Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Coming_Home_BookFi

“Of course I remember,” the other whispered crossly. “We just roughed her up, is all.”

Straining to listen, Kit nearly lost her balance. She backed away, alarmed, still trying to identify the man’s cold, superior tones that struck such fear into her heart.

“She’ll last,” the other said, “so what difference does it make?”

“You want murder on the ticket?” the familiar voice said. “Why do you think we don’t rape and kill them! You want to go before a hanging judge? One of you keep watch. If no one finds her by late tomorrow, call the cops yourself—you’re an unidentified neighbor—and make sure you use the throwaway phone.”

“What do you think? We’re stupid?” The tall, thin man sounded young, though he spoke only in a grainy whisper. Why did he keep looking around into the night, fidgeting and shifting as if he thought they were being watched? That made the tortoiseshell smile. He didn’t know half how closely they were observed, who the observer was, or what she’d do with the information.

“The paper has a front-page piece ready to go,” the other said, “written, ready to insert, a nice two columns for the villagers to read over breakfast.” Still, Kit could see nothing of the figure inside the dark car. She looked away to the blackness where the pale tomcat crouched. Did he know these lowlifes? What exactly was his interest, and why had he led her there? She could just make out the curve of his pale back beneath the balcony’s rail.

The moment the pickup left, the tomcat came out from the shadows into a path of moonlight, stood looking after the vehicle. Now, for the first time with the moonlight full on him, Kit got a good look at him.

Oh, my. The surprise that she felt—and the disappointment—rippled through her clear down to her dark little paws.

22

ONE LOOK AT the yellow tomcat and all Kit’s grand dreams slid away, crumbled like the walls of a ruined castle; she was as shocked as if the fairy-tale prince had turned into a toad. This was not the fine young tom she’d dreamed of, this was not the mate she’d waited for, whom she’d thought had finally found her. This cat was incredibly old.

She could see that he had once been powerful, even now his bony shoulders were broad beneath his ragged yellow fur. But his tail was thin in the way of an old cat, his muzzle was extended with age, his skin hung slack. Now he was frail and ancient, more in need of tender kindness than a wild romp over the green hills. Now for the first time, with the sea wind blowing in her face, she caught his scent clearly enough to realize it was the scent of an old cat, very different from a strapping young tom. And as Kit’s heart made the painful adjustment, her eager longing turned away from romantic dreams and she was filled with a shaky sense of desperation at the terrible frailty of old age.

But the tomcat’s yellow eyes were clear and intelligent, and when he turned away, following the black sedan, breaking into a gallop, he was surprisingly fast for someone his age. Not lithe or agile, but he kept up with the car and pickup for several blocks before they left him, vanishing down the hill. His interest in this human drama intrigued her. Why did he care? Who was he? Where he had come from, and what had brought him here?

Now that she was aware of his venerable age, she could imagine no aura of evil about him. He was not like the black tom, Azrael, who had once come on to her, rude and bold and demanding, who had helped his drunken human companion rob the village shops.

She’d wanted to follow him, but somewhere nearby an invasion had occurred, and her urgency to find the house, find the victim, and to know how badly those men had hurt her was stronger.

The house had to be nearby, if those men had just come from there. She had studied the dark yards below, willing herself to hear any faintest cry. She’d heard nothing but the distant surf and the sea wind fingering through the treetops. She’d wandered the roofs looking and listening but had heard nothing until the wind slackened, and then she heard a woman’s faint, thin cry, a plaintive voice that sent Kit bolting across the shingles and across the gaps between roofs to where an olive tree hugged a modest frame house. When the cry came again she dropped down through the branches and slipped along through the yard through the soft crowns of coral bell bushes. Again the cry, and Kit had looked for a way in, maybe a window open to the cool evening or the front door jimmied. The tomcat had disappeared.

The front door was locked. The high little decorative glass window was broken, but the glass shards stuck up like giant shark’s teeth, ready to cut a little cat in two. At the spot along the wall where the cry came loudest, she caught the scent of blood, a metallic whiff seeping even through the wood siding that sent her leaping up at the nearest closed window. Clinging to the sill, pulling and clawing at the casing with one small armored paw, she fought to slide the glass back. When that failed, she tried the other windows, she’d tried all the way around the house, when she heard sirens. Were they coming here? Had someone seen the invasion and called the dispatcher?

But then she heard their wail fade to silence off in the center of the village. That would be the diversionary burglary to distract the cops. Two crimes, committed within minutes of each other. But, she thought, smiling, this time there would be no long delay before the invasion was discovered—provided she could find a phone and alert the department; and off she went, circling the neighbors’ houses looking for an unlocked window, peering up, leaping up at closed windows until, doubling back to the invaded house, she heard snores softly from above, from the house next door. She peered up to the second floor, then scrambled up a ragged rosebush, sticking her paw with a thorn.

Yes, an open window, and within, a man’s soft snores. Heart thudding, she clawed through the screen with a dry, ripping sound. When the snores faltered, she waited until they steadied again, then pawed the screen out of the way so it wouldn’t catch in her fur, and quickly slipped inside.

She’d stood picking out the black shapes of dresser, desk, easy chair. She padded past the bed, watching warily the stout young man who sprawled asleep, the covers thrown back, the cool breeze blowing in on his bare skin. Rearing up to look atop the nightstand, she’d found no phone. She leaped atop the desk, then the dresser. Nothing. Maybe he used a cell phone, though none was in sight. Slipping out the open bedroom door and down the hall, she’d found two unoccupied bedrooms, their doors standing open. She prowled within, her breath coming quick with the need to hurry. Neither room had a phone. The door of the next bedroom was closed. When she sniffed at the crack beneath, she could taste the heavy smell of sleeping humans. Hurrying past, to the end of the hall, she found, tucked beside the descending stairs, a small home office.

Slipping inside, she leaped to the desk, nearly on top of the phone. She hit the speaker button, then scrambled to soften the sound of the dial tone which came in way too loud. When she pawed in 911, June Alpine answered, her young voice high and light, but steady. Kit kept her own voice to a whisper, terrified she’d wake someone in the next room. If the householders heard her and came searching for a prowler, they might be armed. As rigid as the California gun laws were, there was no law against arming oneself at home—with the laughable provision that the gun must be kept unloaded and locked away, separate from the locked-up ammunition. Which, if she heard anyone rise in alarm, would give her plenty of time to escape down the hall, through the far bedroom past the young sleeper, and out the torn screen before they had time to load a weapon and come searching.