Cat Deck the Halls (20 page)

“H
OLD THE DAMN
door, Ralph! Get out of the way!” Betty stepped over Ryan where she lay unconscious, bleeding onto the stone floor. Quickly she and the two men loaded the panels, piled into the van, and took off with a squeal of tires, leaving the garage door banging.

Leaping to Ryan, the cats crouched over her, nosing and pawing at her, trying to rouse her. “Her cell phone!” Dulcie said, pawing at her jacket pockets and then at her belt, trying to find the little holster. “Where…?”

“The truck!” Kit mewed, and fled for Ryan's truck. Leaping and scrambling in through the open window, she vanished, her tail waving and then gone.

She appeared again almost at once, her mouth gaping around Ryan's cell phone. Dropping out the window and bolting into the studio, she laid it at Joe's feet.

Joe knew how to operate Clyde's phone, and he'd used Wilma's. But every phone was different, and it took them precious minutes to understand this one. Finally, with a
prayer and a fast paw, he reached the dispatcher—one ring, two, and a familiar voice.

“Thank God it's Mabel,” he blurted to Dulcie. “Stanhope mansion,” he shouted. “Thieves, struck Ryan with a hammer, she's out cold, maybe concussion…The old studio…” He heard Mabel speaking to the medics on another line and in a second they heard the siren whoop, half a mile away.
Whoop, whoop,
coming fast, straight for the school. Joe described the blue van look-alike, gave Mabel the plate number and the number of the tan Suburban with which, he thought, the van might rendezvous. They wouldn't get far in that conspicuous blue van, they'd have to shift the paintings somewhere. As Joe talked with Mabel, Kit and Dulcie pawed at Ryan and licked her face, trying to wake her.

 

T
WO MILES SOUTH
of the village, below the black cliffs, a lone hiker descended to the shore. The tide was unusually low, the sea sucking back into the far distance, leaving a long slope of wet and gleaming sand bejeweled with tiny, sea-washed treasures. Wandering slowly, the woman left a single line of footprints pressed into the silver skein, each indentation quickly filling again with seawater; the cold smells of salt and iodine were strong enough to taste.

Although it was against coastal rules, she bent down now and then to collect a rounded stone or a shell of particular beauty, or a small bit of sea-smoothed driftwood, placing each carefully in the lightweight backpack that she carried over her shoulder. She was twenty-two, with lank brown hair, a lean and tanned young woman who seldom
wore makeup. The wind was at her back, pressing her along as she moved north from where she'd left her small, two-door Civic on the cliff above, parked in a pullout, its bumper against the log barrier at the edge of the cliff stairs. Her stride was long and swinging, her delight complete at finding the beach empty on this bright, cold afternoon. Buoyed and excited by her isolation, relishing the perfection of the day that nothing could spoil, she stopped suddenly.

Startled.

Stood very still, sniffing the air, frightened by the unnatural smell.

She stood at a bend in the cliff. She could taste the cloying, sweet smell, it nearly made her retch. She stood staring, then she started forward again, hesitantly, her hand over her mouth and nose to block the smell. Above her the cliff rose some thirty feet, sheer and wet, and black as obsidian.

Just ahead, beyond the stone outcropping, something gleamed. She approached until she glimpsed it, dark and curved, sleek as a beached whale, half hidden beyond the turn in the cliff; whatever it was did not belong there.

Oh, not a baby whale, she thought, recoiling with pity and dread. Donna Reese loved the eerie songs of the whales; she played her wildlife tapes over and over through earphones at night in her college dorm, to help her sleep.

But no, this was not a smooth, water-sleek animal. This was metal. Dark, wet metal. At a change of the wind that drove the stink at her, she gagged, the wind's shifting gust slapping the sick-sweet stink right in her face, making her stomach twist.

But in a moment she approached, her hand tighter over her nose and mouth.

She saw the fender first, and then the whole car. Water dripped from the metal, water left when the tide had receded. The vehicle was turned up on its nose, badly dented, wedged beneath a hollow of cliff that was being slowly cut by the sea into a shallow cave.

How long had the wreck been here? Through how many changes of tide? Ignoring the need to heave, she cupped her hands to the cracked passenger window, peering in.

She stood a moment looking at the dead man, then looked up at the sheer black cliff and the narrow highway some hundred feet above. Down the side of the cliff she could see fresh scrape marks where the car had gone over.

At the base of the cliff lay jagged humps of broken black rock protruding from the wet sand. Once, millions of years before, this whole coast had lain on the sea bottom. She didn't know what that had to do with the dead man, she just thought it. The thought sent a thrill of fear through her that made her glance warily behind her at the endless sea, made her think about the frailty of human life.

Moving away from the body and the wreck, she threw up.

When she had emptied her stomach, probably of all her meals for the last week, she thought, her mouth tasting vile both from throwing up and from the permeating stink, she dug into her pack for her cell phone.

Donna Reese, at twenty-two, might be adventuresome and independent and prefer to hike alone without talkative companions, but she carried water, candy bars, and a cell phone. She was generally levelheaded, but now she stood trying to gather her wits, trying to put out of her mind the swollen, ugly body, the transformation that death had bestowed upon what had once been a living man.

And then she dialed 911.

One ring, and a woman dispatcher picked up. Carefully Donna gave her location, told the woman that she'd seen only one person in the car. Yes, he was definitely dead. Swollen. Far beyond need for the paramedics. As she spoke, she longed suddenly to be home, if only back in the dorm, back in her own familiar place in the world, where she'd be safe; and for a moment, she wondered if she had the nerve, now, to drive back toward the village along that narrow and precarious two-lane highway.

 

A
S
M
AX
H
ARPER
moved out with a dozen other police officers, their silent units seeking the blue van and the tan Suburban, Dallas Garza headed for the hospital on the tail of the EMTs, cursing the medic's slow, careful driving even with its siren blasting, wanting to jam his foot on the gas. He was going to get his hands on Betty Wicken, on all three of those bastards, and he wasn't sure what he'd do to them. If violent retribution lost him his job, so be it. Swinging a sharp U into the emergency parking beside the rescue van, he moved beside Ryan's stretcher as they hurried her in through the emergency entrance. She hadn't moved. She didn't move now.

In the ER, he hovered over her while Dr. Hamry took a look, cleaned up the wound, and then had her moved to a bed where he could watch her. Ray Hamry was young, maybe forty. A tall, thin, athletic man with short brown hair and blue eyes, tanned from tennis and swimming. He was a man Dallas had known a long time, and respected—but
even Hamry could not have all the answers to her condition until he'd examined Ryan further, and run the X-rays and scans. Hamry tried to ease Dallas's fear and rage, knowing that wouldn't do much good, that Dallas was going to fuss and pace until he had answers.

 

T
HE THREE CATS
couldn't very well hitch a ride in the rescue vehicle with Ryan or in Dallas's squad car. Beating it to the station across the rooftops, they were on the dispatcher's counter waiting for word about Ryan when the call came in about the body, Dulcie and Kit curled up beside Mabel's in-box, Joe Grey sprawled across a stack of outgoing reports. Mabel had the phone speaker on, leaving her hands free for a copying job. The caller was a woman.

She sounded young, and shaken. “There…there's a dead man. Below the cliff. In a wrecked car. It went over the side, you can see the marks. He's been dead for a long time. Swollen.” She sounded like she was trying not to retch.

“Where?” Mabel said. “Can you tell me exactly where you are?”

“I…just below the state park. My car's at the top by the stairs. About two miles south of the village, I think. I was walking the beach, and…the wrecked car's all sand and mud, and dripping water.”

“How many people in it, besides the driver? Can you see anyone else inside?”

The girl didn't answer.

“Stay on the line.
Please
stay on the line,” Mabel shouted, turning to the radio to send two cars on their way. Then, “Are you still there?”

“Yes, I'm here.”

“What kind of car are you driving?”

“White, two-door Civic.” The girl gave Mabel the license-plate number.

“Stay on the line, I'm putting you on hold.” Punching another line, Mabel called the coroner, and then tried to reach the captain and Detective Garza. The cats heard the back door slam as officers headed out to their units. They heard two cars start and race away, and then Dallas came on the line.

“I'm at the hospital.”

“How is she?” Mabel said.

“Concussion, but stable. They don't know any more, yet.”

“We have a body in a wrecked car, bottom of the cliff, two miles south of the village. Caller says it's been dead awhile. Two cars dispatched.” Mabel gave him the location, near the cliffside stairs. “Caller's car's parked there, a white Civic.”

“I'm on my way,” Dallas said. Mabel kept trying to reach the chief, but couldn't raise him. It wasn't like Captain Harper not to answer, either on his radio or his cell phone, and Mabel began to fidget. Joe wanted to tell her that Max was chasing the Wickens and maybe was too mad or too involved to pick up the call, but he could only lie there, mute, edgy, and frustrated.

Ten minutes later, Mabel reached Harper's cell phone. She was relaying the information about the body when the
radio came alive. Four officers were at the scene. Brennan said, “Looks like we might have the Christmas-tree body.”

Three sets of ears pricked with interest, three small bodies tensed.

“There's a teddy bear in the car,” Brennan said, “and a little girl's sweater about the right size. Pillows and a blanket, like maybe they'd traveled a ways. No kid, no luggage, no other clothes. Car's a gray 1997 Toyota Camry. No plates. Nothing in the glove compartment. McFarland's checking for…Hang on.”

There was a lapse of some minutes. Mabel and the cats could hear background voices and bouts of disturbance that sounded like gusts of wind. Brennan said, “VIN number's been filed off. No ID on the body. Coroner's here. See if you can pick up a stolen report on that make of car.”

As Mabel typed the information into the computer, Joe Grey grew increasingly restive. He wanted to be at the scene; Mabel's electronic command post was good, but it was second best. Mabel was talking with Dallas again when they heard Detective Davis coming up the hall.

Mabel filled her in, and Davis spoke with Garza, and because the victim might have been traveling but no luggage was found, they decided to pull a couple of guys off their beat to check the motels. See if they could find a man registered with a little girl, someone who hadn't been seen for a couple of days.

Now that they had a body, there was an outside chance they might get an identification through the DNA. At least they'd have DNA to compare with the blood around the Christmas tree.

“Lucky,” Mabel said, “that the lab has two new technicians.”

“Lucky if they stay,” Davis said. “With the cost of living in the area, it isn't likely.” For over a year the lab had been understaffed, with two desks vacant. And the county was making little effort to raise the salaries for those urgent positions. Cases had been backed up, with resulting complications, and many minor cases let walk or ignored because the arresting officers couldn't get the latents processed or get the lab work needed to get these cases into court.

“With pillows and a blanket in the car,” Mabel said, “does that sound like the dead man kidnapped her?” She looked around. “Where
is
your young charge?”

“She's with Sand. Eleanor took her up to the seniors' for a while. No, I don't buy kidnapping. Informant said she was huddled up to the guy. If you can believe her. Why would…”

Mabel nodded. “Why would she lie? That informant has never led us wrong. I know her voice, I've taken her calls enough times.”

“And this call from down the coast? That wasn't the same?”

“Not at all,” Mabel said. “But the call when Ryan was hurt…No doubt about that one. I'd know
his
voice anywhere.”

The two women were quiet, looking at each other. The cats were quiet, and seemed to be dozing. “How do they do that?” Mabel said softly. “How can those snitches always be at the scene?” She stroked Dulcie nervously. “I think about that too much, Juana. Sometimes it gives me the shivers.”
Under Mabel's stroking hand, Dulcie was getting shivers. On the counter beside her, Joe Grey felt his skin twitch, his nerves so jumpy his whiskers quivered. Kit was very still, as if wishing she could vanish—like a rabbit gone to ground hoping to disappear in the tall grass.

Dallas came back on. “If the motels don't turn up their luggage, maybe the killer dumped it so we couldn't ID the victim.”

Davis said, “What about I pull the two rookies, let them do some Dumpster diving?”

Dallas chuckled. “And what about the charity shops?”