Cat Chase The Moon

15

On the night that Buffin’s patient slipped away from the convalescent home, when the young cat woke to find Maurita gone, he was more than ashamed. He knew that she was healing, that the nurses had had her up during the day, walking with her. He felt so close to her, could feel her getting stronger. He could feel her needing him, could feel that she was happier. If she had seen the man again, why hadn’t she rung the nurse?

She had a corner room, small but with heavily mirrored windows looking out on two sides, her own bathroom, a little desk and a phone. If she’d seen the prowler again—even if he couldn’t see much through that heavy, prisonlike mirror—why hadn’t she grabbed the phone and called the cops? She could speak that much, even if her voice was garbled.

On this night when he didn’t appear, she had crept completely under the covers, and they slept peacefully. But even in sleep, something within Buffin remained focused on Maurita, stubbornly maintaining the mysterious strength that burned within him, to ease her, helping her to rest, to heal in ways that he did not understand. He was just a plain buff-colored kitten with nothing special about him, yet he could feel the sickness and pain in someone, in an animal, in a human, and soon, if he gave himself to them, if he put all his soul into them, he could feel the patient slowly, slowly growing stronger.

But now, tonight, when he came half awake, chilled, and heard no breathing beside him, felt no warmth there, he woke fully. Maurita was gone. The patient he had grown to love, with whom he had spent cozy days and nights, wasn’t there. Maurita was not in the bed.

She was not in the bathroom, that door was open, the room dark, he could hear no sound from within.

But the door to the hall was open, and in the room across the way where a gleam of moonlight shone in, where the nurses and attendants hung their dark blue scrubs and extra sweaters, a closet door stood open. He could see where hangers had been pulled back, could see Maurita’s nightgown lying on the closet floor—and he heard the front door open. The big, main door that led past the admitting desk and outdoors. At first he heard some scraping and rattling, then heard the lock give; she had found where they hid the key. He was out of bed on the nightstand reaching a paw to the phone. He started to punch 911, then instead called the Firettis. He had learned early from his parents how urgent it was to remember phone numbers—and had learned from Kit her tricks of concentration that set facts and imprinted stories and numbers forever in her head. Although she was fluffy brained sometimes in her wild conversations, the information she meant to remember was imprinted as solid as hieroglyphs carved in stone.

In the Firetti cottage, the phone rang only once, John answered half awake.

“Maurita’s run away, out the front door. I’ll follow her, but can you follow me?” Buffin dropped the phone and raced out the door tracking Maurita’s scent.

Pausing in the shadows, he couldn’t see her on the street. So slim and beautiful, with that long black hair, how could he miss her? He followed her trail mixed with the smell of the uniform she’d taken from the closet, and of the borrowed nurse’s shoes. Followed her down the sidewalk clinging to the dark side of the convalescent home, clinging to the next building, then across a yard where she couldn’t help but be seen in the moonlight—but she had already passed.

He followed her borrowed scents among the shadows of peaked roofs that further darkened the street—but here came a car driving slowly. Its lights picked her out, and Buffin raced after her. He wanted to shout that this was the Firettis’ car, that they had come to help her. How many times, in Buffin’s life to come, would he fight the terrible urge to yell out human words? To cry out, Stop!Wait, please! To yowl out an urgent message that he dare not utter?

And now, behind Buffin came Striker running and scenting out, both young cats wanting to jump on her shoulder, to tell her they came to help, tell her the Firettis wanted to help her escape the prowler. John pulled up beside her and got out, he reached kindly to stop her, taking her hand. “It’s all right, Maurita, we’ll take you where you want to go.” But then here came the cops.

Maurita froze, surrounded by the Firettis’ car and two patrol cars in the narrow street, the drivers jumping out facing her, their holstered guns in clear sight and John holding her, and she didn’t know what to do. Her whole being was still traumatized by her near murder, and then her attacker prowling, trying to look in the windows. Now, she could only stand shivering.

The last of her bruises shone dark in the car lights. Her long black hair was tangled, covering her lumpy ear. The cats could see the stitched-up scar down the other ear where the one earring had been ripped away. John Firetti still held her hand but he was as gentle with Maurita as he would be with a tiny animal, gentle and kind; he put his other arm around her shoulder so she wouldn’t run away.

Only slowly did her dark, frightened eyes look directly at the doctor and the two officers. Only reluctantly did she warm to the kindness in their faces. She watched Mary Firetti step out of the car, and Mary, too, drew her closer.

Leaning against Mary, Maurita said, “There was a man, looking in the windows. Back and forth, but I don’t think he could see in. When, tonight, he wasn’t there, I knew I had to get away . . . I know him . . . I need . . . I need to see Captain Harper.”

The Firettis didn’t know why she hadn’t called the station, just as Buffin had wondered. Both young cats watched as plump Officer Green helped her into the backseat of his squad car. Buffin leaped in and she held him close. Green said, “Captain Harper’s at the hospital, with a prisoner. Detective Davis will take good care of you, she’s on her way to the station. I think Dr. Firetti had better take the cat, there could be a lot of turmoil, he might try to run away. The night clerk . . .”

John said, “Let me ride in back with Maurita and the cat. Mary can follow us and then take the cat and me on home.” Buffin scowled at him, he didn’t like being called the cat, but when Green grinned and nodded and Dr. Firetti slid in beside Maurita, the tan cat didn’t fuss.

Mary, in their own car, called Ryan on her cell phone to tell her that Maurita was all right and they were headed for the station.

In the squad car, Green glanced in the rearview mirror at Maurita. “This isn’t exactly protocol, taking you to jail when you’ve committed no crime. But Davis will see that you’re safe. You two will get along fine, Davis has cats, too, she loves them like babies.” Green didn’t look as if he was comfortable dealing with nervous women. Maurita was still shaking, she did want to get into the station with a female detective who would care for her, who would understand. Her trauma from the grave had not left her, she was not herself again, not yet.

“Except,” she said, thinking of MPPD, “that man will find me here, the station’s so open. The bars . . .” As if the stalker wanted so badly to finish the job. As if, if she were put behind bars, he could easily see her and shoot her there, would finish her before she was securely hidden. Cops had been shot in other PDs. Prisoners had been shot in front of police stations in sudden gun battles—had been sent to their demise by their enemies while being arrested and before they could talk.

She wanted to hide somewhere secret and unobserved. The information she had for Max Harper embraced more than one well-timed robbery that her attacker planned. He and his partners had talked over a number of break-ins, all lucrative, all clearly laid out. But Maurita had, as well, evidence on newsworthy robberies in other cities and other countries, cases that distant law enforcement agencies were already working; some spectacular thefts that she had participated in and about which she might offer additional facts.

Green pulled into a red zone before the station. Mary parked a few spaces away. Both John and Mary walked in with them, Mary hugging Maurita, who in turn hugged Buffin securely in her arms. She glanced over at Green, then looked down at Buffin.

Green winked at her. “It’ll be all right.” But, entering the station through the bulletproof glass doors, Officer Green and the Firettis paused.

EvaJean was at the desk, finishing her temporary assignment of night duty. As Green guided them past her, she snapped, “Wait there, Green. What are you doing? You can’t bring a cat in here. And you have to book your prisoners in, you know that. How long have you worked for this department! Fingerprints, forms to fill out. You know the routine,” she said coldly.

Green kept walking, past the desk and down the hall, one hand lightly on Maurita’s shoulder.

“You can’t take a prisoner back there, Green. You have to have identification, fingerprints. Officer Green . . .”

Green continued to ignore her, his short brown hair catching the overhead light; his uniform had been recently getting too tight. He said it was his age, not the lunches he ate. Never glancing at EvaJean, he guided Maurita down the hall to the third door on the left.

Alerted by EvaJean, Juana Davis stepped out of her office. Her black Latin eyes were like Maurita’s. But Juana was shorter, more squarely built; black uniform, black skirt and hose, black regulation shoes. Davis seldom took liberties like the other three detectives, who might come to work in jeans and a sweatshirt. Why would Max Harper care, when he preferred jeans to his own uniform. Davis’s square face softened as she smiled at Maurita and petted Buffin. Mary, turning to leave, started to take Buffin from Maurita but the tan cat put his paws tighter around Maurita’s neck. She held him close and kissed the kitten on the head.

“Let him stay,” Juana said, “she needs him.”

Maurita looked gratefully at Davis as Officer Green and the Firettis headed out. Green, glaring at EvaJean, paused long enough to put a guard in place by Juana’s door.

In her office, when the Firettis and Green had left, Davis took a look at the thin blue scrubs Maurita was wearing, and pulled a blanket from the closet. She found a pillow, and got woman and cat settled on the love seat. “You’ve been lying in that bed a long time, and then the stress of the escape. A little more rest won’t hurt.”

Maurita was embarrassed at being so raggedly dressed in the company of a uniformed detective. She pulled the warm blanket over her as Buffin snuggled into it, and she felt a tear come. She was being treated not as some kind of abandoned refugee, but only with thoughtfulness.

Juana cracked open the door, asked the armed officer who was sitting outside if he would have someone bring them a cup of tea, then she looked back at Maurita. “Do you feel like answering some questions? You’ve told no one who attacked you?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Do you know him?”

Maurita nodded.

“And do you know who found you?”

There was a knock on the door, and a young officer poked his head in, offering two cups of tea and a sweet roll.

“That’s the strange thing,” Maurita said, accepting the tea and roll gratefully. “I was hurting so bad, and bleeding, I felt like all my insides were broken. I must have passed out. Iwoke so dizzy. It was dark but when I looked up I saw the moon, then I went dizzy again. I heard a little noise like a branch snapping then heard the man who hurt me running away, I heard a car start and recognized the sound. I tried to look around toward the street but he was gone, I didn’t see anyone.”

“You knew your attacker. Was it the same man as outside your window, the man you ran from tonight?”

“Yes. Oh, please. He’s known in the village. He has a record, enough to send him up for life. If he finds out you’re looking for him, with what I know about him, he’ll kill me before you catch him, he’ll keep looking until I’m dead.”

“He almost did kill you! How can we stop him if you won’t help us? We’ve combed the whole crime scene, not a hair, not a thread or button. His footprints all scuffed in dry grass and sand. It looked like he was wearing some kind of cloth booties over his shoes.” Juana looked at her for a long time. “You know him but you won’t tell me his name—a man who almost buried you alive. What did you do, to put him in such a rage?”

The young woman was silent. Then, “It’s what I wouldn’t do, that’s why he wanted to kill me. That, and what I know. He’ll kill me because of what I could tell. Don’t be hurt, or angry, but . . . I have to tell Captain Harper first. Do you understand that?”

“I understand,” Juana said gently. Then, “You said someone else was there, whoever found you. The crack of a branch. You heard someone else, then heard your attacker running. But you saw no one else, no one chasing him?”

“No one; and that was odd. Maybe someone heard him digging and came to look, and he saw them and ran, but I didn’t see anyone, not from down in the ditch—from in that grave,” she said, shivering. “I heard little sounds but no one was there. How can that be?”

Juana lifted a second blanket from the closet, and covered her more warmly. She turned off the overhead lights, leaving only her desk light burning. “Rest a little while, until I finish up some work. There’s a guard sitting outside the door. He can call more officers if we need to. Someone will bring fresh clothes for you, and we have a secure place for you to stay.”

Maurita nodded gratefully; she sipped her tea, set the cup down, closed her eyes and, already half asleep, pulled Buffin close against her cheek.

She had no idea how long she slept. It was daylight through the office window. She sat up, swallowed down her cold tea and ate the breakfast roll, ate the still warm breakfast that sat on the table, a pancake, bacon, and scrambled eggs, sharing them with Buffin. Were they treating her so well only to get the information about the attacker, or were these cops really that kind? She’d known others that weren’t. Latin American cops that treated you like dirt. She looked up at Juana’s back, her face reflected in the computer screen.

“Feel better?”

“Yes, thank you.” Maurita yawned, hugged Buffin, and sat up. “Much better.” Did Detective Davis know how soothing her treatment was? And this little cat, he was amazing, healing in a different way.

There was a light knock, and the door opened. Another detective entered, a tall woman, as slim as a model in her uniform, and beautiful, long black hair shining down her back, as sleek as Maurita’s should be when she took care of it. She carried a black camera bag open at the top with a dark garment sticking out, perhaps a jacket.

“I’m Detective Ray. Kathleen.” She put out her hand, shook Maurita’s bruised hand carefully, and sat down beside her. “I brought you some clothes.” She opened the camera bag, took out a folded suit coat, nearly black but not quite. Police blue. Maurita glanced at Juana, frowning.

Davis said, “See what you think of our plan.”

In the dim shadows of Seaver’s Antiques, Courtney, in sleep, had slipped away from her nightmares about the dangers to her daddy, into softer dreams. Dulcie continued to talk to her, reminding her how bold and strong Joe Grey was, trying to ease her into happier environs, to help the soft night soothe the young calico until she was peaceful once more. As the moon sank lower toward the sea, Courtney and her mother dozed.

But soon Courtney woke again and sat up, her mind full of the sharpest dream yet, a spark of gold shining among ragged logs, blood on the sand and on the grass. She couldn’t make out the golden spark, but she saw moonlight touch a woman’s face, her delicate earlobe ripped and bleeding, torn in half as if by a scythe from some medieval tale, rough steel through tender skin. She saw the vision for only an instant, then it was gone—and that’s when she heard the sound. The same sound she’d heard days before, the faint hum of a car stopping behind the building, a ring of the upstairs phone, Ulrich’s voice as he answered, and then Ulrich padding down the stairs barefoot or in slippers, quietly opening the inside door to the storage room, closing it behind him. She heard the outside door open to the driveway; it didn’t close.

Ulrich’s voice and that of another man. Brief words. The sound of the safe being dialed. She heard it open and then close again. The back door closed. She heard Ulrich lock it, and the car pulled away.

Before the sounds and voices, had she been dreaming? That shifting ray of moonlight among blood and sand. Had she glimpsed the torn-away earring? No one knew what it looked like, Courtney thought. Joe Grey hadn’t seen it, he’d seen only the torn ear and the flowing blood. He had told her what he heard at MPPD, that when the coroner and Detective Kathleen Ray examined the other earring, the crushed gold wires embedded in Maurita’s other lobe, no one could be sure what shape it might have been; that puzzle was now at the jewelers, to see what they could make of it. Her daddy said it might mean nothing at all, but the earrings were part of the case and should not be overlooked.

As the moon eased lower, its glow touched Kit and Pan where they slept in their tree house. It touched Joe Grey in his tower. All had arrived back in the village, Ryan taking Kit and Pan home from the hospital, where the two quietly snuggled down in their tree house. They didn’t go inside to wake Lucinda and Pedric, to launch into a long tale at this late hour.

Charlie had brought Joe Grey home, leaving Officers McFarland and Crowley still at the ranch working the scene, photographing and printing Nevin’s car, photographing the stall, taking blood samples. The three cats were still edgy with the emotions of the night, unease born of the storm of human anger at the Luther house, the smell of human blood, the rage of shouting and hard-hitting fists—and for Joe the thud of the stallion’s hooves striking human flesh, nightmare images that, even in sleep, made him growl and made his ears go flat, made his fur stand stiff.

But Courtney and Dulcie slept peacefully now, feeling sheltered and safe, mother and daughter snuggled together, Courtney willing herself to forget the ugly dream of the woman in the grave, forget the hate that lay beyond her cloistered world of velvet and carved rosewood. They slept soothed by the magic of the tales they had told each other, Dulcie’s dreamy fairy tales, and Courtney’s sharp images from her past and then from the underground that Kit and Pan had described. On that journey into the Netherworld, her two friends had seen wonders beyond most cats’ imagining. Wonders that Dulcie wished Courtney didn’t know. When Kit started telling an adventure, it was nearly impossible to stop her.

That evening, listening to Courtney’s retelling of Kit’s tales, Dulcie had found it hard to quiet her own distress. Courtney relished those stories; she was so intense with longing to see those wonders that Dulcie didn’t like to think where this might lead.

But maybe it was better that Courtney’s thoughts were trapped, for a little while, in the Netherworld’s wild and impossible lands, than trapped in the dreams of fame and stardom that Ulrich Seaver fed her—visions that might lead to far more misery than any Netherworld haunts.