Cat Pay the Devil (8 page)

“Maybe she was in plain sight when they ran out, maybe she was too busy hiding from them.” He felt Dulcie's ragged little attempt at a purr as she eased closer against him. “What's the game plan? If Jones has Wilma, what can you do and not put her in danger?”

But Max was on the phone again, moving men into position, then motioning to Dallas; Clyde looked around at the trashed living room. He felt sick inside. And scared. Max was saying, “…use the gas and electric company uniforms, get one of their emergency trucks. And a water company truck, three men. I want to watch the house for as long as it takes. We're not rushing in.”

Clyde listened, thinking how unstable Jones was. If Wilma was in there…He stroked Dulcie, trying to calm her. Trying to calm himself. He didn't like the way she felt under his hand, her tabby body hard and rigid, the way a sick cat feels to the touch. He stroked her gently, worrying over Wilma and worrying over the little tabby. Why the hell had this happened! Why the hell hadn't Cage just skipped, gotten out of California!

Max looked around the room. “Davis is on her way up to
Gilroy. Everything about this break-in looks like a distraction. Could be, she was never in the house at all. Possible they brought her car and her bag back to confuse and delay us.”

“I'm heading for Gilroy,” Clyde said, and he felt Dulcie's paws tighten on his arm.

“The hell you are,” Max said. “You'd be in the way, make the sheriff mad. Let them do their work.”

“I'll stay out of the way. I won't hassle Davis, either. I just want to be there.” He expected Max to give him a stronger argument. When he didn't, Clyde headed for the door, wondering how to keep Dulcie from demanding that she go, because clearly, as she brightened up and cocked her ears, that was what she was thinking.

“You taking that cat?” Max called after him, raising an eyebrow.

“Thought I'd drop the cat off with Lucinda,” he said over his shoulder. “With all the commotion, the house torn up, she seems really stressed. She'll be safer there.”

In fact, Clyde meant to do just that. Clutching Dulcie, he beat it to his car as Max turned away to answer an officer's question. Crossing the garden, beneath the oaks, he glanced up into the branches where Kit stared down, her yellow eyes huge. With the living room windows wide open, she'd heard every word. But she wasn't coming down to him. She backed away when he reached up. Changing his mind about taking Dulcie to the Greenlaws', he shoved her up into the branches beside Kit. “You're staying here,” he said softly. “Try to stay out of trouble,” he said, knowing it was a useless suggestion.

“Wait,” Dulcie whispered. “Wait, Clyde.”

“Hush. We can't talk here.”

“They can't hear us, with your back to the house. They
can't see
us
, in here among the leaves.” Dulcie looked into Clyde's face, her green eyes questioning. “Please, Clyde…I don't
know
what to do.” He had never seen the little tabby unsure of herself; Dulcie was just as decisive and hardheaded as Joe Grey.

She looked at him deeply, her green eyes huge and afraid. “I want to go with you. And I…I want to look in Jones's house. If he took Wilma there
after
Harper searched, a second search will be dangerous for her. If Kit and I can get in first, before Harper's men…If she's there, we can find a phone in there, we can call, tell them what room and if she's tied up, tell them if she's hurt, and who's in the house…” She looked at him intently. Clyde shook his head.

“It's that,” she said, “or I go with you to Gilroy to help look for her.”

C
lyde looked up into the shadowed leaves of the oak
tree at Dulcie's stubborn green gaze. These three cats sure complicated life.

“Wilma's
in danger!” the tabby snapped. “You think I'm going to sit here polishing my claws? Jones has already tried to kill Bennett!” She hissed angrily at him, then spun away through the branches. “Come on, Kit.” And before Clyde could argue, the two cats were gone, leaping from that oak into the next and up a pine tree, and away across the rooftops. Clyde stood staring after them, then headed for his car. Damned cats never listened. He tried to remind himself that Cage Jones would have no reason to hurt a neighborhood cat if he saw them sneaking around his house. They were cats, cats were no threat to an escaped con. Praying for their safety, and thinking that before he headed for the freeway he'd better gas up, he was nearly bowled over when something hit him from behind. Swinging around to punch his assailant, he felt claws digging into his shoulder, as if Joe
had leaped down on him from the roof. “Keep your claws in! I suppose you heard everything.”

“Of course I heard everything. I came straight over from the station. We don't have much time before the shops close. Where's your car?”

“You're not going to Gilroy.”

“Says who? Get a move on. It's already past seven.”

“I can't take you in the stores, they'll call security.”

“They have a discount pet store, you can pick up one of those fancy pet carriers that look like luggage. I can sniff out her trail through the mesh door—if there's any scent to follow.” Clinging to Clyde's shoulder, Joe peered around into his face. “I'm the only one who can track her scent. Unless they bring in dogs. If we don't get moving, we might never know if she
got
to Gilroy!”

“I take a cat carrier in those stores, security'll be all over me. A big bag like that, perfect for shoplifting! Bad as that backpack in San Francisco. That store cop nearly—”

“We spent three hundred dollars in that store.”

“Three hundred of
my
dollars.”

“And we royally entertained the store guard—supplied him with a nice little story to tell his wife and neighbors.”

Clyde sighed, and pulled the tomcat off his shoulder, tearing his shirt in the process. Setting Joe up in an oak branch, he sprinted for his car—only to feel Joe brush past his leg, see a gray streak sail over the door of the yellow roadster and hunch down on the leather seat.

Swinging in on the driver's side, Clyde started the Chevy and turned to look at Joe. “I can't take you to Gilroy in an open car, on the freeway, it's too dangerous.”

“Just as dangerous for you. So put the top up.”

“A soft top is going to protect you at freeway speeds? And it's getting dark. That discount mall is nothing but
parking lots. Reckless drivers in a hurry to get home. Too many cars, Joe. And you wouldn't
stay
in a carrier. I can never trust you. You could get—”

“Crushed under someone's wheels,” Joe snapped. “Picked up by strangers. So stop by the shop, pick up a hard top. You have a hundred cars you can choose from.”

“There isn't time.”

Joe flexed his paws just above Clyde's expensive new upholstery, the soft yellow leather as creamy as butter. “Not a scratch on it. Yet,” he said softly. “Really beautiful. Wasn't this the most expensive leather they had?”

Clyde wanted to wring Joe's furry gray neck. He waited for Joe to retract his claws, then eased the vintage roadster into gear and headed for Ocean Avenue, for his automotive shop.

The tomcat watched him narrowly. “One trick,” Joe said, “one act of subterfuge, and you'll have dead mice in your bed every night for the rest of your natural life. Ripe, smelly mice specially aged for your benefit.”

Clyde turned into the broad drive of Beckwhite's Automotive and stepped out of the car. “You will behave in Gilroy. You will do as I say, every minute. Or I swear, Joe, I will leave you in a cage at the county animal shelter.”

Joe looked back at him with chilling feline disdain.

Turning away, Clyde activated the overhead door of his big repair and maintenance shop that occupied the north half of Beckwhite Automotive. The handsome Mediterranean building provided, besides Clyde's several spacious repair and storage garages and work bays, a vast, elegant showroom along the south side: tile-floored exhibit space for the latest models of BMW, Mercedes, Lexus, and a dozen far richer imports, as well as high-priced antique models. Clyde leased his space in exchange for handling all repairs and
regular maintenance on Beckwhite's customers' vehicles. Joe watched, peering through the roadster's windshield and the big doors as Clyde disappeared into a back garage.

In a few minutes, a new white Lexus SUV eased out from the back. Clyde pulled it onto the front drive, put the roadster in the shop, scooped Joe up from the front seat, and dropped him in the SUV. Threatening the tomcat with mayhem if he clawed, or even shed upon, its soft black leather, he shut the big shop door behind them, and headed for Gilroy.

After two blocks, as he turned onto Highway 1, headed for 101, Clyde fished his cell phone from his pocket and dropped it on the leather seat. “Try Charlie. Max couldn't reach her.”

“She always carries her cell. Where would she be, that she wouldn't answer?”

“Riding, Max thought.”

Frowning, Joe punched in Charlie's number. When she didn't answer, he tried the number for the Harper's small, hillside ranch. In both instances there were four rings, then the voice mail clicked in. Pressing disconnect, he stared at Clyde.

“Try Ryan.”

Joe went through the same routine: same pattern of four rings, then a message recording.

“Riding,” Clyde said again; but a worried frown darkened his brown eyes.

 

The old man slipped away after watching the police action around the Getz house, having seen and heard enough to know that Wilma Getz had disappeared. This made him smile. Sure as hell, Cage had her. Served the old bitch right.

He guessed he'd better get on over to Lilly's while he still
had the chance, before Harper sent someone to search the house again, because that cop would be sure to do it. He'd have to make it damn fast, knowing Harper. He hoped to hell Cage wasn't there.

Not likely, though, with cops crawling all over. Specially as that car Cage'd been driving when he left here, that old blue Plymouth thick with dirt, that'd be easy enough to spot if there'd been a witness. Someone must've seen it, to call the law. Well, Cage wouldn't go home, Cage was smarter'n that. Maybe he'd stashed Wilma there, and now would take off down the coast. Or head north. Either way, Cage knew how to lose a cop on them back roads. Thinking about that, Greeley headed up the hills on foot, toward Cage's place, moving fast, thinking how best to approach Lilly Jones, how best to handle her.

The Jones house stood above the village on the ridge of a canyon that cut down from the Molena Point hills, an old brown house, tall and narrow, an ugly frame structure with straight sides, surrounded by brittle-leafed eucalyptus trees that, in the faint wind, shook and rattled against the siding. Ten small windows in the front, five above, five below.

Greeley walked for several blocks, circling the house, looking for Cage's car. Didn't find it. Back at the house, he studied the drive that sloped down to the garage beneath the two floors; the drive was covered with dust and leaves. Didn't look like Cage or anyone else had pulled in there for a long time. He was about to approach the five brick steps that led to the front door when a water company truck turned onto the street, parking a block down. A pair of uniformed utility workers got out and knelt by the curb.

Removing a heavy metal lid, they peered in, making notes, fiddling with the meter or the pipes or whatever; they took their time, then moved on to the next meter box.
Pretty late in the day for water company personnel, unless there was an emergency. Was this a stakeout, waiting for Cage? He couldn't hear what they were saying, but a chill of unease filled Greeley.

But what difference, if they
were
cops? They weren't watching him, they had nothing on him. It was a free country. He had started toward the steps again when a gas company truck pulled up from the other direction, parking in front of a low white house. Three men dressed in gray jump-suits got out. Moved in between the houses, one after another, as if checking the meters or connections. Men who, in Greeley's opinion, got to work too fast for city employees.

Well, he'd just arrived in town recently, he'd gone to school with Cage. He could come to the house if he liked, maybe come to see Lilly, see how Cage was doing. What business was that of Harper's?

Mounting the steps, he rang the bell, stood listening for sounds from within, for the shuffle of feet approaching, for Lilly's slow, deliberate movement. Cage's sister'd never liked him much, even when they was kids in grammar school, him and Mavity and Cage—and that Wilma Getz. Lilly was some older, in high school then. Tall, bone thin, dry as dust even when she was young.

The door creaked open, and Lilly Jones stood there tall and plain and wearing the kind of shapeless cotton dress his own mother had called a housedress; Lilly was more dried up and skinnier than ever.

“Evening, Lilly. It's me, Greeley Urzey. Heard Cage was out of prison and I come over to visit.”

Lilly looked at him like she might look at a frog skewered on a stick. “Cage isn't here. I don't know where he is. What did you want?”

“Like I said, to visit. Been a while since I seen Cage.”
Greeley gave her what he considered a winning smile. “You going to ask me in? It's been a long time, Lilly. It's hot out, I'd sure enjoy a drink of water. It sure is mighty hot, even this time of evening. Water, or that good lemonade you make. You always made the best lemonade, back when we was kids.”

Lilly looked resigned or too tired to argue. She backed away from the door, motioned him in, pointed to the couch. The woman wasn't big on graciousness. But then Greeley guessed maybe he wasn't so smooth, either, in the manners department. Mavity said that often enough. But what the hell difference, anyway?

“I can make you some frozen lemonade,” Lilly said shortly. “That's the best I can do. There are some magazines there on the table. But he isn't here, Greeley. And he won't be.”

This, Greeley thought, was going to take a while. She'd kill time in the kitchen fiddling with the lemonade, and then the long process of drinking the sour stuff and trying to draw her out. He glanced around the tired-looking, faded room figuring out just what questions to ask her, how best to pull this off. Old woman was prickly as a cactus. Looked like she hadn't changed a stick of furniture in the room since he and Cage was kids slipping up the stairs to Cage's room and locking the door behind them.

When Lilly finally returned with the lemonade and handed him a glass and sat down, he took his time sipping and smacking, telling her how good it was. She looked at him coldly.

“What did you come for, Greeley?”

“Cage didn't call you? Well, he figured he might not be able to, said he'd try. He needs some clothes and things, plans to…be gone awhile. He's out, you know.”

“I thought you hadn't seen him.”

“Well, he told me to be careful what I said. Until I saw you was alone, saw that the cops wasn't here.”

“Hiding from the law again,” Lilly said dryly, not seeming at all curious about why or how Cage was out on the streets.

“Well, yes, ma'am. He didn't have no clothes, and—”

“He can buy clothes.”

“He told me to come on down to the house, told me to check his closet, pretty much told me which ones to get. And his razor and toothbrush, like that…”

“Surely he has money to buy what he wants.”

“I guess he doesn't want to be seen just now,” Greeley said diffidently.

“I should think not. He almost killed a man today.”

That shook Greeley, that she knew.

“That federal officer could die,” Lilly said. “Cage belongs in prison.”

Greeley wondered, if
he
was in this much trouble, would
his
sister, Mavity, be as hateful as Lilly Jones? He gave Lilly a gentle smile. “Cage said there was some kind of suitcase or duffle bag. Said to pack up his stuff, whatever I thought he'd need. If it's all right with you, of course…” He was growing uneasy. This old woman was going to run him off—or try to.

It would be a sight easier if he had the house to himself. If he could search in his own way, take his time. But he hadn't figured out, yet, how to accomplish that.

Lilly looked at him silently for a long time. He waited for her to tell him to get out, but then she settled back, watching him. “Tell me where he is. Tell me exactly what happened. Tell me why he shot that federal officer. If you tell me all of it, we'll see about the clothes.”