Cat Chase The Moon

5

The only sound the three lady cats could hear through the heavy fog was the hush of the sea from four blocks down where the injured woman had been found, where the two tomcats had already disappeared searching for the earring or maybe for other clues the cops might have missed, though that wasn’t likely. Dulcie and Kit and Courtney had stopped “foronly a minute” in the heavy haze to peer through a softly lit shop window. Standing on their hind paws, their front paws on the sill, their tails twitching, their noses pressed to the glass, they admired the lovely dresses, the tight pants and vests, and they imagined how it would feel to be real human ladies all dressed up.

The only glow to cut the mist was the faint light from the windows and, overhead, the diffused gleam of the fog-scarfed moon. In the thick haze, the three furry shoppers were only the faintest shadows, and at this hour, who was to see them? The streets were empty, the haze so thick you couldn’t have seen a streetlight even if there had been any. Not a soul, no one here to laugh at the cute kitties looking in the shops, no one to be amused at them as the library patrons had been. The fog turned Dulcie’s dark tabby stripes silver, and softened the orange of Courtney’s bright patchwork; vapor so heavy it feathered Kit’s tortoiseshell fur into curly tangles. They felt smug that they had slipped out of Clyde’s house against orders only long after the Damens slept, when the fog was so thick that no one could see them anyway—and who would kidnap a cat!

Now, the girl cats didn’t speak, even if the street was empty, but they could guess each other’s thoughts. Dulcie’s green eyes were bright with the dream of being a tall, beautiful woman, elegant in the red silk dress; Kit admired the lady wearing khaki hiking shorts and a leather vest—not that Dulcie or Kit would want to stay in human form, they just wanted to know how it would feel, how they would look. Courtney, unlike her striped mother and tortoiseshell Kit, did not often imagine herself as a lovely human. Truly, only a few of their special breed could change. Courtney dreamed of other kinds of magic, of centuries long gone, of ancient realms deep in her memory. As the other two lingered, she moved around the corner to peer in the end window at a soft-toned rain cape which, if she were human, would go well with her calico hair. Would I still be calico? Amused, she moved along toward the corner window looking at handsome luggage, at satin stoles, fancy hats and silk scarves, dreaming each into scenes from distant times.

When next Dulcie looked, Courtney had disappeared.

Galloping after her, skidding around the corner, Dulcie expected to see her daughter farther down the side street still peering in windows. She and Kit ran along the building mewing softly. Not seeing Courtney they stared across the street to the other stores, photography shop, art shop, small café—they found her scent, crossed to that side, and ran following her trail behind potted flowers and under porches. Courtney wasn’t one to play tricks on her mother. Or, not usually. At the end of the next block her trail ran along beside a stucco wall, they could smell where she had rubbed against it—but suddenly her scent was joined by the smell of a man. Someone they didn’t know. Then just as suddenly Courtney’s scent vanished. As if he had picked her up?

They air-scented for her, but they smelled only blood. Human blood—and they smelled Courtney’s anger, her rage. They hoped she’d clawed him good, hoped he’d dropped her, not liking her sharp rapiers. They could find no trail as if she had run from him. Was he still carrying her as she raked him? Had he hurt her? They followed his trail and the blood trail until the smells stopped at the curb.

Now they smelled canvas. A canvas bag? Then the hot stink of exhaust, and of tires taking off. Little pieces of bloody, torn canvas lay on the wet street. Why hadn’t Courtney cried out, why hadn’t she yowled for help? They followed his fresh tire tracks fast along the fog-wet street. At the next intersection, the marks of five cars coming out of driveways, turning as if headed for the freeway, maybe for a long drive to work; these crossed over the marks that the cats followed. But one car had turned around in the intersection smearing the other wet tracks, mixing them all up. Kit confusedly raced away down Ocean Avenue to find Joe and Pan, to find help. Dulcie was shaking with fear when the tomcats came running.

Joe licked Dulcie’s face. “We’ll find her, she can’t have gone far.”

“Joe, a man grabbed her. We didn’t see him, we didn’t recognize his smell. He took her, he caught her, took her away in a car. We smelled his blood, she must have fought hard, scratched him good. What will he do to her?” She was sick with terror. “Can we tell the cops? Will they listen? Will the department put out a BOL for a cat?”

“Harper might,” Joe said, “if Clyde or Ryan ask him. If Charlie asks him.” He was scared as hell, too. “We need help, now.” Without another word he hit the roofs scrambling up a sagging vine and over the peaks for home, for his two housemates; Dulcie headed for her own home with Wilma, streaking along the sidewalk, Kit running beside her, stopping to scent at the bushes, to smell every shop door, peer under every porch, sniff at every car and into every dark corner praying that Courtney had gotten away from him. They searched behind every flower box, up every tree, through the fog-heavy night for the little cat’s scent and bright colors, all the time praying, He hasn’t hurt her. Oh, he hasn’t hurt Courtney. Dulcie’s heart was pounding. What has he done to her, what does he want with my baby? And in her mind she saw Courtney lying hurt and alone, trapped inside a bag, unable to free herself.