Cat Fear No Evil

21

Crossing the sidewalk quickly to the passenger side of her car, Kate unlocked the door meaning to slide across to the driver's side; hoping she wouldn't be noticed from across the street. Turning to thank Nancy, who had been more than kind to help her, Kate caught her breath:

Nancy came at her fast, pushed her hard across the console to the driver's seat, bruising her leg, and swung in behind her. "Move it! He's coming!"

Kate stared at the girl.

"He's coming. Let me out in a block or two. Give me the coat, maybe I can mislead him."

Kate started the car. For a second, the look in Nancy's dark eyes iced her blood, but then she saw him; he came running from between two buildings. She revved the engine and burned rubber, skidding away from the curb. As he ran beneath a streetlight she saw his face, but at an angle that startled her.

He looked like the waiter who had died in the gallery.

Oh, but she must be wrong. Driving as fast as she dared, she was too busy dodging cars to look again. As she maneuvered past other traffic, the two faces shone in her mind like two portraits flashed on a screen. The same high sloping forehead, the same large nose and thin face.

When she had seen the waiter that night, his looks had startled her. She hadn't known why. She even then must have seen his resemblance to the man who had followed her. Swerving around a corner heading home, she glanced at Nancy.

The woman was shrugging into the coat Kate had shed, pulling the hat down over her face. When Kate was some ten blocks from the restaurant, when she was sure that no car was following, she stopped at a well-lit corner beside an open grocery where Nancy might take shelter and call a cab. Kate had started to thank her when the girl shoved a gun in her ribs.

Her voice was less cultured now, quick and forceful. "He won't follow you now. Move it. Get rolling." The gun was a black automatic. Kate didn't know much about guns. She had no idea whether the safety was on or off, no idea how to tell if it was loaded, though she thought that the clip was in place.

"Where's the jewelry?"

"In… in my apartment."

"Try again. We already tossed your apartment. If we go there now and you can't produce the jewelry, I'll kill you."

"There's a ruby choker in my apartment. I can give you that."

"I have the choker. Where's the rest, the other nine pieces?"

Kate studied the traffic, wanting to jam her foot hard on the gas and swerve into an oncoming car, to cause such a wreck the police would be called and a crowd would gather. Stopping at a signal, staring at the gun, she was afraid to jump out of the car and try to run, afraid the woman would shoot. Warily Kate watched her. What was it about her face, something strangely familiar and unsettling?

The day Nancy Westervelt came to her office, wanting a designer for her new apartment, she had been waiting for Kate not in the reception area but in Kate's private office. Kate had come in to find her standing at the window looking out at the street, not four feet from Kate's desk and file cabinet. Had she been searching the desk?

She looked over defiantly into the woman's dark eyes, trying to imagine Nancy Westervelt's smoothly coiffed hair frizzled in a black cloud, imagine her eyes heavily lined with black, and thick, nearly black lipstick. When the light changed, Kate nearly ran into the car ahead: she was looking at the young woman from the village, at the woman who had come here to rob her.

Turning onto Stockton, where she had to stop for a cable car, she looked over at her passenger, trying to ignore the gun pointed at her. Surely, above the gun barrel, Consuela Benton looked back at her.

She should have known. Kate remembered cloying perfume, heavy, cheap jewelry, a low-cut tank top tight across her breasts-she should have known at once, there in her office or certainly the minute the woman walked into the restaurant. But this woman was a master of change. From a frowzy teenager to this sophisticate. Who would guess? Moving belatedly ahead with the traffic, she felt as if she was in some sadistic fun house, felt so off balance she nearly did wreck the car, skidding sideways into the next lane.

"Watch your driving! Answer me! Are they in your office?" Her voice was shriller, harsh with impatience.

"I rented another safe deposit box. After you stole my key and check carbon. Do you think the bank doesn't have your fingerprints? Do you think the police won't-"

"I wore gloves. You did not rent a new deposit box, not in that bank or any bank in this city."

Kate laughed. "That bank knows the story. You won't learn where from them; you won't get into that box."

Consuela poked her hard with the gun. "I'll ask you one last time. Where is the jewelry? You answer me or our friend will take over. He's directly behind us, in the gray car. Are the jewels in your office?"

"You're welcome to look if you like." Ignoring honking horns and skidding brakes Kate swung a U-turn in the middle of the block and headed across town for her office. Her head was pounding. She felt ice cold, then the next moment hot and flushed. She wondered if she could swerve the car hard and wrest the gun away. She wished she knew more about firearms. Driving in silence, trying to think of a plan, then at last pulling up beside the darkened office building, she felt totally defeated. She knew nothing about how to defend herself. As the woman instructed, Kate turned down into the underground parking garage.

In the greasy yellow glow of the vapor bulbs, the garage was empty of all but a few cars. Consuela made her slide back across and get out the passenger side. The woman walked so close to her they could have been joined at the hip, the gun under her coat pressed against Kate like a scene from some gangster movie. Kate tried to imagine kneeing her in the groin, jabbing the heel of her hand to the girl's chin or nose, hurting her bad enough to crumple her. Imagined herself grabbing the gun- imagined herself, untrained and uncertain, making a mess of it and ending up shot, maybe dead. Inadequate did not half describe her sense of frustration; she hated her ineptitude and cowardliness. Ringing for the elevator and moving inside it with Consuela, she punched the fifth floor.

Unlocking the outer office door and switching on the lights, Kate crossed the reception area, with its pale, deeply carved carpet and its mix of antique and contemporary furnishings, its handsome potted plants and rich oil paintings. When she didn't move fast enough, the gun barrel poked her in the back. Unlocking the door to her office, she stepped directly to the file cabinet and unlocked that. There was no point in pretending the jewels weren't there. Opening the bottom drawer, she reached to the back, drawing out the plain little cardboard box.

"Open it. Pull the tape off."

Reaching for her desk scissors, Kate imagined stabbing Consuela more quickly than Consuela could pull the trigger, but instead, of course, she obeyed, cutting the tape and opening the lid, removing the little suede evening bag. Opening its clasp, she tipped out the nine pieces of jewelry onto the blotter. The silver and topaz choker she had worn to Charlie's party. A ruby pendant, two diamond bracelets, a gold and onyx necklace, two rings, one set with diamonds, one with a sapphire, and an emerald bracelet and choker, the jewels and heavy gold settings flashing in the overhead lights, the strange medieval design fascinating Kate even now.

"Put them back in the box. Tape it up."

Kate put the pieces back into the blue suede bag, lay that in the box, and fetched tape from her desk drawer. When it was sealed she watched the girl work the box into her raincoat pocket, never turning the gun or her gaze from Kate. Did Consuela mean to kill her now, and leave her body to be found by the janitor?

Consuela forced her back through the reception room and into the elevator, shoving her out again into the parking garage. "Unlock the car."

Kate unlocked it.

"Give me the keys."

Did she mean to shoot her here?

"The keys! And get in the driver's seat."

"You have the jewelry. What do you want now?"

"Give me the keys and get in the car."

Kate did as she was told.

Consuela got in, slammed the door, then handed her the keys. "Drive directly to your apartment."

Kate swallowed.

If she were shot at home, as if she had walked in on a burglar, she might lie there for a very long time before anyone thought to look for her. She often didn't call in in the morning but went directly out on house calls.

Turning on Van Ness, she watched a gray hatchback staying close behind her. Turning onto Stockton, she glanced at Consuela. "Are you connected to Emerson Bristol?"

The girl just looked at her. "Who's that?"

"The… an appraiser."

Consuela gave her a blank look. Neither spoke again until they reached Kate's parking garage, where Consuela gestured for her to pull in.

Parking, Kate had her hand on the door when Consuela stopped her. "Give me your keys."

Kate's heart sank.

Consuela opened the passenger side window and threw the keys as hard as she could among the darkest, farthest rows of parked cars.

"Stay here inside the car. You will sit here for ten minutes after I leave, facing straight ahead. If you look around or get out you will be shot."

Kate glanced past her, to see the gray car waiting at the curb.

Getting out, Consuela moved quickly through the garage to the street and slid in beside the driver. Kate caught a quick glimpse of high forehead and prominent nose. And then they were gone, driving quietly up the dark street. The minute they were past her building Kate slid out, snatching her flashlight from the glove compartment, and moved into the blackness among the parked cars searching for her keys.

Why had Consuela left her alive? Because she didn't want to face a murder charge in case they were caught? But why had she bothered to bring her home? Did the woman think she would be less likely to call the cops if she were returned to her own apartment? That maybe she would run upstairs, collapse in tears, and that would be the end of it? Or at least if she did call the cops, they had a little time while she retrieved her keys- maybe a lot of time, if the keys had gone down through one of the storm grates in the garage floor.

She found them at last; it took her nearly half an hour. They were lodged on the hood of a big Buick, where the black grid of air ducts met the windshield, the keys half hidden beneath the edge of the hood. Retrieving them and hurrying up the closed stairway to her apartment, she flinched at every imagined shifting of the shadows above her, at every hint of sound from the upper landing. At her own door she fumbled with her key, pushing nervously inside. Slamming and locking the door, she leaned against it, her heart pounding.

When she looked up at her apartment, she felt her heart skip, and she went sick.

It appeared as if a tornado had touched down, flinging and smashing furniture, spewing the contents of every drawer in its violent tantrum of destruction. The couch and chairs lay upside down, the upholstery ripped, cotton and foam stuffing pulled out in hunks, even the dust covers shredded off the bottoms, revealing springs and webbing.

Numbly she moved through the mess feeling physically bruised. Along nearly every wall the carpet and pad had been ripped away to reveal the old wooden floors beneath. The kitchen looked like a garbage dump. She stood looking in, and did not want to enter. Every cupboard had been flung open, the contents thrown to the floor, spilled food mixed with broken china. A cold draft hit her, though she had left no window open.

Certainly not the kitchen window, which now stood open, letting in the damp breeze.

She wanted to race for the front door, fling it wide, and run. Backing away from the kitchen, she crossed to the fireplace and picked up the poker that lay incising its black soot across a satin pillow. Clutching the poker, she moved again to the kitchen, shaking with shock and rage. She crossed to the sink and window, glancing behind her to watch the kitchen door, wading through debris that crunched under her shoes.

The window had been jimmied open four inches. That was as far as the second, newer lock would allow. Not wide enough for human entry. Examining the older lock, she could see where it was broken, the metal cracked through. Looking out at the adjoining rooftops, she shut the window and jammed a long carving knife between the end of the sliding glass and the wall.

She stood looking at the broken dishes and scattered rice and cereal. Every container had been emptied, flour and sugar bags lay atop the mess, along with a coffee can. Had the thieves thought she'd keep the jewels in such places? With every new example of their thoroughness, the monetary value of the jewels became more certain in her mind. They were not paste. Why her parents or grandfather would leave such a fortune, taped into a cardboard box at the back of a safe, for a child who might never see that fortune, was a mystery she might never solve.

Moving back through the grisly mess, clutching the poker, she ventured toward the rest of the apartment, turning first to her study.

The two file cabinets were open, the drawers gutted, files and papers flung everywhere. Books were toppled from their shelves and were lying open, the spines awry, pages ripped out as if in their search Consuela and her friend had had, as well, a high good time. This was not searching; this was destruction. Maybe with people like this, it took only opportunity. Time and place invited, they seized the moment as hungrily as an addict would seize drugs. She was so angry that if she had her hands on Consuela now, gun or not, she would lay her out cold or die trying.

Picking up her office phone, she heard no dial tone. She hit the button, listened. Nothing; again the line was dead. Why did the phone company have to string its wires up the side of the building, prey to every prowler?

She had dropped her purse on the table by the front door. During the time Consuela had the gun on her she had toyed with the thought of trying to slip the phone from her purse and dial 911, but there was never a second when Consuela glanced away.

Still carrying the poker, she fished the phone from her purse and dialed 911 now. She gave the dispatcher her address and described the break-in, trying to make clear the extent of the destruction. The dispatcher told her to get out of the apartment until officers could clear it.

"No. I feel safer here. I was… I was kidnapped tonight, as well. They could still be out there." This sounded really weird, so strange that she felt embarrassed. The woman would think she was a nut.

"Can you go to a neighbor's?"

"I don't know my neighbors. I'll stay here."

"Where in the apartment are you?"

"By the front door, in the entry. I've searched part of the apartment, all but the bedroom."

"Officers are on the way. Please stay on the line. When exactly were you kidnapped?" Was the woman patronizing her? Trying to assess her degree of sanity or insanity?

Well, she couldn't blame her.

Or did she simply want to keep her talking until help arrived? She repeated as briefly and clearly as she could the events since she entered the restaurant until she arrived home. She told the dispatcher about giving Consuela the jewels. She explained Consuela's change in appearance and gave her a description of her male partner, and of the car. That seemed to impress the dispatcher. She explained that Consuela had been in Molena Point and that the police there might possibly have some information on her.

Talking with the dispatcher, Kate pulled the foil-wrapped sandwich from her purse and moved into the kitchen. She was amazed that she could think of food, but she felt weak and faint, and knew she needed to eat something. Finding a saucepan among the rubble and an unbroken cup half buried in flour, she washed both thoroughly in hot soapy water, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder. Filling the pan with water, she set it on a burner, brought up a gas flame, and searched among the debris for a tea bag.

Unwrapping the little bag of English Breakfast, she dropped it in the cup, poured boiling water over it, and carried teacup and sandwich into the little dining room, stepping over her nice place mats that were wadded on the floor. She needed to eat. She was weak; her diminished blood sugar dragged her courage even lower. She told the dispatcher where she now was in the apartment. She was pulling out her chair when a movement in the living room brought her up short. She turned, swallowing a cry of alarm.

A black cat sat on the overturned couch disdainfully watching her.

He was huge; his amber eyes blazed so fiercely they seemed filled with licking flames.

There could not be another like him, this cat who called himself the death angel, this cat who had stolen her safe deposit key and had stolen her signature; the same thieving cat that had arrived in the village last year with Greeley Urzey to steal from the village shopkeepers. The beast that, at supper after Charlie's gallery opening, had looked down through the skylight watching them. She stood beside the table facing him, as ice cold as if all her blood had drained away. She looked down at the phone in her hand, and quietly broke the connection.

The cat smiled. "Little Kate Osborne. Pretty little Kate Osborne."

"Why did you help Consuela? What do you get out of it? Why would a cat like you be interested in a handful of costume jewelry with paste stones? Your thieving partner could steal anything you want."

"What partner would that be?"

"Old Greeley," she said, sitting weakly down at the table, cupping her cold hands around the warm teacup.

"I don't run with him anymore. She is my partner now, sometimes. I see that you gave her the jewels."

"How would you know what I gave her?"

"I saw her leave the parking garage. She would not have left unless she had the jewelry."

"And is he your partner, too? The man with the big nose?" She sipped at her tea. Where were the police? What was taking so long? What would they do, now that she had hung up?

The cat's eyes narrowed to slits and his ears laid close to his head. "If the jewels are only paste, why do you treasure those pieces so highly?" His crouch was so tense she thought he would leap on her, biting and clawing.

"The jewelry is part of my past. A past that has no meaning for you, or for Consuela and her friend."

Again the cat smiled. "I could tell you about your past." He looked at her sandwich, which lay untouched in the open foil wrap, the melted cheese turned to the consistency of rubber. "You were told at the orphanage that McCabe might be the name of your grandfather."

"How would you know that?"

He rose and stretched, eyeing her dinner. "Is that shrimp I smell? Grilled shrimp?"

Defensively she picked up her sandwich. The cat leaped six feet to an overturned chair and leaped again onto the table. He stood on her dining table staring intently at her supper.

Removing half the sandwich from the open wrapper she shoved it across to him, leaving a greasy path on the nice oak. She'd have to have a cleaning crew in; she wasn't going to deal with this alone.

Gobbling greedily, the black tom was as messy as a stray dog. The sandwich was gone in six gulps. Licking grease from his whiskers, he eyed her half. She ate quickly though it was cold and rubbery. If in her uneasy hunger she gulped as ravenously as the tom, she didn't care.

"I can tell you about McCabe," the cat said. "I can tell you about your grandfather and your parents, if you indeed want to know."

"How would you know about my heritage?" The cat's words deeply frightened her. Her search, which had started out nearly three years ago as a fledgling interest in her strange heritage, had turned into a nightmare of fear.

The black tom pricked his ears, watching her. "You'd be a pretty little cat, Kate Osborne. Oh, yes, all cream and silk. Maybe more willing than little Dulcie or that tortoiseshell. I do like a partner with my own talents."

His audacity enraged her. And the feline part of her nature deeply upset her. The joy she had once taken in those talents had vanished-to be a cat, rolling in the garden, racing over rooftops. Those changes had occurred only those few days when her life was threatened; they had not remained a part of her life. She looked at the tomcat. "Tell me why Consuela wanted the jewels. Why she would want paste jewels?"

"Shall we say she collects oddities?"

"She'll go to jail for robbing me, her fingerprints are on my safe deposit box, her forgery is on the bank records. That's a big risk, for oddities."

The cat's eyes grew as large as moons; he stared at her, keening a wild hunting cry, creeping toward her-she imagined his teeth in her flesh. Palms sweating, her heart racing, she rose and backed away.

He sat down suddenly on the table and began casually washing his paws, his expression one of deep amusement.

Watching him, she didn't know why she had launched herself into this search for her past, why she had opened this Pandora's box of perplexing connections, seeking matters that any sensible person would leave alone.

The black cat looked deeply at her. His purr was ragged. "You have amazing talents, Kate Osborne."

"Not anymore. That is past. I am no more than what you see."

The cat smiled. "You were under great stress at that time. Your life was threatened, your marriage shattered, your fear that your husband would kill you shocked and sickened you. Perhaps that was why the changes occurred-but what a lovely white and marmalade cat you must have been. And now… Perhaps the stress of present events will-"

"No!" Kate flung her cup at him; he leaped out of its path and it shattered against the wall. He sat down again facing her, his yellow eyes filled with a mad light. The cat was mad. There was no reason that such a beast, with the sentient skills of a human, could not be as stark raving crazy as some poor, demented human.

But she did want to know how he had learned about her, and what else he might know.

Watching her, he smiled. "The Cat Museum, Kate Osborne. There is more information there than you have found."

"I have been thoroughly through the archives."

"The oral tradition, among our kind, is reliable and useful." The cat's eyes narrowed. "Nothing written. Much that can be told."

She thought of the other cats prowling the museum gardens, and she shivered. She had wondered about those cats. But now… she would not, could not ever go there again, to that place she had loved so well.

"They do not like me there," he said. "Those cats who are like us, they do not like me." He looked deeply at her. "There is indeed a hidden world, Kate Osborne. That is the world I seek. That is your true home, the world where the jewels come from."

"What, some commune hidden back in the mountains? Some colony of crazies with guards at the gate?" Where were the police? She wanted this cat out of there, she wanted this unpleasantness over with.

"A world lying deep beneath this city, Kate, a world cavernous and vast. That is the world that should have been McCabe's. The world where I, too, belong."

She was certain that when the law arrived the cat would vanish the way he had come, that she would be rid of him-he wouldn't dare stay, he daren't sit watching while she answered the officer's questions, while she tried to skirt around the answers that she couldn't offer. Hurrying to the kitchen she removed the carving knife and opened the window again, providing for him the same four-inch escape route by which he must have entered. Sickly, desperately, she wanted this cat gone. What did he want with her? Moving quickly back into the dining room Kate found the cat still on the table, nosing at her cell phone. Snatching it up, she dropped it in her pocket. She wanted to snatch up Azrael and shove him out the window, but she was too afraid of him.

Surely when the patrol car came, if it ever did, then he would leave. The uniforms would do their work and go away again, and she would be alone. If she could ignore her ruined apartment, she'd take a long hot shower, pull some bedding together, lock her bedroom door against all possible intruders, and go to sleep. Tomorrow she'd muster the strength to pack what was fit to keep, send everything else to the trash, and… What? Move out? Abandon the city now, at once? Give notice at the studio and move back to Molena Point immediately, where she'd be safe?

Or she could transfer to Seattle, far away from the Bay Area, to work in the firm's new office there. She had not before seriously considered that option.

Watching her, the black cat yawned. "There is such a world, Kate Osborne, a world where all cats speak, a world of subterranean valleys and caverns where jewels are dug from the walls. Diamonds, rubies… Where jewelsmiths are as common as dust. Where do you think that strange work comes from that no one can identify? You know the old Celtic tales, the Irish and Welsh sagas. Do you think that ancient history is all lies because it comes to us in the form of story? Do you really not believe in those worlds, told of again and again throughout history?"

"They are only stories! Folktales! Flights of fancy, anyone knows that. There is no other world; such a thing is not possible." She stared hard at the inky beast. His amber eyes blazed back at her, as hot as the flames of hell.

"The jewels can lead us there," the cat said complacently. "If we can learn where they came from in this world, we can find the way down. A door, a passage down into that lost world." He looked at her intently.

"You are mad," she whispered. "There is no world but this. This world! Here! Now." Snatching at the edge of the table, she tilted it so violently the black tomcat could only leap off. He landed on the buffet. She wanted to throw the table at him. "Leave me alone! She has the jewels! Go to Consuela. Take the jewels. Go find your mythical door. Get out of here. Go to that other world or wherever. But get the hell out of here, I have nothing for you!"

He stood atop the buffet glaring at her, panther-black and as powerful and sinewy as any jungle beast. "What bargain would it take, Kate Osborne, for you to help me find that world and enter it? You have talents that I do not. And the jewels themselves from that world are surely a badge of power…"

"Get out! " She swung around, grabbing the poker.

He stared at her unflinching. "There is a house, Kate Osborne. An old gray Victorian in Pacific Heights, an earthquake-damaged house, closed now and awaiting repairs. Cats live there, cats that do not fit into the dull gardens of the Cat Museum, beautiful, dark-souled cats who were driven out by their tame cousins. Those cats could lead us… or perhaps we will find the door there, in that wrecked dwelling, perhaps-"

"Then go there! Go to your rebel cats! Such beasts should welcome you. Go down to that world and leave me alone." The cat was mad, he was indeed Poe's black beast, as Joe Grey once had once observed. "Go to them," she repeated. "I can't help you."

"They do not want me there. Those cats fear me; they fear my power. They rise like a tide against me."

"So what do you want from me? I can't help you."

"Those beasts come and go freely from that world. Perhaps indeed a portal is there, in that ruined place… I have seen them appear out of the darkness of that house, I have seen their eyes. I have smelled the scent of deep, dank earth on them." His eyes burned with desire. "They drive me out, Kate Osborne. They do not want me in that world."

She watched him, chilled by his words but not understanding.

"Even the dark souls, Kate Osborne, make war among themselves, battles of jealousy and power. If that world has turned dark as I think it has, if the hell beasts now rule there… then only a badge of power can have authority." His yellow eyes gleamed. "I believe the jewels with their symbols of cats wield the power I want. A talisman of authority from that world…"

She shivered, drawing back. The cat was insane, driven by an ego bigger than any lost world-and yet despite her fear of him, his words and his cloying voice strangely quickened her heart. And a little voice deep inside her kept asking, Why are there no public records for McCabe, or for my grandmother or my parents? What are McCabe's oblique references in his journals to some other world?

She shook her head, turning away. She did not want to think about this; she did not want any of this.

But then she turned back, watching the tomcat. "Is she a part of this? Is Consuela part of this insanity? Does she believe in such a world?"

His laugh was cold, teeth bared with derision. "She knows nothing about my true purpose. She has taken the jewels for her lover."

"The man who followed me?"

The cat laughed again, a snarling hiss that gave her goose bumps. "That man is not her lover. Her lover is her partner, as am I. We are three in our ventures. The man who followed you is a pawn, a simple lackey." He watched her appraisingly. "If you want to know about her partner, you must help me."

The cat jerked around as footsteps sounded outside the door in the stairwell.

"Go!" she hissed.

The cat sat unmoving, his smile evil.

Kate was so enraged, so at the end of her temper, that she snatched up the beast by the nape of his bullish neck and his thick black tail and, holding him away from her, she hiked him through to the kitchen. She was sure he'd twist around and slash her-he could shred her arm in an instant.

But he did nothing. He hung limp, watching her and laughing. Laughing. Enraged, she shoved him through the narrow opening, forcing him through with her hand on his rump then closing the window, wedging it again with the butcher knife. Then she went to open the front door. In her last view of Azrael, the tomcat sauntered boldly away into the black night of the rooftops.