Shirley Murphy - Cat Pay the Devil

The diffused gleam of the Jeep’s lights washing out across the ruins cast into stark silhouette the broken walls and gnarled oaks-and the small shapes of the feral cats, one poised atop a ragged tower, a pale cat padding across the sharp slant of a collapsed roof, and a stark white cat treading the top of a wall high under the stars. All watched the scene below. Curiosity, anger, and fear filled them. Then along the wall, two more cats appeared, dark creatures, rearing up, a pair of yellow eyes and a pair of green catching the light. Kit and Dulcie, fearful and intent, watched as Charlie stood up in the Jeep, her shotgun leveled behind the light-and as Cage Jones lunged to grab her.

Standing in the Jeep, her back to the dark where Max was approaching, the stock of the shotgun jammed against her shoulder, Charlie swallowed. “Stop, Cage. Stop now!”

Cage laughed. “Gun ain’t loaded, missy. And it’d be double-aught bird-if the gun was loaded. It ain’t.”

“Want to find out?”

Cage laughed again and lunged for her. She fired. He staggered and fell back, and grabbed the fender, bent double, rocking the Jeep. She felt Eddie’s weight rock it in the other direction and she spun around. He ducked, and disappeared beyond the light, then she heard him running in the blackness. She didn’t dare fire where she couldn’t see. Eddie was gone, pounding away as Cage clung to the Jeep, his face a mass of blood that turned her stomach. Slowly he slid down the fender, clutching it with bloody hands.

She waited for him to fall, but suddenly he twisted up again, righted himself and came up over the fender straight at her. She fired again, point-blank. He went down. This time, he stayed down.

How strange, the way that shot had echoed. Too loud and with an unnatural thunder, not like the first round.

But now the night was so still, only the echo of the shots ringing, the blackness unbroken except for the acid path of the headlights, beneath which Cage Jones lay crumpled.

Holding the gun at ready, knowing he couldn’t be a threat now but alert in case he was, she swung out of the Jeep.

He lay writhing in a way that sickened her. Where was Eddie? Her shots had stopped Cage from slipping up on Max in the dark, but where was Eddie Sears?

She heard no sound of running. And, now, she did not hear the horses. “Eddie’s out there,” she shouted. “Cage is down. Eddie ran.”

But the shots had warned Max. Somewhere in the dark, he was ready.

She didn’t think Eddie Sears would go after Max, not alone. Eddie was a coward, and this wasn’t Eddie’s battle. He’d be crazy to shoot at a cop. But still she stood scanning the night, watching for a dark figure slipping back toward the riders. She was thinking maybe she was stupid to think Max would be caught off guard, when Max said, behind her, “Thanks, Charlie.”

His hand brushed hers as he shone a light on Cage; he knelt with his gun on Cage, checking his breathing and searching him for a weapon. Then, standing again, he switched on his radio. “Need a medic for Jones. Eddie Sears ran.” He looked at Charlie. “Is he armed?”

“He didn’t fire at me, but…I don’t know.”

He relayed that information, and then he held her close, warm, so warm. He smelled of male sweat and horse and gunpowder. She lay her head against him and only now knew how weak she felt, how scared.

“It’s all right,” he said, stroking her hair and shining his torch into the night, searching-and watching Cage.

And then McFarland and Brennan were there; they took charge of Cage. Other lights moved through the night, throwing looming shadows as officers searched for Eddie Sears. She heard the horses behind her and then Bucky loomed over her, and beside him her own Redwing-and then out of the darkness Rock leaped at her, the silver hound all over her, wagging and whining, jerking the long lead rope that Ryan held.

Ryan sat Redwing, looking down at Charlie, holding Rock’s rope, and holding Bucky’s reins. In the glancing reflection of the headlights, Ryan had that long-suffering look on her face as Rock made a fool of himself.

“He tracked you,” Ryan said.

Charlie looked at her. “You’ve never trained him.”

Ryan shrugged. “He tracked you.”

Max said, “Where’s Wilma?”

“She’s all right, she went…” She nodded toward where the patrol cars were parked. Lights were flashing now, men running, dark shadows dodging among the ruins as if someone had spotted Eddie Sears.

Max was on the radio. “Wilma down there?”

“I’m here,” Wilma said.

Max handed Charlie the radio. She nearly dropped it. “You all right? Where are you?”

“In a nice comfortable squad car drinking someone’s leftover coffee and starving to death. Are you all right? What was the firing?”

“I…I shot Cage Jones. He…Could we talk about it later? I’m beginning to feel…” Charlie swallowed. “I think I need to…”

“Later,” Wilma said, and the radio went silent. Charlie listened to the sounds of running feet and rocks being dislodged and the faint, harsh mumble of the radios as officers searched for Sears; she prayed that no one else would be hurt. Max looked down at her and, with the back of his hand, wiped the tears from her face. She wondered why she was crying. Max put his arms around her, and it was all right, everything was all right.

F rom atop a crumbling wall, the five cats watched dark-clad cops scour the ruins, shining their lights into caves and crevices, talking to one another in those low, machine voices. They saw, farther up the hill, Max Harper kiss Charlie, and then Charlie mounted the big buckskin-the horses were nervous from the shooting, sidestepping, and fussing. Charlie rode away into the woods with the other woman to calm the frightened mounts, the cats thought. Willow and Cotton and Coyote understood that; they needed comforting, too. The three sat close together, gently grooming one another.

They had done things tonight that were not natural to them, had participated in frightening events foreign to their world, and now they needed one another. But they were warm with satisfaction, too. Cage Jones had gotten what he deserved, and that made them purr. But beside the three ferals, Dulcie and Kit were tense with excitement, watching the action as if eager to leap into the fray, convinced that, with cops all over, Eddie Sears would soon be caught, too.

“Like a mouse in a tin can,” Kit said. And Willow and Cotton smiled. In the ferals’ wild and threatened lives, retribution was highly valued-and suddenly Eddie Sears appeared from out of nowhere running straight at them, racing for their wall, dodging, searching for a place to hide, and the cops were nearly on him. The three ferals slunk down, ready to vanish. But Dulcie and Kit crouched, with blazing eyes, their ears back, their tails lashing as Eddie veered along the wall looking for a way through-and the two cats flew at him: twin trajectories hitting him hard, raking him harder. Emboldened, the other three followed. Eddie Sears, covered with enraged and clawing cats, ran screaming, batting futilely at the slashing beasts.

“Don’t shoot,” Wilma shouted, swinging out of the squad car and running up the road. Maybe no one heard her; there were officers all over, converging on Sears. “Don’t shoot,” she cried, “he’s not alone!”

“What is that?” McFarland hissed, throwing his light on something wild and screaming that rode Sears’s shoulder, raking his face. McFarland dove at Sears’s legs, hit him low and hard and dropped him. As Sears went down, the beast that covered him seemed to break into separate parts and vanish, exploding away in the dark.

McFarland knelt, cuffing Sears’s hands behind him. What the hell was that? He shone his light into Sears’s face. It was clawed and bloodied. McFarland shivered and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, stiff.