Ширли Мерфи - Cat Chase The Moon

“That’s better,” she said. She shut the door to the paddock, locking him out of the stall as two of the same young medics who had rescued Zebulon hurried in, ragging Charlie for making a busy night; in fact it was nearly morning, the moon almost gone, its last gleam dull and fading to nothing out across the face of the sea.

Moonlight gleamed on the locked glass doors of Seaver’s Antiques where Courtney had settled down, putting her fear away, feeling now that her daddy was safe; and her mama was right there cuddling and calming her. Dulcie did not say, For a great big, grown kitten, you are as spooky as a wildcat. Dulcie had no idea whether Courtney’s sudden alarm had sprung from some keen feline telepathy—another wonder of the kitten’s amazing nature; or only from too much storytelling. But all in all, good and bad, the sun would soon rise, and wherever Seaver had gone was his own business.

And if, Dulcie thought, the weeks to follow were filled with more puzzling situations than a cat wanted to deal with, if no two events seemed to fit together—and then if all of a sudden they all did fit, smooth as a paw in a mitten, wouldn’t that be fine.

But who, she thought, would be responsible for that? The skill of the cats themselves and of the cops? Or, she wondered, a power greater than theirs?

15

On the night that Buffin’s patient slipped away from the convalescent home, when the young cat woke to find Maurita gone, he was more than ashamed. He knew that she was healing, that the nurses had had her up during the day, walking with her. He felt so close to her, could feel her getting stronger. He could feel her needing him, could feel that she was happier. If she had seen the man again, why hadn’t she rung the nurse?

She had a corner room, small but with heavily mirrored windows looking out on two sides, her own bathroom, a little desk and a phone. If she’d seen the prowler again—even if he couldn’t see much through that heavy, prisonlike mirror—why hadn’t she grabbed the phone and called the cops? She could speak that much, even if her voice was garbled.

On this night when he didn’t appear, she had crept completely under the covers, and they slept peacefully. But even in sleep, something within Buffin remained focused on Maurita, stubbornly maintaining the mysterious strength that burned within him, to ease her, helping her to rest, to heal in ways that he did not understand. He was just a plain buff-colored kitten with nothing special about him, yet he could feel the sickness and pain in someone, in an animal, in a human, and soon, if he gave himself to them, if he put all his soul into them, he could feel the patient slowly, slowly growing stronger.

But now, tonight, when he came half awake, chilled, and heard no breathing beside him, felt no warmth there, he woke fully. Maurita was gone. The patient he had grown to love, with whom he had spent cozy days and nights, wasn’t there. Maurita was not in the bed.

She was not in the bathroom, that door was open, the room dark, he could hear no sound from within.

But the door to the hall was open, and in the room across the way where a gleam of moonlight shone in, where the nurses and attendants hung their dark blue scrubs and extra sweaters, a closet door stood open. He could see where hangers had been pulled back, could see Maurita’s nightgown lying on the closet floor—and he heard the front door open. The big, main door that led past the admitting desk and outdoors. At first he heard some scraping and rattling, then heard the lock give; she had found where they hid the key. He was out of bed on the nightstand reaching a paw to the phone. He started to punch 911, then instead called the Firettis. He had learned early from his parents how urgent it was to remember phone numbers—and had learned from Kit her tricks of concentration that set facts and imprinted stories and numbers forever in her head. Although she was fluffy brained sometimes in her wild conversations, the information she meant to remember was imprinted as solid as hieroglyphs carved in stone.

In the Firetti cottage, the phone rang only once, John answered half awake.

“Maurita’s run away, out the front door. I’ll follow her, but can you follow me?” Buffin dropped the phone and raced out the door tracking Maurita’s scent.

Pausing in the shadows, he couldn’t see her on the street. So slim and beautiful, with that long black hair, how could he miss her? He followed her trail mixed with the smell of the uniform she’d taken from the closet, and of the borrowed nurse’s shoes. Followed her down the sidewalk clinging to the dark side of the convalescent home, clinging to the next building, then across a yard where she couldn’t help but be seen in the moonlight—but she had already passed.

He followed her borrowed scents among the shadows of peaked roofs that further darkened the street—but here came a car driving slowly. Its lights picked her out, and Buffin raced after her. He wanted to shout that this was the Firettis’ car, that they had come to help her. How many times, in Buffin’s life to come, would he fight the terrible urge to yell out human words? To cry out, Stop! Wait, please! To yowl out an urgent message that he dare not utter?

And now, behind Buffin came Striker running and scenting out, both young cats wanting to jump on her shoulder, to tell her they came to help, tell her the Firettis wanted to help her escape the prowler. John pulled up beside her and got out, he reached kindly to stop her, taking her hand. “It’s all right, Maurita, we’ll take you where you want to go.” But then here came the cops.

Maurita froze, surrounded by the Firettis’ car and two patrol cars in the narrow street, the drivers jumping out facing her, their holstered guns in clear sight and John holding her, and she didn’t know what to do. Her whole being was still traumatized by her near murder, and then her attacker prowling, trying to look in the windows. Now, she could only stand shivering.

The last of her bruises shone dark in the car lights. Her long black hair was tangled, covering her lumpy ear. The cats could see the stitched-up scar down the other ear where the one earring had been ripped away. John Firetti still held her hand but he was as gentle with Maurita as he would be with a tiny animal, gentle and kind; he put his other arm around her shoulder so she wouldn’t run away.

Only slowly did her dark, frightened eyes look directly at the doctor and the two officers. Only reluctantly did she warm to the kindness in their faces. She watched Mary Firetti step out of the car, and Mary, too, drew her closer.

Leaning against Mary, Maurita said, “There was a man, looking in the windows. Back and forth, but I don’t think he could see in. When, tonight, he wasn’t there, I knew I had to get away . . . I know him . . . I need . . . I need to see Captain Harper.”

The Firettis didn’t know why she hadn’t called the station, just as Buffin had wondered. Both young cats watched as plump Officer Green helped her into the backseat of his squad car. Buffin leaped in and she held him close. Green said, “Captain Harper’s at the hospital, with a prisoner. Detective Davis will take good care of you, she’s on her way to the station. I think Dr. Firetti had better take the cat, there could be a lot of turmoil, he might try to run away. The night clerk . . .”

John said, “Let me ride in back with Maurita and the cat. Mary can follow us and then take the cat and me on home.” Buffin scowled at him, he didn’t like being called the cat, but when Green grinned and nodded and Dr. Firetti slid in beside Maurita, the tan cat didn’t fuss.

Mary, in their own car, called Ryan on her cell phone to tell her that Maurita was all right and they were headed for the station.