Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Bearing_Gifts_BookFi

He’d made a bit of cash off that, and who knew what other arrangements he might make with Debbie. Now, headed back down the coast to the stone shack, he hoped the old woman had settled down and they could finish looking for the money. Vic was daydreaming about what he’d do with that kind of cash, when the produce truck he’d passed came roaring down right on their tail, its lights so bright in his mirror he couldn’t see the road ahead. Swearing, he eased over to let it pass. Truck hauled right down on them, riding their bumper. Let the bastard tailgate that big sedan up ahead, it was moving too damn slow anyway. That was what was holding him up, some rich-ass driver in that big Lincoln Town Car—one more curve, he was right on top of the Town Car, and the damn truck was climbing his tail. Swearing, he pulled over, pushing the big sedan closer to the edge. “Go on, you bastard!” Why the hell didn’t the guy driving the Lincoln step on the gas, get on down the grade? Vic drew as close to the edge as he could to let the truck pass, tailgating the Town Car, then pulled toward the left lane. But the truck shot past him, rocking his truck, kicking up gravel, shaking the road with a hell of a rumble, and its headlights made the cliff look like it was moving—well, hell, the cliff was moving, rocks falling, bouncing across the road. He stood on his brakes but couldn’t stop. The whole mountain was sliding down. The Town Car shot past, rocks thundering down across its tail. A whole piece of the mountain was falling. The big truck skidded, Vic smashed into its side and into the cliff. The front end of his pickup crumpled like paper, squashed against the bigger bumper. The passenger door bent in against Birely like you’d bend a beer can, Birely struggling and twisting between the bent door and the crumpled dashboard. Pebbles and rocks rained down around them. The produce truck lay turned over right in his face, one headlight striking off at an angle, catching the rising dust, its other light picking out the black Town Car on the far side of the rockfall, where it had plowed into the cliff. That light shone into the interior where the driver and passenger were slumped, and picked out through the back window the eerie green glow of a pair of eyes, he could see the animal’s tail lashing, too, and realized it wasn’t a dog, but a cat. Who would travel with a cat ! A damn cat, its eyes reflecting the lights of the wrecked truck where it peered out, watching him.

3

VIC COULDN’T OPEN the truck door, it was bent and jammed. The passenger side was pushed in, trapping Birely against the dash. Birely lay moaning, his face and neck covered with blood, reaching out blindly for help. The big delivery truck lay on its side among the fallen boulders, Vic’s pickup crumpled in against the roof of the truck’s cab, its right front fender jammed deep against its own wheel. Well, hell, the damn thing was totaled, was no use to him now.

But when he looked off across the rockfall at the Lincoln, it didn’t look too bad. Looked like it had missed most of the slide, rocks and rubble thrown against it and scattered across the hood, but he could see no big dents in the fenders to jam the wheels, and the hood and front end weren’t pushed in as if to damage the engine. The couple inside hadn’t moved.

Reaching under the seat for the tire iron, he used that to break out what remained of his shattered window. Knocking the glass away, he crawled out and swung to the ground. Stepping up onto the unsteady heap of rocks, trying not to start the whole damned mountain sliding again, he worked his way around to the other side of the pickup, to have a look.

Birely didn’t look good, sprawled limp and bleeding across the dash. Poor Birely. So close to finding the rest of his sister’s money, and now look at him. What kind of luck was that? Vic thought, smiling.

Vic’s one working headlight shot into the big truck’s cab, casting a grisly path onto the driver. He lay twisted over the wheel, his head and shoulders half out the broken window, his throat torn open by a spear of metal from the dashboard, his blood coursing down pooling into the window frame. Dark-haired guy, Hispanic maybe. No way he could be alive with his throat slit. Vic turned his attention again beyond the fall of rocks, to the black sedan nosed in against the cliff. As the door of the Town Car opened, he stepped back behind the turned-over truck, out of sight.

The driver’s forehead was bleeding. Vic watched him ease out of the car, supporting himself against the open door. The minute his feet touched the ground his right leg gave way. He fell, pulled himself up, stood a moment, his weight on his left leg, then tried again, wincing. Tall old man, thin. White hair. Frail looking. Easing out of the car on his left leg, clinging to the door and then to the car itself, he moved painfully around to the back of the car, making his way on around to the far side, to the woman. He stood beside her, reaching in, clinging to the roof of the car. She was as thin as the man, what Vic could see of her. She sat clutching the cat to her, mumbling something. The man reached past her into the glove compartment, found a flashlight and held it up, looking at her, and then looking at the cat, studying it all over, giving it more attention than he gave to the woman; but he was talking to the woman, mumbling something Vic couldn’t hear over the crashing of the sea below. The man spoke to the cat, too, spoke right to it, the way someone’d speak to a pet dog. People made asses of themselves over their dogs. But a cat, for Christ’s sake? He watched the old man flip open a cell phone. Speaking louder, now, the way people did into a phone, as if they had to throw their voices clear across the damn county. He was talking to a dispatcher, giving directions to the wreck. Hell, here he was, the truck no use to him, smashed too bad to get him out of there, and the damn cops on the way.

The old guy had turned, looking across the rock slide toward him, but Vic didn’t think he could see him, there behind the truck. Guy told the dispatcher, “Nothing stirring over there. I’ll have a look, see what I can do. Yes, I’ll stay on the line.”

He spoke to the woman again, dropped the phone in his pocket, and started limping across the rock slide. He turned back once, to the woman, his voice raised against the pounding of the surf. “You sure you’re okay?” She nodded, then mumbled something as he moved on away. The old guy negotiated the rock pile half crawling, his white hair and tan sport coat caught brightly by the truck’s one headlight. But Vic’s attention was on the Town Car, on the big, heavy Lincoln. A car like that could take a lot of abuse. Even with deep dents and dings from the slide, it looked like it would move right on out and with plenty of power to spare.

Easing back around to the pickup, where the old guy crossing the rocks couldn’t see him, Vic pulled the plastic bag of money out from under the seat and stuffed it inside his shirt. He didn’t speak to his passenger; Birely was pretty much out of it, close to unconscious, gasping as if he wouldn’t last too long. Vic watched the old man approach, balancing precariously, the pain showing in the twist of his long face. He moved on past Vic, never seeing him, and as he scrambled and slid down the unsteady boulders, Vic eased closer in behind the camper, hefting the weight of the tire iron. The old guy paused at the turned-over delivery truck, stood looking in at the dead driver. Shook his head and moved on, to the pickup. He still didn’t see Vic until Vic stepped out into the truck’s headlight, holding the tire iron low against his leg. The old man looked him over, took in the tire iron, and glanced into the cab of the pickup. “Your friend needs help.”