Cat Deck The Halls

5

T HE LOW DOOR to the pump house flew open, and a gun was thrust in at the cats and child, and a dark, crouching figure peered in, the black automatic held in his meaty hand. The cats didn’t breathe, the child didn’t breathe. He switched on a light, blazing in their faces. And suddenly he laughed. Brennan, Officer Brennan, his belly protruding over his belt as he bent lower and reached in. Brennan’s gruff voice was unusually soft.

“Come on, honey, it’s all right. It’s all right now. I’m a police officer, I won’t hurt you.”

But the child pressed away from him, pushing so hard against the metal pump that she was surely embossing its imprint into her thin arm. Brennan drew back so as not to frighten her further, and for an instant his brown eyes met the cats’ eyes in a surprised, searching look that sent a shock of wariness through Joe and Kit.

While Joe thought fast-and came up with no logical excuse for being there-Kit looked at Brennan with big round eyes, gave a soft little mewl that would charm the hardest cop, and rubbed against the child, purring and waving her tail. Taking Kit’s cue, Joe snuggled closer, shaken by the child’s trembling.

Brennan’s voice softened even more, and slowly and gently he reached to stroke Kit, then tried to entice the little girl out to him. She only stared at Brennan, her eyes as glazed as those of a trapped deer.

Brennan had been on the force for as long as Joe Grey could remember, and he had never hurt or been harsh with a child; he had never touched Joe or Dulcie or Kit except gently. But the child’s fear of the stranger did not ease. Watching them, Joe longed to speak, to tell the cowering child that this officer would never hurt her.

Once, when Brennan, answering a security alarm late at night, had discovered Joe and Dulcie inside Sicily Aronson’s art gallery, when they had stared out at him fearfully from beneath Sicily ’s desk, face-to-face with the startled cop, Brennan had not snatched them up and thrown them out as some patrolmen might do. But there had been more embarrassing moments, the most recent when Kit leaped from a rooftop onto a thief’s head, knocking him straight into Brennan’s arms. That kind of caper did make a cop wonder. Now, with Brennan finding the cats at another scene just after the snitch’s call, they trembled at what that good officer might be thinking.

Well, hell, Joe thought. Clyde and I live beside the plaza. Our house backs up to it. Of course Clyde ’s cat would prowl the plaza gardens. And as for our being in here with the kid, everyone knows that cats and children have a natural affinity. Wandering neighborhood cats come on a child in the plaza gardens at night and make friends with her. So what’s the big deal?

It all seemed reasonable to Joe. He spent a long time trying to convince himself it was reasonable while Brennan tried to get the little girl to trust him and come out. The officer rose at last, defeated, and backed away, speaking into his radio.

“The little girl’s here. She seems all right, but scared, won’t come to me. She’s in that little pump house behind the dog fountain. I don’t want to drag her out. Maybe a woman…You got a woman out there?”

“ Davis,” came Garza’s reply. “She’s on her way.”

Joe and Kit didn’t know whether to make themselves scarce, or whether running would tweak further the big cop’s sense of suspicion. They heard Garza tell Davis to bring a blanket, and then in a moment heard Detective Juana Davis’s familiar footsteps approaching, her black regulation oxfords making a sharp, quick rhythm along the brick walk-and all they could do was snuggle closer to the child in dumb innocence.

Davis emerged from the shadows, her dark uniform separating itself from the night. Juana Davis was squarely built, and was always on a diet, which she found any number of excuses to circumvent. She had short graying black hair and dark expressive Latino eyes that could burn a hole through a felon, or could fill with gentle understanding, as they did now as she knelt quietly before the little open door of the low shed.

She looked in, then looked up at Brennan. “What the hell?” Davis whispered softly. “What are the cats doing in there? Clyde ’s cat and the Greenlaws’ Kit. Why would they…? How did they…? Come out of there, Joe Grey. I never saw such a cat to turn up at a crime scene! What do you do, scout for trouble?” But then she turned her attention to the child.

“Come on, honey, it’s all right. Were the cats keeping you warm? They are warm, aren’t they? This is Joe Grey, he’s a friend of mine,” she said gently. “And the dark fluffy one is Kit. I’m glad they found you, to keep you company and to keep you warm, it’s getting really cold.

“Joe Grey lives nearby. He’s a good cat. I guess he likes to roam among the gardens.” At Davis ’s gentle voice, the child began to relax and listen, and to unclench her tight little fists-but now Joe was all the more uneasy. It was bad enough to stir Brennan’s suspicions, but now they had Juana Davis wondering. Beside Joe, Kit was frozen rigid with nerves, she looked as if she was about to bolt past Juana and vanish, leave Joe to face the law alone.

Juana continued talking softly to the child, then she reached in quietly and closed her hand over the little girl’s small, cold hand. “It’s all right,” Juana repeated. “I have children of my own. I’m a police officer, I won’t hurt you. I know how to make gingerbread, and hot cocoa, too.” With her other hand she reached to stroke Joe and Kit. “You like kitties? I do, too. Sometimes,” she said, rubbing Joe’s ears, “sometimes these two come down to the police station and sit on my desk, and beg for some of my lunch. And”-she laughed-“I always give them what they like to eat.

“Maybe,” Juana said, “if you wanted to ride in a real police car with a police radio, I could make us some hot cocoa, and I have some gingerbread. I’d love to have a nice hot cup of cocoa, with a marshmallow in it, it’s so cold out here tonight.”

The child looked at Juana questioningly, some of the glaze of fear and loss leaving her dark eyes. She drew Kit closer into her arms, as she would hug a teddy bear. She spoke no word, made not the slightest sound. For a long time, as Juana talked to her, she stayed still, hugging Kit, squeezing so hard that the tortoiseshell cat had to swallow back a yowl of distress; Kit was not a cat who liked hugging. She had not grown up being hugged by humans. As much as she wanted human companionship and loving, too much hugging always felt like a threat, like she was trapped. If this had been a grown-up, the claws would have come out-sometimes, with too much closeness, a cat who has grown up wild just can’t help but lash out, even at the most friendly hand; the need came over one like a jolt of lightning, Kit would react before she could think not to hurt a friend. But now, with this child, despite the sense of panic that descended on her, she tried desperately to remain gentle, tried with every ounce of feline discipline she could summon to keep her claws sheathed, and her paws still-and slowly, slowly the terrified child was relaxing, responding to Juana’s words.

“Will you come out,” Juana repeated, “will you come with me where it’s warm and safe? I promise I won’t leave you alone, I won’t leave you to be afraid or alone.”

Brennan had backed away; he turned and left, removing one seeming barrier to gaining the child’s trust, but even with all Juana Davis’s calm patience, it took her over half an hour before the little girl decided to trust her, and loosened her grip on Kit and crawled out and warily let Juana pick her up. Even then, as the child looked back over Juana’s shoulder, the cats could see her lingering fear.

They watched Juana carry the little girl out of the plaza’s side entrance avoiding the ambulance and the crowd of men and police cars-avoiding the scene of the murder. They watched Juana head for her squad car, parked along the quieter side street. Crouched in the bushes, they watched her lift the child into the backseat, tuck a blanket around her, and fasten the seat belt, then slip into the driver’s seat. Through the white Chevy’s open window they listened to Juana call Detective Garza, tell him that she was headed for the hospital, for the children’s wing, and that she would stay with her then take her home to her apartment.

“Why the hospital?” Kit said worriedly as Davis started the engine. “Why would she…”

“They’ll need to see if she’s hurt,” Joe said. “See if there are any marks on her.” He looked intently at Kit. “See if she’s been abused.”

“Oh,” Kit said, shocked. “Oh, not that little girl.”

“Maybe Juana can get her to talk,” Joe said. “Get her to describe the killer and tell what happened.”

“She didn’t speak at all,” Kit said doubtfully. “Not a word, not a sound. And she’s such a little girl. Not like an adult witness.”

But as the two cats whispered in the bushes, and Juana Davis headed for the hospital, not even the cats saw the dark figure in the building across the street, watching from the black window of the vacant store; they did not catch his scent among the sharp smells of tar paper and new lumber, were not aware of the lone man watching Juana Davis, listening as Davis told Detective Garza where she was headed, for the hospital and then her own condo.

J AMES KUDA WATCHED the woman cop come out carrying the kid, all hugs and soft words, and his hand tightened on the automatic-but hell, he couldn’t shoot her in a cop’s arms; he’d never get away. Well, now he knew where she’d be. When the cop drove away, Kuda turned back into the black interior of the bare store, moving so silently that even the cats across the street didn’t hear him, nor did they glimpse a shifting shadow or change of light within the dark interior-an omission that, if they’d known of it, would have embarrassed both felines.

After the white patrol car sped off toward the hospital, Kuda waited. He waited a long time, until the coast was clear, until most of the cops finished up and left, then he retrieved the bike he’d stashed behind the lumber, wheeled it out through the back door, and vanished into the night; rode fast and silently, thinking about his moves from the moment he’d slipped up on his victim-but then thinking uneasily about that faint sound on the roof, just after the shooting. Raccoon, probably. Except that didn’t explain who’d called the cops.

He’d just made it, before the sirens blasted, had dragged the body into the car, keeping to the walk so as not to step in the soft garden dirt. Pulling the heavy man along, sweating from nerves. But he’d made it, got the body out of there. And now, a little while longer and he’d have disposed of it. Then to take care of the girl. Not likely she’d ever ID him, kid that age and all, but even so it might be better not to push his luck.