Cat Bearing Gifts (8 page)

10

H
EAVY FOG HUGGED
the coastal highway, slowing the king cab as Clyde negotiated the blind lanes following the dim taillights of the sheriff's car that led them, both drivers watching for unexpected obstructions in the heavy mist. He and Ryan and the two tomcats were all fidgeting, thinking about Kit alone somewhere on the cliff ahead, her little tortoiseshell face peering out from some stony crevice that could hardly protect her from larger predators, waiting for help to come rescue her. Kit might act brash and brave with her friends but tonight her voice on the phone had been shaky, scared, and uncertain.

“Good thing we have friends in the department,” Joe said, rearing up on the backseat peering out the side window into the rolling mist. “
Someone
to get us through the roadblock back there. I wouldn't have wanted to climb up this damnable, fog-blind road ducking falling boulders you can't even see coming down at you.”

“The rocks have quit falling,” Clyde said. “Ryan and I will be climbing, carrying you and Pan.”

Max Harper had called the Santa Cruz County Sheriff, who had, in turn, alerted his deputies to let them through the barrier down at the foot of the mountain. “Deputy will meet you,” Max had said, “lead you on up.” Now as they climbed above the flatland on the narrow, rising curves, the fog blew and shifted, arms of whiteness blinding and then revealing, playing with their senses, with their perception of place and balance. The streaming wisps made even the two cats giddy. Joe was glad they had the heavy king cab with its reliable four-wheel drive to keep them grounded. The only unsteadiness about the truck was Rock lunging nervously from one side of the backseat to the other, his eager weight rocking the heavy vehicle and, at each lunge, shouldering Joe and Pan aside.

“Settle down,” Ryan told him, “you'll wear yourself out before you ever start to search.” Rock gave her a sullen look, but he lay down, sighing dramatically, sprawling across the wide seat. Ryan had, long ago, filled the leg space of the backseat with empty boxes, and laid a thin pad over both boxes and seat to make a solid platform, preventing the big dog from losing his balance on the narrow bench. The resultant bed would have accommodated all three animals nicely if Rock wasn't hogging it all. Joe watched the deputy's disembodied taillights leading them up through the shifting blanket of white, watched the blurred reflection of their two sets of headlights move along the black cliff in their ethereal, half-blind world. The deputy leading them, plump and baby faced, had told them the wind was stirring higher up the mountain, “Maybe the night'll clear, make your tracking easier,” but his tone had implied that this venture was nonsense, to bring a tracking dog all the way up here in this weather to find some lost cat. Maybe the fog
would
clear, Joe thought, but right now they couldn't even see the edge of the road where it dropped away to the sea; the muffled sound of the waves from far below seemed stealthy and threatening.

But central coast fog was notional, slipping along the base of Molena Point's coastal hills one moment, rising the next to leave the lowland clear and enfold only the tallest peaks. Many afternoons the cats, hunting across the high meadows, would watch a thin, white scarf of fog creep in from the sea just above the Molena River, down below the hills that rose bright green and clear. And the next time they looked, the fog had expanded to cover all the hills and the sun, hiding the world around them.

Now suddenly Rock leaped up to pace again, and so did the red tomcat, the two shouldering past each other peering out one window and then Joe, too, caught a whiff of coyote mixed with the smell of the sea and of the pine forest. Pan's ears twitched back and forth, his striped tail lashing as he fretted over Kit, his every movement urging them to hurry. The red tom had traveled this coast, one small cat alone following Highway One from Oregon to Molena Point, he knew the bold beasts that hunted these coastal mountains, he knew the way coyotes tear their prey, and that was not a pleasant picture. He was aware of the bobcats and owls, too, the silent night hunters, and he was frantic for Kit.

Even as Clyde had backed the king cab out of their drive, Max had called them back to tell them that Lucinda and Pedric were safe in the ER, in Santa Cruz, but that both were driving the staff crazy, fussing about their cat. “They've refused to have the X-rays and MRIs that were ordered,” he said crossly, “until they know someone's gone to fetch the damn cat.” Max wasn't big on cats—though he had grown unusually fond of Joe Grey, brightening at Joe's presence on his desk or in his bookcase, and not a clue to the cat-sized detective lounging across his reports; to Max Harper the five cats were no more than housecats. “Why the hell did they take that cat with them? Try to control a cat, in a car? Why can't they have a nice little lap dog that they can keep on a leash?”

Joe imagined the tall, lean chief and Charlie, his redheaded wife, disturbed from an evening at home, tucked up before a warm fire in their hilltop living room maybe with an after-dinner toddy, maybe watching an old movie. The chief didn't get that many leisurely nights off without some emergency or another breaking in, too often taking him out again into the small hours. Max said, “You think Rock
will
track that cat?”

“Of course he will,” Ryan said indignantly, “he's primed for the hunt.”

“Charlie's making noises like she wants to head for the hospital. We may see you there, or she will,” and he'd clicked off.

They were high up the mountain when, around the next sharp bend, a line of sputtering orange flares broke the thinning fog. The deputy parked beside two more black-and-whites. The landslide loomed beyond, a ragged hill of fallen boulders blocking the highway, the tons of rock lit like a movie set by three spotlights fixed to tall tripods, their blaze picking out broken glass and twisted metal, too, where the wrecked truck and pickup lay tangled together in a deathly heap. Clyde parked beside the patrol car that had led them, both cars backing around so their rear bumpers were against the cliff. The deputy got out of his unit and stepped over to talk with them, his round face pulled into a frown. “Town Car was on this side. It barely slid through, or they'd be dead. Strange what some people will think of, time like that. Worried about a
cat
.”

He didn't like bringing civilians up to a crash scene, he didn't like them tramping around the scene of a wreck, and didn't like the idea of these people going up the slide area with their dog, didn't like that at all. Most likely they'd get in trouble
,
fall down the cliff, and that would complicate matters, but orders were orders. “Well, at least the fog's lifted,” he said dourly. “There's a hiking path on up the road another quarter mile. That'll put you up to the tree line, and bring you back there, right above us. I want you to stay in the woods. You're not to go down on the slide. Can you control your dog?” He looked doubtfully at Rock, who was huffing at the air, sucking in scent and staring up the tall, rocky cliff. “That cat could have taken off for anywhere. You ever try to catch a scared cat?” he said, backing away from Ryan's door so she could get out of the truck.

“We'll find her,” Clyde said mildly. He reached over the seat for his backpack as Ryan strapped on her own heavy pack. Neither Joe nor Pan was in sight. The deputy looked at Rock, and reached a hand for the Weimaraner to sniff. “Nice hound. Trouble is, when that cat sees this big beast it'll take off like a bat in a windstorm, you never will find it.”

“Dog and cat are friends,” Clyde said, his voice slow and measured. “They eat out of the same supper bowl. Cat'll be happy to see him.”

The deputy shrugged, unconvinced. “Wreckers and earthmovers'll be here at daylight. If the wind dies and more fog rolls in, you won't be able to see your own feet.”

Not until he had moved away did Ryan make a rude face, and she and Clyde grinned at each other. Joe peered out of Clyde's pack, watching the pudgy officer depart, and from Ryan's pack Pan uttered a low, angry growl.

Climbing gingerly over the rock pile toward the upper road and the trail, they left the key in the king cab in case the deputies needed to move it. Negotiating the unsteady boulders, they tested every step, moving with infinite care despite Rock's eager pulling on his lead. Coming down onto the solid macadam again on the other side, past the wrecked trucks, they headed up the two-lane, passing two more sheriff's cars that had come down from the north. Rock pulled Ryan up the steep grade, straining on his leash. He wasn't expected to heel, he was working now, heeling and city manners weren't part of this program. In her left hand Ryan carried the plastic bag with Kit's scent. Once they'd left the rock slide, they didn't talk. Clyde swept his beam along the road ahead, lighting their way, while Ryan shone her light up the cliff, cutting back and forth through dried-up vegetation and ragged outcroppings, all of them hoping to see a pair of bright eyes reflecting back from the stony drop. Joe, half smothered in Clyde's backpack, didn't like the silence, he didn't like that there was no distant sound of coyotes yipping to one another, silent coyotes were bad news. Kit had
said
there were coyotes, he
smelled
coyotes, and their silence meant they were watching, well aware of them. But worse still, there was no sound from Kit, not the faintest mewl to tell them where she was.

Not likely she'd mewl with the coyotes so close, but I sure wish she would, wish she'd yowl like a banshee.
Her silence made him shiver with dread
.

11

T
HE HARSH RING
of the phone woke Kate Osborne, but when she reached for the phone in the dark room, trying to sit up, tangled in the covers, she couldn't find the damn thing. Feeling around her, she realized she wasn't in bed; her bare legs were tangled in fur, making her shiver. She gingerly touched the animal feel of it, realized she was stroking the fur throw that she kept on the couch, that she'd gone to sleep in the living room. The phone was still ringing. Last night, she hadn't bothered to turn on the answering machine. She used it when she went out, if she thought of it, but since she'd returned to San Francisco from her long, dark journey, she'd found even that innocuous electronic gadget annoying. This change in her life, leaving her cozy and successful designer's position in Seattle, opting for unfettered freedom back in California with no obligations, taking the small apartment in the city, and then the amazing events that led her down through the cavernous tunnels into that terrifying other world, all of it had left her nervously intolerant of anything nonhuman speaking up for her. She found the phone on the ninth ring. Snatching it up, she pushed her pale hair out of her eyes, found the lamp, and switched it on. Her watch said ten o'clock, but it felt like way after midnight. “What?” she said. “If this is a sales pitch—”

“Kate, it's Charlie Harper.”

She sat up, shivering in the cold room, pulled the heavy throw around her, shoved another pillow behind her. Beyond the open draperies the great, lighted span of the Golden Gate thrust its curves against the night.

“Wilma and I are in Santa Cruz, at Dominican Hospital. There's been a wreck. Lucinda and Pedric aren't hurt too bad, but—”

Kate came fully awake. “What happened? Are they all right? Where's Kit?
Charlie, is Kit all right?”
A wreck at night on that narrow, winding two-lane. “
Where's Kit?”
she shouted, imagining Kit thrown out of the car or running from the crash, terrified.

Charlie said nothing.

“Where is she?”
She pictured Kit hurt, the confusion of cops and EMTs crowding in at her, Kit running from them in terror and confusion, the little cat who was more than cat but who, under stress, could revert to her basic feline instincts, running mindlessly, hiding even from the people she loved best, just as an ordinary cat might do.

“Ryan and Clyde have gone to look for her. She ran, but she's all right. She called,” Charlie said, “called on Lucinda's cell phone. She's all right, Kate. They're taking Rock, he'll find her.”

Kate kicked the fur cover to the floor. Carrying the headset listening to Charlie, she made for the bedroom. “Where's the wreck? Where
exactly
. . . ?”

“You can't do anything, Kate. They'll find her. I only thought you'd want to know—”

“I'm coming. Kit's all alone—”

“She's not, she . . . Rock will be there soon, Rock and Joe and Pan, they'll find her. You'd only . . . If you took Highway One, you couldn't get past the slide, you wouldn't be able to drive on down to the hospital. You'd have to leave your car there, walk across, and ride with someone.”

“I'm coming. On my way. I'll take 280 . . .”

“Come to Dominican, then. In Santa Cruz, we'll meet there. I know a vet there, I've already called him, just in case. But she'll be fine, Kate, trust me. Kit's a resourceful little soul.”

In the bedroom, pulling off her robe, she thought about getting a car in a hurry. She'd been taking cabs and cable cars since she'd returned to the city, didn't want to bother with a car, had rented one when she needed to. She thought about how Kit had loved the city, how only yesterday Kit had been right here shopping with them, the little tortoiseshell whispering secretly in her ear, letting no salesclerk see her, but so filled with joy at the wonders of the elegant stores and restaurants, and now she was lost, frightened and lost and maybe hurt. Oh, God, she couldn't be hurt.

Standing naked in the bedroom she called 411, got the number for the Avis office just down the block, made arrangements to have a car brought around. Pulling on panties and jeans and boots and a dirty red sweatshirt, she snatched up her purse and headed for the door. Whatever she needed, toothbrush, change of clothes, she'd buy somewhere. She stopped at her desk long enough to lock her safe. She checked the balcony glass doors, locked her front door behind her, and headed for the elevator.

The driver was at the curb, a tall, thin redheaded man, his long hair tied back beneath a chauffeur's cap. Kate drove him back to the Avis office over streets slick with fog, waited in the car for him to run her credit card, and then headed south, the city's narrow streets reflecting passing car lights and colored neon from the small cafés and shops. She pictured the city as a friend had described it from sixty years ago when Kate's grandfather was alive, her mother's father, Kate's link to her amazing journey. It was a friendlier city then, without the stark, tall buildings whose lighted offices thrust up into the night around her now like tethered rocket ships, dwarfing the cozy neighborhoods of an earlier day. A city that had somehow soured with the spoils of modern greed and degradation. A gentler San Francisco then, where you could walk the streets in the small hours unmolested, laughing and acting silly but never in danger; and where so many true artists had come together, living in the lofts and in the Sausalito houseboats, their work singing with the passion of life, Kate's own father among them. She had only recently visited his paintings again, in the San Francisco museums—but only his earlier works. Braden West, too, had gone down into the Netherworld, had lived there a long life with her mother.

She knew, now, that they had returned at least once, bringing their youngest child back with them, had made that last journey up to the city to put Kate herself into the care of a San Francisco orphanage. They'd had no choice. Even then the Netherworld was crumbling, they had wanted her away from its inevitable fall, wanted her to grow up in a city that would offer her some future, in a country brighter with promise than that decaying land.

As the tires of the rented Toyota sang along the wet macadam of the Embarcadero, she debated taking Highway One despite Charlie's advice. She moved on past the entrance to the AT&T Park. The traffic seemed light for this time of evening. Accelerating up onto the 280, she merged into fast traffic heading south between the clustered lights of the bedroom cities that ran one into the next, San Mateo, Palo Alto, the smaller communities separated like islands by short realms of black and empty night. The east hills rose invisible in the darkness, marked only by their scattered lights high up like gathered fireflies in the night sky. She'd be in Santa Cruz in less than two hours. She knew Charlie was right, that she could do nothing for Kit but get in the way of the searchers, slowing them and causing them added trouble. But she prayed for Kit, her own kind of prayer that had little to do with churches, she prayed for Kit and was filled with an aching fear for her, for one small and special cat shivering and alone among the vast, wild cliffs.

K
IT LOST HER
nerve when the coyotes drew too close. Crouched among the jutting rocks, she shot out of the dark niche at the last minute, scrambled back down the crumbling cliff where she hoped the beasts wouldn't venture. She still carried the phone, reluctant to leave her only link to the world of humans, but its weight was a hindrance, and put her off balance. Halfway down, sliding and clinging to the scruffy clumps, she heard the rush of the beasts above her, and when she looked up their shadows were too close, coming down the boulders. She scrabbled away across the face of the cliff, lost her balance and nearly fell, and it was then she dropped the phone. She froze, listened to it clunk end over end down the mountain.

When she looked up again a coyote stood just above her, peering over the top of the slide, his pale eyes narrow and hungry. She looked past him to the trees and knew she couldn't make that long run. He stank of spoiled meat, his smell made her flehmen, pulling back her lips with disgust.

He padded casually along just above her, easily keeping pace as she worked her way along the cliff's face, moving more easily now without the weight of the phone. She kept moving, seeking some fissure or shelter, until at last, ahead and below her, the black scar of a narrow crevice cut down into the earth. Zigzagging toward it, nearly falling, she slipped down into the four-inch crack. There was barely room for a cat, no room for the larger predator. The rough sides of the cleft was perfumed with the old, faint scent of skunk. She followed it deep, smug in her escape but terrified of being trapped in there if the earth should shift again. Above her, the coyote clawed at the stone, and she edged deeper down until she could go no further, until the rock closed beneath her hind paws. Above her the coyote's eyes shone in, reflecting light from the floods on the road below. He began to dig.

Watching his frantic, shifting silhouette, listening to the beast's scrabbling paws and smelling his rank breath, she longed to bloody that toothy muzzle. If ever the great cat god reached down with a helping paw, she needed him to do that now. Soon the coyote was joined by another and then a third, the beasts edging cleverly down the unsteady rocks and digging at the narrow crevice, panting and slavering, hungry with the smell of her. The night sky was milky, fog settling in again as the wind died, the thick mist easing down like a pale quilt over the shaggy beasts. She didn't know how long she cringed there wanting to leap out and attack and knowing she'd lose the battle. She was shivering with cold when the coyotes suddenly stopped digging.

Turning, they stood looking down toward the road; they shifted nervously, the faint hush of paws on stone. A new, moving light reflected up against the roof of fog and she heard a car's engine, heard tires crunching on the fallen gravel. Not one car, but two. She could hear voices muffled by the fog and the surf. The coyotes moved away and then back again, began to dig again. Still she heard voices, she listened for some time and then the talking stopped and she could hear someone walking up the road, two sets of boots tapping softly along uphill. Only then did the coyotes shift away, their shadows gone above her, but still she sensed them there, maybe crouched and waiting. She started up to look, scrambling up the narrow rift, straining, pulling herself up until she was at the top of the fissure again and could peer out.

Fog was thickening across the road below but she could see a long pickup. Ryan's king cab? Or maybe only the first of the cleanup crew, come to disentangle the wrecked trucks, preparing to haul them away? Looking along the cliff, she saw the coyotes crouched in fog at the edge, their backs to her, looking down the steep drop, too bold to back away, too familiar with the human world to fear the approaching hikers. Disdainful of mankind but still tensed to run, their ears moving nervously. Could she run now, while they were distracted? Streak away, and up that nearest tree that stood tall and ghostlike at the edge of the misty woods? Could she reach it before they were on her?

She was crouched on the lip of the cleft, poised to spring away, when one of the beasts turned, glancing back at her. She vanished down the hole again, scrambled down as deep as she could go. Now the beast blocked the hole, digging, his breath as rank as soured garbage. His frantic seeking stopped when a glare of light shone behind him, picking out his shaggy coat. She heard a roar—Rock's snarling roar, heard humans running, heard Rock's barking attack, and a cat yowled with rage, and another cat, the night rang with snarls and cat screams, she heard the thunder of boots on stone. Ryan screamed, “Hold, Rock. Back off!” Rock's roar was like a great wolf above her, a coyote screamed in pain, and she heard Pan's yowl of challenge.

Clyde shouted, “Not there, the cats . . .”

A gunshot thundered down the cleft, deafening her, accompanied by a pained yip. Another shot, another cry of pain, cut short. Running paws scrambling away across the stony escarpment.

Then, silence.

She peered up to the mouth of the cleft. Pan looked over, backlighted by the beam of a flashlight behind him. Joe Grey and Rock looked over. Ryan and Clyde crowded to peer down behind them.

“Come out,” Pan said. “One of the beasts is dead, the rest ran off. Come out, Kit.” The light swept away, out of her eyes, and she could see again. She scrambled out, bolted into Pan yowling and crying and talking all at once.

A dead coyote lay beside the cleft. Ryan held Rock away from it, the big Weimaraner fighting to get at the animal, but then he strained up toward the woods, too, where the others had vanished. He huffed and pulled at his lead, torn between the two prey, but held in check by Ryan. Kit backed away from the mangled coyote, its face torn and bleeding. She glanced at Ryan's revolver.

“I fired point-blank,” Ryan said, “away from you, away from everyone.” But Kit was hardly paying attention. Pan was licking her face, and she preened against him.