Shirley Murphy - Cat Spitting Mad

Frightened and edgy, she bought the biography and dropped it in her shoulder bag. She would not run. This time she would not run from him. She would sensibly use the phone, call the police.

But was it Wark? How embarrassing, to summon the police if that man was not Lee Wark.

She needed to see for herself.

There was no one around, no one to stop him if he attacked her, only this little woman.

She thought how brave Charlie had been, getting Dillon out of Crystal's garage, getting her away while Stubby Baker was shooting at them. Charlie, too, had been afraid.

Well, she could just go out there into the gardens, get a look at him. If it was Wark, she could dodge him, run back inside, and grab the phone. She had to do this, or she would never be free of him-and he would be free to hurt others.

Slipping out the side door, warily she approached the pergola.

Nothing moved around her. She could see no cats; not a cat was visible.

Had they all gone? Or were they hiding?

Heart pounding, she moved into the pergola, staring into the shadows. The wisteria vines brushed her cheek, startling her.

Wark stood under the vines, his cold eyes full on her. She backed away. He lunged, grabbed her, twisting her arm. What had made her think she could escape him?

"Jimmie still wants you dead, missy. That divorce made Jimmie real mad. Jimmie still means to pay for you dead. And I plan to collect."

He began to whisper; she didn't want to hear him. As he spoke, she had a sense of being watched. When she felt his hands on her throat she fought him, biting and hitting him. He twisted her arm; hot pain shot through her.

But suddenly the cats were there, springing at him, leaping down from the trellis, appearing out of the vines, launching themselves at him, so many cats, dozens of cats. The white cat exploded out, flying at his face, biting and raking him; cats swarmed over him, snarling and clawing. Kate felt nothing for Wark. She stood frozen, watching him cower and cover his face, and she could think only of the poor animals he had hurt.

But then suddenly she'd had enough, she didn't want to see this, didn't want this to be happening.

"Stop," she whispered. "Stop. Let him go."

The cats stopped and looked at her. In that instant, Wark ran, cats dropping off, leaping away.

She watched him disappear down Russian Hill. She had started inside to call the police, when she knew she couldn't do that.

Covered with bleeding scratches, Wark must not be reported from the phone in the museum. Let Wark get as far away as his running feet could take him.

She fled the garden in a cab, got out at Stockton Street to use a pay phone. Then she hurried home, running past the Iron Horse with the closed sign in its window and up her own steps, into her apartment to bolt the door.

She spent the rest of the afternoon huddled on her couch, wrapped in a blanket, sipping hot tea, mindlessly watching her locked windows and bolted front door. Wondering if the police had found Wark. She had not given the dispatcher her name. She was heating a can of soup, watching the little TV in the kitchen, when the local news came on.

Wark's picture filled the screen.

"The first of the three escapees from San Quentin was apprehended this afternoon at Fisherman's Wharf." The anchorwoman was dark-haired, her black-lashed blue eyes looking as if every item she ever broadcast touched her deeply. "Lee Wark, serving a life sentence for murder, was found in the men's room of a Fisherman's Wharf restaurant by a restaurant patron who called the police. Wark had fainted, apparently from loss of blood, from what police describe as hundreds of scratch wounds. Neither police nor hospital authorities have offered an opinion as to what caused his injuries."

The picture on the screen did not show the scratches; the station had used the same mug shot they had been broadcasting since the three men escaped.

"Lee Wark was serving a multiple sentence in San Quentin for murder and attempted murder and for car theft and counterfeiting. He escaped from prison over four weeks ago, along with James Hartner and Ronnie Cush, who are still at large, wanted by state police. During their escape, the three men seriously wounded a guard. Anyone having information about the two escapees, or about Wark's present injuries, is asked to contact San Francisco police or prison authorities at San Quentin. They will have full assurance of anonymity."

The relief that flooded Kate was more than she would have dreamed. Wark's capture swept away an unimaginable weight. She felt, for the first time since she'd learned of her dual nature, no unease, no fear. If she harbored the nature of a cat within herself, she was what she was. Now, with Wark locked up again, there would be no one to hate her and want to harm her-her private nature would be her own secret.

But she had to smile. She bet the museum's feline population had vanished. She bet no cat would be seen in those gardens until this news was old and stale. Certainly the white cat would have vanished.

She was eating her soup when the phone rang.

"Kate, are you okay? Have you seen the news? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Clyde. Yes, I saw the news." She put her hand over the phone, feeling giddy. "I'm fine. Where are you?"

"At home. Drinking a beer and watching the San Francisco channel. Joe and Dulcie are doing flips, they're so happy. Were you… How did Wark…?"

"Leave it alone, Clyde."

"All right, Kate. If you say so. I've ordered in fillets to celebrate. Wish you were here. When are you coming back? We miss you."

"I just left."

" I miss you."

She didn't answer.

"Kate?"

"I thought you were dating Charlie."

"Charlie and Max are up at his place, celebrating his return to the department. I think the chief needs her, Elate. And I think Max is what she needs, not a bumbling auto mechanic."

"And you, Clyde?"

"You make me laugh, Kate. You always have. When are you coming home?"

PACING HIS CELL, Stubby Baker looked mad enough to chomp the metal bars, with the sort of rage that made men trash hotel rooms and beat their wives. Baker might be a handsome, boyish-looking fellow, Dulcie thought, with a smile to charm the ladies, but none of that was apparent at the moment. The two cats, looking down at Baker from the high open window, watched Baker's attorney leave the cell and the guard slam and lock the door.

Bars and wire mesh covered the window. The wire-reinforced glass had been cranked open to the warm afternoon. On the sill, Joe and Dulcie crouched beneath the higher branches of the oak tree that sheltered the dead-end alley, the back door of the police station, and the jail. The tree was their highway, their path to all manner of case-related information. It was huge, with rough bark, sprawling twisted limbs bigger around than a cat, and dark prickly leaves. One had only to leap from its sturdy branches to the broad sill to observe the daily lives of the duly incarcerated. A cat could eavesdrop on any conversation that might occur among the residents or between an offender and his jailer or lawyer. The discussion that had just terminated between Baker and his portly attorney had been strictly confidential. The cats grinned at each other, amply rewarded for their three-hour wait atop the hard concrete sill.

Baker was enraged that he'd been picked out of the lineup. Was furious that Crystal had double-crossed him, that she had been hiding Dillon all along. He was mad that Kendrick Mahl and Jimmie Osborne had instructed Crystal to pay him only half the agreed amount, claiming that Wark, not he, had done Ruthie Marner. He said Wark had not been part of the deal, that Wark's escape from Quentin didn't mean he had a right to horn in on a private business arrangement. The attorney, scratching his pale, stubbled cheek, couldn't have agreed more; but he reminded Baker that he had been picked out of the lineup, that morning. When the potbellied, bearded lawyer said he was considering how to deal with that little setback, Joe glanced at Dulcie and nearly yowled out a bawdy cat laugh.