Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Coming_Home_BookFi

Wilma answered, sleepily, on the first ring.

“What are you doing at Clyde’s?” Kit said. “What …?”

“I’m not at Clyde’s, I’m at home,” Wilma said hesitantly. “You dialed wrong. What’s happened, what is it? You sound—”

“Benny’s missing, we think he’s been kidnapped,” Kit hissed. “I have to call—” and she broke off before Wilma could ask even one question.

DRAGGED OUT OF a deep sleep, Clyde stared at the ringing phone and then at the bedside clock. Twelve-thirty, and this was the second call since they’d tucked up for the night. He’d just drifted off after the last frantic ringing, so what the hell was this call about? Snatching the headset off the cradle to silence it, he lay staring at it, saying nothing.

Leaning across him, Ryan grabbed the headset. “What?” she said softly, looking at the caller ID. “What’s happened?”

At the other end, Kit said shyly, “I … I need to talk to Joe again.”

“Clyde will get him,” Ryan said, nudging Clyde.

“Hang on.”

Grumbling, Clyde swung out of bed, padded barefoot into the study, and shouted up at the cat door. “Get the hell down here! It’s Kit again. What am I, your damned answering service?”

Joe appeared on the rafter above, pushing in through his cat door. He paused, peering down over the rafter at Clyde.

“Get your tail down here.”

Dropping from the rafter to Clyde’s desk, Joe hit the speaker button on the office extension. Kit had already called him about the arrests, not more than an hour ago … “Another invasion,” she’d said, “… arrested Marlin Dorriss …” It’d been hard to believe that slick con was in jail, behind bars. As Kit described the action, all he could think was that somehow Dorriss was going to slip out of this. That by morning he would have lawyered up, would have brought in half a dozen slick attorneys, posted bail, and vanished, maybe never to be seen again. “It was Dorriss who kicked the door in,” Kit had said. “Dorriss and Jared are in jail, and—”

“Jared Colletto?”

“Jared. And they have a BOL out on Kent. Harper and two squad cars are headed for his house, and …” Despite Kit’s giddy excitement, he’d gotten most of the story, and then had scrambled back up to his tower, where he’d sat staring into the night debating what to do. Whether to hightail it down to the station and pick up the latest as officers and detectives began to return—maybe slip back into the jail and hear what the two prisoners, once they were alone, had to say to each other about the night’s adventure.

Except the two would be detained as far apart as possible, in the department’s small jail, so they couldn’t get their stories straight; maybe one would even be left up front, in the holding cell. And, at the scene, the action was over. The cops had left. Whatever had come down, Kit had witnessed. At last, yawning, he’d opted to wait until morning when more information would be at hand, when he could catch an early briefing in the chief’s office, if he timed it right. Curling up among his pillows, he’d gone back to sleep, had been deep under when the phone rang again, in the study, echoing in the bedroom inches from Clyde’s indignant ear, and then Clyde had shouted at him.

Now, as he crouched on the desk listening to Kit, she sounded so scared that she scared him. “Benny Toola’s missing, Maudie came running outside all frantic looking for him, searched her car and all around the yard calling him and then started down to Brennan where he was parked at Alfreda’s house and …” She paused, was silent for so long Joe thought the phone had cut out. “Here comes Kathleen’s car,” she said, “and two squad cars, they …”

By this time, Ryan and Clyde were crowded around Joe at the desk listening to Kit over the speaker, and Rock had piled off the love seat to push against them, wanting to be in on the action. When Kit paused, Ryan nearly shouted into the speaker. “Rock,” she said, “Rock can track him.”

“Yes,” Kit said. “That’s why I called. We—”

From the bedroom, Ryan’s cell phone rang, belting out a Dixieland beat. “Wait a minute,” Ryan said. “Hold on.” Hurrying into the bedroom, she snatched up her phone from the dresser. She was silent for a moment, listening. “Benny Toola?” she said, trying to sound surprised. “Oh, not Benny. What? Rock? Of course we can, we’ll be right there.”

Hanging up, she looked at Joe and Clyde. “Dallas,” she said. “He’s afraid Kent Colletto might have Benny—they only caught his brother Jared and that Dorriss person.”

As she headed for the closet to throw on her jeans and a sweater, Rock followed her, caught up in their excitement, shivering with anticipation for whatever adventure the night offered.

It had been nearly a year since Rock learned the protocol and honed his skills to track a human victim or criminal. A Weimaraner hunts by both sight and scent, he’s bred for many jobs, and a good Weimaraner is hungry to work. But without proper training, even the best dog is of no use. Ordinarily, such training is started when a dog is very young, and takes many months, or years, to perfect. But not Rock, not with Joe Grey running the show. In one amazing lesson, in one afternoon, Joe had taught Rock to track as skillfully as a seasoned bloodhound and with equal determination.

Joe’s nose was as keen as Rock’s and, using a technique impossible for a human trainer, Joe had hurried along with his own nose to the trail, while at the same time giving Rock voice commands. Rock saw, he smelled, he followed the scent that Joe followed, while absorbing Joe’s voice command words. He learned all at once what he must do, and the command to do it, bonding with Joe’s single-minded passion as the tomcat pursued the scent. By the end of that afternoon, Rock was hooked. He knew what to do, he would stay on any given scent undiverted, would not veer off after rabbits or a deer or even a rare sirloin steak emitting its charbroiled aroma. Since that memorable day of training, Rock and Ryan had assisted Dallas in three cases, with results that left Dallas deeply puzzled, and as deeply impressed. Dallas Garza was a dog man, he knew what it took to train a good tracking hound. Rock’s sudden metamorphosis from undisciplined natural talent to honed professional was impossible—but at last Dallas had accepted what he saw, sensibly laying aside his uneasy questions. The fact that their efforts had put three separate offenders in jail was proof enough, for the moment. One man was still awaiting trial, and two were already convicted, one for armed robbery, the other for burglary and grand theft auto, for stealing the high school principal’s vintage Austin-Healey. Rock had nailed the three, and the big dog was now an unofficial volunteer for MPPD. At this very moment he was gearing up for work, pacing and pushing at Ryan to hurry, his short tail vibrating with excitement.

Within minutes the four of them were down the stairs, Rock and Joe Grey leading at a gallop, and into Ryan’s truck, heading for Maudie’s house. Only little Snowball was left behind in the upstairs study, sitting up in her blanket on the love seat, listening to her family depart. The little white cat didn’t offer to follow, didn’t consider for a minute leaving the warm house in the middle of a cold winter night.

40

WHEN BENNY’S MOTHER woke him in the dark room, he’d yelled once before she slapped a hand over his mouth, hurting him, pressing so hard he tasted blood. He tried to scramble out of bed on the opposite side from her, to get away, maybe crawl under the bed, but she twisted his arm, jerked him off the bed, and pulled him against her, squeezing his shoulder hard. In the glow of the night-light he couldn’t see Jared, Jared’s bed was flat and empty. He stared at the woman’s curly blond hair, not his mother’s sleek black pageboy, but it was his mother’s face scowling down at him.