Cat Bearing Gifts (14 page)

20

B
IRELY LAY BENEATH
the bright lights in the operating room, sedated but awake, his nose numbed by a local anesthetic as Dr. Susan Hunter leaned over him working swiftly, carefully rebuilding the shattered bone. With normal breathing impossible, with the breath sucked through his mouth too ragged and labored, she could not administer a general anesthetic. She was a thin woman, wiry and strong. Pale dishwater hair barely visible beneath her blue cap, long, thin hands, long fingers, a light, sure touch with the surgical instruments. Birely lay relaxed, deeply comforted by the welcome cessation of pain, his waking dreams happy ones; he was a little child again safe between his parents, not a grown man tramping some dusty road to nowhere, with no home to come to at the end of the day. No watchful traveling companions waiting to separate him from any small amount of cash he might have in his jeans, no overnights in a strange jail for some petty crime that, usually, his buddies had committed. His childhood memories were far different and more comforting—until the last memory grew frightening and he became restless, fidgeting on the table.

Sammie had told him this story many times, it happened when she was just nine and Birely wasn't born yet. Her daddy was gone away in the Second World War, her mama working as a bookkeeper in their small Georgia town. The town had three gas stations, one of which their daddy would later buy, when he returned from the war. Sammie and her mother lived in a small rented house that would have been peaceful if not for an old schoolmate who, the minute her daddy was sent overseas, began to pester Becky, coming around the house uninvited wanting to spend time with her, a pushy man who frightened young Sammie with his cold eyes and slippery ways. Sammie had a cat then, a big yellow tom who liked the man no better. On the night Brad Falon came there drunk, knocking and then pounding, not beseeching anymore but demanding to be let in, it was the cat who at last drove him away.

When Falon pounded, Sammie's mother bolted the door and ran to the phone. Falon broke a window, reached in, and unlocked it. He swung through, grabbed the phone, and threw it against the wall. He threw Sammie hard against the table, shoved Becky to the floor, and knelt over her, hitting her and pulling up her skirt. As Becky yelled at Sammie to run, the big yellow cat exploded from the bedroom and landed on Brad Falon's face, raking and biting him. When Falon couldn't pull him off, he flicked open his pocketknife.

The cat fought him, dodging the knife. Becky grabbed up a shard of broken window glass and flew at Falon. He hit her, he had her down again, cutting her, but the cat was on him again. He leaped away when a neighbor man, hearing their screams, came running, a wiry young fellow. He saw the broken window and climbed through, but already Falon had fled, banging out through the front door. Their poor cat lay panting where Falon had hit him.

Now, on the operating table, Birely woke hearing Sammie weeping, the dream always ended this way, her weeping always woke him; but he knew the cat had survived, Sammie always ended the tale the same way. Groggy now and filled with the dream, he was jerking on the table. Dr. Hunter had drawn back. She waited, trying to calm him, until at last she could proceed.

After surgery, Birely was taken back to the ER for the rest of the night. The next morning he would be moved to ICU or to the observation ward. The ER doctor on the floor said that, with whatever emotional trauma he'd suffered there on the table, he could have no visitors. “Only his sister, and only if he calms down sufficiently.” It was that order from the attending physician which, had it been strictly heeded, might have saved Birely's life.

V
IC WOKE BEFORE
dawn in a real bed, under smooth sheets and real blankets, and it took a moment to think where he was. Then, when he looked around at the big, fancy bedroom, he had to laugh. It was his room, now.Last night the bed had smelled of soap or maybe of that old woman's face powder. Now, did it smell of him? If those old people came home again to sleep in it, would they smell that he'd been there, and be frightened? He guessed that cat would smell him if they let it inside. Well, of course they let it in, they'd had it right there in the car with them. Good thing that cat couldn't testify how he'd roughed up those two, he didn't need no witnesses.

Climbing out of bed, he stood naked to the side of the open drape, looking out at the faint glow of predawn lights from the village. Watching the sky grow light in the east, he went over what he had to do before he made a last trip back to the ER, or to wherever they took Birely, if they meant to fix his smashed nose. He wondered again if Emmylou was paying for all that.

Maybe if he didn't go back too soon, they'd put Birely in a regular room where there'd be fewer nurses going in and out, and more visitors allowed. People wouldn't notice him so much; with his new “look,” he'd blend right in, could take care of business without being bothered. Birely's final business. What more natural place to die than the hospital? You were there because something was wrong, people went to the hospital to die. He wondered how many folks had been done in there with help, and no one the wiser. How many cadavers did they haul out of there in a week, and no one suspicious that one or two hadn't died natural?

He went over, again, the way that paperback book had laid it all out, a book he'd picked up at the Goodwill when he was buying a pair of jeans, waiting for Birely to find a shirt he wanted. He'd got real interested in the story, had read that part four or five times, off and on, had carried the book in his pack for a long time. Well, it was sure as hell the foolproof way. How would you ever get caught? With a little adaptation, you could use it on a druggie, too. Just one more needle puncture. A little creativity, you could use it on just about anyone.

But in the book, this guy had died in a hospital exactly like he meant for Birely. All you needed was a 30cc or 50cc syringe, and he was sure he could pick that up around the nurses' station, there'd be syringes there somewhere, in a drawer or cupboard. If he couldn't find any, he could put on those rubber gloves he'd seen handy in the wall dispensers in the rooms, slip on gloves, dig a syringe out of the hazardous-waste bin right there in the room, too. Hospital was all organized for fast work, they made everything easy.

The way they did it in the book, you do the injection, the guy goes into some kind of fit or trauma, half a second later he's dead. Touchy part, you had to get out fast. Book said the minute the injected air hit the heart, the dials went crazy, alarms going off, the whole damn staff running in to save a life and you'd better be long gone.

Moving into the bathroom, he brushed his teeth with the old guy's toothbrush, and even took a shower. Felt strange to be so clean, didn't seem quite comfortable. First, before he went back to the ER and did Birely, he had to hide the Lincoln. Then he'd need wheels to get back to the hospital, Debbie's station wagon would do for that. How could she refuse, when he'd sold that stuff for her to the Frisco fence—that, plus what he had on her.

When he and Birely'd first moved in, up the hill, he'd seen her down there around her cottage, and then seen her twice in the village market, light-fingered and quick. He'd drawn back into the shadows, to make certain, knowing he'd find the information useful, one way or another.

Two days later, he saw her come out of a village dress shop pushing one of them fancy baby carriages. She didn't have no baby that he'd ever seen, just the two girls. She came out of the store with the sun hood pulled over, the “baby” all covered up with a blanket, and the older girl walking beside her.

After that, a couple times he'd watched her return home, haul the carriage out of the station wagon all folded up, no sign of a baby, but she always carried four or five bulging shopping bags inside. For a few days he'd followed her, too, walked into town when she left. It wasn't far, and it was never hard to find that old brown Suzuki station wagon, the village was so small. She liked to park beside the library where there was more shade than on the street. She often had the twelve-year-old with her, but never the smaller girl. He'd see Debbie take off with both girls in the morning, come back without them as if she'd dropped them at school, but in the afternoons, she'd have only the older one in the car again. Or maybe the little one was in the back where he couldn't see her. The older kid, Vinnie, she was a smart-ass, but when she shopped with her mother she was quick, fingers nearly as slick as a professional.

He'd gotten acquainted with Debbie, walking down there of an early evening as her kids ate supper, walked the roundabout way, coming up from below. When he'd let her know he knew what she was up to, that had scared her. She'd denied it until he told her exactly what he had seen. The woman was feisty but she was easy enough to intimidate. He got her to show him what she had, and some of the stuff was high-end, from the Neiman Marcus and Lord & Taylor stores in the village plaza, and that had surprised him. Molena Point might be small, but there was money here, and Debbie had gone right for it.

Once he'd complimented her on her skill, she came around real nice, got real friendly. He noticed that, heading out for those high-end stores, she dressed real slick, tried to look like she belonged in there. She said she was selling what she lifted through a consignment shop up in San Jose, the guy was a second-rate fence, using the shop as a front. Said she'd drive up there once a month. She'd told him what they paid, and after a couple conversations, they'd struck a deal. He said he knew a fence in the city—well, he knew
of
him. Said he could get way better prices, that he'd sell what she stole, keep his share, and still make more for her than she was getting. He wasn't sure why she trusted him. Or why he bothered. Except she was a looker, and she had a snotty little way that he liked. Who knew, maybe something more would come of that.

Out the bedroom windows, the sky was growing lighter. He dressed in his new clothes, folded up the old ones, clean now from the washer. Carrying those, moving into the living room, he looked down from the front window to make sure the street was clear, then moved on through the laundry into the garage. Locked the door behind him, and slipped into the Lincoln. He'd thought to eat something, there in the house, but he wanted to move on out of the neighborhood before people came out to walk their dogs, take kids to school or go to work. Starting the engine, he hit the button to open the big door, checked the street for cars as he backed out, closed it again fast. On the street he saw only the same three cars that had been parked there the night before, their windows fogged over. Moving on away, down the hill, he studied the houses as he passed. No one out in any of the yards, no kids, no one on their porch or looking out a window, that he could see. He had a good feeling about the day ahead. By tonight he'd be miles away from the coast headed inland and north with the Lincoln and the money, and he wouldn't have to worry about Birely anymore. By tonight, Birely would be history.

I
T WAS THE
next morning that Pedric was transferred down the coast from Dominican Hospital in Santa Cruz to Molena Point's Community Hospital. Joe peered through the mesh in Ryan's backpack as she walked along beside Pedric's gurney, approaching the ambulance. Wilma stood with Clyde, Dulcie looking up over the edge of her carryall. Clyde's backpack bulged with Pan and Kit crowded in there—a four-cat entourage to accompany Pedric's careful transport home.

But in Clyde's pack beside Pan, Kit couldn't be still. Fidgeting and staring out, her gaze followed Pedric worriedly as he disappeared into the ambulance. “He's so hurt. All that talk about MRIs and arteriograms, whatever they are, and about maybe a tumor and more blood work to do and—”

“Those are just tests,” the red tom said, his tail twitching irritably. Did she have to fuss so, in the confined space? “Only tests,” he said, “precautions. They don't necessarily mean anything.”

“But Dr. Carroll said Pedric's blood sugar's high, and he's having trouble with his eyesight, and—”

“He said there could be any number of causes. It doesn't
mean
anything, Kit. He just wants to be sure. Will you settle down?”

“He said there might be something going on in Pedric's
brain
,” she said, her voice quavering. “He talked about a
brain scan
.
That
means something,
I heard
him say they'd look for a tumor, maybe a pituitary tumor, whatever
that
is, and an abnormality in an artery, and—”

Pan hissed at her impatiently. “Those things can be fixed. Would you rather they
didn't
look, and missed something important and Pedric got worse?”

“I'd rather he wasn't hurt at all and we hadn't been in that wreck and that
scum
hadn't hit him in the head and we were all home right now, all safe at home and they had never been hurt,” she said, shivering.