Кроха - Dedication

“So far, this is the way we’ve put it together,” Dover was saying. “The worst of it is, we’ve got every unit out there looking for wounded, for bodies. And of course evidence is disturbed, stuff flying everywhere.

“Well, when the tornado passed, she must have known Sam’s and Arnold’s bodies were there on the dock, under the fallen roof. Maybe she thinks they’re dead, maybe not. Maybe she runs to help them, maybe not. All we’ve found is a line of muddy footprints where she gets out of her room, where she runs outside—and she doesn’t head their way.

“When she’s clear of the worst of the debris,” Dover said, “she pauses beside the body of a dead woman among the fallen walls. Later, one of our men photographed the body and what may be Tekla’s footprints. The dead woman must still have been clutching her purse. Looks like Tekla—if those are her footprints—grabs the purse, you can see where it was dragged out from under the muddy debris. It took us a while to find this much, with the mess, and with victims needing help.

“We figure Tekla now has the woman’s car keys, fished them out of the purse. She steps on out to the parking strip. The first row of cars was smashed. Tornado sheared through the building neat as a Skilsaw, dumped the fallen walls on that row of vehicles. It missed the more distant cars, she must have bleeped the electronic key until she got a response from one of them, an answering bleep or blinking light. Now she has the right car, she gets in and takes off.”

Max was silent, listening.

“But Tekla’s wounded,” Dover said. “She drives about three miles, then starts swerving, tire marks all over the road. Pretty quick she loses it, runs the car into a tree.”

“You got her.”

“No, we didn’t. She must have sat there for a while, but then you could see where she backed the car up. Apparently didn’t do too much damage, gas line must have been okay, apparently no tires punctured, and she takes off again.”

“Well, hell.”

“Rescue units were on their way to the motel, but in the dark and the hard wind they must have sped right by her, didn’t ever see her.

“We didn’t find the tire marks and the gouge in the tree until the next morning, first light. By that time,” Dover said apologetically, “she was long gone.”

“And Sam and Arnold?”

“Dead,” Dover told him. “Crushed by the fallen roof. GBI has the report. They’ll be calling you.”

Max was quiet for a long while. Joe and Kit felt a surprising twist of pain for Sam and Arnold Bleak. No matter what they had done, no matter whether they’d been a willing part of Tekla’s plan, the two cats didn’t like to think of someone being crushed that way, in that terrible storm—and of Tekla not even trying to save them, just leaving them.

Max gave Dover his cell phone number. As the officers ended the call, Joe used both paws to ease the headset back onto the phone. They waited in the shadows at the top of the stairs until Max left the guest room and moved out to the patio again. Only when he’d gone did they wander casually down the empty stairway—but at the bottom Kit paused, startled, the fur along her back lifting. Joe Grey froze.

A faint ripple of tension ran through those gathered, through not everyone seemed aware of it. A subtle glance across the patio between Ryan and Clyde, between Charlie and Kate and the Greenlaws, a look as meaningful as a whisper—and the Firettis were headed for the front door, John fishing his car keys from his pocket.

“The kittens,” Kit whispered. “Joe, the kittens are coming.” But Joe was gone, racing away, flicking his heels in her face. Clyde bolted across the living room and out of the house, across the yard trying to snatch Joe from the air as the tomcat leaped past John Firetti—and Joe was through the driver’s door into the back of the medical van.

Joe Grey glared out at Clyde. “Leave me alone,” he hissed softly. “They’re my kittens!” Clyde stepped back, returning Joe’s angry stare.

“Let him come,” John said. “Let him be with her.”

“But . . .”

“There’s not much chance of germs, they’re always together. Whatever Joe’s been exposed to, so has she.”

Silently Clyde stepped back. John closed the door and they were gone, roaring away up the street headed for Wilma’s cottage. In the van, Mary reached out to Joe. He crept up between the bucket seats to the front and into her arms. She stroked him but said nothing; the kittens were coming and they were both nervous.

Behind the retreating van Clyde turned back to the house, ignoring questioning stares. Approaching the front door, where Max, Scotty, Mike, and Lindsey stood, he didn’t want to talk and didn’t want to know what they were thinking. Joe’s behavior and his own were too strange. “Cats,” Clyde said with disgust, shouldering past them, coming in the house, putting his arm around Ryan.

Ryan smiled, and before anyone could ask questions, she led Clyde away to set out the desserts and make a fresh pot of coffee.

Lucinda and Pedric had risen and headed for the living room behind the Firettis. Kate followed as, behind them, Clyde said casually to those around him, “John’s off to deliver Dulcie’s kittens. Wilma—Wilma’s been a bit nervous.”

From the mantel, Pan sat watching the action, cutting his eyes at Kit as she leaped up beside him. Kit wanted to be with Dulcie. Her look at Pan said, Shall we? She knew John didn’t want a crowd. Birth was a private business. And he didn’t want other cats’ germs near the kittens. Butwe haven’t been around other cats— Oh! Except the ferals, up in the hills. And John’s ferals at the beach.

But they’ve had their shots. And John always changes his shoes when he gets back in the van, changes his lab coat and cleans his hands.

She thought about Dulcie in labor and hurting. She told herself they’d keep out of the way, that they’d stay outdoors, she just wanted to be there. She looked at Pan, edgy and nervous. The fascination of Dulcie’s miracle made her shiver. Pan frowned back at her but then reluctantly he rose. Together they dropped from the mantel and fled out the open door.

34

Dulcie paced the living room back and forth, past the flickering hearth, past the couch where Wilma was pretending to read. She could feel Wilma watching her and trying not to worry. She moved from room to room, padded into the kitchen, sniffed at the nice custard Wilma had set out, and turned her face away. She drank from her bowl, but only a few laps. There were no pains yet, but her restlessness was intolerable. She wanted to crawl into her new kittening box, and she didn’t want to be confined in there. She wanted to creep into the farthest corner of the house under the darkest bed, but when she did that, she backed out again. She wanted to be near Wilma, but then Wilma’s lap was too warm. She wanted Wilma to come to the kittening box with her, but she didn’t want anyone there at all. This should be a lonely vigil, only her kittens should share the coming moments, she wanted to be alone to bring them into the world, yet she didn’t want to be alone.

The kittening box Wilma had set up in the bedroom, beside her own bed, was sturdy and splendid. It was constructed from a heavy packing carton uncontaminated by grocery store insecticides. Wilma had cut a smooth little door at one corner arranged so a draft wouldn’t blow in. She had made a lid for the top, which could be lifted off to clean the box. A nice thick bed of newspapers lined the bottom. Papers that Dulcie wanted to rip up, that she intended soon to tear apart, she could feel the urge itching in her pads; papers that would be thrown away after the birthing and would be replaced by a warm blanket.