Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Coming_Home_BookFi

“There’s been a wreck,” the man said tremulously, “I need help. Please …”

The cats looked at the empty, silent street, the silent neighborhood. They’d heard no wreck, there was no wreck. Alarmed, they dove among the oak leaves, pawed the phone out, and Kit punched in 911, trying not to shout. “Man pounding on a door, a lone woman lives there. He says there was a wreck, but there was no wreck, there’s no car on the street … Could it be another invasion?” She ended the call before June Alpine could ask any questions. The new dispatcher hadn’t been sufficiently indoctrinated yet, in how to respond to these particular snitches, she hadn’t learned not to ask, but to call the chief pronto. Kit hit the disconnect, and they fled down across the roofs, two small, silent shadows. Kit would have carried the phone but it was too clumsy and heavy. Even as they approached the pale house two patrol cars came slipping along the street without lights, their radios silent, one from downhill, one from uphill behind them. Each pulled to the curb several doors away from where the man stood talking through the door.

Two uniforms slipped out of each car, keeping to the dark edges of the yard beyond the glow of Alfreda’s lights. They watched silently the figure at the door with his back to them. He seemed unaware of anything but the little click as Alfreda turned the dead bolt from within, possibly leaving the security chain in place—not that a chain would do any good, Kit thought. The cats watched the front door cautiously open a few inches—and everything happened at once. The invader hit the door with all his weight, jerking the chain loose and ramming the door back. He grabbed Alfreda, hit her when she struggled. Two cops charged up the steps and grabbed him, breaking his grip on the victim. And three figures exploded from the bushes, streaking into the backyard, heading for the wooded greenbelt beyond; the other two officers were after them, crashing down the hill.

Officer Crowley held the invader jammed against the house, pressing his face into the wood siding. Crowley was half a foot taller, thin but big boned, his large hands jerking the invader’s arms behind him. As Crowley snapped on the cuffs, securing them through the guy’s belt, Officer Brennan pushed inside to clear the house, his overweight frame blocking the lamplight as he passed. And as Crowley marched the prisoner to the patrol car, the cats got their first good look at the man.

It was Arlie Risso, black beard, black hair. He stood straight and stiff beside the car, his expression affronted as Crowley snapped on leg irons. More than one officer leading a handcuffed prisoner whose legs were free had been unpleasantly surprised by a sudden attack and escape. Crowley didn’t mean to risk that embarrassment.

“I was trying to warn her,” Risso was arguing. “I was at the door to warn her, why are you arresting me? You’d better call your captain.”

Crowley just looked at him, his big hands gripping Risso’s shoulders, hands strong enough, Kit thought, to easily rip a bale of hay in two. His look said he’d like to do that to Risso. Risso said, “You’d better go after the thieves, Officer. You’d better arrest them. You’d better get your commander over here, pronto, to straighten this out.”

“We’ll just make you comfortable in the patrol car,” Crowley told Risso dryly, “until we can arrange an appointment with the chief.” Towering over Risso’s six feet, Crowley turned the handsome, bearded man around as easily as spinning a doll, so he faced the patrol car. Opening the back door, he enthusiastically pressed Risso’s head down, making sure he cleared the opening without a concussion and an ensuing lawsuit. Above on the neighboring house’s roof, Kit and Misto grinned and switched their tails, laughing.

Officer Brennan came outside with Alfreda, where she sat down on the little low wall that flanked the porch. Three more squad cars arrived, their radios spewing canned voices, their spotlights washing across the neighbors’ yards and even up across the rooftops, forcing the cats to flatten themselves in order to stay out of sight. Leaving the black-and-whites, four officers ran for the greenbelt, their torch lights cutting through the bushes. The blare of a bullhorn thundered, telling the escapees to stop. It was pitch-dark back there, the swinging lights blinding as they swept into the tangled woods cutting pale swaths across the tree trunks.

In the Tudor house a light came on in Maudie’s bedroom, the cats could see her silhouette at the window, looking out. The guest room windows remained dark. Were Benny and Jared still sound asleep, unaware of the crashing and running, of breaking bushes and even of the bullhorn?

“Maybe the cops can make Risso talk,” Kit said. “Maybe he’ll ID the others.”

“Would he? Risso—Marlin Dorriss—he’s a cold one.”

“To save his own skin, he might.” She turned to look at Misto. “I never thought of Dorriss doing strong-arm stuff, like hitting a woman. Thought of him as the gentleman thief, the con artist, the slick crook who gets others to do his dirty work.”

“Maybe so, but they were afraid of him in prison. All the men were. And why do you care so much?” he said with interest.

Her yellow eyes widened. “I hate that man. These invasions are for one purpose. To discredit Max Harper, discredit the department, to hurt our friends. The cops are our friends. I hope Risso rots in jail for the rest of his life, that those men burn in hell forever.”

“I’ve never had a human friend I cared so much about.” Misto licked his paw. “What must that be like, to love a human friend?”

“That’s why you came here,” Kit said, “to find friends, cat and human. We’re your friends now,” she said softly. She went silent as a big pickup came up the hill and pulled to the curb. Max Harper got out, looking pleased that Crowley had nailed Dorriss. He wasn’t wearing his usual Western boots tonight, but soft black running shoes, more than ready for a chase. Up the street, Maudie had disappeared from her upstairs window, and in a moment she came out the front door. Standing quietly on the porch, she watched the scene below. Behind her, Jared came out of the front door, yawning, his hair tousled from sleep. He had pulled on a striped robe over the sweatpants he must have slept in, had pulled on his running shoes, the laces still untied. He yawned again, stood on the porch staring down the street toward the police cars.

“What’s happened? Not another invasion? Not here!”

“Where’s Benny?” Maudie asked with alarm.

“Sound asleep, he didn’t stir.” He didn’t take his eyes from the street. “It’s a robbery of some kind, the way they’re searching the yards. The lights and bullhorn woke me, their torches shining up.” He started down the steps toward the dark yards as if he meant to help search, but Maudie caught his arm. “Don’t, Jared. Don’t go out there, let the police handle it.”

He looked at her, and pulled away.

“Stay here,” she said boldly, almost angrily. “If you get into the tangle, they could mistake you for one of the burglars. In the dark they might shoot you.”

He hesitated. “I suppose you’re right, but … I’ll just go look in the backyard,” he said edgily, “while they’re searching down there. Maybe—”

“No,” Maudie began, “you—”

“Stay where you are,” Max Harper said, stepping out of the shadows beside the house. As Jared spun around, Harper grabbed him, threw him against the doorjamb, and jerked his arms behind him. Maudie caught her breath as Harper snapped handcuffs on him.

“What is this? Jared didn’t … He isn’t …” Then Maudie looked down, where Max Harper was looking.