Cat Fear No Evil

7

Dawn had not begun to bloody the sky when Azrael brushed through Wilma Getz's daisies, trampling the white blooms, and paused beneath her lighted kitchen window. The front yard had no lawn, just stone and brick walks, which he avoided, and flower beds as tangled as a Panamanian jungle and so heavy with dew that immediately his fur was soaked. Scowling, he moved swiftly up the back steps.

Both the front and back doors of Wilma Getz's stone cottage opened to the front garden. The house didn't have any useful backyard, in human terms. The hill that rose nearly straight up behind it was wild with tall grass and heavily populated with small creatures: a serviceable hunting spot. He had seen Dulcie and the tortoiseshell up there just yesterday dragging out a fat rabbit.

Pausing on the back porch, he sniffed the plastic flap of Dulcie's cat door, drinking in the sharp female scents-though he didn't need that message to know that Dulcie and the tortoiseshell had already left the house. Coming down from the roofs he had seen them racing away, likely going to hunt. The tortoiseshell had been talking a mile a minute, making Dulcie drop her ears in annoyance then turn to hush the younger cat before they were overheard. The young tortoiseshell was so eager, so filled with curiosity. The black tom smiled evilly.

Slipping under the flap, he stopped its swinging with his nose and moved through the shadows of the small laundry room, pausing behind a cardboard box filled with newspapers. How civic-minded of the old woman to dutifully recycle her copies of the Molena Point Gazette.

Though maybe old woman wasn't the term for Wilma Getz, even if she did have white hair hanging down her back. Maybe gun-toting granny, the way Greeley called her. The woman had taken no guff from Greeley, that time he came here to see his sister.

Greeley had been drunk as a boiled owl, stinking of booze and needing a bath. No wonder the woman had treated him like dirt. Though she hadn't messed with him, with Azrael. It took more than some white-haired ex-parole officer to run him out of a house.

From the shadows of the laundry, he looked through the open door to the kitchen. Wilma Getz stood at the sink, her back to him, mixing something in a bowl. He could smell raw eggs, and milk, and the sharp aroma of bacon sizzling in the skillet, sending tremors of greed through the tomcat. He licked away some drool. Wilma Getz's long white hair was tied on top her head with a yellow scarf, her sweatshirt printed with yellow flowers; the woman was as wild for color as some Panamanian maid, wearing red and purple and dragging her ragged bouquets.

Padding silently across the blue-and-white linoleum behind her, he could hear a shower running from deeper in the cottage. Moving on past Wilma to the dining room, he slipped under the cherry buffet, where he stretched out on the thick Kerman rug, tucking his paws under trying to keep warm. Why the hell didn't people turn up the heat?

He knew the layout of the house from his visit here with Greeley. That had been a year ago this last summer, when Greeley's sister Mavity got herself hit on the head and had come here from the hospital to recover. Neither Greeley nor Azrael had had anything to do with that little caper. Greeley was drunk the whole time, the old man laying up in that storeroom among those stacked cases of liquor, drowning himself in Scotch and rum-though Greeley had come to visit his sister that once, before they took off again for Panama.

But then Greeley had dragged that shopkeeper woman along on the plane and had married her down there. What a laugh. Couple of old farts playing at being newlyweds, trying to act like spring chickens.

Peering out from beneath the buffet past table and chair legs, he scanned the living room on his left, with its stone fireplace and blue velvet furniture and the painting of Molena Point rooftops over the mantel. Its dark green trees and bright red roofs reminded him of Panama. A wave of homesickness filled him, deeply angering him. He had no use for such sentiment.

Across the dining room from him, the door to the hall stood open, leading to Wilma's bedroom on the left and the guest bedroom on his right. Wilma's big room, where he and Greeley had gone to visit Mavity, was furnished in white wicker, flowered chintz, and a red metal woodstove. A room that, despite his disdain for human trappings, touched within him some regrettably cloying hunger, some weak aspect of his nature that made him want to curl up in there, purring.

He heard the shower stop.

In a minute the bathroom door opened; a cloud of scent reached him, as soft barefoot steps went down the hall. From the guest room came little rustling sounds as if Kate were getting dressed. He imagined her stepping out of her towel naked, beautiful Kate with her creamy skin and silky golden hair, and her golden eyes-unusual for a human. He imagined her as cat, golden and creamy, and again he smiled.

After dressing in pale jeans and a cream polo shirt, Kate pulled on her sandals and flipped a brush through her short hair. She needed to make a decision this morning on one of the three apartments-Charlie's, or one of the other two she had already looked at. If she was really serious about moving, she needed to put down a deposit. In Molena Point, as in the city, nice rentals didn't last.

The thought of moving again, of starting life over once more, though in a smaller way, wasn't pleasant. Moving out of her pretty Molena Point house after Jimmie tried to kill her, hiding from him, then later selling the house and furniture, at the same time being involved in his trial and conviction, had been more than traumatic. She had thought that when she moved to the city that would be the last move.

But now again everything was changed. Now, when she returned to the city, she'd be followed once more, the strange man appearing in the shadows, in dark doorways, always with her like some incurable illness.

She had never really thought, until these last weeks, that when someone threatened you, they stole your freedom; that by following you they confined you, hindering your movements, limiting your options.

Heading down the hall for Wilma's bright kitchen, badly wanting coffee, she paused in the dining room, startled.

Was someone here? Someone in the house besides Wilma and herself? What did she sense? What a strange feeling. A sense of something unwelcome, someone who did not belong here.

Stepping into the living room, she found it empty. She moved back down the hall to Wilma's room. That room, too, was empty; the light, bright room with its red stove, its white wicker furniture and flowered chintz, seemed undisturbed. The bath and the open closet were empty. Yet the feeling of a foreign presence, of being watched, persisted.

This was not at all like when Dulcie or the kit watched her, not a friendly and amused little awareness, no sense of camaraderie.

Surely she was imagining this-yet the sensation was so real, she felt goose bumps. Strange that last night talking with Wilma over dinner she'd had the same uncomfortable idea that someone was watching them and listening-though the patrons at the surrounding tables had all been deep in their own conversations, paying no attention to them.

Taking herself in hand, she moved into the bright kitchen where Wilma stood at the stove making pancakes. The first pale light of dawn had begun to brighten the diamond-paned windows. Wilma's homemade orange syrup was warming on the back burner, sending out a heavenly scent to mix with the aroma of pancakes and frying bacon. Wilma, in her yellow daisy-printed sweatshirt and her white hair pinned on top, looked as ragtag as a girl. Wilma moved like a girl, long and lithe despite her sixty-some years.

As Kate poured herself a cup of coffee, Charlie pulled up out front, driving her company van, the old blue Chevy that Clyde had rebuilt and made to look like new. He had fitted the inside of the van with specially designed storage for Charlie's cleaning and repair equipment, all beautifully planned between the two of them, every shelf and cupboard secured so nothing would jar loose and fall as Charlie plied the steep Molena Point hills. Kate wondered, now that Charlie and Max were married, and Charlie's career as an animal artist had taken off, whether Charlie would still run Charlie's Fix-it, Clean-it. Maybe she'd keep the business but turn the management over to one of her employees. As Charlie swung out and headed for the back door, Kate reached for another cup.

Pouring coffee for Charlie as she came in through the laundry, Kate added milk and sugar. Charlie was wearing a pale blue sweatshirt over a thick white turtleneck and fleece pants. Setting a covered bowl that smelled of fresh oranges on the table, she hugged Wilma and Kate. "Cold out. I'm sure it's going to snow." She smelled of horses from having done the morning feeding and cleaning the stalls, chores that she and Max shared equally since they had returned from their honeymoon. One of them got breakfast, she'd told Kate, while the other did the stable work. "There were in fact a few flurries," she said, "as I was getting in the van."

Wilma laughed. "It might snow in the hills but it better not snow on my garden." Snow in Molena Point might happen once every ten years, and then melted at once. Wilma dished the bacon onto a paper towel and handed plates of pancakes to Kate and Charlie, pouring another batch onto the griddle for herself. The two younger women settled at the table feeling cozy and pampered; yet even as they sat comfortably talking and enjoying Wilma's good breakfast, Kate had the feeling of a foreign presence. She looked up at Wilma. "Where's Dulcie? And how come the kit's not out here with her face in the pancakes?" "They're off hunting. Bolted out of here almost before daybreak-as if the mice and rats couldn't wait to be slaughtered." Wilma shrugged. "When I ask Dulcie her hunting secrets she just smiles, and sometimes pats my cheek with a soft paw."

From beneath the buffet, Azrael's view of the kitchen was primarily legs-chair and table legs and human legs: Kate's slim, tanned ankles below her jeans, Charlie's leather paddock boots that smelled of horse even at that distance, Wilma's jogging shoes, scuffed and worn. He grew still and intent when Charlie asked about Kate's search for her family.

He had no idea why being adopted was so traumatic for humans. What difference if your mother took off, and whoever sired you was long gone? Except he did wonder, sometimes, about those cats that had produced him. But Kate was saying, "Every time I go through McCabe's papers, I grow uneasy." The smell of pancakes and bacon was making him drool.

"He was a construction contractor in San Francisco?" Charlie asked.

"Yes, and something of a philosopher. He wrote a regular column for the Chronicle, on all manner of subjects. McCabe and his wife-my grandmother, I guess-died in the 1939 earthquake. Apparently their baby survived, though I have found no birth certificate for her, nothing about her in the city records."

"It must be hard, with your foster home records so incomplete," Charlie offered. "But what led you to McCabe's journals?"

"The adoption agency was finally willing to release what information they had. It wasn't much, just the name McCabe who, they said, might have been my grandfather. I guess, with the earthquake, records were destroyed.

"The Chronicle archives produced some of his columns on microfilm. I found no address for him, no social security number, though that wasn't signed into law until 1935, no bank records, not even his contractor's license, and that is so strange. There were city records destroyed in the earthquake, but… I don't know. It's discouraging.

"I found a few relatives of people who had run the foster homes, but no one could tell me much. The Chronicle offices had nothing else, none of the vital information you'd think would be in their files. But I did find his connection to the San Francisco Cat Museum. Strange, I had visited the museum when I was in art school, studying the paintings and sculpture. Of course I hadn't a clue that the man who designed and built the museum might be my grandfather."

Kate broke a slice of bacon, eating it with her fingers. "It was in the museum that I found his journals, in their archives. And in the journals I found the name of his lawyer.

"The firm was still in the phone book-well you know the rest," she told Charlie. "That old man, the shoddy old office, the box of jewelry at the back of that walk-in safe."

Wilma rose to fill their coffee cups. Beneath the buffet, Azrael crouched, fitting the fragmented pieces together; not much yet, but he knew her parents were not of this world, and that deeply excited him. Then as the conversation turned from Kate's search to the three apartments that she was considering, he began to yawn, his pink mouth gaping wide in his sleek black face. Even the death angel needed an occasional nap.

"There's a big living room," Charlie said, "with a high, beamed ceiling. A small kitchen, and one bedroom at the back. A double garage underneath each unit, a deck along the front with a view of the village and the ocean. And of course Ryan is next door in the studio unit, with her lovely big weimaraner-if you don't mind occasional barking. Rock is a good stand-in for an alarm system, if that's ever needed, and he's a real love."

Azrael yawned again, so hard he nearly dislocated his jaw. He was dozing when he heard the slap of Dulcie's cat door. The sound jerked him to full attention. And before he could slip away, Joe Grey shot through the room, under the dining table, and past Azrael straight for the living room. Azrael heard him hit the top of the desk. Either the gray tom had fled by so fast that he didn't smell Azrael-not likely-or he was too preoccupied to care. Azrael heard Joe knock the phone from the cradle, and heard from the kitchen Dulcie's hastily whispered question and Wilma's casual reply.

"Anyone else here?" Dulcie hissed.

"Just us three," Wilma said. "What's the matter?"

So, the black cat thought. Both Charlie and Kate Osborne knew that these little cats could speak. Interesting. Apparently Joe Grey and Dulcie hadn't been very careful.

"What is it?" Wilma repeated.

"Gas leak," Dulcie mewled. "A house up the street. Really strong, not like when you catch a sniff of it on the street."

Azrael could hear Joe Grey talking into the phone, giving the location, most likely talking to a police dispatcher. Telling her how strong the gas stink was and from which side of the dwelling. The next moment, some blocks away, a siren began to scream, and a fire engine went rumbling through the narrow village. He could feel the tremors in his paws as it passed, sharp as the precursor to an earthquake.

Listening to the blasting horn and the siren's final shrill scream just a few blocks away, Azrael flattened his ears. He could hear men shouting, then two more sirens, probably emergency vehicles in case there was an explosion. All these conscientious do-gooders flocking to help, so dedicated they made him gag. He imagined firemen searching for a gas cutoff, plying a wrench to stop the gas at the street. Imagined them gingerly pulling open front and back doors, ducking away and covering their faces in case the gas exploded. All that drama to save a few human lives, when the world was already overpopulated. In Azrael's view, the human herd could stand some thinning.

He froze, closing his eyes when Joe Grey streaked past. The gray tom didn't pause. Had Joe Grey caught his scent, even over the smell of fried bacon? Azrael heard Joe hit the kitchen and keep running. The plastic door flapped once, twice, and both cats were gone-and Wilma and Kate and Charlie were running out, humans and cats gripped by the urge to rescue someone, to help people. Enough smarmy goodwill to sicken a crocodile.

Now, with the house to himself, he left the shadows with leisurely insolence, and strolled into Wilma's kitchen. Leaping to the table, he polished off three pancakes and two slices of bacon. He licked the plates clean then licked the cube of butter and drank the cream from the pitcher, nearly getting his head caught. Why would anyone make a pitcher so ridiculously small? He sniffed at the cooling coffee but it smelled inferior, not the rich Colombian brand he preferred.

Dropping to the blue-and-white linoleum again, he sauntered back through the dining room and down the hall to the guest room. Likely both humans and cats would be up the street all morning preoccupied with helping their neighbors. The black tom smiled. Fate couldn't have planned it better.

Alone in the guest room he set about a methodical search, pawing among Kate's silk lingerie bags and rooting in the gathered elastic pockets that lined the sides of her suitcase, his agile black paws feeling carefully for a small metal object. For what could be his passport to a greatly elevated position in the eyes of his current partner. For what, possibly, might also be a source of information that could prove most interesting.