his beer into the glass, his movements spare and deliberate. He stretched his lean frame, easing his feet nearer the fire, careful not to disturb the two fawn-colored half Danes. He was a tall man, lean, with the leathery look of a horseman, his face pleasantly lined from the sun. He’d be coming up on retirement soon-unless the city council extended his time past their usual retirement age for law enforcement. He’d been chief of Molena Point PD for over fifteen years, good years, all of them. Sometimes he looked forward to retirement, sometimes he didn’t like the empty feeling it gave him; it even scared him a little, though he’d never tell Charlie that.

  He didn’t look forward to what went with retirement, to getting old. As long as he could do the ranch work, was healthy and could do the things he liked, age didn’t matter, it was the going downhill that could scare a guy. He didn’t like to see it in the men he knew, and he wasn’t going to like it in himself.

  He wished Charlie hadn’t had to go out. She’d hurried away frowning and so tense, jingling her car keys, her jacket over her shoulder. He hadn’t liked her urgent need to hurry down to the village for what he thought was no sensible reason. The phone call from her aunt still puzzled him.

  Answering the phone, Charlie had moved away with it so as not to be talking in his ear. “They haven’t?” she said. “None of them? But they often…” A pause, then, “They are? They did?” She’d glanced across at him. “It’
s possible. The way they…Yes, I have keys. I’ll go right down…”

  Another pause. “Yes, please do. No. I’ll bet you’re in bed, reading. No, stay there, there’s no need. It’s cold out. Yes, that’ll be fine. Tell them I’ll see them there.”

  Hanging up, she’d said only that Wilma thought her cat and maybe Clyde ’s and the Greenlaws’ cats were locked in one of the empty houses. She didn’t say how Wilma would know that, and it didn’t make sense to go racing down there. Those cats could be anywhere, they wandered all over the village, no one could keep track of them. And why did she have to race down there in the middle of the night? If a cat got shut in somewhere, it would be fine until morning.

  She’d said vaguely that someone in the neighborhood had heard a cat crying in one of the empty houses, as if it was shut in. But that could be any cat, most of the families in that neighborhood had cats. Why the hell would it be Clyde ’s or Wilma’s cat?

  Well, hell, he thought more reasonably, Charlie’s concern hadn’t been so much for the missing cats as for her aunt Wilma, who was inclined to worry over that tabby cat. It was nearly midnight. If Wilma was still awake, then most likely she was worrying. And when Wilma worried, Charlie worried. That, plus her concern for her clients’ empty houses, was hard on Charlie though she’d never admit it. He’d be glad when she sold her business, he hoped that would take the pressure off. There was always something, a broken waterline, the resultant damage to attend to, a leaky roof…Now that her books had found a growing market, Charlie’s Fix-it, Clean-it was becoming more headache than pleasure, its many disruptions offering more stress than she needed.

  Well, he guessed he was being cranky for no reason, out of sorts because a couple of cats had dragged her away on the one evening in weeks that he’d been able to come home early. But he had to smile, too, at her going down there to roust out a couple of cats. He’d grown to like those cats, and he sure wished them no harm. He’d gotten used to having them around the station, particularly Joe Grey, taking over like he owned the place, bumming Mabel’s lunch, sleeping on his desk. If that cat wanted to nap on a court order, you had to remove him bodily-independent as hell, and mule stubborn.