Unknown - Cat_shining_bright_Merfi_630007

18

Joe and Dulcie knew they were on Highway One, they had felt the car turn north. Soon they felt the echoing rumble as they went through the long tunnel where, above the highway, the grass grew tall, the land rolling away into the hills so one often forgot that the freeway snaked underneath. They sometimes hunted that lush verge, so dense with ground squirrels, snakes, and mice. Often they caught the scent of coyotes there or a cougar or bobcat that had come down into the village canyons. Now, the cats were more tense at their present situation than at the smell of a four-legged predator. Dulcie and Courtney wished they hadn’t jumped in the car so rashly but they couldn’t have left Joe to be carried away alone. What had he been thinking, to trap himself in here with two killers? Courtney wished her daddy hadn’t come out tonight, wished they were all safe at the Damens’, snuggled among the quilts with Wilma. When they felt the car change lanes, felt it speed tilting down an exit ramp, they dug their claws into the floor mat. Then they were on level road again, moving fast to the northeast.

“For crissake, Randall, slow down.”

“Let it rest, Egan.”

The cats looked at each other. Egan? Then the AFIS records hadn’t missed anything, this man really wasn’t Rick Alderson—unless he was using a fake name.

“We don’t need the CHP on our tail,” Egan said, “after that beauty parlor mess. Maybe, Randall, you need to be more careful.”

“What I need,” Randall said, “is a hamburger, before we load up and take off.” Wide shouldered, muscled, and broad, was this the man who had been in Barbara Conley’s house that windy night?

“We’re already past anywhere to eat,” Egan said. “Why don’t you think of these things sooner?”

“I wanted to get out of there. Them cops …”

“It was you said you’d drive. Ma would have done it, if you hadn’t argued.”

“She’s all over the damned road. I love your ma but I wish we didn’t have to use her for transport.”

“We need every driver we can get. You love her all right. And every other woman who gives you the come-on.” Egan turned, looking dourly at Randall. “You can cheat on them—cheat on Ma—but they better not double-cross you.”

Randall jerked his hand up as if to smack Egan’s face.

“Watch the road, for crissake.”

“I’m watching the damn road.” Randall glanced up at the sky above them. “Hope they’re ready. It’ll be getting light soon, we don’t have that much time.”

Dulcie looked again at the driver’s short black hair, dense and wiry, and thought of the black hair in the trace evidence that the cops had bagged from the murder victims. Slipping over behind the driver’s seat, she peered around to get a good look at Egan, his long thin face, thin nose, and light blond hair. That color hair hadn’t been among the evidence at the murders, but his blond hairs had been collected in Wilma’s house, and Barbara’s, along with the bits of Styrofoam packing that stuck to everything. They could smell the men’s sweat. And could smell the mud on Egan’s shoes—mud from behind Wilma’s house, the scent of mint that grew at the foot of the hill.

Courtney, clinging to her mother, trying not to panic at what might lie ahead and trying not to feel car sick, closed her eyes and ducked her face under her paws. Willing her memory-dreams to take her, carry her away from whatever was going to happen.

Closing her eyes, slipping into another time, another place away from her terror, she eased down among sod houses with thatched roofs, a woman she had loved, milking a small, cranky cow, her long hair tied back, her rough-spun skirts muddy along the hem.

But fear was there, too. When the woman’s sour husband came out and started sharpening a sword, the calico had fled. The scene was so clear. Soon there were more men, in steel armor and helmets, tall men on horseback. She felt the woman pick her up and carry her into the cottage, then the dream twisted into a haze of tall mountains, then broke apart into a meaningless jumble, the woman holding her softly; and she slept.

Dulcie, snuggling her kitten, knew she was off in another time. She felt both curiosity at what Courtney was seeing, and envy that she could bring back those ancient days—just as their friend Misto had remembered his past. As sometimes Kit while dreaming reached out a paw as if to touch someone or something that, in sleep, must seem very real.

Randall had slowed and was looking around almost desperately as if seeking a way past something ahead. The cats could see nothing from their angled view up through the windows, could see only night and the flash from moving car lights. Randall slowed even more, pulled over abruptly onto the bumpy shoulder, speeded up as if to go around some impediment—but suddenly slammed on the brakes. “Hell! Damn it to hell!” His maneuver woke Courtney, startled at his shout and at the lights all around them glaring through the windows, blazes of flashing red, now, that could only be the demanding signals of emergency vehicles.

Earlier that night, when Kit and Pan had raced to the Damens’ to call 911, they’d thought the house would be dark, that everyone would be asleep. But a light burned in the living room, glowing through the plastic cat door as they slipped through.

Three scowls met them: Ryan and Clyde and Wilma, in their nightclothes, solemn with anger. Kit and Pan could smell their fear.

“Where are Dulcie and Joe and Courtney?” Wilma said. “Oh, they didn’t go home to my house? Not in the middle of a stakeout? Oh, Kit! Why do you think I brought Dulcie and Courtney over here, but to keep them safe!”

“But I … we didn’t,” Kit began.

“Where are they?” Clyde said, his frown fierce. He wore a Windbreaker over his sweats and was jingling his car keys. Kit had never seen him so angry, she didn’t know what to say, she didn’t know how to tell them.

“The phone,” she whispered. “We need … They’re in the getaway car …”

Ryan fled for the kitchen, Kit in her arms. Within seconds she had dialed 911; she held the headset for Kit, her own face pressed close to listen. Behind them Clyde and Wilma crowded against them.

“The stakeout at Wilma Getz’s house,” Kit told the dispatcher. “Two men took off from the market parking lot, maybe ten minutes ago. Dark older SUV, maybe a Toyota. First two numbers of the license are 6F, that’s all I could see. They’re heading north … Heavy man like a body builder, dark hair. Thin young guy, blond, long thin face …” She paused a moment, thinking how lame was her little whiff of scent-evidence, wondering if it meant anything.

“They might,” she told the dispatcher, “be headed up toward the ruins, toward Voletta Nestor’s house, the house with that old barn behind, but that’s only a guess.” As the dispatcher put out the call, Kit pressed the disconnect.

Clyde had left the kitchen, they heard the Jaguar start. Ryan shouted and ran, raced out the front door. They heard the Jaguar idling, heard the car door open, heard them arguing, Clyde’s voice quick and angry. “You can’t leave Wilma alone.”

“Her stalker’s gone, Clyde. You heard what Kit said. You’re not going off alone after those men!”

“Shut the door, Ryan. The cops don’t know about the cats. If they catch that car, there’s no one to help the cats. Shut the damn door. Stay with Wilma, she … Oh hell …”

Wilma flung the back door open and slid in, Kit and Pan clinging to her. “I locked the front door,” she said as Rock bolted over her to the other side of the seat. She handed Ryan a jacket, and pulled on her own short coat.

Clyde, looking back at her, swore again briefly before he headed for the freeway. Wilma had been his best friend since he was a small boy when she was his neighbor, a glamorous college student living next door. They’d never abandoned that friendship; she was family—but right now he could have gladly strangled her. He scowled in the rearview mirror. “You carrying?”