Cat Pay the Devil (11 page)

W
ith her hands tied, Wilma couldn't reach to rip
away the blindfold. She couldn't move, tied to the chair; tilting it back and forth, she was able to rock along crablike, jerking across the rough wooden floor, the chair legs banging. Feeling out with her toes, for barriers, she soon found a wall. Getting the chair turned, she rocked along beside it until she came to what felt like a heavy wooden dresser. Yes, she could feel the corner with her arm, and then the drawer handles.

Bending her head against the top drawer, she wriggled and worked until she caught the blindfold on the handle. She pulled and fought until she had jerked it and it slipped down around her throat—her release from darkness left her heart pounding. The thin light of evening filtered in through dusty windows. She looked warily around her.

The house was a crude cabin. Rough wooden walls, small, dirty windows. One wall of dark stone, behind a rusty woodstove, two faded armchairs before it. To her right opened the
three small windows. Hobbling her chair toward them, she pressed her face to the grimy glass.

The cabin stood in a grove of pine and eucalyptus trees. She could see only woods, and a bare dirt yard. One small outbuilding away at the edge of the graveled clearing, a rusty old car parked beside it. To her left, where the woods thinned, she could glimpse open hills washed golden by the last rays of the sun as it settled into a low line of fog—surely that fog lay over the sea, over the Pacific. She was very likely high in the Molena hills. She caught glimpses, closer to the cabin, of a narrow dirt road leading away and down to vanish among the falling golden slopes, a road surely making its way to the sea. She searched along the far fog line for the roofs of Molena Point, but could find no hint of them.

In the far corner of the room was a kitchen alcove and a wooden table. A window above the sink faced the woods away from the sea. On the long wall between her and the kitchen was a heavy door that looked like it would lead outside; she thought she had come in that way. Awkwardly tipping and turning the chair, she headed for the kitchen. If these were her last hours on earth, she damned well wasn't going to die of thirst.

When she had gained the sink counter, she stood up as best she could, bent nearly double in the chair, and, leaning over the stained yellow Formica into the rusting steel sink, she pressed the tap handle with her chin.

Water gushed out. She drank awkwardly for a very long time, soaking herself, drenching her shirt, cool against her hot, sweaty skin. She rested, letting the water run, then drank again, rested and drank until at last she felt satisfied; then clumsily she pressed the faucet off and balanced back, steady on the floor again. She looked around her at
the dark kitchen corner, the cracked brown linoleum and ancient dark cabinets, the worn Formica; no surface looked clean. A newspaper lay on the counter. The headline and photograph caught her attention; she remembered the article from earlier in the week:

 

Woman Killed in Her Home, Police Seek Burglar

 

The picture was of a smiling Linda Tucker in a low-cut dark dress, a professional photographer's portrait taken perhaps for a birthday or other special occasion. The paper was well worn, the stain of a cup or glass at the lower corner. This was the only paper she could see; there were no other newspapers or magazines in the room, not even on the table beside the two worn chairs. Had this one paper been saved for a reason? Or had it only been kept to wrap the garbage?

The kitchen alcove was so small, and the heavy table so close to the cabinets, that, tied in her chair, she had no room to maneuver; every time she rose to move, the chair legs sticking out behind her rammed into the cabinets or the table. The drawers were in the tightest corner. She was able, just, to reach behind her and open the top one. Feeling gingerly through its contents, she found only forks and spoons, no knives. Shutting the drawer, she had hunched down to the next, was wriggling forward, pulling the drawer out, when a sound beyond the kitchen window startled her so that she nearly toppled the chair. The sound came again, a hushed scraping. She twisted around trying to see.

Was someone out there? Someone who would help her, or someone she must hide from? Nothing moved beyond the glass; in the darkening evening she saw nothing but the dense pines. It couldn't have been a branch blowing; the soft wind had died.

The sound did not return; she sat staring into the woods, both disappointed and relieved. But then, knowing there might not be much time, she turned her attention again frantically to the kitchen drawers—paper napkins and long narrow boxes of foil or waxed paper with little metal saws along the edge that might cut rope. She considered those briefly—little saws that could leave her arms painfully scraped and bloody, inviting infection if she remained there long.

Putting that option aside as a last resort, she was fumbling lower into the next drawer when she heard the hushing sounds again. As she twisted toward the window, something dark flicked away, so fast in the gloom that she couldn't tell what it was. The shadow of a person? A small animal? A squirrel? No fox or weasel would be that high off the ground, and it had moved so fast.

A cat, peering in at her? And now, even as she watched for that presence to return, another noise alarmed her, a sound from the ceiling, a loud thudding. Was there a second floor, then? She'd seen no stairs. But someone was there, someone was in the house, above her.

 

The rows of identical shops bordering Gilroy's parking lot seemed to Joe Grey, in the mall's vapor lights, yawningly dull and commercial; yet at this moment the discount mall drew the tomcat more powerfully than rats scrabbling in a barrel. As Clyde parked in front of Wilma's favorite restaurant, to see if in there he could get a line on her and also could find Davis, Joe crouched, ready to leap out and head across the parking lot to the shops that, too soon, would be closing.

Clyde slapped his hand on the lock. “You stay in this car,
Joe. You will not get out of this vehicle. Not for any reason. Not unless and until I say you can get out.” He stared hard at Joe. “You got that?”

Joe looked at him defiantly. “You can't be serious. This is what we came for! So I can—”

“Not without me. Not until I tell you.
Comprende?
”

If Dulcie had been there, she might have felt just as rebellious as Joe, but she would have looked meekly reprimanded, knowing that you can catch more birds with subterfuge. Joe stared pointedly at the clock, which even now rolled its lighted digits to the next minute. “Twenty minutes! That's all we have!”

“You get out of this car, in this traffic and confusion, and get hurt or in trouble, and you're going to blow the search. Did you think of that? I told you I plan to stay over, get a motel room. The stores we don't cover tonight, we'll hit in the morning.”

This might sound reasonable to a human. It made no sense to the one doing the tracking. “The scent is fresh
now.
By tomorrow morning the cleaning people with their vacuums and chemicals will have trashed every trace. Vacuuming compound, cleaning substances, to say nothing of the personal scents of dozens of assorted humans.”

“Five minutes, I'll be back. Then we'll hit the stores.” Clyde leaned over, his face close to Joe's. “I have to open some windows or you'll die in this heat. I expect you, on your tomcat honor, to stay inside this car.” He looked up again, scanning the parking area. “That could be Davis's unit, over behind that truck. I'll just see what she's found, then we'll get to work.” Another hard glare and he was gone, leaving the windows halfway down, locking the doors simply as a small deterrent to passersby.

Not that anyone with common sense, seeing the glaring
eyes of the enraged tomcat, would stick his hand through. Joe watched Clyde enter the restaurant and wave, and glimpsed Davis, sitting in the back. The squarely built Latina was in uniform as usual, though the day was hot as hell and such formality was seldom expected of Harper's detectives. She didn't look happy to see Clyde.

Juana Davis was a good detective, she'd do a thorough search for Wilma—as good as a human could accomplish with no talent for scent detection. Sitting with Davis in the booth were two sheriff's deputies. As Clyde sat down beside Juana, Joe considered the car's open windows. He looked across the parking lot to Liz Claiborne's, which was Wilma's favorite store and had, most likely, been her first stop this morning—if she ever got this far, he thought, rearing up with his paws on the glass, wondering if the security alarm would go off.

It didn't. He propelled himself over and out, and there was not a sound. In a nanosecond he was across the lot, between parked cars, slipping into Liz Claiborne's, padding in on the heels of a hurrying shopper. Ducking behind a rack of dresses, immediately his nose filled with the smells of new cashmere sweaters and women's perfume, unwelcome indeed as he sought the one scent of importance.

D
ulcie and Kit left the Jones house running shoulder
to shoulder, smug with information but deeply disappointed that none of it was about Wilma; they had found no scent of her, no hint that she'd ever been in Cage's house. The only place they hadn't been able to search was the attic; though after they left the basement, they'd tried. There was no way to get up into that under-roof space without going back in the house and trying to drag a chair under the trapdoor, which would have brought Lilly quicker than fleas to a stray hound. Leaving the attic without searching it worried Dulcie. A prisoner could die under that roof, it would be hot as blazes in there.

They had, before they approached the roof, thoroughly searched the jumbled basement, swinging open musty cupboards, peering behind tangles of old furniture and stacks of cardboard cartons. How many years of discards were dumped in that crowded space? Old clothes, a dressmaker's dummy, a treadle sewing machine, a gigantic water-
fall dresser, an abandoned refrigerator (with failing hearts, they looked inside; nothing but mold). Boxes of rusty tools: crowbar and wrenches, screwdrivers and hammers tossed in with cans of rusting nails.

In the garage, they had searched the old car, too. Looked like it had seldom been driven. Tires half flat, dust on every surface. They'd leaped in through its open windows, which, they supposed, Lilly left down to prevent the mildew that had taken hold anyway, along with a hidden nest of mice that smelled as rich as steak, and the thick gossamer homes of several generations of spiders. There was no human scent. Jumping out again, they had returned to the other end of the basement; they were crouched to escape through the basement window when Kit turned aside to paw at the loose linoleum in a closet they had earlier investigated, the one where the door wouldn't close. Pawing and scrabbling, suddenly she lowered her ears and lashed her tail with excitement. Dulcie pushed close, to see.

Raking the linoleum up against the wall with surprising strength, Kit skinnied underneath. “Look here! And someone's been here!” They could both smell it: The linoleum and concrete smelled of Cage Jones.

Sunk into the concrete floor beneath its grimy linoleum covering was a metal safe. A very old safe, rusting but sturdy and heavy. Cage had come down here recently, had surely pulled the linoleum back and handled the safe, and had probably opened it. The finger smears through its coat of dust smelled of Cage, and the dust around the dial was streaked, as if he had spun it; there were also smears along the edge of the lid, as if he had lifted it. What had he kept there? Was this what Greeley was looking for?

They had tried for a long time to open the safe, without luck; as superior as was a cat's hearing, Dulcie and Kit were
not artful at sorting out the tumbler sounds and then spinning the dial accordingly. That was Greeley Urzey's forte, it was Greeley who was skilled at safecracking. For that old man, this would be the work of but a minute. They could catch no scent of what the safe might contain, or have contained, could smell nothing but the metal itself, and dust, and Cage's stink. No odor of old musty money, nothing like the way bills smelled that had been hidden for a very long time—they knew that nose-twitching smell; some of Lucinda Greenlaw's little fortune had once smelled like that from being hidden for many years.

Nor was there any hint of other musty paper in the safe, such as secreted bonds or stock certificates; aside from Cage's scent, only the sharp metal smell. Turning away, they had let the linoleum spring back and were pressing it into place, wondering if they should try to paw dust over it, when a noise sent them out of the closet and streaking for the window. Even as they leaped to the sill, behind them the door to the stairs flew open.

They heard Lilly gasp as they exploded out onto a pine tree. Scrambling up its far side, claws digging into the bark, they climbed as fast as a pair of terrified squirrels. Behind them they heard Lilly's footsteps cross the gritty floor.

They had peered around to see her approaching the open window, and had drawn back. For a long moment, she stood looking out. There was no sound. And then, as if perhaps fearful that a burglar had been there and might return, Lilly slammed the window shut. They heard her attempt to lock it.

“That,” Kit whispered, “doesn't make any sense. If she thinks there was a person inside, how does she know he isn't still there? How does she know he won't step out of a cupboard and mug her?”

Lilly tried for some time to lock the window, then fetched
the rusty hammer and jammed it in above the lower pane of the double-hung window so it wouldn't open.

“What if she saw us?” Kit breathed.

“So? We're cats! What if she did? Come on!”

Scrambling to the roof they had peered over, checking the vents again, but none was loose. Padding across the scorching shingles listening for sounds from the attic space below their paws, they called Wilma, called her name over and over, at first quietly and then louder than was safe. Only silence greeted them. If Wilma were gagged as well as bound, she could give no answer—unless she could knock, kick out with a bound foot, make some noise. They tried for a very long time but could detect no sound at all beneath the hot shingles. They gave up at last, licked their scorched paws, and abandoned the roof, praying Wilma wasn't down there. Leaping into the pine they backed down its rough trunk and dropped to the ground, into thick dry pine needles. Dulcie, shaking needles from her fur, glanced toward the far end of the house—and there was Greeley, standing in the next yard watching them, looking straight at them, an evil smile on his wizened face, a leer as cruel as the devil masks upstairs. The cats fled straight down the steep wall of the canyon. Leaping down through tangled grass and weeds, tumbling and sliding to the canyon floor, they ran, their hearts pounding. Not until they were two blocks away and well concealed within the canyon's bushes did they stop and look back to the cliff-side houses.

He was still there, in the Jones's backyard, looking straight down at them, staring directly toward the bush where they crouched, his piercing, knowing look filled with rage.

“What's wrong with him?” Dulcie asked. “What does he think?”

“He thinks,” Kit said, gulping air, “he thinks we found
whatever he's looking for? Found it in that basement?” The two cats looked at each other, and shivered and crouched lower. They remained there, as still as rabbits gone to ground, waiting for Greeley Urzey to turn away.

They were still waiting when along the street high above them a police unit flashed quietly between the houses and stopped in front of the Jones house. Greeley saw it, and slipped back into the shadows.

As Dallas Garza and Officer Crowley stepped out of the squad car, the two cats slipped up the cliff again, keeping out of sight, up a eucalyptus tree to the roof, where they crouched, peering over as Dallas rang the bell. They heard its harsh ring, heard faint sounds from the basement, then an inner door close, heard footsteps on the wooden basement stairs as Lilly came up to answer.

 

Lilly Jones hadn't seemed pleased to find the detective at the door. “You just searched my house, you were here not two hours ago. You went all through it. Why would you search again? Let me see your warrant.”

Patiently Dallas handed her the warrant; though the cats could see only the top of his head, Dallas's dark, close-cut hair, they knew that his square face would be bland, his dark eyes unreadable. As Lilly studied the warrant, Garza's gaze wandered past her and through the open door. “We're looking for Wilma Getz,” he said bluntly.

“Wilma Getz?” Lilly paused as if sorting that out. “The librarian? Why would she be here? I hardly know her.”

She glanced past him at two PG&E employees who were heading around the side of the house. “What do they want? It's too late for city employees to be…Are they with you?” Her dry, lined face was a study in distrust. “What is this about, Detective?”

But then, quite suddenly, her anger faded into a look close to relief. Perhaps she'd thought of Greeley's unwanted visit and felt comforted to have the officers present. Dallas looked at her patiently. “May we search again, Lilly? You will accompany us?”

Peering down, the cats watched Lilly step slowly aside, allowing Garza and tall, thin Officer Crowley to enter. As she stepped in behind them and closed the door, three more utility workers joined the first two, moving to surround the house.

 

Watching Lilly, wondering how difficult she was going to be, Dallas followed her, and Crowley, into the dim, depressing house. Lilly, saying nothing, led them into the living room.

“I don't understand, Detective Garza. What is this about Wilma Getz? Why would she be here? Why would it be necessary for you to search, again? Would you explain, please?”

Frowning, Dallas wished he could read her better. He kept his expression steady, infinitely patient. “Lilly, Wilma has disappeared. Cage broke into her house. He was seen, there was a witness. It's possible he may have kidnapped her.”

“Why in the world…?” She looked at him for some moments. At last she turned, scowling. “Come on, then, if you must.” And she led them down the hall and on into the rest of the house.

 

And as Dallas searched the dim rooms, above, on the roof, Dulcie and Kit waited and listened.
Please, go in the attic,
Dulcie thought. She could not get that hot, airless space out
of her mind.
Oh, please, Dallas, the attic. Go in there, the one place we can't reach.

They heard the two officers moving around in the rooms below, heard doors open and close, an occasional question from Dallas and Lilly's terse reply. After what seemed ages there came a sliding sound, as if the ceiling hole to the attic had been opened; seconds later they heard an officer moving around close beneath their paws, heard hollow footsteps across the bare attic floor. Dulcie imagined Dallas ducking beneath the low attic roof, hunched uncomfortably. Listening to the detective's progress across the wooden floor, her little cat heart pounded hard. But then at last they heard Dallas descend again and speak to Crowley, then replace the attic door, sliding it back into position. They had found no one. They listened as the officers moved about the rest of the house and then headed down the wooden stairs to the basement; and the cats padded silently across the roof to the pine tree and scrambled down, to watch through the basement windows.