Shirley Murphy - Cat Seeing Double

She could see, farther down the cliff, three rough chicken pens made of wire, with plywood roofs, and though she could smell the dusty scent of chickens, she could not hear them clucking or flapping.

When she looked toward the shack she could see through a dirty window the old man moving around in there, she could hear him opening cupboards or shifting furniture, making some kind of dull thudding racket. Had that boy lived here with him? Curious to see more, she hopped to the back of the front seat. She was rearing up on her hind paws when the old man came out again suddenly. In panic she dropped to the ground beneath a clump of dry sage-leaving pawprints etched in the dust behind her.

Maybe he would think they were the tracks of ground squirrels or rabbits. Hiding among the bushes she watched him carry out four black plastic garbage bags tied at the tops, their bulging sides lumpy with what looked like boxes and cans, bags that stunk like a hundred drugstore chemicals spilled together or like the garden center of the hardware store with all its baits and poisons where she had wandered once and been scolded by Dulcie and Joe, smells that made her want to back away sneezing. Was this the bomb stuff? She tried to remember what Clyde and the police had said when they were talking about the bomb. She wasn't sure what she remembered and what she'd imagined about that terrible day. She remained frozen still as the old man loaded the dirty bags into his nice car. When he started the car she fled away deeper among the tangled growth that edged the yard.

He turned the car around in the clearing, its wheels just inches from the drop-off, and headed away down the twisting road leaving her alone. As the car descended snaking along the edge of the ravine she reared up looking at the land, hoping to see the way home. She could have been on the moon, for all the feel of direction she had after that blind and twisting ride.

Though anyone would know east by the rising mountains, and west by the dropping sun. The sun was dropping, fast. She did not want to be caught here at night. The kit loved the night, she loved to roam in the night, but up here in the wild high ridges where bobcats and cougar and coyotes hunted, night was another matter.

Standing at the edge of the clearing, her ears and her fluffy tail flattened by the wind, she looked west down curve after curve of summer-brown slopes, far down to the shifting layers of fog and to the tiny village, so far away.

Well, she wasn't lost. Cats didn't get lost. Not when they could see the mountains and the sun hanging low in the sky and the wide fog-bound Pacific. I'm a big cat now. And, scanning the falling hills for possible places to hide when she was ready to make her way home, she spotted the best of all refuges.

Far below among the tree-scattered hills stood the dark tangle of broken walls and crumbling buildings that marked the Pamillon estate where she had hidden from the cougar, and from a human killer. Where she had once, as the cougar slept in the sun on the cracked brick patio, almost touched him, until Joe snatched her away. There among the Pamillon ruins were all manner of caves and crannies.

Now that she knew where to hide in the falling night, she didn't hurry. First she would do as Dulcie and Joe Grey would do. She was about to approach the cabin when, way down on the winding road, she saw a car moving fast toward the ruined estate, a black, open convertible.

Why would the old man go there? It would soon be too dark for humans in that place. What was he doing? Did he mean to dump his plastic bags there? Was the Pamillon estate, with all its mystery, nothing more to that old man than a place to get rid of his garbage?

Turning away with disgust, trotting up the steps to the cabin and hearing no sound within, she considered the ill-fitting door. Standing on her hind legs, then swinging on the knob, she forced it open and quickly she slipped inside.

The floor was dirt, tramped hard, and the wooden walls were so rough that when she pressed her nose against the planks their splinters stuck her. Nor was there much furniture. Two rough wooden armchairs with ancient dusty seats, a scarred aluminum dinette table with two mismatched aluminum chairs, a small old bookcase filled with jars of peanut butter, pickles, baked beans, and a half loaf of bread that smelled stale.

Attached to one wall was a plain laundry sink and next to it a tiny old refrigerator whose motor sounded sick. A second room led off the first, a niche no bigger than Wilma's bathroom, just enough space for two cots at right angles and a wooden chair with a pair of man's shoes tossed underneath. Every surface was rimed with dust, even the plank walls. Big nails in the wall held some wrinkled shirts and pants, some of a small size that might belong to the boy. Certainly the old man slept here, she could smell him. No cat would let himself get so rank, only a dog and some humans would tolerate that kind of stink on themselves. She could still smell the nose-burning chemical smells too, so strong she could taste them. Something about those smells rang alarms for her, something that came from police talk. Nosing along the walls she looked for a closet to investigate, but there was none.

Slipping outside again panting for fresh air she circled the small, crude building, padding quickly around it even where it hung out nearly over the ravine; and the chemical smell led her down the steep canyon toward the chicken pens.

She had no notion how long the old man would be gone. The cages all looked abandoned. Longing to head down the hills into fresh air and into the golden light of last-sun, instead she trotted closer, approaching the wire enclosures.

Heading for the Landeau cottage, Ryan's thoughts were still on Clyde, comforted by his easy ways and quiet reassurance; just their few brief words, in the parking lot of the station over the sound of their idling engines, had eased her tension. Maybe she'd call him early, see if they could take Rock for a run before dinner. Maybe with Clyde she could sort out the fear that had shadowed her ever since she found Rupert's body. She didn't ordinarily confide in new acquaintances, but Clyde was Max Harper's lifelong friend. Dallas trusted him; and Clyde had stood steadfastly by Harper when the captain was accused of murder. And better to burden Clyde with her fears than Dallas. Her uncle wasn't in an easy position. New man in the department, appointed chief of detectives over someone with more seniority, and now his niece was under suspicion of murder. No need to lay more stress on him.

She supposed she wasn't very trustful of men anymore, not since marrying Rupert. Not trustful as she had once been when she was young, growing up in a household nurtured by three strong men. Those associations, and spending her weekends bird hunting with her dad's and Dallas's friends, or hanging around San Francisco PD waiting for Dallas, or at the probation office with her dad, she had always felt easy and confident. Though, in fact, in that law-enforcement atmosphere she had developed a wariness too. A wait-and-see view of outsiders that some folks would call judgmental, but that a cop would call sensible. More than once that mind-set had served her well, though it sure had deserted her when she met Rupert.

She wondered if, after you died, you had the chance to look back and assess the way you'd lived your life. She couldn't seem to leave that thought alone.

Even after seeing Rupert cruelly torn she could feel nothing generous toward him. That fact distressed her, that she was thinking about Rupert as heartlessly as Rupert himself had thought about others. This was not a time to be bitter. Maybe Clyde could help her put these last few days into a kinder framework-a friend she could lean on, someone not family and not part of law enforcement, someone who need not be careful of his conversation with a frightened murder suspect. Just someone steady to help her sort through the tangle. And, turning into the drive of the Landeau cottage, dunking about Clyde, Ryan had no idea that other friends were ready to help her, friends so near to her at that moment that she could have stepped back and touched them, two small friends ready to assist in their own quiet way.