After he backed into the shed in the far corner and got out, he felt so shaky that he had to brace himself against the swinging wooden shed door as he closed it. Going inside he gripped the porch rail then the back door, then hung on to a kitchen chair as he sat down at the table. He wished he had some whiskey; there was no liquor in the house. What do you do when you feel scared hollow right down to your very soul?
He couldn’t even call the PD and ask if Jon Jaarel was alive; and ask if they’d caught the thief. Even if his phone was so old that it didn’t have GPS he was afraid to make another call. How did he know what kind of equipment the cops used?
He sat still for a long time, his head bent on his clenched hands. At last he went in the living room and lay down on the couch. He covered himself with Nell’s quilt and closed his eyes. His own boy. One of his boys. He guessed in the dark it could have been Varney but he was almost certain it was Nevin. He felt as weak as an old, old horse about to go under. Was there a place in the hereafter for worn-out horses and worn-out old men with nothing to look forward to? His life was gone. Nell gone, and the three boys turned out like this. Mindy was the only decent one, and the boys and Thelma had taken her away.
Max Harper was bound to find who did the killing—if Jaarel was dead. And then prison for the boy, or worse. And, he thought, if both boys were involved, if both were convicted even for short sentences, what would happen to Mindy?
Would Harper leave her in the care of her mother?
But Thelma would refuse to come back here. No telling where she’d take Mindy. Likely she’d head for the city. Turning over, not wanting to think any more, he felt himself drop into a hard, deep sleep. He wouldn’t have thought he could sleep, in this state. He felt himself fall into a black emptiness that, he’d read once, came from depression or fear.
On the Damens’ roof, late after supper, the cats sat watching the chill fog roll in, its promise making them smile. Soon the streets and rooftops would be all but hidden, they could slip away and go anywhere they wanted, totally unseen. Their human families couldn’t object to that. Who could see a cat in this hazy overcast? Already a long white tail of thick ocean mist crept low along the face of the hills, a dark dragon making its way up the valley, obliterating the lower fields. It would soon grow longer and wider to cover all the hills and valley and then sink down to hide the village.
Then it would be hunting time. No one to see and snatch up a prowling cat as they slipped down from the roofs and maybe to the little park to have another look for the earring—if the cops hadn’t found it, or the guy hadn’t taken it with him.
The earring was tiny. It might be crushed, but it could still be lying in the sand, lost or buried where the earth was soft and deep. It might never be discovered unless sensitive cat paws dug into every corner of the park and maybe beyond. Could you smell gold? Joe didn’t think so, but he very much wanted that little piece of evidence.
The victim’s testimony would be powerful, as would the cops’ color photos of her lying bleeding and nearly dead, half buried in the rough grave—this, backed by minute bits of evidence the detectives had collected. But to have the torn-off earring with her blood on it and maybe bits of torn flesh and, hopefully, both sets of fingerprints—that should go even further toward convicting the guy, if they ever caught him.
5
The only sound the three lady cats could hear through the heavy fog was the hush of the sea from four blocks down where the injured woman had been found, where the two tomcats had already disappeared searching for the earring or maybe for other clues the cops might have missed, though that wasn’t likely. Dulcie and Kit and Courtney had stopped “for only a minute” in the heavy haze to peer through a softly lit shop window. Standing on their hind paws, their front paws on the sill, their tails twitching, their noses pressed to the glass, they admired the lovely dresses, the tight pants and vests, and they imagined how it would feel to be real human ladies all dressed up.
The only glow to cut the mist was the faint light from the windows and, overhead, the diffused gleam of the fog-scarfed moon. In the thick haze, the three furry shoppers were only the faintest shadows, and at this hour, who was to see them? The streets were empty, the haze so thick you couldn’t have seen a streetlight even if there had been any. Not a soul, no one here to laugh at the cute kitties looking in the shops, no one to be amused at them as the library patrons had been. The fog turned Dulcie’s dark tabby stripes silver, and softened the orange of Courtney’s bright patchwork; vapor so heavy it feathered Kit’s tortoiseshell fur into curly tangles. They felt smug that they had slipped out of Clyde’s house against orders only long after the Damens slept, when the fog was so thick that no one could see them anyway—and who would kidnap a cat!
Now, the girl cats didn’t speak, even if the street was empty, but they could guess each other’s thoughts. Dulcie’s green eyes were bright with the dream of being a tall, beautiful woman, elegant in the red silk dress; Kit admired the lady wearing khaki hiking shorts and a leather vest—not that Dulcie or Kit would want to stay in human form, they just wanted to know how it would feel, how they would look. Courtney, unlike her striped mother and tortoiseshell Kit, did not often imagine herself as a lovely human. Truly, only a few of their special breed could change. Courtney dreamed of other kinds of magic, of centuries long gone, of ancient realms deep in her memory. As the other two lingered, she moved around the corner to peer in the end window at a soft-toned rain cape which, if she were human, would go well with her calico hair. Would I still be calico? Amused, she moved along toward the corner window looking at handsome luggage, at satin stoles, fancy hats and silk scarves, dreaming each into scenes from distant times.
When next Dulcie looked, Courtney had disappeared.
Galloping after her, skidding around the corner, Dulcie expected to see her daughter farther down the side street still peering in windows. She and Kit ran along the building mewing softly. Not seeing Courtney they stared across the street to the other stores, photography shop, art shop, small café—they found her scent, crossed to that side, and ran following her trail behind potted flowers and under porches. Courtney wasn’t one to play tricks on her mother. Or, not usually. At the end of the next block her trail ran along beside a stucco wall, they could smell where she had rubbed against it—but suddenly her scent was joined by the smell of a man. Someone they didn’t know. Then just as suddenly Courtney’s scent vanished. As if he had picked her up?
They air-scented for her, but they smelled only blood. Human blood—and they smelled Courtney’s anger, her rage. They hoped she’d clawed him good, hoped he’d dropped her, not liking her sharp rapiers. They could find no trail as if she had run from him. Was he still carrying her as she raked him? Had he hurt her? They followed his trail and the blood trail until the smells stopped at the curb.
Now they smelled canvas. A canvas bag? Then the hot stink of exhaust, and of tires taking off. Little pieces of bloody, torn canvas lay on the wet street. Why hadn’t Courtney cried out, why hadn’t she yowled for help? They followed his fresh tire tracks fast along the fog-wet street. At the next intersection, the marks of five cars coming out of driveways, turning as if headed for the freeway, maybe for a long drive to work; these crossed over the marks that the cats followed. But one car had turned around in the intersection smearing the other wet tracks, mixing them all up. Kit confusedly raced away down Ocean Avenue to find Joe and Pan, to find help. Dulcie was shaking with fear when the tomcats came running.
Joe licked Dulcie’s face. “We’ll find her, she can’t have gone far.”
“Joe, a man grabbed her. We didn’t see him, we didn’t recognize his smell. He took her, he caught her, took her away in a car. We smelled his blood, she must have fought hard, scratched him good. What will he do to her?” She was sick with terror. “Can we tell the cops? Will they listen? Will the department put out a BOL for a cat?”
“Harper might,” Joe said, “if Clyde or Ryan ask him. If Charlie asks
him.” He was scared as hell, too. “We need help, now.” Without another word he hit the roofs scrambling up a sagging vine and over the peaks for home, for his two housemates; Dulcie headed for her own home with Wilma, streaking along the sidewalk, Kit running beside her, stopping to scent at the bushes, to smell every shop door, peer under every porch, sniff at every car and into every dark corner praying that Courtney had gotten away from him. They searched behind every flower box, up every tree, through the fog-heavy night for the little cat’s scent and bright colors, all the time praying, He hasn’t hurt her. Oh, he hasn’t hurt Courtney. Dulcie’s heart was pounding. What has he done to her, what does he want with my baby? And in her mind she saw Courtney lying hurt and alone, trapped inside a bag, unable to free herself.
6
But Courtney wasn’t hurt. She was quite safe, at least for the moment, though she was still mad as hell. What did he want with her? Having driven only a few blocks, with her in the bag on the floor of the front seat, he had turned into a drive and killed the engine. When he lifted the bag out of the car, that was when she nearly got away, pushing through the hole she’d torn, yowling and spitting. He’d clutched the bag closed, carried her through one door and then another; doors close together as if he’d crossed a small room, and closing each behind him. She tried to think which direction they had come, where she might be.
He opened another door and carried her up a hard stairway, his shoes scuffing on something that sounded like rubber matting. Up the flight of steps and through another door that he slammed behind him, too, and he dumped the bag on the floor. She lay shivering. She had gone through a whole range of emotions—terror, rage, and earlier when he had stuffed her in the bag holding her mouth shut, she had been so wild she’d ripped the bag nearly apart. Now, lying in the bag undisturbed, she listened. When he didn’t move or speak, she clawed her way out through the bloody hole she’d made.
She was in an upstairs apartment.
She could have run but she didn’t. She stood looking up at her captor. But this was not the prowler in the library. This man was quite different. His head and face were clean shaven, smooth and lightly tanned; his eyes were as blue as her kitten eyes had been, before they turned a deep amber. He was well groomed and clean, neatly dressed. He looked down at her with interest, and then with a smile of gentle caring—and did she see a touch of amusement? Maybe because she was scowling at him? He did not look cruel. Strange that even at first, capturing her on the street, he had carried her so gently that he hadn’t hurt her, even though she’d fought and ripped at him. Most of the blood was his. Even gripping her by the back of her neck so tightly, he had been careful not to injure her, he had endured her slashing without striking back.
But did his gentle look hold something else, too? For an instant she had the sense of a big, friendly-appearing dog peering down innocently at a smaller animal that he meant, the next moment, to tear apart.
But that was foolish. He stroked her back then patted the cushions of the brocade couch inviting her up. “Come, my dear. Make yourself comfortable. You’ll enjoy living here. Don’t be afraid. You can see that the apartment is lovely, and the antiques shop downstairs, which will be yours later, all the beautiful furniture and sculpture to rub against. Come up, my dear, and make yourself at home.” And he fluffed up the folded throw at one end.
She leaped to the couch onto the cashmere throw, but she sat tall and still, full of defiance. All this elegance had begun to make her uneasy—yet the living room was lovely: ivory satin draperies closing out the night; lovely, carved antique chairs and chests. Wilma had taught her a little about antiques but she didn’t know enough to sort these out. There were stained-glass lamps, too, and a rich Persian rug all in deep tones that had felt thick and soft under her paws.
“You’ll so love living here—until we go on to New York, of course. Until you really become famous. Then, oh, you’ll love living in such elegance.” And he smiled and knelt and stroked her back in just the right way. How could he intend any harm?
He sat down at the other end of the couch, comfortable and easy. “You will be happy with me, my dear, and with our adventures. You will know luxuries you would find nowhere else, not in this day. And you will soon be famous. Oh, very famous when our project is complete. You will be on television, in the magazines, and then we will go for the movies. What can you learn, my dear? Can you learn tricks? That would be a nice touch. Oh, you will be idolized in the city.”
His grand words began to excite her . . . but then they made her shiver. Were those words what her daddy called con talk, enticing promises that Joe Grey said meant trouble? Big trouble, the tomcat had said. You might find that out soon enough if you’re not a wary young cat.
But the visions this man painted for her glowed too bright in her imagination, galleries richer even than this beautiful apartment, richer than his grand downstairs showroom where she and Dulcie and Kit had sometimes looked in the windows at his lovely wares. She had seen him then, waiting on customers when they had thought he was just another shopper.
And now, when she looked down at the coffee table, at the small silver tray of business cards, they said: Ulrich Seaver, SEAVER’S ANTIQUES. The cards were all in gold and silver as elegant as the shop. He was saying, “First we’ll go to the San Francisco gallery, you will be the star, and that show is already scheduled. We’ll get a nice start there, I’ll have the brochures printed by then, I already have the copy ready.”
How could he “have the show already scheduled”—whatever exactly that meant—before he was sure he could catch her or even find her? When he couldn’t be sure at all that she would be his star?
She was certain, by now, that he didn’t know she could speak. She could tell by his expression that he didn’t imagine she understood him, his look didn’t change as if he expected her response. He didn’t wait to see her brighten with joy at what he told her. He was talking only so his voice would reassure her, hoping that his gentle tone would make her feel safe and loved.
Or maybe he was talking, too, to congratulate himself on the project that lay ahead. That he thinks lies ahead, she thought warily.
Maybe it was her color, her markings, that he thought would charm people, like the pictures in the library books.
Could he be connected to that shaggy library prowler? If they were both interested in the old tapestries . . . Maybe Seaver had pored over them just as the prowler had? Were they partners? But where was that man now? And how would those pictures make her famous anyway? For people to see her, then see the same cat in the old tapestries? Why would anyone care? And how strange that the two would be connected, this bald, sleek, well-dressed man, and the library prowler as shaggy as a street person?
He looked at her solemnly. “I wish you could understand me, my dear. I wish you could answer me, could tell me how excited you would be at our new adventure. What an amazement that will be, what fun we’ll have.”
Yes, Courtney thought with another shiver, and what would you do if I did speak? What would you do with me then? And the fear returned, the bright glamour fading to mist.
She stiffened as he rose, but he only turned away. “I will leave you to explore, my dear.” He opened the pale cream draperies to the foggy dawn. “You will find breakfast in the kitchen. A sand box in the laundry room. You will see the gallery later, you will see the paintings and tapestries of you that I have so far collected, and photos of those I have ordered. Those pieces will remain at the New York gallery when they arrive.” He held out his hand to see if she would be gentle or if she would try to scratch again. She swallowed her uncertainty, swallowed her resurging temper, and sniffed hesitantly at his fingers. He smiled with satisfaction, as if they had finally made friends, then he went downstairs to the shop, locking the door behind him.
Free to roam the apartment, she first checked every window but they were all locked tight. In the kitchen, on a tray on the floor, there was fresh salmon and clean water. She didn’t want to
eat, her stomach was already roiling. But her fear had made her thirsty, and she drank. She wished, for the first time in her short life, that she could take human form as some speaking cats could do. If she could become a human person she could get out of there in a second, could break a window with a chair, open it, turn back into a cat and be gone across the rooftops.
But she couldn’t change. That was a rare skill indeed, belonging to only a few of her kind.
In less than a year of kittenhood, she had learned a lot, from her mama and Joe Grey, from Kit and Pan and from their human friends; had learned a lot when Wilma read to her. Her and Dulcie’s tall, gray-haired housemate was an ex–federal parole officer, she knew about the human world and, somehow, she knew how to share it in easy terms with a little cat.
Well, and she had learned from her brothers, too. She could fight as hard as Striker and Buffin. She would fight Seaver again even harder if he tried to harm her. Though he hadn’t so far. Even when she left him good and bloodied he hadn’t hit her, and she didn’t think he would.
She had learned to fight from her brothers and from her pa, and learned to swear from them, too. If he touched her with cruel intent just once, she would fight as hard as they, she would kill the bastard, she would shred Ulrich Seaver.
He said she would be happy and famous and that he had wonderful plans for her, but now those words, so softly spoken, made her feel sick again; her emotions swung back and forth until she didn’t know what she believed. The sense of luxury, of being loved by this kind-appearing, elegant stranger, slowly vanished as she prowled the apartment searching for a way out. Searching, the fear returned; she was all at sixes and sevens, she didn’t know what she believed.
She entered the bedroom last, after she’d prowled the living room and through the big open kitchen with an eating area that looked out on the street. The bedroom had a view of Ocean Avenue, and a connected small, bright bathroom. It was these rooms that held her, staring with surprise.
Cat Chase the Moon Page 5