Cat on the Edge (18 page)

Joe leaped up the wall, and leaped again. On his third try his groping paw found the light switch and grabbed it, clawing.

Light blazed, shattering against the white tile walls, reflecting back and forth from the slick surfaces, nearly blinding them.

The small, white tiled room had one booth, a sink, and a urinal. It smelled of human bodily functions and of Lysol.

Though the room was cold, an even colder chill emanated from the ceiling, where a black hole gaped.

Above them in the white ceiling, two accoustical tiles had been removed, leaving a rectangular space maybe three feet across, and black as the inside of a locked car trunk. The missing tiles were not anywhere in the small bathroom. Looking up into the hole, they could see in its dark interior only the edge of a wooden beam, and a few taut metal rods, maybe part of the grid that held the ceiling tiles. Joe thought that an attic must run the full length of the store complex. It would be the logical place to hide something.

But Wark would have had to stand on the toilet, then hoist himself up onto the thin partition of the booth. And even if the partition would hold his weight, Joe could find no footprint on the toilet seat or on the top of the tank. There was no strong scent of Wark around those fixtures. “He sure didn't use the facilities.”

Dulcie reared up to stare with curiosity at the urinal, then grimaced, realizing what it was. “He used
this,” she said with disgust. She leaped to the sink and dabbled her paws in the few drops of water that clung around the drain, then examined the rectangular mirror.

The glass was fixed solidly to the wall—it was not like the medicine cabinet at home. In fact, nothing in the room seemed movable, except the toilet tank top, and what could you hide there? The tank would be full of water.

Dulcie said, “I know I heard a key in a lock.” But there was no lock. They were still standing on the sink, pawing at the mirror, when the door swung open behind them.

The swinging door slammed open; the cats had no time to leap off the sink. Wark stood staring in, into the bright white glare of the men's room.

His muddy eyes glinted with rage. As he lunged at them, they exploded apart. Joe hit the floor. Dulcie leaped straight to the top of the booth, brushing past Wark's face; but she moved too late, the Welshman grabbed her. As he fought the brindle cat, Joe leaped at his head raking and snarling. This allowed Dulcie to twist free from Wark's hands; with one last rake of her claws she sprang away into the attic and disappeared within the black hole.

When she appeared again looking over, Wark had scrambled up onto the toilet seat. But Joe still clung to his neck; as the Welshman fought Joe with one hand he grabbed for Dulcie with the other. She fled again. Joe propelled off Wark's shoulder into the dark behind her but he was off-balance. He hit the side of the hole, scrabbling into the soft tiles, felt them tear under his weight. Wark's fingers closed on his leg. Joe twisted, bit the offending hand, and
leaped upward with a force that carried him up into the blackness.

They fled away through the cavernous dark along the wooden beams, dodging the thin metal struts. They heard him climbing, heard the clang of the porcelain tank as his weight hit it, then a dry, tearing sound as tiles gave way beneath him.

Then a loud crack, a sharp indecipherable word, and the clattering of dislodged porcelain as Wark fell.

Cheered by Wark's mishap, they turned to look back and in the darkness, Dulcie smiled. “Good for him. I hope he broke a leg.”

But in a moment they heard him step on the toilet seat again, and climb. They moved away quickly.

The attic was vast, its low, sloped roof receding into an endless tunnel of unrelenting night, the tangles of metal struts hindering any swift flight.

“This can't just be the attic over the stores,” Joe said. “It's too big, it has to go on over those open sheds.” And why not? The buildings were all attached.

They were headed deeper in, toward the area over Clyde's shop, when Dulcie stopped and turned back, and began pawing at something.

In a minute, she hissed, “Here! Come and look.”

She stood looking down between two acoustical tiles, where a sliver of light squeezed through no thicker than a thread.

Digging, she tried to force her paw through. They dug together, and soon widened the crack until they could see, below them, rows of metal pipes. The air
smelled of cleaning solvent and steam. The pipes were loaded with hanging clothes, all sheathed in plastic bags. They were pawing again, trying to get through, when they heard voices from below, from an unseen part of the room. A woman's voice approached. She said something about tags and numbers, then laughed. They backed away into the dark.

“There's another crack,” Dulcie said, “near the men's room.”

“Its too close. He'll be up here in a minute.”

But all sounds from Wark had ceased. They dug at the new crack until a tile shifted. A two-inch space revealed an office below. A battered desk and chair stood directly below them, and, to the left, two metal file cabinets. Next to those was a whole wall full of cubbyhole shelves, crammed with papers. As they fought to dislodge the tile, their faces pressed close together, they heard the men's room door open, and heard a sharp clang of metal.

“What's he doing?” Dulcie breathed.

“Whatever he's doing, you can bet your fur booties he'll up here in a minute. Dig harder.”

But then a rhythmic noise began, a sharp metallic
Click click click
rising up. “Extension ladder,” Joe hissed.

They fled again, but their scrabbling feet knocked the tile loose behind them; they heard it fall down into the office. Dulcie paused, turning back. “We've time to get through, come on.” But Wark was already up through the hole, his lit face pushing up. They sped away crashing into metal struts and
through cobwebs, dragging cobwebs with them. Joe didn't like to think about being trapped up there with no way to get out.

But if the attic continued over the drive and over the showroom, maybe there would be a way out. They raced on, slowed by the struts, swerving and dodging as if in some fun house obstacle coarse—a fun house as seen in nightmare.

They had scrambled around a corner, they were halfway around the U-shaped building, over the repair shop, when a perpendicular wall stopped them. They slid to a halt. The attic ended.

They crept along the wall nosing and pawing at its base. It was solid, not a hole or a crack. And suddenly light burst across the attic from behind them.

The swinging beam of a flashlight sought them, burning a path through the dark. They crouched behind a beam, out of its range. On it came, picking out beams and struts above them, frosting the curtains of hanging cobwebs. It glanced over the top of the beam where they crouched, and went on, as frantically and uselessly they dug at the floor. And Wark crawled nearer, swinging his light back and forth, searching.

This floor wasn't soft under their claws, not like acoustical tiles; this ceiling over the shop was hard and unyielding. And again Wark's light swung close.

“He has a gun,” Dulcie whispered, “I saw it earlier.”

Joe glanced at her. “I didn't…” But from below in the shop came muffled voices and the clang of tools.

“Clyde's down there, I can hear him. They've started work. If I shout…”

“No! It'll bring his light.” She dug harder, clawing at the dense Sheetrock. Below they heard an engine start. But even over that sound, Wark would hear them digging. He had drawn closer, and his angle of vision was steeper now. He could see partially behind the last beam. Dulcie had managed a shallow indentation in the Sheetrock when Wark's light found them, blinding them. They were trapped in light. A shot cracked through the attic, exploding with ragged flame as Joe lunged against her, knocking her away. And a second shot thundered.

Ten minutes after Kate Osborne left the courthouse tucking her shirt more securely into her jeans, the cream-colored cat entered the Osborne backyard.

She scanned the neighbors' windows, and when she thought she was unobserved, she leaped to the back porch. There she rubbed against the porch rail, surveying again the adjoining dwellings.

She would just slip in, change back to the Kate who was Jimmie's wife, grab the bankbooks, throw her clothes in the car, and get out.

When she was sure she was alone she clawed the door open, wondering, as she kicked at the molding, if she was leaving claw marks.

Inside, she prowled the house, wary and skittish. Though Jimmie's car wasn't in the drive, she couldn't shake the feeling that he'd appear and grab her—that he would handle her as viciously as Wark had done, bruising and injuring her; that Jimmie was fully capable of killing her, no matter what form she took.

Gentle Jimmie Osborne, the quintessential wimp. Maybe wimps, when they turned mean, were the most vicious of all.

When she was satisfed that the house was empty, she paused in the hall. She was starting to say the Welsh words that would change her when she heard his car in the drive.

She ran into the living room and leaped to the back of Jimmie's chair, digging in her claws. Peering out through the curtains, she was struck by sunlight careening off the hood of the silver Bugatti. The car glistened in sleek silver curves.

She hated that car. The damned machine had to be worth many times what Jimmie had admitted paying for it. She hated that he lied to her. The Bugatti seemed all of a sudden the symbol of everything ugly about Jimmie. When she saw Sheril getting out, a growl of rage rumbled and shook her.

They came up the steps snuggling and pawing each other. Jimmie had his hand under Sheril's blouse, but why bother? Everything Sheril had was right there in plain sight. That lace hid nothing; she might as well be wearing a plastic bag.

She didn't know whether to change to Kate and confront them, or to hide until they left. Hide, then get the bankbooks for Max Harper, and clear out.

Hiding seemed so cowardly.

But if she telegraphed her punches, if she confronted Jimmie, he might snatch the bankbooks and take off. She might be physically strong enough to keep him from taking them, and she might not.

As they opened the door she fled for the bedroom and under the bed, into her shoddy little hiding place.

Crouching on the carpet just beneath the box springs, she heard them coming down the hall. Their voices sounded flat and tired. Had they been partying in Sheril's bed the whole night?

Their shoes hushed on the carpet. Sheril's nasal voice rose flat and piercing. Jimmie laughed, and Sheril started to giggle. It was ten o'clock in the morning. Why wasn't Jimmie at work?

Sheril said, “Your house is so—
domestic
, lover. Just like your little housewife.”

Jimmie chuckled. “What if the little housewife comes home?”

“
She
walked out on
you
, lover.”

“You like doing it in her bed, don't you, baby? Like a bitch wetting on another's territory.”

Her claws knifed into the carpet. Her tail struck so hard at the springs she thought they'd hear her. They came into the bedroom yawning. Sheril kicked off her sandals and sat down on the bed, then her feet disappeared upward and the springs creaked.

Jimmie kicked off his loafers, dropped his pants and hung them over the chair. His shorts came next. So much for preliminaries. She could hear Sheril wriggling around, undressing. Jimmie moved to the bed; the springs creaked heavily as he lay down.
This is disgusting
. She fought a powerful desire to leap on the bed and claw them.

“I don't see why we have to wait, lover. I don't see why we can't get the plane reservations in another name, and haul out of here. It will be so sunny in the Bahamas, so nice and warm. If Wark's arrested for Sam's death, or if Clyde is, what differ
ence? The cops have nothing on you. Why do we have to hang around being so careful? I mean…”

“Give it a rest, Sheril. How do you think it would look if we ran out now? You really want to blow it.”

“But we didn't do anything. Not to Samuel. Wark did that. And Sam…”

“I said, cool it. We're not going now. Forget it. You don't understand anything about what the cops think, what the cops might find out.”

Under the bed, Kate smiled. He was incredibly nervous. She guessed Sheril didn't see how nervous, or didn't care.

The springs squeaked as if he had rolled over, then again as he reached for her. She thought that they really needed a new mattress, then was both appalled and amused that that had even occurred to her. The springs kept squeaking. To the accompaniment of grunts and moans, she crept out and fled for the study.

As she pawed open the desk drawer, she realized with alarm that Jimmie's car was blocking the garage, that she couldn't get her own car out.

She wasn't leaving again without it. She wanted her car and her clothes and everything she could load into the Chevy. She thought about taking Jimmie's car, but abandoned that. He might let her go without tracking her down, but he'd be after that car. He'd raise all kinds of hell to get the Bugatti back.

Clumsily she clawed out the foreign bankbooks and the savings book, pawing them onto the floor.
This wouldn't do, she couldn't carry all these in her mouth, and fetch her car keys and purse.

She listened, but heard only a low moan from the bedroom.

She didn't want to go back in that room, but it couldn't be helped. They might be there all day. She wasn't staying in the house listening to that for hours.

Quickly she changed to Kate.

This time, as she changed, she got a nice little rush that amused her, a surge of exhilaration like a stiff drink. She was tall again, and very grateful, now, for the dexterity of hands and fingers as she picked up the bankbooks and stuffed them in the pocket of her jeans.

She laid the bank statements back in the drawer and closed it softly, then moved back down the hall toward the bedroom.

They were still at it. When, standing against the wall, she glanced in, she could see Sheril's naked thighs. They were both turned away. She slipped in, snatched her purse and overnight bag from the closet, and dug Jimmie's keys from his pants pocket, muffling the jingle in her tight fist. She lifted the cash from his dresser drawer, too.

She left the house by the front door. Sliding into Jimmie's car she backed it out, and parked it at the curb. She'd like to ram it hard into a tree, but that wouldn't be smart. She pocketed his keys, backed her own car out of the garage, shut the garage door, and headed for the police station.

 

She entered the station from the courthouse, praying that Max Harper was there. She passed his empty desk, looked around the room for him, then went up to the front, to the counter.

He wasn't in. She talked to Lieutenant Brennan, a deep-jowled man, older than Kate, who looked like he'd been poured into his uniform as clay is poured into a heavy mold. Brennan wouldn't tell her where Harper was. He couldn't tell her when Harper would return. His attitude was unnecessarily formal and distant. He told her only that Harper was out on a call. She wondered if that was what the sirens had been about—she'd heard them east of the village as she was driving to the station.

She didn't want to give anyone but Max Harper the bank books. “I'm certain Captain Harper will want to talk with me. I have something for him that I can give only to him. A piece of evidence that I think he'll be pleased to have.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Osborne. I have no idea when he'll be back. Whatever you want to give him will be perfectly safe with me. I can lock any evidence in the safe, if that will ease your mind.”

“Can you reach him? On the radio?”

“He can't be disturbed. Those were his instructions.”

She thought that part was probably a fabrication. How would an officer know, when he left the station, that something even more urgent might not turn up? “If you can get him on the radio,” she said patiently, “let me talk to him for just a second. I'll tell him what I have, and then I'll stop bothering you.”

Brennan just looked at her. She pressed in again, bullying him, making such a pest of herself that at last Brennan sighed, swung away to his desk, and got Harper on the radio.

The call changed Brennan's behavior. Within seconds, Captain Harper phoned her, on a private line which Brennan said she could take in the back, at Harper's desk. She had graduated from faceless civilian to someone Brennan paid attention to. Walking back to Harper's desk, she glanced innocently at the two officers who had watched her, a little while ago, trot past their desks in cream-colored fur behind the heels of the office clerk.

She picked up the phone at Harper's desk, standing away from the desk top so she wouldn't appear to be reading the stack of papers and scattered notes.

Harper's voice was strained and hurried. “You have some evidence to give me, Kate? For what? What kind of evidence? What is it that can't wait?” He did sound as if he was in the middle of something urgent.

“I have some bankbooks of Jimmie's. They were in our desk.”

“What kind of bankbooks? Tell me about them.” His voice had softened, and slowed. He sounded like he might be sitting down.

“There are five books, on five foreign accounts. Big balances. Several hundred thousand each. Money,” she said, “that he couldn't have legally. I didn't know what else to do with them, but I think they're important. I didn't know who else to go to. I don't have an attorney, not one I trust.”

She couldn't say that she knew Harper wanted the bankbooks, that she had heard him tell Clyde how important this evidence was. “There are two accounts in the Bahamas, two in Panama, one in Curaçao. The sums have been deposited over a four-year period. They add up to more than two million. This year's deposits are about two hundred and fifty thousand. Captain Harper, there's no way Jimmie could have this kind of money.”

“Kate, you bet I want to see them. Can you wait at the station for, say, half an hour? We're in the middle of something urgent here, but I'll be back as soon as I can. Within the hour.”

“I have some errands. Could I come where you are?”

“No. Will you leave the books at the station? Meet me there in an hour?”

“I'd rather give them to you.”

“Kate, give them to Officer Brennan. He's completely reliable. Those bankbooks are—may be more important than you can guess. You can watch Brennan book them in, watch him put them in the safe. Tell him to make photocopies for you. And Kate, do you know where Jimmie is?”

“Right now? He's…at home. He's—in bed.”

“At home? Is he sick?”

“He's—not alone.”

“Oh?” There was a long pause, then, “Thank you, Kate. Let me talk to Brennan. I'll see you at the station in an hour. Meantime, be…Don't go home.”

“Not likely,” she said, laughing. But she felt, suddenly, chilled and shaky.

She nodded to Officer Brennan, and he picked up an extension. She hung up. Why had Harper asked her where Jimmie was? Why wouldn't he assume that Jimmie was at the shop?

In a minute Brennan hung up and came out to the back, his stomach preceding him slightly in the tight shirt. He led her down the hall and into the evidence room. She watched him book in the evidence and make photocopies for her of the bankbook covers and the deposit pages. He stapled them with an itemized receipt on which he listed every detail, names of the banks, the cities and countries, the amounts. She watched him lock the books in the safe with a duplicate of her receipt. The man might be officious, at least sometimes, but he was thorough.

From the police station she drove directly to the Molena Point bank and drew a cashier's check for the forty thousand in their joint savings account. She took that across the street to the Bank of California.

In the cool, high-ceilinged lobby, with its skylights and potted ficus trees, she sat opposite a bank officer at his desk filling out the required cards and forms for an account in her name alone. And, because everyone in Molena Point knew everyone else, she told the young man that she and Jimmie were making some adjustments for tax purposes.

Leaving the bank, she drove north through the village. The sun was pushing up toward noon through a clear blue sky. It was going to be warm, one of those clear sunny innocuous days that, to Californians, sometimes grew tedious by their very
bland repetition. Though according to village custom, this kind of grousing was sure to bring on atypical floods, high winds, or earthquake.

She realized she hadn't had breakfast, that she was famished again though she'd stuffed herself so late last night on Clyde's spaghetti and garlic bread. There was a new little restaurant up on Highway One that was supposed to serve light French pancakes, and she headed up Ocean. She'd have breakfast, then drive on up into the hills and sit quietly until time to meet Harper. Take time for a last look at the view she loved; once she was out of town, it might be a long time before she could enjoy the hills again. The morning, despite the sun's brilliance, was still nice and cool. The heat wouldn't descend until afternoon. She drove slowly with her windows down, tasting the salt wind. Going up Ocean she saw patrol cars clustered around the shop, and a shock of coldness hit in her. She pulled over, looking.

The police had blocked off the entry to the shop with two squad cars and some sawhorses, and they had blocked off Haley Street with a patrol car angled across it. An officer stood before the door of the agency showroom, as if to let no one inside. She parked, locked her car, and walked over.