Cat Found (9 page)

D
own in the yard, the cats took their night stations. The three copycats climbed into the low branches of the mulberry tree. Mac and Cheese hunkered down between the rafters of the stable roof next to Nosey Parker. And Scat shredded the manger scraps into a cloud woolly enough to fill the space left by a gun already claimed.

On top of his castle of crates, the gray tom scanned the alley. The moon turned his coat into silver armor. When the boy and the man showed up, he eased into the shadows.

“There!” said the boy. He pointed to the crates. “There’s a cat up there. It’s a big one. Got eyes like slick ice. Get it, Dad!”

“Easy as pie.” Joe Close nodded. “You get over toward the old stable, away from the mulberry tree. I’ll back up a bit the other way. We’ll coax that brute into the open.” He
handed his son the gun, and reached into his pocket for the shot. “Load her up. Keep the cat in your sight.”

“Now hold on, Joe.” The quiet warning sliced through the dark yard. Walter Reddick stepped into the moonlight. He stood with his back to the alley, his hands up.

Johnny’s father spun around. “Walt!” he declared. “You gave me a start. What are you doing here? My boy and I will take care of these cats. You go on over to City Hall, if you want to see fur fly.”

“No call for a gun in a chapel yard,” Reddick said. He took a few steps deeper into the yard. “Why don’t you two —”

“There it is!” Johnny interrupted. “C’mon, Dad. Hurry! It’ll get away.”

The gray tom darted from the shadows and sprang up to a fence post. He waited there, his eyes glittering, his shoulders hunched, waited until the three pairs of eyes held his own. Then he began to slink along the lip of the fence away from the yard. He moved deliberately, stopping every few steps to look back.

It was an outright dare.

“Shake a leg, boy!” Joe Close hissed. “Duck around the tree. That cat thinks we’re stupid. Once you get a clear view, line it up in your scope. I’ll grant you one shot. Takes
more than that to rouse people from their beds. Don’t waste it.”

Johnny cut through the stable. He hurried out past the old manger and readied his gun.

Reddick reached down and swiped a stone from the chapel earth. He drew back his arm.

“Get away from the cats!” The words fell from the sky.

Reddick’s arm froze in midmotion. There was someone outlined against the moon over his head. Someone had come out of the choir loft. It looked like a boy. It looked like his … “Billy!” Reddick called out. He dropped the stone. “Billy, put down that gun!”

Billy was so focused that he didn’t even hear his dad. He swung up his rifle easily. He’d had a lot of practice.

Joe Close couldn’t see the boy. But he heard the rifle cock. He yanked Johnny under the stable cover. The commotion riled the cats hiding in the rafters. They jumped every which way.

It was cat rain.

Joe Close threw up his arms when one furry beast brushed his face. The reflex spun Johnny into the manger. That sent Scat off like a cannon. The scraggy bolt of rage shot from his woolly bed and latched onto the back of Johnny’s head. As soon as the boy felt claws digging
into his scalp, he started to dance. He stomped his feet so fast he forgot about his fingers.

The gun in his hand didn’t need more coaxing. It went off.

In the same instant, Salome bolted out to the loft landing. “Fool!” she yelled. She grabbed Billy by the collar.

Billy fired, too.

Both bullets found a mark.

Johnny shot himself in the foot.

And Billy shot his dad.

T
he pellet grazed Billy’s dad’s arm.

Reddick looked down at himself in surprise. He watched the dry burn darken. A drop of blood welled up.

“Dad!” Billy cried. He threw the gun down to the yard and hurtled after it. He didn’t stop his headlong dash until he had run right into his dad’s arms. “Dad, are you okay? I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” His sobs were full of grief, and anger.

“Hold it right there, son,” his dad said. He gripped Billy at arm’s length so they could look at each other. “I’m all right, you hear me? Simmer down! I’m to blame for what’s happened here.”

Johnny Close hopped over the yard yelping louder than a cat on a hot tin roof. “That’s enough!” Reddick called out. “You’re all right, boy. Take off that shoe. Your boot has a steel toe. You’ve got nothing more than a hot foot.”

He turned to Joe Close. “Your kid needs to go home,” he growled. “And mine. We’re done here.”

As soon as the other two had left, Billy blurted it out. “They wanted to kill my cat.” He didn’t care if his dad knew the truth.

Billy’s dad tilted his boy’s chin. He didn’t want to believe in Providence. But he was too sensible to ignore bare facts. “What did you say, son? What do you mean, your cat? You’ve got no cat.”

“I do!” Billy cried. “I’ve got Conga. She’s my cat. I had her in my room the whole summer. And now she’s out there with her kittens and it’s my fault. I have to find her!” He pushed his dad’s arms away. “Conga!” he yelled. “Where are you? Conga!”

The wild shriek shut him up. A she-cat materialized on the top of the fence. She ran at the gray tom, backing him into the post by the edge of the yard. Then she gave Billy one of her looks.

“Conga!” Billy yelled. “Conga, wait!” He could have saved his breath. The cat vanished over the far side of the fence. Billy ran across the yard, kicking at the crates, scrambling up the sides. “That’s her!” he cried. “That’s Conga. She wants me to follow her. I’ve got to get over the fence! Dad, help me!”

Billy’s dad didn’t hesitate. He picked up his boy and dumped him over the boards.

“Wait for me!” a girl shouted. Reddick practically jumped out of his skin. He looked up to the mulberry branch spreading over his head. A black ghost hustled along the tree limb. She was nothing more than a hurried shadow blocking the star-spangled sky, but it didn’t take a genius to know she was headed after his Billy.

Reddick reached for the rim of the fence.

“Stop right there!” another voice shouted.

“What the
—
?”
Reddick muttered. There was someone
else
in the yard! He spun into the glare of alien eyes. They were headlights, fierce yellow ones. A bulldozer had rumbled into the alley. The dull drone of the motor swelled into a vibrating roar as it squeezed between the narrow walls.

“Stop!” the voice yelled again. In front of the headlights, a figure waved his arms wildly. “Stop!”

“Luke, no!” the girl in the tree shouted, hooked to a swaying limb by her knees. “That thing is bigger than you! Get out of the way!”

“It’ll have to flatten me first!” the figure roared back.

Then Billy’s dad recognized the dark shape in front of the lights. It was the ponytailed kid, the street boy, the
one always rummaging in the trash cans. He was trying to stop a bulldozer from coming into the chapel yard. Idiot! Did he think he could stop ten tons of steel?

The bulldozer rolled relentlessly down the alleyway, closer and closer. The man with the red face leaned out the window. “Move it!” he yelled at the boy blocking his path. “The council wants this place cleaned up. I’ve got a contract. You can’t obstruct the city!”

“Over my dead body!” Luke yelled. He stood his ground.

“Oh, brother!” grumbled Salome, dropping from her perch over Reddick’s head. “This is really gonna land me in the slammer.” She sprinted toward the boy and linked her arm through his. “Make that
two
bodies!” she yelled at the bulldozer. She stamped her foot at the hungry shovel. Her silver hoops flashed.

The driver leaned out the window. “No stupid kids are gonna stop me from doing my job!” he bellowed.

“In the name of reason!” Reddick grunted. He left the fence, clambering over the crates and barrels, and shoved his bulk between the girl and the ponytailed kid. “Cut that motor!” he ordered the driver. “Before someone gets hurt.”

“Yowl!”
The scream rode over the roar of the machine. Reddick felt the hair on his neck stand up when a heap of
wire bristles shoved between his feet. The gray tom had joined the party. The cat took up a stance at the front of the line.

The bulldozer kept coming.

“Yowl!”
the tom screamed again. His blue eyes chilled the fierce machinery.

Six feet from the blockade, the man in the bulldozer gave up. He cut the engine and climbed out of his cab. “Hey, Walt!” he said. “What brings you out in the middle of the night? You turn into some hippie tree hugger?”

Billy’s dad looked down. The gray tom was gone. So were the kids. He was alone. “I guess I keep company with ghosts,” he said to the man planted beside his bulldozer. “It’s turning out to be a long night. And I want to go home. I suggest you do the same. You and I can have it out tomorrow. Drinks on me.” He folded his arms and waited.

The driver put his hands on his hips and did some waiting of his own. The chapel yard got quiet. It could have been the stage set of an old Western, it was so still.

The two men sized each other up. Anybody would think they were fixing for a showdown. All they needed were a pair of cowboy hats and a couple of packed holsters. Good thing they decided to use their heads instead.

The driver stood down first. “Well, Walt,” he said. “A man can yield a little for a free beer.”

“Call it a night right now,” said Billy’s dad, “and I’ll make it two.”

They left the bulldozer in the alley.

B
illy was aiming to catch a cat on the run.

He wound through the trees until he was close to the old chapel house. The air smelled faintly of burnt matches. Somewhere beneath the deck, he could hear the gritty splash of sand hitting wood. Billy stuck his flashlight under the boards. There wasn’t much to see — a wheelbarrow, some lawn furniture, a ladder….

Six tiny mirrors reflected the flashlight’s beam. Billy had found the kittens.

Billy rolled under the veranda and squirmed over to the pile of warm kittens. He scooped them close. A spray of stone chips stung his cheek, and he aimed the light in its direction. Some creature was digging. “Conga!” he called out. “Conga, is that you?”

Her tail was sticking out of a hole. When he reached over to haul her out, she swiped a paw across his hand.
Billy stared at the trail of blood. It wasn’t his blood. It was hers. What did she want? Why was she digging? “Conga,” Billy coaxed. “You can stop that now. Your kittens are here. We’re going home.”

Conga didn’t let up. Her front haunches worked like tired pistons, scratching at the rocky earth alongside the coal chute. Billy couldn’t figure it out. His cat wanted to go right through a tin wall. Maybe there was something in the old coal cellar. Maybe it was a mouse or a rat. He scanned his light over the opening. Ladder rungs blocked the entrance.

Billy was his father’s son. He didn’t waste time with questions. “Okay, Conga,” he said. “I don’t know what’s down there. But I’ll help you get to it.” He wrenched the ladder loose.

Conga darted past him. She headed into the black hole.

Now what?

Billy waited. He tried to be patient. The kittens mewled and he cradled them in his lap, kneading their soft bodies until they melted into a sleepy puddle. He waited some more. “Come on, girl,” he pleaded. “Conga, come on.” He stuck his eye to the hole. “Hurry up and come back,” he cajoled. He pursed his lips and tried to sweettalk his cat up the chute.

Kiss, kiss, kiss.

None of it was any use.

Billy waited until he was done waiting. He settled the kittens down on the ground and attacked the rest of the cover. The splinters of the old boards jabbed his skin. The shards ripped his hands. When the last piece of wood gave up, he stuck his head and shoulders into the hole. The darkness gobbled the thin beam of his flashlight.

Billy didn’t want to go into a deep, dark hole. But he intended to find his cat. He started down.

The shaft was just big enough for him to wriggle along on his belly. He stuck his elbows into the corrugations for grip. “Conga,” he whispered. “Where are you?” His voice sounded faint in his ears, as if the sound were coming from far away. Near the bottom of the shaft, he dropped into a little room. On his knees, he tried to make sense of the space. The vault was crammed with junk — old shovels, rakes, a garden chair. There was a car bumper and part of an old sink. There was a bucket and some coal. But where was Conga? He panned his light.

She lay on her side in some bits of foam. Billy crawled closer. A white kitten was buried in her belly, getting milk, sucking hard.

“Conga,” Billy breathed. “Where did
that
kitten come from?”

Conga looked at him. Her eyes dripped honey.

That was the last thing Billy saw before his flashlight flickered out. The cellar turned black as a tomb. Billy didn’t care. “Cool!” he whispered. “Conga, we’re going out now. I don’t need any light. I know the way.” He flung the cylinder into the blackness.

The heavy flashlight rocketed across the cellar true as an arrow. It slammed right into a bell. An old chapel bell.

BONG!
The loud chime reverberated against the tin walls. It rattled the shovels and rakes, the springs of the car seat, the old bumper. The peals rang up the chute and poured music into the fresh night.

Salome stood on the veranda listening to the wellspring beneath her feet. “Oh. My. God!” she exclaimed.

“What?” said Luke. He bent down to look under the side of the deck. “What’s that ringing?”

Salome crossed her arms.
Men,
she thought.
They can’t see what’s right in front of their faces.
“That, Luke,” she said, “is the sound of your miracle.”

“Hey!” Billy called up to them. He wriggled out from under the deck. After the dark of the tunnel, the stars in
the sky twinkled as bright as budding suns. “Hey!” he said again. “Look, you guys! I’ve got Conga. Her kittens are here, too.” He opened his hands to show them the white one. “And she’s got another baby!”

“Well,” said Salome. She looked as smug as a cat with the cream. “I guess there are miracles all around tonight.”

Billy didn’t wait to find out what she meant. He fetched the kittens and headed home.

Conga rode shotgun on his shoulder.