Cat Pay the Devil (7 page)

Now, with the tape over her mouth, she couldn't even talk to him. And then she thought, what about Mandell? Did Cage plan to find Mandell Bennett, too?

But Bennett was a far warier adversary; he was younger and he kept himself sharp for his work. Mandell was bigger and stronger than she, and he would be armed. Again she was ashamed of letting down her natural wariness and becoming complacent.

But there was one thing in her favor. To her knowledge, Cage Jones had never been a killer. Thief, burglar, robber, manipulator. If he'd ever killed, there was no hint of it in his record.

Well, but she hadn't dealt with Cage in ten years. Ten years in Terminal Island among the vicious prison gangs—a ten-year hitch for which she and Bennett were largely responsible—could make a big difference in the attitudes of a felon. She felt a shaft of late-afternoon sun strike her face and knew for sure they were moving west; she welcomed for that brief moment the warmth and light through the blindfold.

When she'd left the last store, heading for her car, the low sun had shone sharply in her eyes. Now, as they traveled west, it would be shining in Cage's eyes. Too low for
the visor to block the glare? Was he wearing dark glasses? If not, and the sun was half blinding him, could she do something to make him swerve and crash? But the odds of doing that weren't good. Tied up in her own car, she'd be unable to escape such a wreck.

Certainly no one was looking for her, not yet. No one in Molena Point would expect her at any given time—except Dulcie, she thought, feeling sad, and yet knowing hope, too. When she didn't come home, when she hadn't pulled into the garage by dark, her friends, if they called, would simply think she was delayed, as any woman shopping might be, or that she was in heavy traffic. But Dulcie would be pacing, the little cat would be growing frantic. Knowing Dulcie, it wouldn't be long until she started raising some hell. She'd call Clyde, then Charlie. One way or another, she'd alert Max Harper. Max would go by the house and, when she didn't appear long after dark and they couldn't rouse her on her cell phone, he'd have every cop in northern California looking for her.

She wasn't carrying her purse, only a fanny pack; her purse was locked in the trunk, and her phone locked in the glove compartment with her gun. Maybe Cage hadn't used her key, yet, to gain access, to find her weapon and her phone, and play back her messages. And what was the difference? So someone was worried about her? That would be of little interest to Cage. Let them worry.

Did anyone else know Cage had escaped? Had it been in the papers, or on the news? In fact, had the jailers themselves done a head count and realized he was gone? Or had he pulled off something so slick that he hadn't yet come up missing? Slipups could escalate; jails were overcrowded and shorthanded; men traded identities, bought their way out with help from friends. Knowing Cage, that's what he would
have tried. But whatever had come down, or would, right now, Wilma put most of her hope in one lonely and worried little tabby; thoughts of Dulcie stirring up some action helped considerably to soothe her.

Cage's window was down, and the hot air grew cooler, the light through the blindfold dimming as evening drew down. When the car took a right off the freeway, she eased up to listen; she could hear less traffic now. Soon they made another turn, and their speed decreased as they climbed up a bumpy road. Sniffing the air, she caught the scent of dry grass, then later of pine and eucalyptus trees, so they had to be heading up into the coastal hills. There was a lot of empty land up there along the higher ridges, above the small horse farms and ranches. Was Cage making for some sparsely populated region where a body could be dumped and maybe never found?

Oh
,
Dulcie. If they don't find me, you mustn't grieve. I love you. Please
,
go live with Joe and Clyde
,
or with Kit and the Greenlaws. Take care of yourself. Please
,
do what's best for you.
The pine scent was sharper now, carried on a welcome cool breeze that hushed, high above her, through tall trees. There was no longer any light through the blindfold; she rode in darkness, bumping along to…where?

A
t dusk, up on the open hills where the hot grass blew
brown and rattling, ten feral cats paced nervously along a broken stone wall, watching the hills below for the hunting beasts that roamed the hills and for invading and curious humans; the clowder of cats was always alert and wary as they roamed among the estate's fallen rooms and ragged walls and overgrown weedy rosebushes. Below them down the falling hills, all the world lay open, wild and empty, and close around them among fallen stone and hidden cellars where the shadows lay thick, all was silent and still. There was nothing to disturb them, this hot summer evening, but the ten cats paced, lashing their tails, wary and nervous: The human woman had come again into the ruins: the wraithlike young woman who came too often, hurrying stealthily down from the scattered small houses in the hills high above, a pale creature, half child, half woman, as skinny as a starving bird. Always, she crept into the rotting, overgrown old travel trailer that had ages ago been hidden among the fallen
walls. She would lurk in there like a mouse in a rusting can, as if seeking privacy and quiet, as if wanting to hide there.

The trailer seemed a part of the vines that covered it, as if they had grown right into its metal skin. It must have been hauled up the little dirt road countless years ago, and pushed by men in among the half-fallen walls and left to rot. Even when their feral band had first come to live in this place, they had not, beneath its heavy mantle of ivy, discovered the trailer for nearly a week. It was not visible, even to a cat, from more than a few feet away. Willow had found it, her inquisitive nose following the stink of mildew.

Once they had discovered and investigated it, and had determined that no beast had taken up residence there, they had slipped away nervously, and had afterward avoided the rusting box, giving it a wide berth. But the thin, pale girl-woman, walking so sad, always wary and sad, liked to hide there.

The trailer could not be seen from the narrow dirt road below; that road hadn't been used since the cats had come to live there. Nor could the top of it be glimpsed from the wooded hills above; Cotton had gone up there to look. No human ever came down through these woods from the far houses except the human girl slipping down into their own realm of shadows like a lost spirit from some ancient Celtic ballad. This band of cats knew the old myths, for they were part of their own history. These little, wild cats knew that they were out of place in this world. They were survivors in a world where such beasts were said not to exist, where humans no longer believed in such creatures. They were trapped in a world they didn't understand and that would never understand them. With their human intelligence and human perceptions, they had learned to survive, to take what they needed from mankind and remain apart. But now,
looking down to the sea, stained with the reds of sunset, and to the glinting rooftops of the far village, their thoughts were filled with the unwanted concerns that had reached out to touch them. Willow paced the wall, the faded calico hissing with agitation, and warily the others watched her, knowing well her strange perceptions, and sharply attentive to her fear. For Willow and Coyote and Cotton had friends in the village. This last winter when the weather was cold and wet, three village cats and their humans had saved them from a cage and set them free—three cats like themselves, who could speak with humans. Three who had chosen to live among humans.

Now, something was not right among those three; sharply Willow sensed Dulcie's unease. “What?” she whispered. “What is this distress for tabby Dulcie, what has happened that makes her pace and shiver?” She looked at Cotton and Coyote, but they couldn't sense what she felt—though on the wall beside her, the two toms paid attention. As had the other ferals, all seven, who had vanished uneasily among the stones and caverns.

 

Clyde Damen was more than uneasy. Switching lanes fast in his old open roadster, dodging village traffic, he swerved in front of a bread truck, so the driver slammed on his brakes, blasted his horn, and yelled obscenities; but then the man stared down at Clyde's classic yellow Chevy and grinned with admiration and motioned Clyde ahead. Clyde gave him a thumbs-up, went in front of him and wheeled across Ocean, heading for Wilma's cottage. He didn't know how he'd explain his swift arrival to the law. He'd think of something to tell Harper. He'd say he'd called Wilma to see if she was home and wanted to catch dinner, that when
she hadn't answered he'd decided to run by, and there were Harper's squad cars all over. Looking frantically for a place to park among the patrol units, he ended up two blocks away, squeezing the roadster in between a couple of old pickups, swinging out of the car, and hurrying back to Wilma's.

Impossible to stay out of sight, there were uniforms everywhere—except not trampling her flowers, even the rookies knew better than to trash Wilma's garden. Hitting the front walk of the low stone house, he headed for Officer Brennan, whose large girth guarded the front door. Behind Clyde, two patrol cars took off burning rubber, and a third sped away up the narrow street in the opposite direction.

He started to speak to Brennan, but then he saw Dulcie and Kit at the far end of the house, huddled in shadow beside the back steps, looking small and miserable. Glancing at Brennan, who had turned to speak to someone inside, he hurried across the yard and picked up Dulcie. He reached for Kit, but she gave him a wild look and bolted away, up the nearest oak. Holding Dulcie close, he slipped around the far side of the house looking for privacy where they could talk.

“I called you,” she whispered, climbing to his shoulder. “You didn't answer…I left messages…” Her face was close to his, her green eyes wide with distress.

“Dispatcher called me,” he said, cuddling her.

“She's gone,” Dulcie whispered. “She hasn't come home, but someone…” Her tail lashed against him, her ears laid back in worried anger. “Her packages are here, her overnight bag. Her car's here. There were two men inside—Cage Jones and someone else,” she said, hissing. “They tore the house apart, they were in the bedroom, we saw them. Searching for something. What could they want? Kit and I watched them going through her things; when they ran out, I heard a car on the next street but couldn't see it, don't know
what kind or which way it went. I called the station…Ten minutes later I heard it again, fast but quieter…as if they'd doubled back…

“Those men…They're the only ones who know where she is, who know what happened to her. Your cell phone…I have to call Mabel back, tell her what they look like! I didn't tell her.” Frantically she pawed at his jacket pockets. “Where—”

“Tell me what they look like, Dulcie. I'll call. If a cop comes around the corner—”

“How can you? You had no chance to see them, they were gone when you got here. Shove the phone under a bush. Make it snappy.”

Glancing around for uniforms, Clyde punched in 911 for her, knelt, and laid his cell phone deep under a camellia bush among a carpet of dead brown blooms. As she talked, he paced, watching the front yard and the back, but only when he had pocketed the phone again and picked up Dulcie once more did he relax. “You sure she hasn't been home?” he whispered. “Maybe went out again? If this is a false alarm, Dulcie, if—”

“Came home and what? Tore up her own house? Tipped over the furniture? Trashed her desk?” She stared bleakly into his face. “No one in the world but those two men know where she is. And now they're gone.”

“She was going to stop in Gilroy,” Clyde said. “She called me early last evening, wanted to know if she could pick up anything for me.”

Dulcie sighed. “She called Lucinda after supper. She sounded fine, then.” The little cat leaned against his cheek, swallowing.

“Dulcie, did she check out of her hotel?”

Dulcie's eyes widened.

“Come on…” Holding the dark tabby close, he made for the front of the house, up the steps past Brennan, and burst into the living room where Harper was helping Detective Garza lift prints. Both men turned to stare at him, scowling.

“This is a crime scene,” Harper said. “You know better than to come in here. And how did you know? Ten minutes since the call came in.” The tall, thin chief was dressed in his usual frontier shirt and jeans, Dallas Garza in faded jeans, a dark turtleneck, and an ancient tweed sport coat.

“Did she check out?” Clyde asked. “Check out of the Hyatt this morning? The one at the wharf.”

Max just looked at him.

“Did she check out?”

“Seven, sharp.” Max studied Clyde, frowning, stared at the cat in Clyde's arms, shook his head, and turned away, his leathery face unnaturally drawn. “She's been home,” Max said. “Or, it looks that way. Overnight bag's here. Packages. Car in the garage. Either before or after she got home, the place was tossed.” He turned to look hard at Clyde again. Harper and Clyde were as close as brothers, but right now, Max's head was filled with questions. “Caller wouldn't identify herself, said the door was unlocked. Said she came in, saw two men in the bedroom, they saw her and ran out.”

“Who
called? Couldn't you—”

Harper shook his head. “No caller ID. Said she was a neighbor.” Max frowned, compounding the wrinkles on his long, thin face. “I've never known Wilma to leave a door unlocked. Or the kitchen in a mess like that. Even the way she unpacked…Go back and take a look, see what you think.”

“I don't know how she unpacks, Max. Call Charlie, Charlie would know.” Wilma's niece had lived with her aunt for several months; she'd know things about Wilma's personal habits that even he or Max might not.

“I can't reach Charlie. She was going to ride with Ryan this evening. Can't get Ryan, either. They'll have their phones off.” Since Charlie had finished the manuscript and drawings for her first book, she'd been riding every evening, making up for lost time, sometimes waiting for Max to get home so they could have a gallop over the hills together, but more often going alone or with Ryan, enjoying the horses before she got back to work on new commissions for animal portraits and on her own drawings and prints.

“I heard,” Clyde said uneasily, “that Cage Jones escaped. Doesn't his sister live in the village?”

Max nodded. “That house Cage and Lilly's parents left them. Couple of hours ago, the minute we knew Jones had walked, Dallas and Davis picked up a warrant, searched the house. His sister Lilly says she hasn't seen Cage, didn't know he'd escaped.” Max shrugged. “Said she doesn't listen to the news much—now, we'll double back, have another look. Though it's not likely Cage would hide her in his own house—if he
was
fool enough to kidnap a retired federal officer.”

Max turned to Wilma's desk, stood looking out the front window. “Sure like to talk with the woman who tipped us.” He looked at Clyde, scowling. “Could be our phantom snitch, but I can't figure how that adds up,” he said irritably. “How the hell can she or her partner always be in the right place at the right time!”

Clyde felt Dulcie's claws kneading nervously on his arm. Harper's frustration at the unidentified but accurate tips he'd been receiving for several years was both stressful and comical. Clyde shook his head. “Doesn't make sense, does it?” he said innocently. “I don't know, Max. If they weren't always right, if they hadn't been a help in so many cases…”

“I'm not sorry to have those two,” Max said. “Even if their seeming clairvoyance does drive me up the wall!”

“Is that what you think? Some kind of…?”

“I don't know what the hell I think,” Max snapped. He continued to watch Clyde, then shook his head. “Made up my mind not to think about it. Take the information and run with it, not ask questions.” The chief reached to his pocket for a cigarette, something he hadn't done for a long time. “Sometimes, it's damned hard not to run those two snitches to ground, or try to. I wish to hell…

“But what's the good, wishing,” Max said. “I just hope Wilma knows that Jones conned his way out of jail. What kind of shop are they running, releasing a guy on false ID!”

“Not the first time that's happened,” Clyde said. “And Jones won't know that Wilma was going to shop in Gilroy. Anyway, the minute he got out, wouldn't he run? Head for another state?”

“Guess you haven't heard the rest.”

In Clyde's arms, Dulcie had gone as rigid as a stone, pressing her head into the crook of his arm.

“Bennett was shot two hours ago,” Max said. “As he left the office.”

Clyde squeezed Dulcie so hard she had to swallow back a mewl. “How bad?” He loosened his grip on Dulcie and contritely stroked her.

“He's in intensive care. They got him in the shoulder and chest. San Francisco General. There's a statewide bulletin out, I just talked with the sheriff up there, he's got deputies all over Gilroy, all over the outlet mall. Mabel e-mailed them a picture of Wilma, that one in Wilma's bedroom of her and Charlie at our wedding.”

“And her car's here?”

“In the garage.” Max shook his head. “So far, nothing. Couple of tiny spots of blood on the side of the backseat,
down next to the door. No more than a scratch would produce. Sample's gone to the lab. Haven't dusted the car for prints yet…” Max's phone buzzed. He clicked on, listened and scowled.

Clicking off, he looked at Clyde. “Dispatcher has a description of the two men, the call just came in. From the same woman. Description matches Cage Jones, and I think I know the other guy.” He sat down at Wilma's desk, looking tired. “The same snitch,” he said again. “Mabel had her hands full dispatching on a drunk call.” He looked up at Clyde. “Why didn't that woman give Mabel those descriptions the first time she called?”