Shirley Murphy - Cat Pay the Devil

“Ain’t near dark yet. And we can’t get the Jeep in there, not anywhere near enough. Have to drag her-”

“So we drag her,” the big man said. “What’s your problem?”

“She’s that cop’s wife, is what! The damn chief. You think of that, Cage! It’s a federal-”

“It ain’t no federal offense to mess with the wife of a cop, for Chrissake. That ain’t the same as-”

“How the hell do you know? You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

But Cotton heard no more. He couldn’t stop them; they could easily kill him, and then maybe no one would know what had happened to redheaded Charlie Harper, or to the gray-haired human. And Cotton knew only one thing to do. Despite his terror of the human world, he spun away out of the stable, across the yard and away through the pasture, running full out, hitting only the high spots across the open fields, heading for the village. Not only fear drove him now, but rage. Running and panting and his heart pounding too hard, the feral tom was a dazzling white streak exploding down across the brown hills, as incandescent as a small meteor. Something in Cotton, recalling his own captive misery last winter, couldn’t bear that those two women who were not like other humans were now captive and helpless. He could only pray that he could find Kit, who would know how to bring help, could only pray that he could find his way to her through the village among the confusion of houses and shops and so many moving cars and hurrying people-among all the millions of smells that would hide the scent he remembered, of the kit’s home.

He tried to remember which way, from the night Kit had led their escape away from the vicious cage, to her tree house and then out of the village to safety on the open hills. Kit’s tree house could be anywhere among the hundreds of village houses. No clear direction came to him; he had been too terrified to pay proper attention. The evening was still light, the sun low and orange ahead of him as it dropped toward the orange-tinted sea. On and on down the hills the white tom raced, rigid with fear that he would never find the tattercoat kit, that his terrified search among humans would come to nothing, and that those two special ladies would be lost.

It was dark when Max sped home, driving too fast, his siren and emergency light blasting a furor of alarm in the still evening. Half a mile before his turnoff he extinguished both, quelling the loud, bright announcement of his approach. Skidding a turn onto his own dirt lane that led in from the highway to the house, he slowed. The time was nine thirty.

Ryan had called him ten minutes earlier, ten minutes that had seemed like a lifetime. He had no clear idea how long Charlie had been missing. Swerving his car onto the grass shoulder between the lane and pasture so as not to obliterate other tire marks, he parked near Ryan’s truck and Charlie’s SUV, and for a moment he imagined that Charlie was there, that she would step out of the kitchen or the barn waving to him.

He saw only Ryan, standing alone in the lighted door to the stable. He heard three more units swing into the lane behind him, the crunch of tires on gravel.

Getting out, he walked on the rough grass, motioning for his men to park on the shoulder; he stood looking around the yard, scanning it for fresh tire marks and footprints, still imagining that Charlie would appear, stepping sassily out of the barn. He was empty inside, all his cop’s professional detachment vanished; empty, and shaky, and lost.

An hour before the Greenlaws knew that Wilma was missing, Mavity Flowers learned the news when, her mind set on evicting her brother, she headed for Molena Point PD.

Greeley had been dead drunk at dinner, slopping food on himself and laughing raucously, and he’d stunk to high heaven of booze and unwashed clothes, was so disgusting that Cora Lee had sent twelve-year-old Lori upstairs with her supper. The child had eagerly picked up her plate and vanished; she’d seen enough drinking in her own family; Greeley’s behavior brought back too much pain.

Days ago Mavity’s housemates, Susan and Gabrielle and Cora Lee, had ceased being polite to Greeley. Gray-haired no-nonsense Susan Britain was ready to sic her two big dogs on Greeley. It wouldn’t take much; neither the Lab nor the dalmatian liked the old man. Blond Gabrielle had stayed as far away from Greeley as she could manage, and had talked about moving out. Cora Lee had simply looked at Mavity, her lovely, café-au-lait beauty and dark eyes very sad, and Mavity could do nothing less than get Greeley out of there. Disregarding the sinking feeling in her middle at the thought of abandoning her own brother, she had called the department to ask how to get rid of him.

Mabel Farthy had answered; Mabel was the only dispatcher Mavity knew very well, and with whom she was comfortable. Angry as she was, it still took a lot of courage to boot her own brother out on the street, but she didn’t know what else to do.

Greeley had told her that, as her brother, he had every right to move in. The downstairs apartment was vacant, wasn’t it? So what was the problem? When he’d first arrived, showing up one evening without calling, without letting her know he was even in the States after she’d heard nothing from him for six months, she’d told him to go to a motel. That had shocked her housemates-but that was two weeks ago.

Arriving unannounced, just at supper, he had marched boldly into the house sniffing at the good smells of roast beef and gravy and all the other fixings; then they were all at the table, Greeley tucking his napkin into his collar and belching. Susan and Cora Lee and Gabrielle made a fuss over him at first, as they would any guest; Susan said he must be tired, and gray-haired Susan Britain had served him generously of the good roast. Cora Lee had poured wine for him, over Mavity’s disapproving scowl. That was the first night; later, for a while, the ladies were too well mannered to be rude, but at last they lost their patience.

Mavity had put a folding cot in one of the two small basement apartments they were renovating as rentals, apartments that they meant, later on down the years, to accommodate live-in help. She’d made him promise to stay just the one night and then go on about his business. She didn’t know what business that was and she didn’t want to know. Now he’d been there two weeks, dug in like a mule refusing to leave its stall. She’d left the other apartment locked up tight, the one they’d already cleaned up and painted and furnished real nice, and had told him it was rented.

Now, after Mabel Farthy suggested she come on down to the station and sign a complaint, Mavity and Mabel stood on either side of the dispatcher’s counter sipping the coffee Mabel had just brewed. Mabel was in her late fifties, pudgy, but with a bright blond wash on her short hair, and an honest way of dealing with folks.

“Captain Harper and both the detectives are out on cases,” she said. She sounded unnaturally distressed, and it took a lot to upset Mabel. “The chief is…” She paused, watching Mavity. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” Mavity said nervously.

“You’re not to repeat this-I’m sure it’ll turn out all right,” Mabel said gently.

Alarm filled Mavity.

“You haven’t heard about Wilma.”

“That wasn’t Wilma, the break-in and-”

“No! Oh, no. She’s…Nothing like that.” Mabel had taken her hand. “She’s only…Mavity, Wilma is missing.”

“Missing! She can’t be missing, she went up to the city. Didn’t…?”

“She checked out of her hotel this morning. Her things are at her house, suitcase, packages. Her car. But…Captain Harper isn’t sure Wilma ever got home.”

“I don’t understand. If her things are there…Where would she go?” Mavity felt cold all over. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Wilma had just gone up to the city for a court hearing, that was old stuff to Wilma. “She was going to stop in Gilroy. You’d better tell-”