Shirley Murphy - The Cat, the Devil, and Lee Fontana

“It would be so easy, Lee,” she said, rubbing his thigh with an elegant, thin hand. “So easy to pull off both jobs, to make a really big splash in the world.”

But then as she spoke, suddenly he knew the cat was there, he could feel Misto rubbing against his neck, winding back and forth along the back of his seat, could hear him hissing softly. When Lee looked for the ghost cat in his rearview mirror he saw only the black empty glass of the back window, there was no moving reflection, nothing visible—but the woman was visible enough, her pale, long face cold and evil. And the wraith knew the cat was there and she drew back.

Lee said, “What do you want from me?”

She laughed. “I want the same thing from you, Fontana, that I wanted from Russell Dobbs.” She reached out her slim hand and began again to stroke his thigh. When he knocked her hand away, she laughed. “I admire the way you go about your work, Fontana. You never have to build yourself up to a job as some men do. You lay it all out, you are all courage and you do what is needed.”

Well, that was a lot of bull.

“You’re quick, Fontana, and efficient—most of the time. But now—I don’t like to see you turn fearful, as you have with the Delgado payroll, I expected better of you.”

He said nothing.

“You could take down the payroll and then double back for the post office money, you’re famous for your timing. You could pull off a smart, sophisticated operation that would totally confuse the feds.” Again she laid her hand on his leg, again he brushed it away, gripping the wheel tighter.

“Why go to all the trouble of two jobs,” he said, “when one haul is enough. I only have so many years to spend the damn money.”

“For the fame, Lee, for the prestige. For the challenge,” she said softly. “The biggest job you ever accomplished, bigger than anything Russell ever pulled off.”

Lee wondered what would happen if he stopped the truck, opened her door, and shoved her out of there, wondered if he could do that. But of course she would only vanish, turn to smoke in his hands, disappear laughing at him.

“Your time on earth is so fleeting, Lee, you should really plan further than that, you should plan not just for this short mortal life. In a few more moments, as I measure time, all of this world that you see around you now will be dust and forgotten, and you will be forgotten, too—unless,” she said softly, “unless you grasp the eternity I offer you. Unless you’re bold enough to let yourself live forever.

“It would be so easy,” she said, “to go on forever creating new . . . enterprises with your special talent, so easy to work with me, to step into eternity beside me carrying out plans bigger and more rewarding than any you can even imagine.”

Lee stared ahead at Jake’s twin taillights.

“This is your last job on earth, Lee, it should be the wildest and most audacious, the biggest haul you’ve ever made, should leave behind you fame and admiration.”

Behind him the cat had begun to growl. The woman didn’t turn, she made no sign. “I can guarantee the success of both jobs, the entire farming and mining payrolls of this whole area, all the cash in the post office on that particular evening, and the full Delgado payroll. Enough cash to buy you a whole state in Mexico, to buy you the most beautiful women, the finest home, the most elegant horses.”

“And what the hell do you get out of that?” But he knew what she’d get, she’d own his soul, and he wanted no part of it.

“Under my guidance, Lee, when you die at a venerable age you will possess powers you never dreamed of, you will know eternal life, eternal adventure, you will never be bored or sick or old again, your every moment will be an even more . . . prurient and visceral challenge than you have ever yet known.”

He wanted to stop the truck and haul her ass out of there.

“My proposition appeals to you,” she said softly. She ran her hand too close between his legs, then reached to touch his cheek, drew her finger across his lips. He flinched at her touch, let the truck hit a rut that sent it skidding sideways toward the soft desert sand, he spun the wheel, got it straightened out just before it hit the sucking dunes. Screeching the brakes, he pulled over.

“Get out! Get the hell out! If I burn in hell for what I do, I’ll get there on my own, not because of you.”

But already she had vanished, the seat beside him was empty.

Shaken, he jammed his foot hard on the accelerator, racing to catch up with Jake. He wished he was up there riding beside Jake and not alone on the dark, empty road. Even the cat seemed to be gone, he spoke to it and felt around the seat and behind him but could feel nothing. Had the cat helped drive her off, with its snarling anger? But then where had he gone, where was Misto now?

Could the devil have hurt the cat?

But that couldn’t happen—something in Lee believed in the power of that good spirit, even more than he believed in Satan’s evil force. Maybe he and the cat together had driven away the dark wraith, maybe their combined rage had liberated them both for the moment—and even as that thought brought a smile to Lee, Misto appeared beside him, smiling, too. Sitting tall beside him, twitching the tip of his yellow tail, laying a big, possessive paw on Lee’s arm, Misto smiled up at him highly amused at their combined power against the eternal and destructive forces, against the despair that roamed, like slavering beasts, the vast and endless universe.

24

Morgan woke dizzy and sick, jammed in a dark, cramped space, his face pushed up against something rough that, when he felt it with his unsteady hand, he thought was automotive upholstery, rough fabric almost like the mohair with which he’d upholstered the Dodge. Even moving his hand that few inches sent a sharp pain through his head, a shock so severe that his stomach went sick and he thought he was going to throw up. He remained still for some time, then gingerly he tried to ease out of his confinement, to straighten his legs, but when he tried to sit up, the effort made his head pound and throb. Gingerly he fingered his forehead expecting to find blood, but he could find no wound. Moving slowly, he eased onto his side, the pain jabbing through his skull. The back of a car seat rose in front of him, the map pocket with a familiar silver flashlight sticking up, and under the driver’s seat a child’s blue jacket wadded up, Sammie’s jacket with the bunny on the pocket that had gone missing weeks ago. He was in his own car, lying doubled up on the floor of the backseat, his legs bent under him twisted and stiff. Slowly he rose up clutching at the back of the seat, pulling himself painfully off the floor until he was able at last to kneel and could see out the window.

Low sun shot between a tangle of trees, its rays blinding him. How could the sun be setting? He thought, when he could think at all, that it should be around noon, he had a hazy memory of someone coming into the shop at lunchtime, of someone in the car with him.

Falon? Brad Falon? Wanting him to go somewhere? Why would he go anywhere with Falon, he had nothing to do with him anymore.

The low sun was so harsh that when he closed his eyes, the red afterimage of overhanging tree branches swam painfully. He realized he was parked in a dense woods, he had to be somewhere outside of town. Why would he be hunched down in the backseat of his car, alone, parked somewhere in the woods? Shielding his eyes, he could make nothing of the location, there were woods all around Rome. And if the sun was setting, how could he have slept all afternoon? He felt so heavy, thick limbed, even his tongue felt thick and the taste in his mouth was sour. If he had gotten sick suddenly, why hadn’t he gone home? Why would he have come out here, into the woods, alone?