Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Coming_Home_BookFi

She’d be eternally thankful they hadn’t raped her. Because of disease, because of injuries, mostly because of the emotional distress, the terrible shame that would never go away. At seventy-two, a widow for ten years, she was sure the distress of such brutality would have been worse than if they killed her.

She wondered why there had been no rapes in these invasions. She’d followed the news on TV and in the paper, but she never thought it would happen to her. Only now did she see how stupid that was. She wondered if these people were afraid of the prosecution involved with rape. This county attorney was known for getting maximum sentences when it came to sex offenders; he had been criticized more than once for what some called his one-sided view of the law. And didn’t that make a person laugh.

But if these men were so afraid of the law, and, according to the news, they stole no more than a few items, mostly electronics that could be easily sold, why did they bother at all? What was this about, these forced break-ins, this terrifying emotional harassment?

It seemed hours passed as she worked at the knots, her fingers raw and bleeding from the rough hemp rope, blood making the knots so slick that she nearly gave up. But at last, when she was about at the end of her strength, her hands and arms shaking with fatigue, the knot she was working on loosened a little. It was so slippery. She mustn’t lose the feel of just where to pull, to untie it all the way. It seemed to take forever, but at last she worked the knot loose, felt the rope ease enough so she could slide her right hand free. Her left hand was bound separately, tied to the rope that went around her waist and legs.

With the one free hand she pulled herself up enough to work loose the rope around the leg of the armoire, tearing two nails to the quick. When the rope fell away, when she was free of the armoire, she rolled painfully to the center of the room. Her own weight on her doubled-up legs, as she rolled over on them, was excruciating.

Pausing to rest, she tried again to remove the gag, pulling and jerking at it. The blood from her hand at last turned it slick enough that she was able to slide it down around her chin, down until it circled her neck. Everything was bloody—her face, her clothes, the carpet were all smeared with blood.

She rested again, then tried once more to free her hand, which had gone to sleep beneath the tight rope that bound her waist and legs. She fought the knots until she was convinced she couldn’t loosen them. She looked toward the phone again, and again began to squirm across the carpet, heavy and clumsy and hurting, with her legs and one arm bound. She had gone only a little way, to the edge of the flowered easy chair, when she realized she was whimpering like a hurt puppy, a pitiful, begging sound.

Silencing herself, she wriggled like an injured beast toward the fallen phone, toward the one item in the room that could liberate her, toward her one contact with the world beyond her own walls.

It seemed to take another eternity before she reached the phone. She felt weak and confused. Could feel the double beating of her heart that sometimes happened when she was under stress. Hunching forward, she pressed her face against the fallen headset.

Of course it was dead, having been off the hook for so long. With her bleeding hand she depressed the button, waited with her face to the phone for the dial tone to resume. She waited a long time. When the phone remained silent, she pressed the button again, held it longer this time. Then again, her ear to the fallen phone, listening.

No dial tone, no sound. No little canned voice telling her to hang up and try again. Just a hollow emptiness as vast as eternal space. After a third try she pulled the cord toward her. Watched it snake away from the wall, the cut line slithering to her, the cut wires sharp and useless against her fingers.

The only other phone was upstairs. Bound as she was, she didn’t think she could make it up the steps. And had they cut that line, too? Cut both phone lines, intending to lead her on uselessly? Imagining herself hunching and crawling up the stairs only to find that phone dead, too, she lay down with her face against the carpet, tears spurting uncontrollably. She felt destroyed, beaten, beyond trying to think what to do.

All her windows were closed against the chill evening and because, how ironic, she was wary about break-ins. Praying that some neighbor was home and would hear her despite those glass barriers, she tried to shout. She was very hoarse, her voice so weak she didn’t think anyone would hear. She wondered if young Bobby West might have his window open upstairs despite his mother’s complaints. Beverly said he’d have the house freezing all the time if she didn’t make him close that window. Expecting no response, still she tried. Even the effort of shouting hurt so badly, and exhausted her.

Death from thirst and starvation seemed impossible, right here in the little village among the closely crowded cottages, with neighbors all around. She had no relatives living close who might call or come by, wanting to check on her. How long might it be until one of her casual friends tried to reach her, tried so many times they grew impatient and reported her number out of order? And would the phone company actually come out to take a look? Despite her friends’ admonitions to get a cell phone, she had never wanted one. Until now.

When her strength returned a little, she thought about the cut phone line, and she hunched toward the wall until she found the other cut end. With one hand, she managed to hold the two cut ends together, hoping they might connect and allow a signal to come through. But she was too clumsy, the wires wouldn’t join just right. The blood was so slick, everything slippery and her fingers so stiff, too. Twice she thought she had the wires joined right, but when she bent her face to the handset there was no sound, the phone remained dead. At last, so weak she couldn’t think straight, she lay limp on the carpet, defeated, wondering if she would die there—and wondering, inanely, if she could ever get the blood out of the Persian carpet.

21

MAX’S PICKUP MOVED so fast that Joe Grey lost it only a block from home. He raced on across the night-dark roofs stubbornly following its sound as it sped south. He could see, away in the center of the village, a gathering of bright lights and whirling red lights reflected against the sky and could hear the distant mutter of police radios—that would be the restaurant break-ins, but Max wasn’t headed there.

The sound of the pickup grew fainter, still bearing south. Joe had traveled a dozen blocks when, far ahead, the truck’s soft rumble died, faded into silence. Racing on over slick roof tiles and mossy shingles, and across shadowed tree branches above dark and tangled gardens, he listened for the truck door to open. He heard nothing, only the hushing of the sea, five blocks away. Ahead against the night sky rose the spire of the Methodist Church, thrusting above the black silhouettes of surrounding houses. Leaping from a pine tree onto the church roof, he raced up its highest peak. Had he lost Harper?

Through the trees below him, no car lights reflected, the neighborhood was uniformly dark. At this height, the sea wind hit him full in the face; the balmy evening had grown chill, the shingles cold beneath his paws. In this residential area, even at this early hour, most of the houses were dark, as if the more elderly occupants were already tucked in for the night, while maybe the younger ones were out partying. He was cursing himself for having lost Harper when the scream of a siren blasted nearly below him, flashing red lights stained the sky and an emergency van raced past—he took off after it as if the devil himself were on his tail.