Cat Deck The Halls

4

R ACING AWAY FROM Joe into the dark plaza looking for the vanished child, the tortoiseshell cat didn’t care that the body had vanished, she thought only of the terrified little girl, afraid that the killer had taken her-or had the child run before he could grab her? Had the sirens scared him away before he could snatch up the frail witness? A little girl like that, could she get away from a grown man? Maybe hide where he wouldn’t find her? If she’d seen the shooter’s face, she was surely marked for death.

Trying to find the child’s scent among all the cops’ trails as they’d quartered the plaza sent Kit doubling back again and again, sniffing at every brick, at every patch of earth, scenting around every bush trying to catch the smell of the little girl over the sharp trails of shoe polish, testosterone-heavy sweat, gun oil, and the pungent odors of geraniums and Mexican sage that seemed to want to drown out all else. Though Kit could track as no cop could, as only a dog could do, this morass of fresh scents was indeed daunting.

And was the killer still nearby, watching the police? Maybe even watching her, wondering what that cat was doing?

The day had begun so happily amid all the Christmas bustle. As Kit had trotted out of the house that morning through the dining-room window onto her favorite oak branch, behind her the dining table was strewn with wrappings and boxes; in the living room, the tree lights glowed; and in the kitchen her two human housemates had been chopping nuts for fruitcake, the tall, eighty-some newlyweds as happy as a couple of kids, laughing and teasing each other, surrounded by the delicious smells of baking, of vanilla and almond flavoring and ginger and candied cherries. Racing away toward the village over the familiar tangle of rooftops, Kit had found Joe Grey and Dulcie on the tiled roof of the Patio Café, the big silver tomcat having a morning wash while tabby Dulcie waved her darkly striped tail, caught happily in the milieu of delicious Christmas smells and of taped Christmas music that rose up to them from the small shops, and listening to the villagers’ cheerful greetings as they hurried from one small store to the next. The cool morning had been jewel bright, almost balmy for December, a day to roll on warm concrete or, for a human, to abandon the house for the sunwashed village and seashore. After a week of icy winds and lashing rains, everyone had seemed to be out and about, as busy as field mice emerging from their holes on the first nice morning. But then, by late afternoon, the weather had turned stormy again, dark clouds rolling in and the wind whipping up foam off the ocean. Since early November, the weather had been wildly unpredictable, the central California coast awash with bright sun one day, battered by dark rain and heavy winds the next. Kit’s human friends hardly knew, when they got out of bed in the morning, whether to dress in shorts and a light shirt, or sweaters and rain gear. Even the newscaster on TV seemed unable to predict heat or cold, rain or sun, his broadcasts so uncertain that he should be embarrassed to show his face on the big screen. In six weeks’ time, the Pacific Coast had been hit by five gusting storms that ripped away tree limbs, tore off shingles, and made everyone as grouchy as if the weather’s tantrums were personal assaults. Then would come a few days of sunshine that made everyone smile and laugh and go out Christmas shopping before another storm hit, the pre-Christmas temperatures as crazy as if the weather gods were binging on catnip.

W HILE KIT SEARCHED the dark gardens, deftly avoiding the fast-moving hard shoes of the uniforms, across the street from the plaza, inside the empty store that he had scoped out earlier, James Kuda stood among sawhorses and stacked lumber, looking out, watching the dark-clad cops searching the street. Because the store was undergoing extensive renovation, he had wandered in there days ago, out of curiosity. Investigating the back room, he had found only a simple, punch-type lock on the backdoor, which, tonight, he had easily jimmied. Now, wearing a black sweatshirt and black pants, and a black stocking cap that amused him, he stood among a half-dozen upright rolls of black construction paper, his face turned away into the shadows-black on black to the cops’ lights that flashed like explosions through the glass, picking out bare stud walls, stacked plywood and two-by-fours, and sliding over Kuda, who stood like another roll of strong-smelling building paper.

From this vantage he couldn’t see much inside the plaza. An abbreviated view through its side entry, part of the Christmas tree, a half-dozen cops clustered around, and the back end and open doors of the EMT van. Body or no body, it looked like they were running the scene. A Latino detective taking photographs. Next thing, he’d be dusting for prints, taking particle and blood samples, then walking the grid. Kuda wasn’t worried about prints, not with cotton gloves-generic gloves whose fibers they probably couldn’t trace. He still had the gun and silencer, though, and was debating where to dump them.

Well, not likely they’d find the body. The car was well hidden, and not even a window in that garage; and he wouldn’t be pulling out again until the uniforms cooled off, had gone off duty or back to their regular rounds. Glancing above to the plaza roof, he glimpsed something dark and small slipping along the tiles, some animal or maybe an owl; maybe that was what he’d heard earlier, an animal running across the roof.

Except, there’d been a person, too. Someone had called the cops, no animal could do that.

F ROM THE ROOF, looking down on the dark gardens as the officers searched, Joe Grey caught only glimpses of the tortoiseshell kit prowling among the flowers and bushes, her darkly mottled coat hardly visible against the night-dark patterns of leaf and shadow. She’d been down there a long time. Had she found nothing? Restlessly, he dropped down a tree to join her, and together they sniffed and shouldered through the darkest, back portions of the garden, as deeply intent as a pair of tracking bloodhounds.

They found not the faintest scent of the child. Until…

Joe stopped and reared up. Sniffing. Listening. His white paws and chest and the white stripe down his nose gleamed in the night as he spun around toward the center of the plaza-and swiftly Kit leaped to join him.

“There,” he said softly.

They approached a tangle of flowering shrubs where a tiny pond and waterfall had been built, set aside as a special drinking fountain for visiting canines. No one had thought to dedicate anything to the village cats! “There! Do you smell her?” Joe hissed.

Kit’s nose twitched. Smell of water, of dog and dog pee, all so heavy around the little pool that she had missed the child’s scent. Now she caught it, and they circled the pond to where the smell was sharpest-scent of child. Scent of blood.

Behind the rocky waterfall, the fountain’s pump was enclosed in a small shed some two feet high. The child’s smell came from there. Approaching the little closed door, fearful of what they would find, they caught no scent of death. But now, on the door handle, another smell. The smell of peanut butter.

And then, listening, the rhythm of soft, ragged breathing.

Pawing and fighting the door handle, then hooking their claws underneath the door itself, they were able to pull it open.

A T THE BACK of the shed, the little girl was crouched in a dark niche between the small water pump and the rough wall, her face pinched and white, her dark eyes huge with fear, eyes as black as obsidian-but when she saw that it was only cats, she drew in her breath with startled relief.

Kit approached her softly. When the child didn’t cringe away, Kit nosed at her, then stepped into her lap. Standing with her paws on the child’s shoulders, Kit licked her on the nose. Shyly the child stroked Kit, drawing in a tremulous breath. Behind them, Joe Grey managed, with stubborn claws, to draw the door closed again. And in the dark, small space the two cats snuggled close to the little girl, nosing at her as they tried to see if she was hurt, tried to find a wound.

The blood on her sweater was drying. They found no fresh blood, and there seemed to be no physical hurt, and they decided this was, indeed, the dead man’s blood. They didn’t want to discuss the matter, didn’t want to speak in front of the child, their commitment to secrecy was far too important. Even a six-year-old could tell tales. They simply curled up on her lap and smiled up at her, purring-and wondering if they could nudge her into leaving her hiding place, if they could lead her back to Detective Garza; the child was so rigid with fear that they didn’t think she’d follow, didn’t think she’d leave her tight little refuge.

Joe thought the fastest way to bring help was to race home and phone the dispatcher, tell Mabel where the child was so Dallas Garza could come and get her. He was about to push outside when footsteps came pounding up the walk straight toward the shed, heavy steps that paused, then began to circle the fountain. The child cringed deeper in, shivering. The cats, leaving her huddled, crouched by the door, tensed to leap in the face of whoever entered, their claws flexing with predatory lust. Beyond the door, the man stood inches from them. The child swallowed, her thin body rigid with fear-but then a radio mumbled softly, and they caught the man’s scent.