Ширли Мерфи - Cat Chase The Moon

The old man grew more and more upset as he drove the back way to Highway One and up past the turnoff to the Harpers’ ranch. There was no one outside in the pastures to see him drive by and head up his own lane for home.

Having left the scene as the sirens came screaming, he had felt steady enough then, filled with a sense that he’d done the right thing. That he might have saved Jon Jaarel’s life.

Could there have been any life left in the man after that brutal attack? What if it was murder, what if Nevin had killed him?

That was when his stomach really started to churn, when he began to feel pale and sick. Nevin, his own son . . . Over the years he’d known when Nevin was in trouble, and had tried to ignore it; and he had tried to keep the boy’s earlier troublemaking from Nell.

As he approached his empty house, evening began to close down around him. He couldn’t stop thinking about Jon Jaarel, injured and bloodied. The hardworking restaurant owner was a kind, steady man. Zeb prayed that he was alive yet was pretty sure he wasn’t. The old man was filled with a hollow emptiness, with futility at the brutal ways of his own boys, his own family.

He should have made a second call to the dispatcher, should have told Harper who the attacker was. He hadn’t seen Nevin full face in the dark but he saw enough to be sure; and he was sure that was Thelma’s car. He was sick inside, he didn’t know what to do, he felt so unsteady he could hardly drive.

How could he report his own son? All bundled up in old clothes like that, like a homeless man. He had moved so fast to get away that Zeb really hadn’t seen his face. He never saw which way Nevin went, he’d been too busy calling the medics—but he knew. He knew, from the way the man moved. He knew the body language of his boys.

This wasn’t the first bank-deposit robbery in the shopping area or in the village; and maybe Varney and Nevin were both responsible.

Pulling up before the house feeling even sicker, he saw his old truck sitting there and remembered to hide the car, get it out of sight. He wouldn’t want one of the boys to see he had another car. In case he . . . What? Decided to follow them, to see what else they were up to?

After he backed into the shed in the far corner and got out, he felt so shaky that he had to brace himself against the swinging wooden shed door as he closed it. Going inside he gripped the porch rail then the back door, then hung on to a kitchen chair as he sat down at the table. He wished he had some whiskey; there was no liquor in the house. What do you do when you feel scared hollow right down to your very soul?

He couldn’t even call the PD and ask if Jon Jaarel was alive; and ask if they’d caught the thief. Even if his phone was so old that it didn’t have GPS he was afraid to make another call. How did he know what kind of equipment the cops used?

He sat still for a long time, his head bent on his clenched hands. At last he went in the living room and lay down on the couch. He covered himself with Nell’s quilt and closed his eyes. His own boy. One of his boys. He guessed in the dark it could have been Varney but he was almost certain it was Nevin. He felt as weak as an old, old horse about to go under. Was there a place in the hereafter for worn-out horses and worn-out old men with nothing to look forward to? His life was gone. Nell gone, and the three boys turned out like this. Mindy was the only decent one, and the boys and Thelma had taken her away.

Max Harper was bound to find who did the killing—if Jaarel was dead. And then prison for the boy, or worse. And, he thought, if both boys were involved, if both were convicted even for short sentences, what would happen to Mindy?

Would Harper leave her in the care of her mother?

But Thelma would refuse to come back here. No telling where she’d take Mindy. Likely she’d head for the city. Turning over, not wanting to think any more, he felt himself drop into a hard, deep sleep. He wouldn’t have thought he could sleep, in this state. He felt himself fall into a black emptiness that, he’d read once, came from depression or fear.

On the Damens’ roof, late after supper, the cats sat watching the chill fog roll in, its promise making them smile. Soon the streets and rooftops would be all but hidden, they could slip away and go anywhere they wanted, totally unseen. Their human families couldn’t object to that. Who could see a cat in this hazy overcast? Already a long white tail of thick ocean mist crept low along the face of the hills, a dark dragon making its way up the valley, obliterating the lower fields. It would soon grow longer and wider to cover all the hills and valley and then sink down to hide the village.

Then it would be hunting time. No one to see and snatch up a prowling cat as they slipped down from the roofs and maybe to the little park to have another look for the earring—if the cops hadn’t found it, or the guy hadn’t taken it with him.

The earring was tiny. It might be crushed, but it could still be lying in the sand, lost or buried where the earth was soft and deep. It might never be discovered unless sensitive cat paws dug into every corner of the park and maybe beyond. Could you smell gold? Joe didn’t think so, but he very much wanted that little piece of evidence.

The victim’s testimony would be powerful, as would the cops’ color photos of her lying bleeding and nearly dead, half buried in the rough grave—this, backed by minute bits of evidence the detectives had collected. But to have the torn-off earring with her blood on it and maybe bits of torn flesh and, hopefully, both sets of fingerprints—that should go even further toward convicting the guy, if they ever caught him.

5

The only sound the three lady cats could hear through the heavy fog was the hush of the sea from four blocks down where the injured woman had been found, where the two tomcats had already disappeared searching for the earring or maybe for other clues the cops might have missed, though that wasn’t likely. Dulcie and Kit and Courtney had stopped “for only a minute” in the heavy haze to peer through a softly lit shop window. Standing on their hind paws, their front paws on the sill, their tails twitching, their noses pressed to the glass, they admired the lovely dresses, the tight pants and vests, and they imagined how it would feel to be real human ladies all dressed up.

The only glow to cut the mist was the faint light from the windows and, overhead, the diffused gleam of the fog-scarfed moon. In the thick haze, the three furry shoppers were only the faintest shadows, and at this hour, who was to see them? The streets were empty, the haze so thick you couldn’t have seen a streetlight even if there had been any. Not a soul, no one here to laugh at the cute kitties looking in the shops, no one to be amused at them as the library patrons had been. The fog turned Dulcie’s dark tabby stripes silver, and softened the orange of Courtney’s bright patchwork; vapor so heavy it feathered Kit’s tortoiseshell fur into curly tangles. They felt smug that they had slipped out of Clyde’s house against orders only long after the Damens slept, when the fog was so thick that no one could see them anyway—and who would kidnap a cat!

Now, the girl cats didn’t speak, even if the street was empty, but they could guess each other’s thoughts. Dulcie’s green eyes were bright with the dream of being a tall, beautiful woman, elegant in the red silk dress; Kit admired the lady wearing khaki hiking shorts and a leather vest—not that Dulcie or Kit would want to stay in human form, they just wanted to know how it would feel, how they would look. Courtney, unlike her striped mother and tortoiseshell Kit, did not often imagine herself as a lovely human. Truly, only a few of their special breed could change. Courtney dreamed of other kinds of magic, of centuries long gone, of ancient realms deep in her memory. As the other two lingered, she moved around the corner to peer in the end window at a soft-toned rain cape which, if she were human, would go well with her calico hair. Would I still be calico? Amused, she moved along toward the corner window looking at handsome luggage, at satin stoles, fancy hats and silk scarves, dreaming each into scenes from distant times.