Shirley Murphy - Cat Spitting Mad

Crystal came out, ducking through the low door and sliding the bolt home with a hard clunk. Hurrying up the stairs, she slammed that door and slid the bolt across. The dissonant jazz music had ended long ago. From next door, the cowboy lament was filled with misery.

Leaping at the bolt, he found it immovable, hard and ungiving. He tried for some time; then, crossing the garage, he tried the lock on the pedestrian door, thinking he could go for help.

It, too, was beyond his strength. And he realized he was as much a captive as Dillon.

Looking up at the ceiling, he studied the automatic opener, then prowled the garage until he found the button to operate it, to the left of the washing machine. That would be easy enough to spring.

Right. And bring Crystal on the double.

He fought the bolt on Dillon's door until his paws throbbed. His thudding battle must have terrified her. "Who is it? Who's there?" Dillon's voice was both frightened and hopeful. "Please," she whispered, "who's there?"

He was sorely tempted to speak to her.

Oh, right. And blow his cover forever, him and Dulcie both. Enough people knew about them. And a kid-even a kid as great as Dillon-was too likely to spill. In one trusting moment, tell someone.

He had started to search for a vent, to see if he could tear off its grid or screen and slip through, when the upstairs door opened yet again, the light spilling down around Crystal as she descended. Swinging into the Mercedes, she raised the garage door, and backed out, the big door rolling down again like a giant guillotine.

He could have streaked out beneath it, except his passage would have made it halt. He guessed he could have leaped over the electric beam, left it unbroken. But he didn't want to leave Dillon, he was afraid for her, he had a gut feeling he shouldn't leave her.

He was pacing the garage trying to think what to do when he heard a police radio. Light flared under the garage door as the unit pulled up the drive.

All right! Help was on the way.

But what had alerted the patrol? Was this only a routine neighborhood check?

He had to get their attention.

The car door opened, he heard hard shoes on the concrete, heard the officer walking along the front of the duplex, then hushing through the bushes.

Joe followed the sound as the officer walked around the building, all sound lost at the far end, then came back behind the building through the tall grass of the hill. Heard him try the pedestrian door, then cross the drive again, and double-time up the front steps.

The bell rang three times, then a key turned in the lock-or maybe some kind of pick; Joe could hear the metal against metal. He followed the hard-soled footsteps above him as the officer prowled the house.

That was the way it sounded. Like prowling, not just walking around. Joe heard him open the closet door, then the shower door. What-or who-was he looking for? Did he have a warrant? Not usual, even with a warrant, to come into an empty house. When he stopped beside the door leading down to the garage, Joe slid behind the washer, his heart pounding. Who was this, which officer, prowling Crystal's apartment?

The bolt turned. The door at the top of the stair was opening when, out in the drive, a siren began to whoop and the light beneath the garage door turned pulsing red. Whoop, whoop, whoop. Flash, flash, flash.

The officer pounded across the room and down the front stairs, jerked open the car door. The siren stopped. Joe heard him walking the front yard as if looking for whoever had entered his vehicle. He left at last, slamming the door, burning rubber as he backed down the drive.

Collapsing against the washer, Joe felt as limp as a slaughtered rabbit. He was staring at Dillon's door, trying to figure out how to get it open, when up the stairs the door swung wide and light spilled down-silhoutting a small tabby-striped figure, her tail lashing.

He reared up, watching her. "How did you know I was here? How did you get in?"

"Through the bathroom window," she said, galloping down. "Same as you." She smiled and nuzzled him. "You're not the only one who can break and enter-or follow a trail of scent." She sniffed at the door beneath the stair. "Dillon! Oh, Joe! Is she really there?" she whispered.

"Alive and well. Who was that, tramping the house?"

"Officer Wendell. He didn't open a drawer or cupboard, but he checked everywhere a person might be hidden, the closet, even under the sinks and in the shower. Stood on a chair and pushed up the little door into the attic, swung his torch all around. He checked the food in the kitchen and the clothes in the closet." She narrowed her green eyes. "Looking for little-girl clothes? And why did he come so secretly? This isn't his beat-he's on day watch, south side of the village."

"Did you set off the siren?"

Dulcie smiled. "I saw Crystal at Binnie's Italian, saw her come out with two cartons of take-out. On a hunch, I nipped on over here. Caught your scent. Went on in. Then Wendell came snooping."

"Nice," Joe said, nipping her ear.

Together they tried the bolt, leaping and grabbing and twisting, but they couldn't budge it. They daren't speak beyond the faintest whisper. They could hear Dillon just inside, softly breathing, as if she was pressed against the door.

"When we get her out," Dulcie whispered, "where can we take her? We can't take her anywhere. We can't talk to her."

Joe didn't have an answer. "The first order of business is to get her out."

She touched his paw. "The minute we set her free, she'll run straight home. And that's the first place Crystal will look. You can bet she's armed, Joe. If she gets there before they call the station… Dillon's parents are such-gentle types."

"Only her father. Her mother has spunk."

"But-"

"We'll think of something. I don't want to leave her here. If we knew how long Crystal will be gone…"

"She went to meet someone. She called him but didn't use his name. Just, 'I need to talk with you,' then, 'I can't. Meet me the same place.' "

"Wark?"

"I'm guessing it was Wark."

Leaping across the garage, Joe toppled the broom with one swat, where it leaned against the wall. Pushing and pulling together, they got it across the floor and upended, angling it against the bolt. They were forcing the broom with teeth and claws, pushing it against the bolt, when a furry warmth thrust between them, trying to help.

"How did you get here, Kit?" Joe snapped.

"Followed Dulcie," she whispered, pushing with all her might.

From beyond the door, Dillon's muffled, frightened voice cried, "Who's there? What are you doing? Crystal, is that you?" The cats imagined her cowering in the small, dark space while a stranger-quite possibly the killer-pried at the door to get at her.

They tried again, with the kit pushing too-she was stronger than she looked-but the bolt seemed frozen in place.

"We need help," Dulcie said, licking her bruised paws, crouching to race up the stairs-flying to the kitchen, to knock the phone from its cradle.

CHARLIE WAS so scared she was almost sick. Parking around the corner from the duplex, she left the van's streetside door open as she'd been instructed. She didn't fear Crystal, she feared whoever had killed the Marners and would be looking for Dillon. Dulcie said that already Officer Wendell had come prowling, in a way that was more than suspicious.

Hurrying along the dark street, she looked warily into the black interiors of the scattered cars parked against the curb, ready to run if someone stepped out to grab her. But despite her fear, she had to smile. She felt like Alice Through the Looking Glass for sure, stumbling around in the night, following orders from a cat.