Cat Coming Home (26 page)

P
EARL WATCHED
M
AUDIE
sitting so patiently at the table, snuggled cozily in her robe as if she weren’t afraid of the gun, as if Maudie didn’t believe she’d kill her. Certainly she wouldn’t kill her until morning, until she had the ledger copies and the bonds and hopefully some cash. Then she’d decide what to do.

Getting rid of Maudie’s body would take time. It might be easier just to leave her tied up somewhere and give herself the chance to get away, change her looks again so she could travel unnoticed. Maybe she’d dye her hair red this time, straighten it to a sleek bob. Her distinctive bone structure was a hindrance. Even her long, pale hands were too easily recognizable—a dealer’s hands, swift and clever. But ruined now, her hands bleeding and ugly from the cuts and bruises. She winced, looking at her pretty hands so cut up; she’d always taken care of her hands, babied them, had regular manicures, carefully selected polish.
Hands were important, men watched your hands at the card table, trying to catch you up or thinking how those silky hands would feel on their bodies.

It would take the abrasions a long time to heal, the ugly, broken nails a long time to grow out and be perfect again. There was blood on her face, too, she could feel it pulling as the wound began to dry. That frightened her. She didn’t want a scar marring her face, her smooth white skin; she didn’t want to come out of this ugly, she depended on her looks.

Well, the damned car was a loss, that was sure. It was while she was climbing out that she’d cut her hands so badly. And all the while, the driver of the other car wailing and carrying on, loud enough to be heard blocks away. He’d been drunk, she could smell the liquor, the whole thing was his fault. There’d been no witness to report the crash, but she supposed by now someone had come along the road and called the cops and the place would be crawling with them. Maybe they wouldn’t find the kid, though, the way he was hidden.

Him whining and crawling into the bushes, that had bought her some time. She’d dragged him a long way but at last had left him, making her way back to Arlie’s place. She knew that was foolish, but cops or not, she had to have a car. Why were the cops there? Had they caught Arlie, arrested him? She’d fled the house the minute she spotted a second cop car coming up the street, had gotten out of there fast, but she knew they had Arlie, he couldn’t have gotten away. Were they now watching for her? Or for Kent? They wouldn’t be looking for Jared, she thought, smiling. He’d been safe with Maudie, pretending to have
just awakened. Though he’d planned to leave Maudie’s before she found the kid gone. He didn’t want to be pressed into searching for him, didn’t want any part of that.

After the wreck, she’d wanted to clean up at Arlie’s and change her clothes. She’d already checked out of the motel, of course, but could check into another, the town was crawling with motels. But going in looking the way she did, bloody and her clothes torn and without luggage, and in the middle of the night, even the dumbest desk clerk would call the cops.

When she’d gotten back to Arlie’s place, staying in the shadows, the cop cars were gone. Easing around a corner, she’d stood in the blackness across the street beside a sheltered porch, watching and fingering the keys in her pocket, keys to the house and to his car. She’d stood there a long time, but saw no dark uniform standing in the bushes or in a doorway, even as far as several blocks away. When she felt sure the cops had given up and moved on, she’d slipped into the house, easing quietly through the dark rooms, calling out softly to Arlie so if he
was
there, maybe sitting in the dark, she wouldn’t surprise him. The house seemed strange, didn’t seem right. He hadn’t lived there long, but had taken great care with the placement of every piece of furniture, he was so damned picky. A living room chair was out of place so she nearly fell over it, a window shade crooked, a closet door had been left open. Prowling with her gun drawn, she’d found Arlie’s flashlight in the kitchen drawer and had gone through the place again shielding the light. Several pieces of furniture had been moved, papers on the desk were in disarray, not the way he kept them. The cops had been there, all right.
Or someone had. Quickly she’d retrieved her bag, didn’t look to see if someone had rummaged through her clothes but had headed for the garage.

She could have gone back for the Cadillac, which Arlie had left parked four blocks from Maudie’s, but by now the cops had probably found it. Sliding into the leased Jaguar, she was glad now that he was such a damned high roller he had to have a second car. She’d started the Jag, liking its faint but deep-throated rumble. The garage door made hardly any sound. She’d backed out, closed it with the remote, and driven sedately away—thinking Arlie wasn’t such a high roller now, with his ass cooling in the local tank. As for her, her next stop would either gain her the ledger copies and bonds or drop her straight into the cops’ laps with Arlie.

Leaving the car on a tiny side street, she’d walked the three blocks to Maudie’s. The yard lights were still on. One cop car was still parked in front of the invasion house four doors down, and she’d drawn back against an oak tree. Stayed still, then, as car lights came up the street and that contractor’s pickup pulled up in front of Maudie’s. What was this about? Ryan Flannery and her husband got out, they had that big gray dog with them. They took the dog inside, and in only a little while they came out again through the studio, the dog on a leash and moving fast, jerking Flannery up the hill following the route along which she’d dragged Benny—the dog was tracking Benny. A chill had iced her, she’d wanted to turn and run.

She wasn’t sure a tracking dog could follow a moving car. Unless there was scent on the outside of the car, she thought, remembering Benny clinging so desperately
to the tire. If the dog picked that up and got to the wreck, where they’d been on foot again, he’d find their trail. Likely he’d find the kid. But would he keep on, then, tracking her? She’d watched until they disappeared, then looked to where Maudie stood at the kitchen window, looking out. Pearl could picture her twisting a dish towel, worrying over the kid. Using the key she’d taken, she’d slipped inside, and into the kitchen—and here she was, she and Maudie having a nice little chat, Maudie whining about the boy.

But now it was time to move on, she’d been here long enough, she wanted to get away before they found the kid and came back. “Get dressed,” she told Maudie. “You can’t go in the bank looking like that.”

“We can’t go to the bank, it’s the middle of the night.”

“Move it,” she said, gesturing with her gun toward the stairs.

Silently Maudie went up. Pearl followed, checked all the rooms, then watched while she dressed. When the man’s voice came again it sounded almost like he was right there in the other bedroom, but that wasn’t possible.

“Get a move on,” she told Maudie. “Hand me the belt from that robe.” She was reaching for the belt to tie Maudie’s hands when the man shouted an urgent, panicked cry accompanied by a muffled banging on a window.

“Stay here, get your shoes on. You leave this room, you’re dead.” She moved toward the hall, glanced back to see Maudie hanging up the robe and reaching for a jacket.

Slipping into the guest room, she found it empty. And no one at the windows. No one could be, there was only a thin lip of roof running along outside beneath the glass.
Could the man have been at the front door and some trick of the wind made him sound like he was inside the house? Returning to the bedroom, she bound Maudie’s hands behind her, forced her out of the room and down the stairs. Hurrying past the front door, she pushed Maudie on out through the studio, through the yard, and up the street, staying to the darkest shadows, heading three blocks up where, beyond a curve, the maroon Jaguar waited out of sight.

P
EARL DIDN’T SEE,
on the roof behind them, the two cats watching, nor would she have paid any attention, she certainly wouldn’t have looked closely enough to see that one of the cats, a dark tortoiseshell, was placing a call on a cell phone. Hurrying away from the house, she didn’t hear the soft female voice that set in motion a BOL on the Jaguar, bringing into action the cruising street patrols—nor did she see the yellow cat stifle a laugh.

The old cat had found it wildly liberating to shout at Pearl; and when his shouts and paw-pounding on the guest room window distracted and unnerved her long enough for Maudie to slip the gun from her robe into her jacket pocket, that was a fine example of feline/human teamwork—even if Maudie didn’t know she’d had help. Now, both cats, following along the roofs above, wanted to whisper a word of encouragement to Maudie as she was forced up the street. All they could do was race after them over the shingles following the dark, sleek car, determined not to lose Maudie.

P
USHING
M
AUDIE INTO
the backseat, Pearl engaged the safety switches and locked the doors. Her eyes felt gritty, she longed to clean up and tend to the wound on her face, try to prevent a disfiguring infection, but she didn’t dare return to Arlie’s house. As she headed up into the hills, she could see a convergence of lights near where the wreck would be, the lights of cop cars reflected up through the trees; when she cracked the window she could hear their radios. She hoped the driver wasn’t dead, that would complicate matters. Hoped they hadn’t found Benny, she didn’t want the kid blabbing. Maybe she shouldn’t have left him, should have gotten him away, hidden him somewhere they’d never find him even with the dog.

But maybe he’d stay away from the cops, maybe he was trying to find his way home, wandering lost up through the black woods. When she was above the wreck, heading higher into the tangle of hills, she watched for a place to park unseen among the darkened houses, maybe near where that canyon ran down. If the cops came nosing around up there, if she had to get away from the car, the canyon could be useful, even though she hated getting torn and scratched again by fallen trees and bushes. Once she had the papers and money, she’d decide what to do with Maudie. Pulling onto a twisting side street, she heard dogs barking somewhere to her right, as if she had disturbed them. But then in a moment someone must have shut them up, the night was still again, and she settled down to wait.

O
NCE
P
EARL LEFT
him and Benny had come out from his hiding place and hobbled up into the woods, hurrying away from the direction his mother had gone, his leg didn’t hurt so bad. Not as bad as he’d let on, he’d wanted her to think he couldn’t walk much. Circling through the woods, past the metal heap of the white Toyota and the truck, he could see a porch light burning, in the house just above. Avoiding the man and woman who stood by the truck arguing, slipping around them, he couldn’t help the brushy sounds of his bare feet in the wet leaves. He thought they didn’t hear, because they didn’t stop arguing. Twice he stepped on sharp rocks and had to swallow back a yelp, and then a twig poked into his ankle. The woman’s voice was mean, as scratchy as a nail scraping the sidewalk. “Why the hell didn’t you look when you backed out of the damn drive?”

“I
did
look, dammit. Car came around the corner so
fast I couldn’t even shift gears, and you know damn well my horn don’t work.”

“First person sees this mess in the morning, first car comes down the road, the cops’ll be all over it, and you with no insurance. I told you this would happen.”

When he was past them, Benny ran, up through the woods, trying to remember the way he and Grandma took driving down to the village and home again. He thought Grandma’s house was away to the right; he wanted to go that way but the woods were so tangled and black. Who knew what was in there, hidden among the trees? When the road made a sharp bend to the right, the voices grew fainter behind him, but still he hurried uphill, his leg hurting worse. Once, he saw strings of little Christmas lights back in the woods. He guessed they were Christmas lights, hoped they weren’t something else, ghosts or something creepy. He was getting warm from walking, but he was out of breath. Sitting down on a long mound of earth at the side of the road, he yawned, and rubbed his hurting leg. He wasn’t lost, he told himself. The sudden sound of men’s voices made him look up. Had that drunk man followed him? He could see lights moving behind him, now, reflecting up among the trees. Frightened, he slipped behind the berm, out of sight from the road. A man was calling him, calling, “Benny? Benny?” How could he know his name?

The calling went on for a long time, but he was afraid to answer. He could see the light approaching uphill toward him. If he ran, the man would hear him. Quickly he dug down against the berm and pulled some fallen pine branches over himself. As he huddled there, again
tears came, but these were tears of fear and of exhaustion and from the pain in his leg. He wouldn’t cry again for his mother, he didn’t have a mother, his connection to Pearl had been torn away, that woman who had hurt him wasn’t his mother. Yawning, he snuggled down beneath the branches, wanting help, but not from a stranger. Curling up trying to stay warm, he closed his eyes just for a minute.

He woke to a soft
meow.
He opened his eyes to see a cat crouched on the berm looking down at him. He came fully awake. He could see the darker blackness of familiar stripes, the wide, curved stripes across her shoulders, the stripe that blackened half her left ear. “Dulcie?”

She mewed at him and leaped down, and snuggled against his neck, purring. She was warm, cuddled against him; even her purr seemed to warm him. He petted her and talked to her and wished she could tell him how to get home, wished she could lead him home. But she was just a cat, she didn’t know he was lost. He lay there cuddling her, wondering if she was lost, too? Why would she be so far from home, from where he usually saw her? When she rose and moved away, he was afraid she’d leave him, he didn’t want her to go away to hunt and leave him all alone.

W
HEN
D
ULCIE HAD
arrived at the wreck, there were two patrol cars nosed in facing it, their headlights picking out the tangle of the white Toyota crumpled half on its side against a badly dented king cab pickup. Rearing up until she could see the license plate where it was jammed
against a tree, she discovered it was the Toyota from the motel. The tangle of wrecked vehicles spilled across the road and up into the driveway of a dark brown, shingled house, a grim, depressing place crowded on three sides by the dense pine woods. Looking at the wreck, she imagined the truck backing down the drive, the Toyota coming fast up around the curve from below, hitting it broadside; imagined the car spinning the truck around in a lethal dance before it lost its footing, skidded over, and tilted into the tree. She could see no one inside either vehicle. If the three officers on the scene had found anyone, they’d have an ambulance there by now. Or they’d have the coroner. She didn’t want to think about that, hadn’t wanted to think about Benny hurt or dead.

Had an ambulance already come and gone, maybe taking the little boy away? She watched one of the officers move up the stairs to the front door, his flashlight beam raking the face of the house, and Dulcie circled behind the other two uniforms, through the dark to nose around the Toyota.

She found the woman’s scent, mixed with the smell of blood. And yes, the little boy’s scent where he’d eased or been pulled out of the backseat through the broken door. Both trails led downhill along the narrow road. She’d followed to where the two trails parted, the woman’s scent going on down, toward the village.

Benny’s scent led into the bushes, and she’d found where he had lain beneath a rhododendron bush, curled up long enough to leave a little puddle of blood that was now beginning to congeal. When he’d moved on again alone, back up the road toward the wreck, he had circled
wide around it, staying among the bushes as if avoiding the cops. Why would he do that when he needed help? Or had he passed before the cops arrived? But, thinking back to what Maudie had said when Benny’s daddy was shot, the sheriff’s spotlights shining suddenly into the car onto the torn bodies, the voices of men Benny didn’t know, the harsh police radio, the child staring at his murdered father’s torn body, maybe she understood his fear of cop cars and harsh spotlights.

Leaving the scene, she had followed Benny’s scent on uphill through the woods and back onto the dark road until she’d discovered him asleep behind the berm, huddled up like a little hurt animal. She’d snuggled with him, wondering how best to summon help, wondering if she could get him to follow her. Though she didn’t think he’d follow her back to the police units. She’d lain against him worrying until she lost patience and had padded away waving her tail, looking back at him—and it had been as easy as enticing a young kitten. Benny, distressed that she was leaving, reached out to her. When she didn’t stop, he scrambled up, ignoring his hurt leg, and limped after her, unwilling to be left behind.

B
UT
D
ULCIE WASN’T
the only cat who’d raced out into the night on a search against all odds. Down in the village Misto and Kit chased across the rooftops, running as fast as they could, but soon losing the lights of the faster moving Jaguar, which had far outdistanced them. “Go on,” Misto said, panting. “Catch up, don’t lose them.”

“I’m winded, too.” But Kit fled on, her heart pounding so hard it shook her. She was thankful for the stoplights that slowed the Jaguar, she didn’t dare lose Maudie. She hoped this chase didn’t do Misto in, but she mustn’t wait for him. Such a dear old cat, so frail in his aging. Once when the maroon Jaguar passed some lighted houses she got a flash of Maudie in the backseat struggling to get loose from her bonds. Where was Pearl taking her? Fear sent Kit pelting headlong, running so fast her back and front legs crossed in deep Xs, a flying ball of fur sailing across tree branches, above alleys yawning black below her. When she lost sight of the Jaguar she followed its receding rumble. She was nearly done for, she had raced farther and harder than she had ever run chasing some terrified and willful rabbit.

Pearl’s lights flashed between houses and woods as the car moved higher into the hills, forcing Kit to leave the last accessible rooftop and race up a narrow road, led only by the sound of the Jaguar. Pearl was headed high above the village where the houses were closer together again, crowded along the wild ravine, where she’d be able to see the streets below but could park out of sight. It was a logical place to take cover. If she was pressed, she might escape down into the canyon, just as she must have escaped behind Alfreda’s house earlier that night. Escape, and leave Maudie bound in the Jaguar? That would mess up her plans to hit the bank first thing in the morning. But it might save Pearl’s own neck, if she could dodge the cops.

But maybe you won’t dodge them,
Kit thought, smiling.

High above her, Pearl’s lights stopped, then were extinguished. Yes, she had gone to ground in a secluded
neighborhood just above the canyon where it would be easy to stay hidden—except that this was the canyon behind the senior ladies’ house. Pearl wouldn’t know that, Kit thought, smiling. She would know nothing about the seniors. Her choice of hiding places made Kit laugh out loud and lick her paw with satisfaction. This was the kind of good fortune where, when you’d slipped up on a mouse hole, you found a discarded cheese sandwich and the mice already gathered, too busy to notice their silent visitor.

Kit turned when she heard Misto panting behind her; he came flying, as if he’d gained his second wind. They raced on, not speaking, up the road among the woods toward the houses above. If Pearl was holed up for good, they had only to slip up on her, one of them keep her in sight, and the other race away to the seniors’, where Kit knew how to get in through Lori’s window. She’d just slip in past the sleeping girl, steal downstairs and use the kitchen phone, and she’d have the law up there pronto. As they approached the crest of the hill they heard a dog bark, his voice deep and melodic, and then a second dog: Lamb, the seniors’ big chocolate poodle, and their Dalmatian. Both knew something was out there, maybe they’d heard the Jaguar pull up the hill and park.

But what now? If she slipped into the house to use the phone, the dogs would be all over her. Even now, their barking might scare Pearl away, prompt her to run again. Rearing up looking through the trees trying to make out the dark shape of Pearl’s car, Kit was uncertain what to do. Uncertain how to play this game, maybe a far more dangerous game, with Maudie’s life at stake, than any she’d ever tackled.

At last, shivering, she headed for Lori’s second-floor window. Leaping to the hood of Cora Lee’s car, scrambling up, she found the window shut against the cold night, shut and locked. When she tried Cora Lee’s windows, they were locked, too. Both rooms were dark. As she crouched, peering in, she saw the reflection of a soft light come on at the back of the house, the kitchen. She could hear soft voices there, too, and could smell chocolate; maybe the ladies were having a little before-bed cocoa. She had to find a phone without alerting these ladies who had no idea she could speak, had to call the department, tell them that Pearl had Maudie. Looking up at the high little bathroom window, seeing it open a crack, she made a flying leap, clinging and clawing at the sliding glass.