Shirley Murphy: Cat Playing Cupid

But maybe he thought, among the city's crowds of tourists, he wouldn't be noticed. The sidewalk below was jammed with gaudily dressed pedestrians moving back and forth across the narrow street, pushing around the fenders and bumpers of slow-moving cars, hungering to spend their money on little treats, or on useless wares to cart home as unique gifts for family and friends who would soon throw them away.

Gibbs moved again, letting the curtain fall back into place, and disappeared from view. Had he seen her, was that why he was staring across at the restaurant? She watched the street, praying to see Dallas's Blazer, praying they'd hurry. She was terrified Gibbs would come down, come across to the restaurant. Every time he left the window she drew farther back behind the palm, wanting to run.

When the waitress came to refill her glass of iced tea, she ordered a dessert that she didn't want, buying time. She couldn't sit there forever not ordering anything, the restaurant was too full. She had picked up her fork, was toying with the meringue when Gibbs stepped out the front door of the Argonaut. He stood a moment looking around, then headed across the street toward her, toward the door of the restaurant.

JOE GREY WOKEto the step of high-heeled cowboy boots, a distinctive sound one couldn't mistake. The next instant, the pickup bed shook as the cab door was flung open. He caught a whiff of male sweat, glimpsed the guy before he ducked back between the boxes-a squarely built man dressed in a faded western shirt and worn, western straw hat. There was a thud as he tossed something into the narrow space behind the driver's seat, maybe a suitcase or a duffel. Joe, snatching the phone in his teeth, leaped over the metal side of the truck bed just as the guy started the engine. Sailing to the roof of the next car, he leaped again to the top of a white Honda van, where he flattened himself against its roof, hiding the cell phone under him. The guy hadn't seen him, was busy backing out, looking over his shoulder, maneuvering the big pickup out of the tight space.

When the cowboy had gone, Joe rose up, hoping his weight hadn't punched any buttons on the phone that would send it into some incomprehensible mode that he couldn't figure out.

Should he call Clyde back, tell him he'd had to move? Or wait to see what happened? He hoped this van would stay in place for a while. It hadn't been there when he'd hopped into the truck. Hoped the driver wasn't just picking up a passenger. He must have been deep in sleep when it pulled into the parking space, he hadn't even heard a door slam.

He decided to stay where he was despite the fact that on the white van he was as visible as a dead rat on clean sheets. He was up high enough to see cars pulling in and out, to see the yellow roadster or Ryan's red pickup. He hadn't thought to ask what they were driving. He watched a beefy woman with three cranky, arguing kids approaching, heading straight for him, and he hunkered down again, praying the van wasn't theirs, trying to make both the phone and himself invisible.

And wouldn't you know it. Here they came, straight for him, the woman jingling her keys, the kids whining and arguing.

Maybe they were too busy arguing to notice him. He daren't move, they were feet from him. Frozen in place, he watched the flabby woman in her tight black pants and red T-shirt unlock the driver's door then slide the back door open. Crouched low, he was slowly backing away from that side when the tallest kid, a straggly girl of about ten, spotted him.

"There's a cat on top of the car! Ma, look! A cat!"

Hadn't she ever seen a cat before? What was it about innocent animals that made kids want to shout?

"Look, it's rearing up!" she screamed, running around the side of the van and jumping up, reaching. The kid was a good jumper, he hadn't thought she could reach that high. Her hand grazed him, and before he could stop himself, he'd slashed her a good one. She dropped to the concrete, screaming, "It scratched me! Maaaaa, the cat scratched me!"

He'd hardly touched her. Hardly drew blood. Well, only just a drop or two, glistening on her dirty little fingers. He wished he hadn't done it, that hadn't been a smart move.

But it was too late now, and the woman was furious. As she lunged up, reaching to grab him, he abandoned the cell phone, leaped to the roof of the next car. He couldn't drag the phone with him and let her see it, that would tear it. As he sailed away from one car to the next, the woman ran between cars chasing him, screaming, "Catch it! Catch that cat! It attacked my baby." Thudding and leaping across car tops, he glimpsed the flash of a red vehicle pulling in through the far gate.

Let it be them! He paused, rearing up, hissing at the woman to make her back off. Praying that was Ryan's red truck. Let that be Ryan and Clyde. Please God-and get this woman off me!

HAVING PRESSEDher last twenty into the waitress's hand, Lindsey slipped out through the restaurant's kitchen. Behind her, the plump, motherly server told Gibbs there'd been no woman in there matching that description. She said a man had been sitting at the recently vacated window table, that she hadn't seen the woman he described. That maybe she'd gone into one of the other restaurants along the row. Pausing in the hot, steamy kitchen, Lindsey heard enough to know he was arguing, that he didn't believe her. She spotted the back door and fled among a half dozen busy cooks who turned to scowl at her, never breaking their rhythm of frying and slicing and dishing up. The place smelled of steaming crab and hot fries. And she was out the door, on the side street where she slipped into a group of tourists.

She moved away with them, and ducked into a curio shop, was mingling with the dawdling customers, looking out, when she saw him leave the restaurant.

He headed in her direction. Stepping behind a big, bald man in a pink T-shirt, she looked for another way out of the shop and saw none. She waited until the clerk at the cash register turned away, and slipped past her into a dark little storeroom.

The small, dim space smelled of cheap scented candles. It was crowded with cartons stacked on the floor. The shelves behind these were piled with T-shirts, cheap pottery, piñatas, folded Japanese kites, and Mexican baskets. There was no back door, there was only the one way out of the closetlike space. She turned at a scuffing sound.

Gibbs stood blocking the door. She backed away. He grabbed her, spun her around, and shoved the gun in her stomach.

He wouldn't shoot her here, she thought, encumbered by the crowd in the shop, he'd never escape.

But then she thought about news stories in which the shooter had killed in a crowd, and run, knocking people aside, and had gotten away, with no armed officer to stop him. Gibbs shoved her so hard she twisted, lost her balance, and fell. He jerked her up, gripped her against him as he faced the door, his gun drawn.

Two uniformed officers filled the doorway.

Lindsey didn't wait, she elbowed him as hard as she could in the groin, and ducked down behind a stack of cartons. He turned the gun on her. There was a shot, and another. Gibbs staggered, dropped the gun, fell nearly on top of her. She was grabbed from behind and pulled away.

"For God's sake, Lindsey." Mike held her close as an officer retrieved Gibbs's gun. Gibbs twisted, trying to get up. The other cop sent him sprawling again, and the two officers, snapping cuffs on him, jerked him up and duck-walked him out through the now deserted shop. She could see more uniforms outside herding the tourists away. Leaning against Mike, needing his warmth, she saw Dallas come in from the street.

"You okay?" Dallas asked her.