Cat in the Dark (3 page)

O
N THE ROOFS
below Joe and Dulcie the tomcat sauntered along a sharp peak, swaying his broad shoulders with authority and staring coldly up at them where they crouched high on the rail of the tower. Though he dismissed Joe, hardly noticing him, his gaze lingered keenly on Dulcie, making her shiver. Then he smiled and, turning away again, began to stalk between the chimneys, his gaze fixed on a skylight's clear dome; crouched over the moonstruck bubble, he peered down intently through the curving glass.

From their high vantage, Dulcie watched him with interest. “Blue Moss Cafe,” she said softly. “What's he looking at? What's so fascinating? They're closed for the night.” There would not be so much as a bread crust remaining on the small round tables, not a crumb visible in the stainless steel kitchen; she and Joe had often looked in, sniffing the good smell of beef stew, watching the happy diners. The cat seemed to study every detail of the dim, closed restaurant, remaining so for some moments before he moved on
again to peer into an attic and then into a darkened penthouse. There were apartments above some of the shops, and where a room was lighted, he kept his distance, circling around to avoid any wash of light spilling upon him. Approaching an angled, tilting skylight, he hunkered over the dark, dusty panes—and froze.

Whatever he saw below him down in the dusty-dim environs of Medder's Antiques had jerked him to full alert. Lashing his tail, he clawed at the glass, every line of his muscled body focused and intent, fixated on the little crowded antique store and its ancient, dusty furniture, perhaps studying some odd accouterment of human culture—maybe an antique rattrap or silk umbrella or silver snuffbox. A faint glow seeped up from a nightlight somewhere within, dully igniting the skylight's grimy panes and silhouetting the black cat's broad head and thick shoulders. Clawing at the metal frame, digging and pulling, he soon forced the skylight open.

Heaving his shoulder into the crack, he pushed the glass up, rolled underneath, and dropped out of sight as the glass thumped closed behind him; the leap would be ten or twelve feet down among dust-scented Victorian chairs and cluttered china cabinets.

“Come on!” Dulcie hissed. Leaping from the rail, she fled down the tower's dark, winding stairs. Joe raced close, pressing against her, gripped by a nameless fear for her; he didn't like to think what kind of cat this was, breaking and entering like a human thief.

 

Side by side they crouched over the skylight looking down where the cat had vanished among the jumbled furniture. Nothing moved. The reflections across a row of glass-faced china cabinets were as still as if time itself had stopped, the images of carved fretwork and tattered
silk shawls lifeless and eternal, a dead montage. A heap of musical instruments, violins and trumpets and guitars, lay tumbled into the arms of a Victorian settee. An ancient bicycle wore a display of feathered hats suspended from its seat and handlebars. The cats heard no sound from the shop, only the hush of breeze around them tickling across the rooftops punctuated by the high-frequency calls of the little bats.

Clink.
A metallic clunk jarred the night. Then a familiar scraping sound as the front door opened, the tinkle of its bell stifled quickly, as if someone had grabbed the clapper.

Two men spoke, their voices muted. The cats heard the scuff of shoes crossing the shop but could see no one. Soon they heard wooden drawers sliding out, then the ring of the shop's old-fashioned cash register as its drawer sprang open—sounds they knew well from visiting widow Medder. Joe found himself listening for a police car down on the street, hoping that a silent alarm might have gone off, alerting a patrol unit.

But would Mrs. Medder have an alarm, when she didn't even have a computer or a fax machine?

Celia Medder had opened the shop a year ago, after losing her husband and young child in a boating accident down near Santa Barbara; she had moved to Molena Point wanting to escape her painful memories, had started the little shop with her own antique furniture from the large home she no longer wanted, slowly buying more, driving once a month up into the gold-rush towns north of Sacramento looking for bargains. It had not been easy to make a go of her new business. The cats were fond of her; she always welcomed them, never chased them off the sofas or Victorian chairs. She would brush up the satin when they jumped down, but she never spoke to them harshly.

The night was so still that they needn't look over to know the street was empty. No soft radio from a police unit, no whisper of tires, no footsteps.

“Why would a burglar break into a used furniture shop?” Dulcie whispered. “Why not a bank or jewelry store? And where did that cat come from?” She cut him a sideways look. “A trained cat? Trained to open skylights? I don't think so.”

Below them the reflections jumped suddenly across the china cabinets. A dozen images flared and swam as a man slipped between the crowded furniture, edging between chairs and couches. A thin, small man—hunched shoulders, a slouch hat, a wrinkled leather flight jacket. The black cat joined him, circling around his ankles, rubbing and preening. Suddenly all the history of their ancient race tumbled through Dulcie's head—Celtic kings, underground worlds, sleek shape-shifting princesses—all the old tales that the rest of the world thought of as fairy tales and that she knew were not. And the idea that this black burglar might be like themselves both excited and frightened her.

Man and cat moved through the room, out of sight. Dulcie and Joe heard cupboard doors sliding, then the clink of metal on metal, then the buzz of an electric tool.

“Drill,” Joe said. “Sounds like they've found the safe.”

“They must have had it spotted. It wasn't that easy to find, hidden in the back of that old cupboard.”

Joe clawed at the skylight, digging at its frame to force the glass open, but before he could slide in, Dulcie bit the scruff of his neck, jerking him away. The skylight dropped with a thud.

He spun around, hissing at her. “Thank you very much. Now they know we're here. Just leave me alone, Dulcie.”

“I won't. You'd be trapped down there. They could kill you before you got out. You think
that
will help Mrs. Medder? You think getting dead will catch a thief? And they didn't hear a thing. How could they, with the noise that drill's making?”

But the drilling stopped. In the silence they heard a series of thuds and bumps. Dulcie crept closer, listening. “What did they do, drill the lock off?”

“I'm guessing they drilled a small hole—enough to stick a periscope inside.”

She gave him a narrow, amused glance.

“Not kidding. Miniature periscope, with a light on it.”

“Sure.”

He sighed impatiently. “A safe's lock is made of flat plates. Okay? Each one turns when you spin the dial. When you get them lined up, the lock opens.”

“So?”

“So, if you can see them from the inside, you can line them up. The burglar drills a hole, puts the little periscope in—Captain Harper has one. It's about as big as a pencil but with a flexible neck. You stick it into the safe and watch the plates while you turn the dial.”

Her green eyes widened. “You're serious.”

“Harper showed Clyde. He took it from the evidence room after it wasn't needed anymore.”

“No wonder you hang around home when the law comes over to play poker. It's wonderful, the things you learn from Max Harper.”

“You needn't be sarcastic.”

“I'm not being…” She stopped to listen. They heard the front door open and close and footsteps going away. Leaping to the roof's edge, they crouched with their paws in the gutter, peering down.

Below them, the sidewalk was empty. No sign of man nor cat. But footsteps whispered away, around the
corner. Joe crouched to drop down to the awning. “We need a phone—need to call Harper. Maybe a squad car can pick them up before they get away.”

“Not this time,” she said softly.

He turned to stare at her, his yellow eyes wide. “What's with you?”

“You want Harper to know that one of the burglars is a cat?”

“I don't intend to tell him about the cat.”

“So you don't say a word about the cat. Harper picks up the burglar. You know how tough he can be. There's no sign of forced entry, and Harper keeps at the guy about how he got in, until he caves. Tells Harper that a cat let him in, that he uses a trained cat.”

“Come on, Dulcie. The cat is his secret weapon. He'll protect that beast like Fort Knox.”

She gave him a long look. “There'll be cat hairs all over the store, on the guy's clothes, and around the skylight. Even if the guy keeps his secret, Harper will be suspicious. You know how thorough he is—and how paranoid about cats. You know how nervous he gets when there's a cat anywhere near a case.”

Over the past year, Joe and Dulcie's telephone tips to Max Harper, in the guise of interested citizens, had led to key arrests in three Molena Point murders, resulting in six convictions. But each time, the cats themselves had been seen in embarrassing situations. This, and the fact that some of their tips had involved evidence that couldn't possibly have been discovered by a human informant, tended to make Max Harper nervous. He had, in short, some well-founded suspicions involving the feline persuasion.

“We don't need to add to his unease,” Dulcie said. She looked deeply at Joe. “Let's leave this one alone. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Dulcie, sometimes you…”

Below them a shadow moved in the blackness at the edge of the awning. The blackness exploded up at them and the black cat hit the roof inches from Joe, his fangs white in the moonlight, his claws gleaming sharp as knives, going straight for Joe's throat.

Dulcie charged between them.

The black tom froze, staring at her.

Joe and Dulcie faced the black cat, rigid with challenge.

Not a sound, not a twitch.

Then the tom relaxed, leering at Dulcie, his tail lashing provocatively, his neck bowed like the neck of a bull; when he smiled, his eyes burned keener than the fires of hell.

“I am Azrael.”

Joe circled him, rumbling and snarling.

“Azrael,” Dulcie said, moving between Joe and the black tom. “Azrael means Death Angel.” She watched the cat intently.

The presence of another like themselves should be a cause for joy. Where had he come from? Why was he here in their village? As Joe moved again to attack, she cut him a look of warning. What good were teeth and claws, if they found out nothing about this cat?

“Azrael,” she mewed softly, recalling the dark mythology. “Azrael of the million dark veils. Azrael who can spin the world on one claw.

“Azrael whose golden throne gleams in the sixth Heaven,” she purred, glaring at Joe to be still. “Azrael of the four black wings and the four faces, and a thousand watchful eyes.”

The tom smiled and preened at her but glanced narrowly at Joe.

“Azrael who stole from that store,” Dulcie said,
trying to sound amused. “Azrael who helped that man steal.”

The black tom laughed. “And what do you think we stole? That junk furniture? Did you see him carrying away old chairs and hat racks?”

“You took her money.”

“If we did, little queen, that's none of your affair.” His purr was a ragged rumble; he towered over her, slow and insinuating; his amber eyes caressed her, devoured her—but when he reached out his nose to sniff her tail, she whirled, screaming feline curses, and Joe exploded, biting and slashing him, sinking his claws into the tom's back and neck. The two toms spun in a clawing, yowling whirlwind across the roofs, raking fur and swearing until Dulcie again thrust herself between them, fighting them both.

They spun apart and backed off, circling and snarling, crouching to leap again for the tender parts.

Joe attacked first—blood spattered Dulcie's face. But the tom sent him flying against a chimney. Joe shook his head and bolted into Azrael, cursing a string of human insults until Dulcie again drove them apart, battling like a wildcat; neither tom would hurt a queen.

“You want to bring the cops?” she hissed at them. “There are apartments above these shops. You make enough noise, someone will call the station.”

The black tom smiled and turned away. He began to wash, as casual and easy as if there had never been a battle. But soon he paused, and drew himself up tall and erect like an Egyptian statue carved from ebony. “You two little cats,” he said, looking them over as if they amused him. “You two little cats—I see death around you.”

He studied them haughtily. “Do you not sense death?” He licked his paw. “There will be death in this
village. Human death. I sense death—three human corpses. Death before the moon is again full.

“I see you two little cats standing over the bodies. I see your foolish pain—because humans are dead.” He laughed coldly. “Humans. How very silly. Why would you care that a human dies? The world is overrun with humans.”

“What do…” Dulcie began.

But a whistle from the street jerked the tomcat up, a call as soft as the cry of a night bird. He turned, leaped down into the awning, and was gone. They heard a muffled
oof
of breath as he hit the street. Heard his human partner speak to him, then footsteps.

Looking over the roof's edge, they watched the two drift away, up the street into darkness. Joe crouched to follow, but Dulcie pressed against him, urging him away from the edge.

“Don't,” she said. “Please don't—he frightens me.” She was demure and quiet. If she had ranted and snarled at him, he would have been off at once, after the pair.

“He scares me,” she repeated, sitting down on the shingles. Joe looked back at her crossly, knowing he'd be sorry he hadn't followed. But he was puzzled, too. Dulcie was seldom afraid. Not this shivering, shrinking, huge-eyed kind of fear.