Cat Striking Back (17 page)

E
ARLIER IN THE
Longley house, when Dulcie and Kit dove into the recess beneath the stairs, Joe Grey had slid around the corner and into the shadows of a hall, stopping, dead ended, at a closet door. Frantically he had pawed it open as the man searched the living room. Slipping inside and beneath a tangle of coats, he pulled the door closed with a hasty paw, thanking the great cat god that the hinges were silent. He didn't dare let it latch, even the smallest click would crack like a rifle shot. This wasn't smart, shutting himself in such a trap. If the guy jerked the door open, he'd have to be quick to get out, to save his furry neck. The closet stunk of damp wool, and of dog urine on the tip of an umbrella that was propped in the corner.

As the man's heavy footsteps approached, he leaped up between a trench coat and a black peacoat, digging his claws into the thick wool. Hanging there with the claws of all four feet busily engaged, he hoped the damn rod wouldn't give way.

The footsteps paused just outside. The door opened and the man knelt, looking in beneath the coats. He picked up the umbrella and poked it into the dark corners. Then he gave a cross “Hmph,” shut the door, and went back down the hall.

Dropping carefully to the floor, Joe pressed against the door. He listened for some time to the guy searching for him. Finally he must have given up, because Joe heard him return to filling his boxes with books. He imagined Dulcie and Kit watching from beneath the stairs—he'd heard Dulcie hiss at Tansy to run, had heard the smaller cat's racing footfalls on the floor above.

He waited, it seemed, for a very long time before he heard the guy walk heavily away toward the garage, as if loaded down with another stack of boxes. When he'd gone, Joe leaped at the knob, grabbed it between his paws and swung until he could kick the door open. Peering out, he whispered for Dulcie.

There was no answer. He waited, listening. There was no sound. When the man didn't return, he was about to slip out and look for her and Kit when he heard the garage door rise and the RV pull out—and a chill hit him.

Had they followed the guy and slipped into the RV intent on shadowing him, on finding out where he was taking the stolen property?

That would be like them. Both females were as nosy as a bloodhound on the scent. Frightened for them, he raced up the stairs and out the bathroom window, hoping to see which way the RV headed, thinking to call the station and report the burglar, get a be-on-the-lookout started. He could think of nothing else to do.

Racing across the roof to the edge, he saw the dark vehicle moving slowly away, up the street. He fled across the shingles after it, with a giant leap to the next roof, and the next, praying that Dulcie and Kit weren't inside being hauled away to who knew where. He was scorching down a pine tree, where the roofs were too far apart, when the RV slowed and pulled into the Beckers' drive. As he fled through the bushes for the Beckers' yard, he heard their garage door open.

The RV disappeared inside, and the door rolled down again. This guy must sweat every time the sound of an electric door broke the night's silence, as he hastened to conceal his intrusion. How did he have openers for these houses? How, for that matter, had he known these particular houses were empty? Joe approached the Becker house beneath a low-growing pepper tree. Within seconds he was clinging to the wrought-iron grille beside the Beckers' front door. Though his big paws weren't as clever as Tansy's, with persistence and with tomcat muscle he soon slipped the window open and bellied inside.

Leaving the window open for a quick departure, he listened for sounds from the garage. A sudden scurrying behind him made him spin around.

Dulcie came sliding through the window and into the dark entry hall, uttering a little mewl of relief at finding him there. Kit exploded through behind her. Both cats were panting.

“Might as well try to catch a racehorse,” Dulcie said, “as to track you. You must have flown across the roofs. What…?” She went quiet at the sound, from the direction of the garage, of a knob turning.

They heard the inner door creak open. Footsteps approached fast, as if he was certain the house was empty—and as if he was familiar with the layout. There was no handy place to hide from him, and the cats fled in three directions. Joe spun toward the stairs and up out of sight. Kit leaped onto the rosewood bookcase, where she froze between two decoratively carved boxes, her mottled coat blending with both. Dulcie slipped into the African basket, her dark stripes melting into its patterns. The burglar had traversed the short distance to the entry hall, where he paused within touching distance of Dulcie and Kit, noticing neither camouflaged cat.

From the shadowed stairs, Joe peered down into the living room, thanking the great god who had effectively crippled human night vision. He had sensibly tucked his head down to hide his white paws and chest, hoping, if he was seen, that he'd resemble one of those life-size cats that people brought home from the gift shops of airports—wouldn't that be a shocker if this guy picked him up expecting a stuffed replica and got a fistful of fighting tomcat.

Again the burglar was well prepared, with a stack of empty boxes. Moving on through the foyer, he began to strip the living room of all the small pieces, intricately patterned handmade pillows, small carved chests. For nearly an hour the cats posed, unmoving, rigid in their grandstand seats as the busy burglar packed up rugs and accessories, carved side tables, and the paintings from the walls. He even had newspapers to pack up the expensive-looking porcelain and protect the delicate tables, and he seemed to know exactly what he wanted. Dulcie imagined
a computer inside his head ticking off dollar signs, toting up the value of each separate piece. When he seemed about to finish in the living room, Joe left his perch on the stairs and the cats crawled uncomfortably beneath the lowest shelf of the teak table. A tight squeeze but a better hiding place, putting them at eye level with his shoes as he made trip after trip carrying his treasures to the garage. This guy had planned with care, from acquiring the garage door openers to inventorying the contents of the designated houses. There seemed to be no hesitation, no misstep. The question was, how did he know these houses so well?

They could hear him out in the garage loading the boxes into his RV, which must be getting pretty full. Returning, he went through the rest of the rooms, upstairs and down, carrying away the nicest treasures. Last of all, he opened the hall closet and started loading up the packages and sealed boxes.

The deep closet, crowded with Frances's wrapped treasures, proved her to indeed be an avid collector. Dulcie guessed she had to be a topflight accountant to afford the luxuries with which the house was furnished. By the time the burglar had made only two trips carrying taped boxes and brown-paper packages, Joe had worked out his plan and was tensed to spring into action. As the man headed away on his third trip, Joe slipped down the stairs to have a look at the closet door.

The doorknobs on both sides were simple round ones. The lock was installed above the knobs. There was no corresponding bolt inside, not your usual safety arrangement. If you were inside, and someone locked the door, you'd be
trapped. And that made the tomcat smile.

Rearing up beside the open door, he could just reach the key. The door was heavy, most likely a solid core, and hardly moved under his weight. With a quick paw, claws gripped around the key, and twisting his whole body, he was just able to turn it—the dead bolt slid noiselessly out. When he turned the key again with another hard, shoulder-wrenching twist, it slid back. He heard the guy returning and dove back into the shadows beneath the table, pushing in between Dulcie and Kit; and the minute the man left with another load, the tomcat laid out his plan. “I'll be the bait,” he told them.

“No,” said Kit, “you're stronger.
I'll
lure him inside. You and Dulcie shove the door and turn the lock, I can dive out faster!”

“No!” Dulcie and Joe said together—but they heard him coming back and it looked like this would be the last load, the closet was nearly stripped of packages. “No!” Dulcie hissed again as Kit dove into the closet, concealing herself behind the remaining boxes like the good hunter she was, waiting for her victim.

K
IT WAITED DEEP
in the closet, crouched and still. As the burglar stepped in and reached to take the last boxes she leaped at him, exploding in his face with a bloodcurdling yowl that made him stumble backward and fall, crashing into the shelves, thrusting out his hands to ward her off—she looked twice her size, fur standing out, bushy tail lashing. When she screamed again, he scrabbled at the shelves as if to climb away from her. She advanced on him, forcing him back as Joe and Dulcie crouched to leap at the door. Their timing had to be fast and exact, Kit racing out and the door slamming closed.
Run now!
Dulcie thought, wanting to scream at her.
Run out now!
Her muscles quivered, primed to leap the moment Kit bolted through.

But now, instead of trying to escape from Kit, he grabbed a long package and began to beat at her. She dodged and he missed. As he swung again, Joe and Dulcie sprang at him, forgetting the door. He yelled, knocked the cats off with hard blows and bolted past them out the door, hitting Joe as he slammed it in their faces.

They heard the key turn, the dead bolt sliding home.

Joe staggered up and jumped at the door, clawing uselessly at the knob. He fell back to the floor, staring up where the inner knob of the lock
should
be. They were locked in, they were trapped. They pushed close together, fear gripping them, and Kit began to pant.

At first they heard no sound from without, but then, pressing against the door, they could hear him breathing—as if he was standing just outside. Already the air felt close and hot, already the walls were pressing in. They thought about cats trapped in the holds of airplanes, about kittens falling into some hidey-hole where they couldn't get out, about cats locked in abandoned houses. They stared at the heavy door, wanting to claw through it and knowing cat claws couldn't penetrate an inch of solid wood.

The fact that they'd meant to imprison the burglar as they were now confined, made them feel all the more helpless, made their plight all the more horrifying. Theirs had been an honorable plan. They hadn't meant to leave him here to die, they'd intended that he be rescued.

But what did he intend? Was he smiling, hoping no one found them until it was too late?

 

H
E STOOD STARING
at the locked closet door, feeling smug that he'd trapped them but shaken by their attack. He leaned against the wall, fishing in his pocket for the inhaler, and found he'd left it in the RV. Where had those cats come from? It couldn't be the same three as in the Longley house, but they looked the same. And how would
they get into either house? Cats didn't go through locked doors, he thought, shivering.

Earlier, as he'd hurried to load up the books and paperweights, could they have smelled his stress and fear? Could that have made them follow him? He'd always believed that the smell of fear would make a cat come after a person. He was still so sick from their attack that even after he returned to the RV, when he couldn't find the inhaler, he could only sit miserably behind the wheel gulping air, trying to get his breath. When at last he could breathe again he searched under the seats then moved into the back, searched frantically among the boxes and packages that he'd loaded, searched every inch of the floor that he could reach. He wanted to go back in the house, to look in all the rooms, but there wasn't time.

He remembered when he'd watched that couple from above the empty ranch, he'd had the inhaler then, he remembered using it, the comforting feel of knowing it would help him. And he'd had it when he buried her, had used it then. Before he hauled her down the ladder he'd taken it out of his pocket, didn't want it falling out as he bent and dug and heaved dirt. He remembered laying it on the worktable. He couldn't remember his hand on it again, couldn't remember putting it back in his pocket.

It wasn't only that it was a prescription inhaler, that he couldn't stop in a drugstore and pick one off the counter. It was that his fingerprints would be on it. He looked again through the glove compartment and the console, but it wasn't there. He'd have to go back to the remodel, go in the garage again where he'd buried her, see if it was on
the worktable. Yes, he was sure of it, when he grabbed and threw the hammer, he'd been so upset he'd forgotten it.

These last two houses would take only minutes and he'd be done and could go get the inhaler. In these houses, all he wanted was the small stuff, and in both cases the collections were all in one place. The jewelry wouldn't take any time to gather up, and Theresa's miniature paintings would fit in a couple of boxes. He didn't want to leave those, there were some name painters in there who would bring a good price. Get the stuff quick and he'd be done. Swing by and get the inhaler, then hit the road.

Starting the engine, he activated the garage door and backed out, shutting the door behind him. With the successful completion of the major part of his plan, with
her
put safely to rest, and when the sound of those cats clawing the door could no longer reach him, his confidence returned. Couple of hours from now he'd be up the road, tucked comfortably into a motel under another name, a drink in his hand and his stash safely locked in the RV, ready, in the morning, to trade for cash and a new start.

He had no notion, thinking about his plans, that when he returned to the empty house he would again be watched. If he'd known, he might not have gone back, he might have left the inhaler and prayed that no one would pay attention to it, that it would be tossed out with the rest of the trash.