“You did all this on the word of a guy you don’t know and who wouldn’t identify himself?”
“I believed him,” Ryan said shortly. “We’ve blown a whole morning and a bundle of money on this. He’d better be telling the truth.” She was losing patience and losing confidence. She wanted to get on with the dig, either to be vindicated or to stoically endure her embarrassment.
Bern climbed down the ladder into the pit, and Dallas followed. Max stood looking on, a little amused, a little put off. The cats couldn’t see to the bottom, could see into the garage only as far as the lip of the pit, where Ryan stood watching. They could hear the soft scrape of slow, careful digging, could see Fernando and Manuel just inside the door, idly shuffling their feet, waiting to witness Ryan’s embarrassment when all this digging turned up nothing-or perhaps to experience a macabre thrill if a corpse was uncovered. Soon the sounds of digging grew more tentative, there was a long, muffled discussion, then the cats could hear only soft scratching, such as their own careful paws might make. Dallas ’s exclamation was sharp.
Ryan stepped closer. Fernando and Manuel moved forward to look but then Manuel backed away, his face pale. Fernando stood looking, and then nodded at Ryan and gave her a shy smile
She grinned back but looked at the two men with concern. “You guys okay?”
“Okay,” Fernando said. Both men were looking at her now as if she possessed some magical power, as if she were some kind of witch to have known that there was a body buried there.
She said, “You’ll have to wait for the detective to take your statements, then you can go on home, take the rest of the day off with pay.”
That seemed to revive Fernando. Manuel gave her a lopsided, gentle smile. Down in the pit, Garza said something the cats couldn’t make out. Joe Grey wondered how many bodies Dallas Garza had helped to disinter over his twenty-five years in law enforcement. He wondered if it ever got any easier to deal with a victim of violence, to look on a battered or mutilated body and think about the cruelty that existed in one’s own species. The tomcat burned to slip out of the truck and move closer where he could see if he knew the woman, but Dulcie’s armored paw on his shoulder drew him back. She was always so afraid people would wonder why they were watching. He didn’t want to admit she was right.
It was some time before John Bern and Dallas finished bagging evidence. Joe, having at last lost patience, had left the pickup despite Dulcie’s protests and slipped into the garage behind the pile of cement. He had to smile when Dulcie and Kit followed him, crouching beside him where they, too, could see down into the pit but not be seen.
They could see Dallas ’s back where he knelt beside Bern, but couldn’t see much of the woman, only a glimpse of her arm and one bare, tanned leg. They jerked to attention when Bern said, “These look like cat hairs.”
The cats lived in fear of cat hairs being found at a scene, hairs that could give them away, and would certainly generate questions. But why were they flinching now? They hadn’t been near this victim, they hadn’t been in the pit. There was no way…
“Hairs stuck to her skin,” Bern said. “She’s oily, smells like suntan oil. She’s tan all over, not a pale mark on her. Was she in the habit of sunbathing naked?”
“I don’t know,” Dallas said dryly. “I never had the pleasure.”
Bern lifted a cat hair with forceps, to view it though his magnifying glass. “Yellow. Sure looks like cat hair. Maybe it came off her clothes, or…I wonder if those same hairs are stuck to the killer’s clothes?”
The cats crouched, frozen. A yellow cat? There were no yellow cats in that neighborhood except Theresa’s cat. Oh, this wasn’t Theresa. They felt as if they’d been kicked in the belly.
Max said, “Charlie has clients a couple of blocks from the empty swimming pool where we’re working that missing body. I think one of them has a yellow cat. I’ll get Charlie over to the morgue, see if we might get lucky and she can ID her.”
Frightened for Theresa, already grieving for her, the cats slipped out of the garage and across the drive to the shelter of Ryan’s truck. Crawling up beneath the tarp, they pushed close together, Joe and Kit pressing their heads against Dulcie.
“Oh, it isn’t Theresa,” Kit mewled. “No one…It mustn’t…It can’t be Theresa.”
“Not Theresa,” Dulcie said. “They’re wrong, it can’t be.” She pressed hard against Joe, her ears down, her eyes closed, and the three cats clung together, mourning Theresa as they had seldom, in all their lives, grieved for a human person.
35
WHEN HE WOKE in the motel, it was broad daylight. Christ! Looking blearily at his watch, he saw it was nearly noon. What had made him sleep so long? His mouth tasted bad and his face felt worse. Gingerly, he touched his cheek, his whole face was covered with deep claw wounds, and probably some of them still had glass in them. He’d picked out a dozen bloody slivers last night that he’d gotten when he lay facedown below the window, trying to protect himself from their dirty claws. He was still bleeding, there was blood all over the pillows and sheets. His stubble itched bad already, and he wouldn’t be able to shave. A razor would take half his face off, what was left of it.
He hadn’t crawled into the musty-smelling bed until after three by the time he’d changed the tire and then gone back to find the inhaler. Never had found it and that was when it hit the fan, that was when everything went wrong.
After those cats attacked him, after he got away and locked himself in the RV, he’d tried to clean up. Found a towel in the back and, half blind with blood and pain, had tried to wash and doctor the filthy wounds, squeezed on some salve he’d found in the kitchenette, that she’d put there in case of some emergency. She hadn’t guessed what kind of emergency. Bleeding all over himself, he’d headed for the highway, wanted only to be out of there, to be as far away from that cursed house and the cursed village as he could get. But then he’d driven only as far as Santa Cruz when he knew he had to sleep. Caught himself twice jerking awake, knew he had to find a motel where he could pull the RV out of sight and get some rest.
He’d driven around the fusty little town for some time before he found a motel that would suit his purpose. He’d had to ring for ten minutes before the manager came stumbling out in an old bathrobe, none too pleased even if the place was nearly empty, only five cars parked in front. It was after three o’clock when he’d finally checked in and fallen into bed. Hadn’t slept well, kept waking, his face hurting, and feeling those cats all over him. Would jerk up in a rictus of terror then, sweating, then fall into sleep again.
His muscles ached. He was stiff from digging, from hauling her up out of the pool and heaving her in the car, then later moving her into the RV and then into that garage and down the ladder. He wasn’t a laborer, he worked out some to keep in shape, but not that kind of abuse. He’d already been sore when the tire blew. Changing that had nearly finished him. And then to be attacked-that monster exploding in his face and then a whole pack of them erupting in a horror, like his worst nightmares. Where had they come from? And why?
Getting out of bed, he found a coffeepot in the small bathroom. Pot so stained and dirty that if he didn’t die from an infection of cat bites he’d likely die from the accumulation of bacteria that it had collected over who knew how many years as the hotel maids wiped it out with their dirty scrub rags.
He couldn’t have picked a skuzzier motel. It was in an old, run-down district, a two-story, dilapidated stucco building that must have been constructed early in the last century, surrounded by a neighborhood of small wooden houses with peeling paint, ragged lawns, and junk cars in the yards and narrow driveways. But it had what he wanted. Before he checked in he’d driven around behind the building where he found a narrow alley that would serve him well. Returning to the front and checking in, he’d asked for a room at the back, told the clerk it’d be quieter back there, away from the street. He could pretty well choose his own room, empty as they were. Taking his duffle up, he�
�d opened the window, draped a towel over the sill to mark which room. Then he’d moved the RV around into the alley, parked it among the garbage cans just below, pulled it up against the building so no one could open the side door. Had hoped, if anyone tried to open the locked driver’s door, he’d hear them. Carrying his coffee, he opened the window and looked down.
RV looked all right, he could see in through the side windows that it was still full of the boxes, just as he’d left it. Turning, he surveyed the fusty room with its faded brown wallpaper and ragged curtains. Some send-off for a trip that they’d meant to be fancy. A trip she’d meant to be an upscale vacation, spending the money they’d pocket from their neighbors’ treasures. They’d set it up so well. And she had to go and ruin it.
Ever since they’d moved into that neighborhood they’d been friendly with the neighbors, had made it a point to be. Three other couples they’d gotten along with well, they’d made a good group. He sat down on the bed, drinking his coffee.
He wondered if, when his face had healed and things cooled down, he could return home, keep on in the same vein with the neighbors and no one the wiser. Act grateful for his friends’ condolences about her leaving him, exchange sympathy with them about their mutual burglaries, keep right on enjoying their company. They’d had some fun parties, the eight of them. Potlucks, card games, cookouts. He wondered if he could get away with that as smoothly as they’d pulled off other jobs, in other cities. She’d say that what someone didn’t know would never hurt them.
He missed her. Why the hell did she have to be so clumsy? He thought again that he could have called the paramedics. But that wouldn’t have saved her, she was dead seconds after her head hit the tile coping. He could have called the cops, told them she fell, but who would have believed him? Believed he didn’t push her, that he hadn’t murdered her even if it had been her fault?
He had to quit thinking about it. It was over, she was gone. Buried where no one would ever think to look. He had to get on with it now, and he could sure use the money, would need it if he decided not to go back. He didn’t know how that would play out, that would depend on what the cops found, on what he read in the papers-if it was all reported. If the damn cops didn’t hold something back, trying to trap him.
Biggest problem was, he’d laid no groundwork in the neighborhood for her leaving him, he hadn’t planned on this. He hadn’t dropped hints that they might be having problems, and she would have no reason to say that. He’d made no big withdrawal from her account for the cops to discover, as if she planned to leave him. No secret plane reservations on her Visa. He’d have to say it was a spur-of-the-moment blowup, that they’d had their little tiffs but he’d never dreamed she’d get mad enough to leave, to just walk out on him. Have to say they’d kept their differences to themselves, that they’d had a far worse argument than usual. By the time he got up to Washington State he’d have worked out the details to make it look reasonable. He’d have to do this tedious stuff on his own, now, working out all the picky details.
Last night after changing the tire, after pulling away in the dark, leaving his lights off until he was clear of the cops below, he’d felt physically ill at their presence down there. Heading toward the highway he’d felt ice cold, and his stomach had been churning. Who the hell had called the cops? What had someone seen? Had they seen him? Seen the RV? Right now, was every CHP on the highway watching for an old brown RV that wouldn’t be hard to spot?
Rising, he went into the tiny bathroom where he showered, trying to keep the hot water off his face. It stung like hell, and he didn’t want it bleeding any worse. He wasn’t hungry but he thought he’d better eat. Maybe some break fast would make him feel better. He badly wanted to see a newspaper, see if the burglaries were in it. Molena Point wasn’t that far away.
Before checking out, he tried the TV but by the time he turned it on there was no more news, it was all daytime programs, as murky as the oily dregs in the coffeepot. He finally found a local channel with some news. He watched that for nearly an hour but there was no mention of Molena Point. His stomach awash with coffee, he knew he had to eat.
Leaving the room, he walked past the elevator to where a window was open at the front of the building, stood looking out through the greasy curtains, up and down the street. He could see nothing like a restaurant, not even some kind of hole-in-the-wall grocery that would have packaged snacks and newspapers. Maybe better to hit the road, find somewhere to eat on his way to the city. Approaching San Francisco, there’d be plenty of restaurants.
Returning to the room, grabbing the small duffle that he’d brought in with him last night, he walked down the one flight, stopped at the desk to pay his bill. The clerk was young and pudgy; she avoided looking at his face. When he told her he might be back that night, she wanted him to make a reservation, and that made him laugh. As if they were expecting a big crowd, were booked solid with upscale tourists or some medical convention. The quality of this place, they couldn’t count on a convention of second-rate hookers. Paying his bill in cash, which the clerk didn’t question, he went around to get the RV.
No, nothing had been disturbed. When he slipped in, locked the driver’s door, and went to look in the back, the boxes and furniture and rolled rugs were just as he’d left them. Starting the engine and moving out to the street, he stayed in the scuzzy neighborhood, driving the narrow streets looking for someplace for breakfast. Once he’d eaten he meant to return to Highway 1, stay on the coast, away from cops and traffic. As soon as he’d taken care of business in the city, dumped the RV and bought a car, he could move north on any route he chose, he wouldn’t be recognized then. Meanwhile, the day was clear and bright, the sea reflected the sun cheerfully, and he might as well enjoy the ride. After a week or two, he’d decide whether to go back and say she’d left him, or to keep moving.
36
THE THREE CATS watched from Ryan’s truck as Dallas and John Bern emerged from the pit with the wrapped body on a stretcher and lifted her into Bern ’s van. She was fully covered by the body bag, and the cats were relieved not to have to look on her face in death. They wanted to keep their own picture of Theresa, her eyes laughing down at them, her hands gentle and warm as she stroked them, her round cheeks pink with health and life. They didn’t want to remember her sunny face as the waxen face of a corpse.
As the coroner’s van pulled away, Dallas followed in his dusty Blazer, leaving the house encircled by crime tape. Max had already left to return to court and then to pick up Charlie, to head for the morgue. As soon as everyone else was gone, Ryan stepped to the bed of her truck and pulled aside the tarp where the cats were huddled.
“Come on, you three,” she said gently, reaching to stroke sad little Dulcie. She looked into their eyes, so miserable. There was nothing she could say to ease their pain over this woman she’d never met. While Charlie knew the four couples well, she didn’t know them at all. “I’ll take you home,” she said softly, “if that’s where you want to go. Come up front with me, where it’s warmer.”
Joe hesitated, crouching lower.
“Those boxes could shift, Joe. I don’t want you hurt. I can drop you in the village if you’d rather.” She tried to stroke the tomcat, but his miserable glare made her pull her hand back. She picked up Dulcie, who pressed against her. When she took Kit in her arms, Kit pressed her face into Charlie’s shoulder. Carrying the two lady cats, she turned away toward the cab. “I’m not starting the truck, Joe, until you come up front.”
In the cab, she started the engine, turned on the heater, and left the door open for Joe. As Dulcie and Kit crowded against her, she thought of many things she might say to try to ease their pain, except anything she said would sound patronizing and insincere.
At last Joe appeared, slipping up into the cab beside Dulcie.
The cats snuggled together trying not to think of Theresa wrapped in the body bag and headed for the morgue, but able to think of nothing else. No one spoke as they moved down the h
ills on the narrow, winding road, they were silent all the way to the village. On Ocean, Ryan pulled to the curb, reached over, and opened the passenger door. “This okay?” she asked, trying to hide her worry over them.
“Fine,” Joe said. Dulcie and Kit nosed at her by way of thanks, and the cats leaped out to the sidewalk. She’d started to pull away when a portly man in a brown tank top banged on the truck door, shouting that her cats had escaped. Already the cats were gone, flowing up a bougainvillea vine to the rooftops, heading for MPPD. Behind the fat man, his frumpy wife stood staring up, shouting and pointing.
Ryan rolled down her window. “It’s all right,” she told the meaty tourists. “They do that all the time. They like to ride into town, then go off on their own. They’ll be home for supper.” They stared at her, shaking their heads in disbelief. She smiled and waved, and pulled away.
AT MOLENA POINT PD Detective Juana Davis sat before her computer typing up her field notes from the burglaries and from her interviews with eight of the neighbors. She had slipped off her uniform jacket, revealing a white shirt open at the collar. Beneath her desk she had loosened the laces of her regulation shoes and slipped them off, too. The divergent observations she’d collected were the usual tangle, from which she must try to separate facts from imagination. Civilian witnesses weren’t trained in accuracy. Too often their minds, at the moment in question, were half on other matters. Listening for the kids sleeping in their beds, hearing the TV or a ringing phone, wondering if they’d turned off the stove. Few folks remembered clearly what they’d seen and heard, particularly when they didn’t realize at the time that those moments would later be important.
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