Shirley Murphy - Cat Fear No Evil

But those were dreams, perhaps nightmares. Not facts about his life. I dreamed last night of a granite sky lit by a green haze … I have dreamed of caverns falling, and of the echoing cries of beasts in a world I have never seen…

Kate left the museum frightened. She must give up the search. Whatever lay in the tangle of her heritage was not for her, she had learned nothing about her parents and she was only upsetting herself.

Arriving home, she meant to put on her robe, fix herself a drink, have a light supper, and tuck up on the couch with a book. When she turned into the kitchen, the newspaper she had left on the counter had slid to the floor. She picked it up, puzzled.

A stain of grease darkened the article that had interested her, grease smeared across the account of a downtown jewel robbery. Frowning, she wiped the counter more thoroughly where she had earlier prepared some chicken, and wiped the paper as best she could.

The robbery had occurred ten days ago as the owner was locking up to go home. When he stepped outside and turned to lock the door, two men pinned him against the building demanding to be let in. He grabbed one of them, and there was a fight. Apparently someone, perhaps a neighbor, called the police. The store owner, James Ruse, said it was just seconds until he heard sirens. He told reporters that as the cops belted out of their car, grabbing one man, the other seemed to go insane, jumping on Ruse and beating him. Ruse grabbed the brick he used to prop open the door on hot days and hit the man hard in the head. That didn't stop the burglar; he beat Ruse again, injured one of the cops, and escaped. Police captain Norville said it was likely the man was on drugs, that he had been almost impossible to subdue.

The article unnerved her, the city was getting so violent. She didn't understand why the police didn't shoot the man, when he had almost killed an innocent shopkeeper, had been trying to kill him. She didn't turn on the kitchen TV for the news as she usually did when she fixed her dinner, but put on a CD while she made her salad.

When she went to the refrigerator for the bowl of chicken, she saw that it was empty.

Someone had been here. Had eaten the chicken, apparently while reading the newspaper.

Quietly she reached for the phone, meaning to dial 911, then to leave, to wait for the police on the street or in her locked car. She had started to phone when she saw the paw prints.

Greasy paw prints on the stove, catching the light when she stood at an angle. And when she examined the back of the newspaper, there were greasy prints there, as well.

Checking all the window locks, she angrily searched her apartment, looking in every tiniest niche, under every piece of furniture. In the living room she found the cat's black hair matted on her white couch: a stark and insolent greeting. She imagined the huge black creature riding in the car beside Consuela, peering coldly out the front window-laying what kind of plans?

Because they had missed stealing the jewelry, he had come here into her apartment, had very likely searched the entire apartment looking for it. What next? Her office? And where had he been when Consuela entered the bank? Riding on her shoulder snarling at the tellers? Following her on a leash like some pet jungle cat, commanding irate or amused stares from tellers and customers? Although most likely he had kept out of sight.

If he had jimmied her window, he had probably let Consuela in through the front door, and Consuela had taken her extra keys. They had most likely locked the window and locked the door behind them when they left; and now they could enter at their pleasure.

Searching again, she could find nothing else disturbed. Whatever they had done in here, that black beast frightened her far more than that little snip Consuela could ever do.

Well, she couldn't tell the cops that a cat had broken in, and she had no evidence that any human had been in here. Unplugging and removing her kitchen phone, and then her office extension, so that neither phone could be taken off the hook, she carried them into the bedroom, setting them down beside the nightstand where she left the third phone plugged in. Locking the bedroom door behind her, she checked every small hiding place once again, behind the boxes on the closet shelf, behind her clothes. She was thankful she'd had the bedroom lock installed; it gave her a sense of security after she'd been followed. She didn't like surprises; she would not want to wake with someone in her room.

Certain that the cat was not in the room with her, she washed her face and brushed her teeth. She was tucked up in bed, reading, by 8:15, the dark winter evening shut away beyond the draperies-wanting to lose herself in a favorite book as she had done when she was a child in one foster home or another.

But, again, the book didn't hold her. Putting out the light, turning over clutching her pillow, she wanted to sleep and didn't think she could. Then when she did sleep, her dreams were filled with Azrael, and with phantom worlds that beckoned to her from the darkness. She woke at three and lay sleepless until dawn, her mind racing with unwanted questions.

Long after Kate slept, that Saturday night, down the coast in Molena Point, rain swept in torrents along the rocky shore, turning sodden the cottages and rooftops and, south of the village, bending double the wild grass on Hellhag Hill, drenching the two friends who climbed through the black, wet tangles, desperately searching.

Joe Grey heard it first, a lonely and mournful weeping as he reared up in the tangled wet grass. He and Clyde were halfway up the hill, Joe's paws and fur were soaking. In the driving rain, he could see nothing. Leaping to Clyde's shoulder, he stared up through the windy night toward the crest. The weeping came and went in the storm as unfocused as the cries of spirits; the gusts pummeled him so hard he had to dig his claws into Clyde's shoulder. Clyde grunted but said nothing. Above them, the grieving lament increased: somewhere in the cold blackness the kit sobbed and bawled her distress. The time was three A.M. Scuds of rain hit their backs fitfully, then were gone again.

Of course no stars were visible, no moon touched the inky hill. Pressing a paw against Clyde's head for balance, Joe prayed the kit hadn't gone into the cave. Crouching to leap down, to race up to the crest, he peered down into Clyde's face. "Can you see her? Can you see anything?"

"Can't see a damned thing. You're the cat. What happened to night vision?"

"It takes a little light. I'm not an infrared camera!"

The yowl came again, louder, making Clyde pause. "You sure that's the kit? Sounds like the ghost itself." The ghost of Hellhag Hill was a treasured village myth, one Joe didn't care for. Rising tall against Clyde's head, Joe peered harder into the black night. Had he seen an inky smudge move briefly? Clyde stunk of sleep, a sour human smell.

"There," Joe said. "Just to the left of the cave."

Clyde moved to stare upward, clutching Joe tighter. The trouble had started an hour ago with the ringing phone in their dark bedroom. Burrowing beneath the covers, Joe heard Clyde answer, his voice understandably grouchy. "What?" Clyde had shouted into the phone. "It's two in the morning. This better not be a wrong number."

There was a long silence. Clyde said, "When?" Another silence, then, "Are you sure?" Then, "We're on our way." Joe had peered out as Clyde thudded out of bed and stood looking around the dark room, then staring toward the study and Joe's aerial cat door. "Joe! Where the hell are you? Joe! Come down here! Now! Wilma just called. It's the kit, she's run away!"