Cat Coming Home (12 page)

E
VEN AFTER THE
two darkly dressed figures had left, Nannette Garver couldn’t cry out for help. The gag in her injured mouth was so tight it sent pain through her whole face and throat. She felt as if she were suffocating. Her jaw hurt so bad where they’d kicked her, she thought it might be broken. She lay on the living room floor, her legs bent double and bound up to her waist with heavy rope, her hands tied behind her. One big upholstered chair was overturned, her two small side chairs broken almost to kindling. Books had been pulled from the shelves, pages torn out in handfuls. The little porcelain figurines that she so loved, the little rabbits and running children, all were broken into jagged shards.

She didn’t think she could stand the pain of the gag much longer. But of course she had no choice. The phone lay across the room, where they’d knocked it off the little writing desk. When she tried to roll to it, she was jerked
back—was tethered, like a tied-up dog, to the leg of the heavy armoire. She tried gingerly to pull it along with her, afraid it would fall on top of her. But it was too heavy to move at all, with the big old TV inside. She wondered if, with the receiver off the phone, that would alert 911.

But she knew better. She’d taken the receiver off many times when she didn’t want to be bothered with phone calls from salesmen or annoying pollsters. If you took the headset off, the canned voice would come on for a while, then the beeping would start, would go on and on until eventually blessed silence fell. Now she didn’t bless the promise of silence, but prayed someone
was
at the other end, someone to help her.

She thought if she could get free of the heavy armoire, even with her legs bent double and her hands tied behind her, she could roll or squirm across the room to the phone, thought that even with her hands tied and useless, she could depress the buttons on the fallen phone somehow, maybe with her chin. She couldn’t just give up, she had to do something.

The minute the robbers were out of the house, as soon as she’d heard a car pull away, she’d begun to fight the rope that tied her hands, wriggling and pulling, bending her fingers trying to get a grip on the knots. The harsh hemp fibers tore at her skin, she could feel the blood start. She hated the increasing frailty of her body as she grew older.

She’d be eternally thankful they hadn’t raped her. Because of disease, because of injuries, mostly because of the emotional distress, the terrible shame that would never go away. At seventy-two, a widow for ten years, she was sure
the distress of such brutality would have been worse than if they killed her.

She wondered why there
had
been no rapes in these invasions. She’d followed the news on TV and in the paper, but she never thought it would happen to her. Only now did she see how stupid that was. She wondered if these people were afraid of the prosecution involved with rape. This county attorney was known for getting maximum sentences when it came to sex offenders; he had been criticized more than once for what some called his one-sided view of the law. And didn’t that make a person laugh.

But if these men were so afraid of the law, and, according to the news, they stole no more than a few items, mostly electronics that could be easily sold, why did they bother at all? What was this about, these forced break-ins, this terrifying emotional harassment?

It seemed hours passed as she worked at the knots, her fingers raw and bleeding from the rough hemp rope, blood making the knots so slick that she nearly gave up. But at last, when she was about at the end of her strength, her hands and arms shaking with fatigue, the knot she was working on loosened a little. It was so slippery. She mustn’t lose the feel of just where to pull, to untie it all the way. It seemed to take forever, but at last she worked the knot loose, felt the rope ease enough so she could slide her right hand free. Her left hand was bound separately, tied to the rope that went around her waist and legs.

With the one free hand she pulled herself up enough to work loose the rope around the leg of the armoire, tearing two nails to the quick. When the rope fell away, when she was free of the armoire, she rolled painfully to the
center of the room. Her own weight on her doubled-up legs, as she rolled over on them, was excruciating.

Pausing to rest, she tried again to remove the gag, pulling and jerking at it. The blood from her hand at last turned it slick enough that she was able to slide it down around her chin, down until it circled her neck. Everything was bloody—her face, her clothes, the carpet were all smeared with blood.

She rested again, then tried once more to free her hand, which had gone to sleep beneath the tight rope that bound her waist and legs. She fought the knots until she was convinced she couldn’t loosen them. She looked toward the phone again, and again began to squirm across the carpet, heavy and clumsy and hurting, with her legs and one arm bound. She had gone only a little way, to the edge of the flowered easy chair, when she realized she was whimpering like a hurt puppy, a pitiful, begging sound.

Silencing herself, she wriggled like an injured beast toward the fallen phone, toward the one item in the room that could liberate her, toward her one contact with the world beyond her own walls.

It seemed to take another eternity before she reached the phone. She felt weak and confused. Could feel the double beating of her heart that sometimes happened when she was under stress. Hunching forward, she pressed her face against the fallen headset.

Of course it was dead, having been off the hook for so long. With her bleeding hand she depressed the button, waited with her face to the phone for the dial tone to resume. She waited a long time. When the phone remained
silent, she pressed the button again, held it longer this time. Then again, her ear to the fallen phone, listening.

No dial tone, no sound. No little canned voice telling her to hang up and try again. Just a hollow emptiness as vast as eternal space. After a third try she pulled the cord toward her. Watched it snake away from the wall, the cut line slithering to her, the cut wires sharp and useless against her fingers.

The only other phone was upstairs. Bound as she was, she didn’t think she could make it up the steps. And had they cut that line, too? Cut both phone lines, intending to lead her on uselessly? Imagining herself hunching and crawling up the stairs only to find that phone dead, too, she lay down with her face against the carpet, tears spurting uncontrollably. She felt destroyed, beaten, beyond trying to think what to do.

All her windows were closed against the chill evening and because, how ironic, she was wary about break-ins. Praying that some neighbor was home and would hear her despite those glass barriers, she tried to shout. She was very hoarse, her voice so weak she didn’t think anyone would hear. She wondered if young Bobby West might have his window open upstairs despite his mother’s complaints. Beverly said he’d have the house freezing all the time if she didn’t make him close that window. Expecting no response, still she tried. Even the effort of shouting hurt so badly, and exhausted her.

Death from thirst and starvation seemed impossible, right here in the little village among the closely crowded cottages, with neighbors all around. She had no relatives
living close who might call or come by, wanting to check on her. How long might it be until one of her casual friends tried to reach her, tried so many times they grew impatient and reported her number out of order? And would the phone company actually come out to take a look? Despite her friends’ admonitions to get a cell phone, she had never wanted one. Until now.

When her strength returned a little, she thought about the cut phone line, and she hunched toward the wall until she found the other cut end. With one hand, she managed to hold the two cut ends together, hoping they might connect and allow a signal to come through. But she was too clumsy, the wires wouldn’t join just right. The blood was so slick, everything slippery and her fingers so stiff, too. Twice she thought she had the wires joined right, but when she bent her face to the handset there was no sound, the phone remained dead. At last, so weak she couldn’t think straight, she lay limp on the carpet, defeated, wondering if she would die there—and wondering, inanely, if she could ever get the blood out of the Persian carpet.

M
AX’S PICKUP MOVED
so fast that Joe Grey lost it only a block from home. He raced on across the night-dark roofs stubbornly following its sound as it sped south. He could see, away in the center of the village, a gathering of bright lights and whirling red lights reflected against the sky and could hear the distant mutter of police radios—that would be the restaurant break-ins, but Max wasn’t headed there.

The sound of the pickup grew fainter, still bearing south. Joe had traveled a dozen blocks when, far ahead, the truck’s soft rumble died, faded into silence. Racing on over slick roof tiles and mossy shingles, and across shadowed tree branches above dark and tangled gardens, he listened for the truck door to open. He heard nothing, only the hushing of the sea, five blocks away. Ahead against the night sky rose the spire of the Methodist Church, thrusting above the black silhouettes of surrounding houses.
Leaping from a pine tree onto the church roof, he raced up its highest peak. Had he lost Harper?

Through the trees below him, no car lights reflected, the neighborhood was uniformly dark. At this height, the sea wind hit him full in the face; the balmy evening had grown chill, the shingles cold beneath his paws. In this residential area, even at this early hour, most of the houses were dark, as if the more elderly occupants were already tucked in for the night, while maybe the younger ones were out partying. He was cursing himself for having lost Harper when the scream of a siren blasted nearly below him, flashing red lights stained the sky and an emergency van raced past—he took off after it as if the devil himself were on his tail.

Ahead, the siren whooped and died as the white emergency van swerved into a driveway—and there was Max Harper’s pickup, parked and waiting. The van nearly grazed a police unit that was pulling in. Another patrol car drew up across the street from them, in front of the church just beneath where Joe crouched, his claws in the shingles trying not to slide down its steeply angled peak.

The house was a small, two-story Craftsman-style cottage, its wood siding painted off white with a soft blue trim, its front door set deep beneath a sheltering roof and flanked by climbing vines. The front garden was excessively neat, the small, manicured lawn edged with borders of bright impatiens. Joe came down from the peak of the church to its lower roof, pausing with his paws in the metal gutter, watching the emergency unit as its side doors opened and three medics piled out, heading for the shadowed front door. Max pulled shards of jagged glass
out of the broken front door, reached through and released the lock. Pushing the door open, he eased through, gun drawn, and soon disappeared inside, where Joe could hear a faint cry. Behind Max, two officers entered, their weapons drawn; the three medics waited for them to clear the house.

A light came on from deep within; Joe heard Max’s voice and a woman’s faint, hoarse reply. As the EMTs hauled out their emergency medical equipment, Joe watched the street and the dark yards. He saw no movement, no one hidden among the neighborhood’s overgrown bushes, no one slipping away. Surely by now the perps were long gone. When the medics moved on inside, Joe dropped onto the roof of their van. There he waited until wiry Officer Reynolds, who stood by the front door, glanced the other way. Quickly Joe dropped to the driveway, slipped into the bushes and inside the house, melting into the shadows beneath a broken end table. He wanted, before the officers’ various personal scents compromised the scene, to try to pick up the invader’s trail, maybe even find the unlikely scent of old fish that had so intrigued Kit.

The first smell that hit him was a nose-tingling stink of perfume that sure didn’t belong to any of the officers present. The second scent was indeed a whiff of aging fish so strong that it prompted an uncomfortable gag reflex. Cats were not dogs, dogs reveled in such stinks. One thing was certain: the two smells together could hide any fainter, personal aroma the perps might have left.

Across the living room, the victim sat on the bloody Persian carpet, speaking in a scratchy, nearly inaudible
voice to Harper and the two medics who were crouched beside her. She was as thin and frail as a hungry bird, white-haired, thin-boned, dressed in a peach-toned velvet lounge suit stained liberally with blood. Her birdlike hands were torn and bloody, one side of her thin face swollen, bruised and bleeding. The other officers had disappeared. Slipping out from under the remains of the little table, Joe slid in between an upholstered chair and a broken ottoman, where he could better watch the action.

The pretty, flowered living room was a shambles, side chairs and small tables overturned and broken, the flowered couch and matching chair slashed so deeply that the stuffing spilled out like dirty snow. Books, torn-out pages, and pieces of china littered the bloody carpet, the whole room had been destroyed as if with a pointless and cruel pleasure. Max looked disgusted and grim, as did the two medics, but it was Joe’s own reaction that was most worrisome to the tomcat.

He felt terrible for the poor woman. He wanted to pat her poor torn face with a soft paw, wanted to lick her hurt hands, tell her how sorry he was, he wanted to make everything all right again, for her. This wasn’t like him, this degree of sympathy was not his style, he thought uneasily. Was he growing soft? Maybe it was the holiday season turning him sentimental, all this Christmas cheer and goodwill muddying his usual detachment, he thought with dismay.

B
UT
J
OE
G
REY
wasn’t the only cat to feel sympathy for the suffering woman, he was not the only cat on the scene. From the roof of the invaded house, tortoiseshell Kit peered over, her black and brown coat blending into the night. She had arrived long before Max Harper’s truck pulled to the curb and the emergency van and police cars came racing. It was Kit who first heard the woman’s pitiful cries. Though she hadn’t been able to get inside, after considerable effort she’d found a phone, had made the call to 911, had seen the law arrive: Harper, the medics, the squad cars. Only when she saw Joe Grey come streaking across the roofs did she slip behind the chimney, not wanting Joe to see her, feeling suddenly too embarrassed by her own preoccupation, inexplicably shy and uncertain.

What a strange night it had been, she was all sparks and fidgets. First that peculiar Colletto family with their prissy habits and their sleazy son, the rude way Kent treated his parents that had left her so angry. Then when the cats left the Colletto house, Joe and Dulcie heading home, Kit caught the lingering scent of the yellow tomcat and she’d hung back. Studying the surrounding roofs, she didn’t see him but she knew he was nearby. Then suddenly there he was, a pale shape padding along a branch above the Collettos’ garage, looking straight down at her.

He had looked for a long moment, and then had moved away across the oak limb, but glancing back, wanting her to follow. Putting aside her unease, Kit had followed. She’d reminded herself that he was a very big tomcat, that she was alone, that she’d never really seen him clearly, that she didn’t have Joe and Dulcie to fight beside her if he
turned aggressive. But so far he hadn’t bothered them, he’d only watched as if he were curious. And she
was
a strong fighter, she’d thought boldly. She’d followed him because her dreams of a handsome soul mate wouldn’t let her do otherwise, because he might be the one mate in all the world she’d waited for and dreamed about. She’d followed through the treetops and across the roofs into the center of the village. There he slowed.

Where the shop roofs crowded close, he’d stayed to the deepest shadows, stopping every little while to look down at the streets and then to look back at her, and there was an urgency in his journey. His route took him across Ocean where the wide street narrowed, to the south part of the village near the steeple of the Methodist Church. Just before he reached it he paused. She heard from below a man’s chuckle and a low laugh that seemed to have no gender, that could have come from a man or a woman, she couldn’t be sure.

The tomcat backed away into the dark beneath a second-floor balcony, where he could see below and could listen. Kit felt that he wanted her to do the same, though who would care if there was a cat watching? The laughter came not from the small pickup parked on the street before the church, but from a dark sedan that had drawn to the curb behind it, a big four-door vehicle as sleek and daunting as a limousine. A figure stood beside it talking with the driver, their laughter quiet but with overtones that made her fur crawl. As she watched, a third figure got out of the pickup and joined them, slipping into the passenger seat of the sedan, and an elusive whiff of their
scents drifted up. Their laughter and voices were as hushed and slithery as a wind stirring beach sand.

The pickup parked in front was old, its dark color undetectable in the night. It appeared badly dented, as beat up as the one that had nearly run down Maudie, and Kit wanted a closer look. She was sniffing for the humans’ scents when one of the men said softly, “She can’t untie herself, hell, she might never be found.” Kit pricked her ears, startled.

“That won’t do us any good,” the driver of the car said with disgust. Listening, Kit leaned farther. “She can last until tomorrow, can’t she? How bad did you hurt her? You remember what I told you!” The man’s voice, as low-pitched as it was, seemed somehow familiar. Kit stood with her paws in the damp gutter peering over, trying to get a look at him.

“Of course I remember,” the other whispered crossly. “We just roughed her up, is all.”

Straining to listen, Kit nearly lost her balance. She backed away, alarmed, still trying to identify the man’s cold, superior tones that struck such fear into her heart.

“She’ll last,” the other said, “so what difference does it make?”

“You want murder on the ticket?” the familiar voice said. “Why do you think we don’t rape and kill them! You want to go before a hanging judge? One of you keep watch. If no one finds her by late tomorrow, call the cops yourself—you’re an unidentified neighbor—and make sure you use the throwaway phone.”

“What do you think? We’re stupid?” The tall, thin
man sounded young, though he spoke only in a grainy whisper. Why did he keep looking around into the night, fidgeting and shifting as if he thought they were being watched? That made the tortoiseshell smile. He didn’t know half how closely they were observed, who the observer was, or what she’d do with the information.

“The paper has a front-page piece ready to go,” the other said, “written, ready to insert, a nice two columns for the villagers to read over breakfast.” Still, Kit could see nothing of the figure inside the dark car. She looked away to the blackness where the pale tomcat crouched. Did he know these lowlifes? What exactly was his interest, and why had he led her there? She could just make out the curve of his pale back beneath the balcony’s rail.

The moment the pickup left, the tomcat came out from the shadows into a path of moonlight, stood looking after the vehicle. Now, for the first time with the moonlight full on him, Kit got a good look at him.

Oh, my. The surprise that she felt—and the disappointment—rippled through her clear down to her dark little paws.