Cat Deck the Halls (3 page)

R
ACING AWAY FROM
Joe into the dark plaza looking for the vanished child, the tortoiseshell cat didn't care that the body had vanished, she thought only of the terrified little girl, afraid that the killer had taken her—or had the child run before he could grab her? Had the sirens scared him away before he could snatch up the frail witness? A little girl like that, could she get away from a grown man? Maybe hide where he wouldn't find her? If she'd seen the shooter's face, she was surely marked for death.

Trying to find the child's scent among all the cops' trails as they'd quartered the plaza sent Kit doubling back again and again, sniffing at every brick, at every patch of earth, scenting around every bush trying to catch the smell of the little girl over the sharp trails of shoe polish, testosterone-heavy sweat, gun oil, and the pungent odors of geraniums and Mexican sage that seemed to want to drown out all else. Though Kit could track as no cop could, as only a dog could do, this morass of fresh scents was indeed daunting.

And was the killer still nearby, watching the police? Maybe even watching her, wondering what that cat was doing?

The day had begun so happily amid all the Christmas bustle. As Kit had trotted out of the house that morning through the dining-room window onto her favorite oak branch, behind her the dining table was strewn with wrappings and boxes; in the living room, the tree lights glowed; and in the kitchen her two human housemates had been chopping nuts for fruitcake, the tall, eighty-some newlyweds as happy as a couple of kids, laughing and teasing each other, surrounded by the delicious smells of baking, of vanilla and almond flavoring and ginger and candied cherries. Racing away toward the village over the familiar tangle of rooftops, Kit had found Joe Grey and Dulcie on the tiled roof of the Patio Café, the big silver tomcat having a morning wash while tabby Dulcie waved her darkly striped tail, caught happily in the milieu of delicious Christmas smells and of taped Christmas music that rose up to them from the small shops, and listening to the villagers' cheerful greetings as they hurried from one small store to the next. The cool morning had been jewel bright, almost balmy for December, a day to roll on warm concrete or, for a human, to abandon the house for the sunwashed village and seashore. After a week of icy winds and lashing rains, everyone had seemed to be out and about, as busy as field mice emerging from their holes on the first nice morning. But then, by late afternoon, the weather had turned stormy again, dark clouds rolling in and the wind whipping up foam off the ocean. Since early November, the weather had been wildly unpredictable, the central California coast awash with bright sun one day, battered by dark rain and heavy winds the next. Kit's human
friends hardly knew, when they got out of bed in the morning, whether to dress in shorts and a light shirt, or sweaters and rain gear. Even the newscaster on TV seemed unable to predict heat or cold, rain or sun, his broadcasts so uncertain that he should be embarrassed to show his face on the big screen. In six weeks' time, the Pacific Coast had been hit by five gusting storms that ripped away tree limbs, tore off shingles, and made everyone as grouchy as if the weather's tantrums were personal assaults. Then would come a few days of sunshine that made everyone smile and laugh and go out Christmas shopping before another storm hit, the pre-Christmas temperatures as crazy as if the weather gods were binging on catnip.

 

W
HILE
K
IT SEARCHED
the dark gardens, deftly avoiding the fast-moving hard shoes of the uniforms, across the street from the plaza, inside the empty store that he had scoped out earlier, James Kuda stood among sawhorses and stacked lumber, looking out, watching the dark-clad cops searching the street. Because the store was undergoing extensive renovation, he had wandered in there days ago, out of curiosity. Investigating the back room, he had found only a simple, punch-type lock on the backdoor, which, tonight, he had easily jimmied. Now, wearing a black sweatshirt and black pants, and a black stocking cap that amused him, he stood among a half-dozen upright rolls of black construction paper, his face turned away into the shadows—black on black to the cops' lights that flashed like explosions through the glass, picking out bare
stud walls, stacked plywood and two-by-fours, and sliding over Kuda, who stood like another roll of strong-smelling building paper.

From this vantage he couldn't see much inside the plaza. An abbreviated view through its side entry, part of the Christmas tree, a half-dozen cops clustered around, and the back end and open doors of the EMT van. Body or no body, it looked like they were running the scene. A Latino detective taking photographs. Next thing, he'd be dusting for prints, taking particle and blood samples, then walking the grid. Kuda wasn't worried about prints, not with cotton gloves—generic gloves whose fibers they probably couldn't trace. He still had the gun and silencer, though, and was debating where to dump them.

Well, not likely they'd find the body. The car was well hidden, and not even a window in that garage; and he wouldn't be pulling out again until the uniforms cooled off, had gone off duty or back to their regular rounds. Glancing above to the plaza roof, he glimpsed something dark and small slipping along the tiles, some animal or maybe an owl; maybe that was what he'd heard earlier, an animal running across the roof.

Except, there'd been a person, too. Someone had called the cops, no animal could do that.

 

F
ROM THE ROOF
,
looking down on the dark gardens as the officers searched, Joe Grey caught only glimpses of the tortoiseshell kit prowling among the flowers and bushes, her darkly mottled coat hardly visible against the night-
dark patterns of leaf and shadow. She'd been down there a long time. Had she found nothing? Restlessly, he dropped down a tree to join her, and together they sniffed and shouldered through the darkest, back portions of the garden, as deeply intent as a pair of tracking bloodhounds.

They found not the faintest scent of the child. Until…

Joe stopped and reared up. Sniffing. Listening. His white paws and chest and the white stripe down his nose gleamed in the night as he spun around toward the center of the plaza—and swiftly Kit leaped to join him.

“There,” he said softly.

They approached a tangle of flowering shrubs where a tiny pond and waterfall had been built, set aside as a special drinking fountain for visiting canines. No one had thought to dedicate anything to the village cats! “There! Do you smell her?” Joe hissed.

Kit's nose twitched. Smell of water, of dog and dog pee, all so heavy around the little pool that she had missed the child's scent. Now she caught it, and they circled the pond to where the smell was sharpest—scent of child. Scent of blood.

Behind the rocky waterfall, the fountain's pump was enclosed in a small shed some two feet high. The child's smell came from there. Approaching the little closed door, fearful of what they would find, they caught no scent of death. But now, on the door handle, another smell. The smell of peanut butter.

And then, listening, the rhythm of soft, ragged breathing.

Pawing and fighting the door handle, then hooking their claws underneath the door itself, they were able to pull it open.

 

A
T THE BACK
of the shed, the little girl was crouched in a dark niche between the small water pump and the rough wall, her face pinched and white, her dark eyes huge with fear, eyes as black as obsidian—but when she saw that it was only cats, she drew in her breath with startled relief.

Kit approached her softly. When the child didn't cringe away, Kit nosed at her, then stepped into her lap. Standing with her paws on the child's shoulders, Kit licked her on the nose. Shyly the child stroked Kit, drawing in a tremulous breath. Behind them, Joe Grey managed, with stubborn claws, to draw the door closed again. And in the dark, small space the two cats snuggled close to the little girl, nosing at her as they tried to see if she was hurt, tried to find a wound.

The blood on her sweater was drying. They found no fresh blood, and there seemed to be no physical hurt, and they decided this was, indeed, the dead man's blood. They didn't want to discuss the matter, didn't want to speak in front of the child, their commitment to secrecy was far too important. Even a six-year-old could tell tales. They simply curled up on her lap and smiled up at her, purring—and wondering if they could nudge her into leaving her hiding place, if they could lead her back to Detective Garza; the child was so rigid with fear that they didn't think she'd follow, didn't think she'd leave her tight little refuge.

Joe thought the fastest way to bring help was to race home and phone the dispatcher, tell Mabel where the child was so Dallas Garza could come and get her. He was about
to push outside when footsteps came pounding up the walk straight toward the shed, heavy steps that paused, then began to circle the fountain. The child cringed deeper in, shivering. The cats, leaving her huddled, crouched by the door, tensed to leap in the face of whoever entered, their claws flexing with predatory lust. Beyond the door, the man stood inches from them. The child swallowed, her thin body rigid with fear—but then a radio mumbled softly, and they caught the man's scent.

T
HE LOW DOOR
to the pump house flew open, and a gun was thrust in at the cats and child, and a dark, crouching figure peered in, the black automatic held in his meaty hand. The cats didn't breathe, the child didn't breathe. He switched on a light, blazing in their faces. And suddenly he laughed. Brennan, Officer Brennan, his belly protruding over his belt as he bent lower and reached in. Brennan's gruff voice was unusually soft.

“Come on, honey, it's all right. It's all right now. I'm a police officer, I won't hurt you.”

But the child pressed away from him, pushing so hard against the metal pump that she was surely embossing its imprint into her thin arm. Brennan drew back so as not to frighten her further, and for an instant his brown eyes met the cats' eyes in a surprised, searching look that sent a shock of wariness through Joe and Kit.

While Joe thought fast—and came up with no logical excuse for being there—Kit looked at Brennan with big
round eyes, gave a soft little mewl that would charm the hardest cop, and rubbed against the child, purring and waving her tail. Taking Kit's cue, Joe snuggled closer, shaken by the child's trembling.

Brennan's voice softened even more, and slowly and gently he reached to stroke Kit, then tried to entice the little girl out to him. She only stared at Brennan, her eyes as glazed as those of a trapped deer.

Brennan had been on the force for as long as Joe Grey could remember, and he had never hurt or been harsh with a child; he had never touched Joe or Dulcie or Kit except gently. But the child's fear of the stranger did not ease. Watching them, Joe longed to speak, to tell the cowering child that this officer would never hurt her.

Once, when Brennan, answering a security alarm late at night, had discovered Joe and Dulcie inside Sicily Aronson's art gallery, when they had stared out at him fearfully from beneath Sicily's desk, face-to-face with the startled cop, Brennan had not snatched them up and thrown them out as some patrolmen might do. But there had been more embarrassing moments, the most recent when Kit leaped from a rooftop onto a thief's head, knocking him straight into Brennan's arms. That kind of caper did make a cop wonder. Now, with Brennan finding the cats at another scene just after the snitch's call, they trembled at what that good officer might be thinking.

Well, hell, Joe thought. Clyde and I live beside the plaza. Our house backs up to it. Of course Clyde's cat would prowl the plaza gardens. And as for our being in here with the kid, everyone knows that cats and children have a natural affinity. Wandering neighborhood cats come on a child
in the plaza gardens at night and make friends with her. So what's the big deal?

It all seemed reasonable to Joe. He spent a long time trying to convince himself it was reasonable while Brennan tried to get the little girl to trust him and come out. The officer rose at last, defeated, and backed away, speaking into his radio.

“The little girl's here. She seems all right, but scared, won't come to me. She's in that little pump house behind the dog fountain. I don't want to drag her out. Maybe a woman…You got a woman out there?”

“Davis,” came Garza's reply. “She's on her way.”

Joe and Kit didn't know whether to make themselves scarce, or whether running would tweak further the big cop's sense of suspicion. They heard Garza tell Davis to bring a blanket, and then in a moment heard Detective Juana Davis's familiar footsteps approaching, her black regulation oxfords making a sharp, quick rhythm along the brick walk—and all they could do was snuggle closer to the child in dumb innocence.

Davis emerged from the shadows, her dark uniform separating itself from the night. Juana Davis was squarely built, and was always on a diet, which she found any number of excuses to circumvent. She had short graying black hair and dark expressive Latino eyes that could burn a hole through a felon, or could fill with gentle understanding, as they did now as she knelt quietly before the little open door of the low shed.

She looked in, then looked up at Brennan. “What the hell?” Davis whispered softly. “What are the cats doing in there? Clyde's cat and the Greenlaws' Kit. Why would they…? How did they…? Come out of there, Joe Grey.
I never saw such a cat to turn up at a crime scene! What do you do, scout for trouble?” But then she turned her attention to the child.

“Come on, honey, it's all right. Were the cats keeping you warm? They are warm, aren't they? This is Joe Grey, he's a friend of mine,” she said gently. “And the dark fluffy one is Kit. I'm glad they found you, to keep you company and to keep you warm, it's getting really cold.

“Joe Grey lives nearby. He's a good cat. I guess he likes to roam among the gardens.” At Davis's gentle voice, the child began to relax and listen, and to unclench her tight little fists—but now Joe was all the more uneasy. It was bad enough to stir Brennan's suspicions, but now they had Juana Davis wondering. Beside Joe, Kit was frozen rigid with nerves, she looked as if she was about to bolt past Juana and vanish, leave Joe to face the law alone.

Juana continued talking softly to the child, then she reached in quietly and closed her hand over the little girl's small, cold hand. “It's all right,” Juana repeated. “I have children of my own. I'm a police officer, I won't hurt you. I know how to make gingerbread, and hot cocoa, too.” With her other hand she reached to stroke Joe and Kit. “You like kitties? I do, too. Sometimes,” she said, rubbing Joe's ears, “sometimes these two come down to the police station and sit on my desk, and beg for some of my lunch. And”—she laughed—“I always give them what they like to eat.

“Maybe,” Juana said, “if you wanted to ride in a real police car with a police radio, I could make us some hot cocoa, and I have some gingerbread. I'd love to have a nice hot cup of cocoa, with a marshmallow in it, it's so cold out here tonight.”

The child looked at Juana questioningly, some of the glaze of fear and loss leaving her dark eyes. She drew Kit closer into her arms, as she would hug a teddy bear. She spoke no word, made not the slightest sound. For a long time, as Juana talked to her, she stayed still, hugging Kit, squeezing so hard that the tortoiseshell cat had to swallow back a yowl of distress; Kit was not a cat who liked hugging. She had not grown up being hugged by humans. As much as she wanted human companionship and loving, too much hugging always felt like a threat, like she was trapped. If this had been a grown-up, the claws would have come out—sometimes, with too much closeness, a cat who has grown up wild just can't help but lash out, even at the most friendly hand; the need came over one like a jolt of lightning, Kit would react before she could think not to hurt a friend. But now, with this child, despite the sense of panic that descended on her, she tried desperately to remain gentle, tried with every ounce of feline discipline she could summon to keep her claws sheathed, and her paws still—and slowly, slowly the terrified child was relaxing, responding to Juana's words.

“Will you come out,” Juana repeated, “will you come with me where it's warm and safe? I promise I won't leave you alone, I won't leave you to be afraid or alone.”

Brennan had backed away; he turned and left, removing one seeming barrier to gaining the child's trust, but even with all Juana Davis's calm patience, it took her over half an hour before the little girl decided to trust her, and loosened her grip on Kit and crawled out and warily let Juana pick her up. Even then, as the child looked back over Juana's shoulder, the cats could see her lingering fear.

They watched Juana carry the little girl out of the plaza's
side entrance avoiding the ambulance and the crowd of men and police cars—avoiding the scene of the murder. They watched Juana head for her squad car, parked along the quieter side street. Crouched in the bushes, they watched her lift the child into the backseat, tuck a blanket around her, and fasten the seat belt, then slip into the driver's seat. Through the white Chevy's open window they listened to Juana call Detective Garza, tell him that she was headed for the hospital, for the children's wing, and that she would stay with her then take her home to her apartment.

“Why the hospital?” Kit said worriedly as Davis started the engine. “Why would she…”

“They'll need to see if she's hurt,” Joe said. “See if there are any marks on her.” He looked intently at Kit. “See if she's been abused.”

“Oh,” Kit said, shocked. “Oh, not that little girl.”

“Maybe Juana can get her to talk,” Joe said. “Get her to describe the killer and tell what happened.”

“She didn't speak at all,” Kit said doubtfully. “Not a word, not a sound. And she's such a little girl. Not like an adult witness.”

But as the two cats whispered in the bushes, and Juana Davis headed for the hospital, not even the cats saw the dark figure in the building across the street, watching from the black window of the vacant store; they did not catch his scent among the sharp smells of tar paper and new lumber, were not aware of the lone man watching Juana Davis, listening as Davis told Detective Garza where she was headed, for the hospital and then her own condo.

 

J
AMES
K
UDA WATCHED
the woman cop come out carrying the kid, all hugs and soft words, and his hand tightened on the automatic—but hell, he couldn't shoot her in a cop's arms; he'd never get away. Well, now he knew where she'd be. When the cop drove away, Kuda turned back into the black interior of the bare store, moving so silently that even the cats across the street didn't hear him, nor did they glimpse a shifting shadow or change of light within the dark interior—an omission that, if they'd known of it, would have embarrassed both felines.

After the white patrol car sped off toward the hospital, Kuda waited. He waited a long time, until the coast was clear, until most of the cops finished up and left, then he retrieved the bike he'd stashed behind the lumber, wheeled it out through the back door, and vanished into the night; rode fast and silently, thinking about his moves from the moment he'd slipped up on his victim—but then thinking uneasily about that faint sound on the roof, just after the shooting. Raccoon, probably. Except that didn't explain who'd called the cops.

He'd just made it, before the sirens blasted, had dragged the body into the car, keeping to the walk so as not to step in the soft garden dirt. Pulling the heavy man along, sweating from nerves. But he'd made it, got the body out of there. And now, a little while longer and he'd have disposed of it. Then to take care of the girl. Not likely she'd ever ID him, kid that age and all, but even so it might be better not to push his luck.