Cat Fear No Evil (12 page)

On her way to the trash with the papers, an article caught her attention. Pulling that section out to read later, she laid it on the kitchen counter—something about a jewel robbery. Shoving the rest of the papers in the trash and straightening up the kitchen, she thought how good it would be to see Lucinda and Pedric.

How excited the old couple had been, planning their tour through the Cat Museum's gardens and galleries. Picking up the phone, she made lunch reservations for Monday at an elegant Chinese restaurant near the museum, a small place that she thought would please them. She was so looking forward to their visit, this elderly couple with their twinkling eyes and dry wit, this pair of eighty-year-old newlyweds with their Old-World knowledge about cats that made her want to know them better. And she had to smile. How thrilled the kit was that the Greenlaws would soon return to the village to stay. Lucinda and Pedric were the kit's true family, and now at last she would have a home with them, in a brand-new house atop Hellhag Hill.

The cave within the hill that frightened Joe Grey seemed not to have dampened the resolve of the Greenlaws to live there. They connected that dark fissure in some way to the ancient Celtic tales they collected, to the myths that had been handed down from
their ancestors. The day after they were married they had bought the entire hill, some twenty acres.

Kate had, when she first saw the cave, been as intrigued as the kit, wanting to go down into it. But then she had grown frightened, and had ended up leaving quickly. On later visits to the village she had stayed away from that part of the hills.

When she had the apartment in order for the Greenlaws, she made a cup of tea, then pulled on a warm sweater over her jeans and walked up Russian Hill to the Cat Museum, wanting one more look at her grandfather's diaries. Maybe to winnow out some overlooked clue to her heritage. The afternoon was cool and sunny, with a brilliance one could find, she thought, only in San Francisco, the sky a clear deep blue behind a scattering of fast-running white clouds. When she looked down the hill behind her, the shadows of the crowded buildings angled crisply across the pale sidewalks; the dark bay was scattered with white-caps, the bridges glinting with afternoon sun. The breeze off the bay tugged at her like a live thing. She kept thinking about the dark hairs on the cushion of her window seat; she had found, when she cleaned out the lint catcher of the dryer, a wad of straight, black hairs, not really like poodle hairs.

Had Consuela brought that cat to the city? Joe Grey had said only that Azrael had been the instigator of the bizarre effort—the dismally failed effort, she thought with satisfaction. Why would Consuela have brought the cat here?

Entering the wrought-iron gates of the Cat Museum, she stepped into a world that seemed totally removed from the city. Between the various gallery buildings, its
gardens were as lush and mysterious as the secret garden of her favorite childhood book. The cats who lived there watched her from where they sunned themselves lying on the low walls or atop various pieces of cat sculpture. Today, she did not linger in the gardens, but went directly to the desk to sign out McCabe's diaries.

She spent several hours in the reading room but found nothing she'd missed before. From his early years as a stevedore, then as a building contractor and newspaper columnist, through his marriage, to the weeks just before the earthquake in which he died, he had written what he observed of the city but offered no fact about himself. Kate could not even find his wife's name. Several entries mentioned their baby girl, but nowhere did McCabe write her name. Had he had some superstition, some objection to setting down the names of those close to him? Or had there been deletions in the journals, pages removed? With such short entries, that might be easy to do, and sometimes the flow did seem disjointed. The passages to which she kept returning were vague: McCabe's occasional offhand mentions of
the other place
, or
those grim kingdoms,
and
one day will I make that journey?
These, and mentions of not liking to be shut in, not liking a low, heavy sky—and of dreams that disturbed him in the small hours so that he rose to prowl the streets.

But those
were
dreams, perhaps nightmares. Not facts about his life.
I dreamed last night of a granite sky lit by a green haze…I have dreamed of caverns falling, and of the echoing cries of beasts in a world I have never seen…

Kate left the museum frightened. She must give up the search. Whatever lay in the tangle of her heritage
was not for her, she had learned nothing about her parents and she was only upsetting herself.

Arriving home, she meant to put on her robe, fix herself a drink, have a light supper, and tuck up on the couch with a book. When she turned into the kitchen, the newspaper she had left on the counter had slid to the floor. She picked it up, puzzled.

A stain of grease darkened the article that had interested her, grease smeared across the account of a downtown jewel robbery. Frowning, she wiped the counter more thoroughly where she had earlier prepared some chicken, and wiped the paper as best she could.

The robbery had occurred ten days ago as the owner was locking up to go home. When he stepped outside and turned to lock the door, two men pinned him against the building demanding to be let in. He grabbed one of them, and there was a fight. Apparently someone, perhaps a neighbor, called the police. The store owner, James Ruse, said it was just seconds until he heard sirens. He told reporters that as the cops belted out of their car, grabbing one man, the other seemed to go insane, jumping on Ruse and beating him. Ruse grabbed the brick he used to prop open the door on hot days and hit the man hard in the head. That didn't stop the burglar; he beat Ruse again, injured one of the cops, and escaped. Police captain Norville said it was likely the man was on drugs, that he had been almost impossible to subdue.

The article unnerved her, the city was getting so violent. She didn't understand why the police didn't shoot the man, when he had almost killed an innocent shopkeeper, had been trying to kill him. She didn't turn
on the kitchen TV for the news as she usually did when she fixed her dinner, but put on a CD while she made her salad.

When she went to the refrigerator for the bowl of chicken, she saw that it was empty.

Someone
had
been here. Had eaten the chicken, apparently while reading the newspaper.

Quietly she reached for the phone, meaning to dial 911, then to leave, to wait for the police on the street or in her locked car. She had started to phone when she saw the paw prints.

Greasy paw prints on the stove, catching the light when she stood at an angle. And when she examined the back of the newspaper, there were greasy prints there, as well.

Checking all the window locks, she angrily searched her apartment, looking in every tiniest niche, under every piece of furniture. In the living room she found the cat's black hair matted on her white couch: a stark and insolent greeting. She imagined the huge black creature riding in the car beside Consuela, peering coldly out the front window—laying what kind of plans?

Because they had missed stealing the jewelry, he had come here into her apartment, had very likely searched the entire apartment looking for it. What next? Her office? And where had he been when Consuela entered the bank? Riding on her shoulder snarling at the tellers? Following her on a leash like some pet jungle cat, commanding irate or amused stares from tellers and customers? Although most likely he had kept out of sight.

If he had jimmied her window, he had probably let Consuela in through the front door, and Consuela had taken her extra keys. They had most likely locked the window and locked the door behind them when they left; and now they could enter at their pleasure.

Searching again, she could find nothing else disturbed. Whatever they had done in here, that black beast frightened her far more than that little snip Consuela could ever do.

Well, she couldn't tell the cops that a cat had broken in, and she had no evidence that any human had been in here. Unplugging and removing her kitchen phone, and then her office extension, so that neither phone could be taken off the hook, she carried them into the bedroom, setting them down beside the nightstand where she left the third phone plugged in. Locking the bedroom door behind her, she checked every small hiding place once again, behind the boxes on the closet shelf, behind her clothes. She was thankful she'd had the bedroom lock installed; it gave her a sense of security after she'd been followed. She didn't like surprises; she would not want to wake with someone in her room.

Certain that the cat was not in the room with her, she washed her face and brushed her teeth. She was tucked up in bed, reading, by 8:15, the dark winter evening shut away beyond the draperies—wanting to lose herself in a favorite book as she had done when she was a child in one foster home or another.

But, again, the book didn't hold her. Putting out the light, turning over clutching her pillow, she wanted to sleep and didn't think she could. Then when she did
sleep, her dreams were filled with Azrael, and with phantom worlds that beckoned to her from the darkness. She woke at three and lay sleepless until dawn, her mind racing with unwanted questions.

L
ong after Kate slept, that Saturday night, down the
coast in Molena Point, rain swept in torrents along the rocky shore, turning sodden the cottages and rooftops and, south of the village, bending double the wild grass on Hellhag Hill, drenching the two friends who climbed through the black, wet tangles, desperately searching.

Joe Grey heard it first, a lonely and mournful weeping as he reared up in the tangled wet grass. He and Clyde were halfway up the hill, Joe's paws and fur were soaking. In the driving rain, he could see nothing. Leaping to Clyde's shoulder, he stared up through the windy night toward the crest. The weeping came and went in the storm as unfocused as the cries of spirits; the gusts pummeled him so hard he had to dig his claws into Clyde's shoulder. Clyde grunted but said nothing. Above them, the grieving lament increased: somewhere in the cold blackness the kit sobbed and bawled her distress. The time was three
A.M.

Scuds of rain hit their backs fitfully, then were gone
again. Of course no stars were visible, no moon touched the inky hill. Pressing a paw against Clyde's head for balance, Joe prayed the kit hadn't gone into the cave. Crouching to leap down, to race up to the crest, he peered down into Clyde's face. “Can you see her? Can you see anything?”

“Can't see a damned thing.
You're
the cat. What happened to night vision?”

“It takes a
little
light. I'm not an infrared camera!”

The yowl came again, louder, making Clyde pause. “You sure that's the kit? Sounds like the ghost itself.” The ghost of Hellhag Hill was a treasured village myth, one Joe didn't care for. Rising tall against Clyde's head, Joe peered harder into the black night. Had he seen an inky smudge move briefly? Clyde stunk of sleep, a sour human smell.

“There,” Joe said. “Just to the left of the cave.”

Clyde moved to stare upward, clutching Joe tighter. The trouble had started an hour ago with the ringing phone in their dark bedroom. Burrowing beneath the covers, Joe heard Clyde answer, his voice understandably grouchy. “What?” Clyde had shouted into the phone. “It's two in the morning. This better not be a wrong number.”

There was a long silence. Clyde said, “When?” Another silence, then, “Are you sure?” Then, “We're on our way.” Joe had peered out as Clyde thudded out of bed and stood looking around the dark room, then staring toward the study and Joe's aerial cat door. “Joe! Where the hell are you?
Joe!
Come down here!
Now!
Wilma just called. It's the kit, she's run away!”

Joe had crawled out from under the blanket yawning. “What do you mean, she's run away? She's proba
bly out hunting. She doesn't mind the rain. Where's Dulcie? Isn't she with Dulcie?” But the feeling in his gut was uneasy. The kit had disappeared last winter for several days—and had fallen, paws first, into trouble.

“What happened?” he said, stalking across the blankets. “Why suddenly so distressed? What else did Wilma say?”

Clyde was pulling on his pants and a sweatshirt. Joe leaped to the top of the dresser, waiting for an explanation.

“They're dead,” Clyde said, staring back at him. “Lucinda and Pedric. There was an accident—somewhere north of Russian River. The minute the kit heard, she ran out of the house bawling and yowling. Dulcie raced after her, but apparently she lost her, couldn't track her in the rain and wind. They don't know where she went or what she'll do. She was so upset, Dulcie thinks she'll head for Hellhag Hill.” Clyde pulled on his jogging shoes. Hastily tying them, he grabbed his keys.

In the downstairs hall Clyde dug his parka from the closet, snatched Joe up in his arms, and headed for the car. Racing down the hall, they heard Rube huffing behind the kitchen door. Clyde double-timed it through the dark living room and out the front door, not bothering to lock it. Sliding into the old Buick sedan that he'd driven home that night—to avoid putting up the top in his yellow antique roadster—he dropped Joe on the passenger seat like a bag of flour, hit the starter, and fished a flashlight from the glove compartment.

Shining the light along the sidewalk, Clyde headed for the hills, man and cat watching every shadow, every
smear of darkness. Joe, crouched on the dash where he could see the street, glanced over at Clyde.

“How could there have been a wreck? When did this happen? How could they have a wreck at night? Lucinda and Pedric don't drive at night. Never. At eighty, that's smart. So how—”

“Wilma didn't give me details, she was frantic for the kit, I've never heard her so out-of-control. The Sonoma County coroner called her. A wreck, a tanker truck—gasoline. A nighttime wreck, a fire. My God, those two innocent people. The kit was wild, hysterical.”

“Watch your driving. I'll do the looking. Why did Wilma
tell
her all that? Didn't she know the kit would—”

“Kit had her ear stuck to the phone, you know how she is. She heard before Wilma could snatch her away. And even if she had—”

“There! Slow down.”

Clyde skidded to a stop.

“Is that her in the bushes?” Joe had been ready to leap out when he saw it was not Kit but a raccoon—and his concern for the kit escalated into a sharp fear. The car lights picked out raccoons' masked eyes, an unwelcome gang of midnight predators.

Joe had shouted and shouted for the kit as they moved on between the close-crowding shops and houses. “I think she headed for Hellhag Hill,” he had said tightly, hoping she hadn't bolted down into the caves that, as far as he knew, might go clear to the center of the earth. Because the kit could, in her volatile grief, mindlessly run and run and keep running. Even
at the best of times, the kit was all emotion—and Lucinda and Pedric were her family.

Trying to see out of the slow-moving car, Joe had been weak with nerves by the time they reached Hellhag Hill. Clyde parked along the dropping cliff where the waves slapped and churned below them, set the hand brake, and snatched Joe up again. The minute he opened the door, both man and cat were drenched. The hill humped above them like a bloated black beast. Impatient with human slowness, Joe had leaped from Clyde's arms and raced blindly upward through the forest of wet, blowing grass.

But now, perched on Clyde's shoulder again where he could see better, he tried to identify that faint smear of blackness.
Was
that the kit, rearing up for a better look down at them? But as he watched, the black speck disappeared, was gone. Now, not a sound from above. Only when Clyde paused again and stood still did they hear one tiny sob.

Rearing up taller against Clyde's head, Joe shouted, “
Come down, Kit. Come down now! Right now!
I have something to tell you. Something about Lucinda and Pedric.” And he leaped down into the tall wet grass and raced ahead of Clyde up the black hill.

Only when they were very near the tumble of boulders on the crest did the kit peer out, crouching and shivering. This was not their fluff-coated, flag-tailed tortoiseshell, their sassy, brightly animated friend. This rain-soaked, forlorn little animal was dull and spent, a miserable ragged beast who, with her wet fur matted to her body, seemed far smaller, far more frail.

“Come here,” Joe said, shouldering through the wet grass. “Come
now
.”

The kit came to Joe, with her head down, slow and grieving. She looked like the first time Joe had ever seen her, a terrified feral animal afraid of humans, afraid of other cats, afraid of the world, totally alone and without hope. She stood hunched in the grass before him.

Behind Joe, Clyde stood very still. Then in a moment, he took two careful steps toward her. She didn't spin away. Two more steps, and another, and he knelt beside the kit, where she cowered with grief before Joe Grey.

Gently Clyde picked her up, gently he held her. The wind beating at them made her shiver. Unzipping his jacket, Clyde tucked her inside, then zipped it up again. Only her dark, lean little face could be seen. Pitifully the kit looked up at Clyde. “They never drive at night. They would never be driving at night. Why were they out at night on the highway?”

She stared into the wind and up at the stormy sky. “How could your strange human God cause Lucinda and Pedric to be dead? Why would he do that?” She looked at Clyde, and down at Joe Grey. Around them, the black hill rolled away, uncaring. Above them the black sky stormed uncaring and remote. To the vast and incomprehensible elements this small cat's mourning went unheard, her pain unheeded. What possible power, so beyond mortal ken, would bother with this insignificant beast? What power in all the universe would care that she was hurting?

They had started down the hill, Clyde snuggling the kit close, Joe Grey shouldering through the wet grass
beside him, when lights appeared on the highway below coming slowly around the curve.

 

When Clyde and Wilma, Kit and Joe and Dulcie, were all together, sitting in Wilma's car, the kit crawled out from Clyde's jacket. Obediently allowing Wilma to towel her, she was quiet, very still. As Wilma worked, her yellow slicker made crinkling sounds over her soaking pajamas, and her wet boots squelched with water. As the kit began to dry and grow warmer, when her small body wasn't quite as rigid, Wilma said, “I don't know much more than you heard. I can't imagine why they were on the highway at that hour. It's been storming all night up there.”

She looked at Clyde. “Sheriff's office called me just before I called you. The accident happened on 101 somewhere north of Ukiah. They had been heading north. A gas truck…apparently hit them on a curve.” She looked desolately at Clyde. “Both vehicles rolled and burned. Just
burned
…” Wilma covered her face. “Exploded and burned.”

She was quiet for a long time, holding the kit, her face pushed against the little cat. Still the kit was silent. Wilma looked up at last. “There was nothing left. Nothing. The vehicle's license was ripped off in the explosion, went flying with torn pieces of the RV. That's how the sheriff knew who to call.”

Since Lucinda had sold her house just after she and Pedric were married, the newlyweds had used Wilma's address for all their business, for everything but interest income, which was handled by direct deposit. Wilma faxed their bank statements to them, and sent
any urgent papers. Wilma's address had been on the couple's drivers' licenses and on their vehicle registration.

 

As the five sat in the front seat, close together, Dulcie nosed under the towel, into Wilma's arms, snuggling close to the kit. Around the car, the wind eased off, and the rain turned from fitful gusts to a hard, steady downpour. It seemed to Dulcie that fate had, since early in the year, turned a hard and uncaring countenance on their little extended family. First Captain Harper had been set up as a suspected murderer. Then that terrible bomb that came close to killing everyone at Captain Harper and Charlie's wedding. Then during Charlie's gallery party, that man dying. And now this terrible, senseless accident to Kit's human family. She felt lost and grim, she wanted only to be home with Kit, tucked up in Wilma's bed with hot milk and kitty treats, where nothing more could happen.

 

When Clyde and Joe slid into their own car and headed home, Joe settled unashamedly against Clyde's leg. He felt more like a pet cat tonight, needful of human caring. Not since his days as a stray kitten, sleeping in San Francisco's alleys, had he felt quite so in need of security and a little petting—it was all very well to have a solid record of murder and burglary convictions to his credit, but sometimes a little mothering of the bachelor variety was a nice change. The thought of Lucinda and Pedric gone, forever and irrefutably gone, had left him feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable.

Glancing down at Joe, Clyde laid his hand on Joe's shoulder and scratched his ear.

They'd been home for half an hour, Clyde had toweled Joe dry and used the hair dryer on him, and Joe was half asleep under the covers when Clyde came upstairs bringing with him an aroma that brought Joe straight up, staring.

Clyde set a tray on the bed, right in front of him. Imported sardines? He had to be dreaming. A whole bevy of those little pastrami-on-rye appetizers that Clyde kept stashed in the freezer, now warm from the microwave? He looked at Clyde and looked back at the brimming tray.

Clyde, who had showered and pulled on a robe, set his hot rum drink on the night table and slid into bed, propping the pillows behind him. “So tuck in. What? You're not hungry?”

Joe laid a paw on Clyde's hand. He gave Clyde a whisker rub, then tucked into the feast with a gusto and lack of manners that, tonight, Clyde didn't mention. If Joe slopped on the covers, Clyde didn't seem to care. With the wonder of Clyde's offering, and with the bodily nourishment as well, a wave of well-being surged all through Joe Grey. He began to feel warm all over, feel safe again; began once more to feel strong and invulnerable.