Cat Pay The Devil

17

T hat soft tapping wasn’t caused by the wind; Wilma listened to the sounds above her hoping it was a squirrel in the attic, or a raccoon, or maybe a crow on the roof, pecking at the shingles. But she knew better. Those were human footsteps, walking softly across the second floor of what she had thought was a one-story shack. Her fear of whoever was there and might come down while she was tied up and helpless sent panic through her that was hard to control, filled her with a shock of terror that dwarfed the fear she’d felt when she’d glimpsed, out the window, that dark, small shape careen away. Though surely that had been only a squirrel or a cat, nothing big enough to threaten her. She wished it had been Dulcie, or Joe, or Kit.

But no one knew where she was. In the moving car, she had left no scent trail, nothing for a cat to follow. Even those three clever feline friends had no way to find her.

Cage had told her he’d searched her house, and that filled her with terror for Dulcie; thinking he might have hurt Dulcie.

But Dulcie wouldn’t have gone near him, wouldn’t have let him approach her, if she had come home and found him there. And he’d have driven away, leaving no trail for a cat to follow.

Driven away in her car, or in the other one? For a moment, she banked all hope on the quick reactions of one small cat, praying Dulcie had seen the car, that she had reported her car stolen or seen the license number of the other car and called the station.

But that was too bizarre, a far too timely solution to a messy situation. Too much wishful thinking. Still, if Dulcie had made the car, there were police patrols all over the village, and the station was just blocks away. One of Harper’s units might have been able to find and follow Cage.

Awash in panic because, very likely, no one knew where she was, and no one was going to know, she ceased her awkward search for a knife and uselessly fought her bonds again, jerking and struggling as she listened to the footsteps overhead, soft shoes or slippers padding around on a hard floor. She looked for a place to hide, certain that every time she moved the chair, whoever was there would hear the awkward thumping.

The windows were growing dark; when night fell, the woods and yard and inside the cabin would be black as sin; there would be no moonlight to seep in among the masses of tall, dense pines. If whoever was there came downstairs in the pitch-black dark, when she couldn’t see them…

Bending awkwardly to fight open the lowest drawer behind her, conscious of every small scrape and thump as she tilted and rummaged trying not to lose her balance, she searched with increased panic for a weapon to free herself.

Indeed, in the low attic room above Wilma someone heard her struggles and visualized what she might be doing down there, someone who moved softly about the dim room, someone filled with questions, with fear, and perhaps with a cold, hidden rage.

And from outside the house, others, too, watched Wilma, observing her through the window as she fought for her freedom: Three small, wild beings looked down from the stickery branches of a pine tree and in through the dusty window, watching the captive woman struggle.

The pale calico looked at her companions. “I know her. That’s Wilma, that’s Dulcie’s Wilma.” Amazed and puzzled, Willow slipped around the pine’s dry trunk to its far side where the tall, gray-haired woman wouldn’t glimpse her, wouldn’t see in the gathering night, her pale calico coat gleaming. Both she and white Cotton would stand out now, easy to observe. Only Coyote with his dark brown-striped coat would blend into the night’s shadows.

But Coyote was saying, “You never saw Dulcie’s Wilma,” and the big, dark cat lashed his tail with disgust, his long, tufted ears flicking with annoyance.

“I know her from how Kit described her,” Willow said. “You heard her, Cotton heard her.” She looked at white Cotton, but that tom remained silent.

“No one can know a human from a description,” Coyote said. “There could be hundreds like that.”

“There are not hundreds like her! I do know her,” Willow hissed. “You think humans are all alike? She’s tall and slim, she has long silver hair. Look at her, her hair tied back with a silver clip. Jeans and a red sweatshirt. All exactly the way Dulcie said.” She glared at the dark long-haired tom whose black face stripes and tall ears made him resemble a small coyote. “I’m not stupid!” Willow snapped. “I know Dulcie’s Wilma.”

Coyote looked back at her uncertainly. Maybe she did know, who was he to say? He knew little enough about human creatures.

But it was Cotton who crept closer along the branch and looked in at Wilma for the longest time, saying nothing. And then, with a flick of his tail and a twitch of his ears he leaped away into the undergrowth; when Willow called softly after him, he said over his shouder, “Hunting. I’m going to hunt.”

“But-”

“What do I care for humans and their senseless problems?” And with that, Cotton was gone. Willow looked after him, hurt and disappointed.

But again, Willow peered around through the branches at Wilma, her bleached calico coat ghostly against the dark trunk. “Those men not only tied her to a chair, they blindfolded her. Well, but she’s gotten that off! Good for her! But what do they want with her?” She looked hard at Coyote. “How rude Cotton was! We have to help her, we have to free her.”

“I don’t-”

“Just like Kit freed us!” Willow hissed. “It’s payback time, Coyote. Couldn’t Cotton see that? We have to free her before they hurt her!”

Coyote stared at her, his ears back stubbornly. And Willow, swallowing, knew she had spoken too directly. It hadn’t taken much to send Cotton off. If she got Coyote’s back up, he’d leave, too, and she’d have no help at all.

Coyote was a good cat. So was Cotton. They just didn’t find any value in humans. Neither tom trusted humans, and with good reason.

Most of their band felt no connection to humans. They had all grown up feral, wild and wary, keeping to themselves. Well, maybe she was glad Cotton had gone. The white cat was so bossy, always wanted to do everything his way. At least Coyote was gentler; and Coyote had a deep social feeling for their own kind, a love of their own wild rituals. Maybe she could play on that. Maybe she could manipulate Coyote into helping-if only she knew what to do, knew how to help.

But there wasn’t much time. Those men might soon be back. If they’re coming back, she thought. She was all nerves, watching Wilma struggle. With that chair tied to her, the tall lady could hardly turn. Willow could see the knives that Wilma hadn’t found, she wanted to tell her where, to leap in and touch her hand with a soft paw and guide her.

But she could not; she could not bring herself to try the things Dulcie and Kit took for granted; she dare not try to open that window, or go voluntarily into a human’s house. Instead, she turned a limpid gaze on Coyote. “We were in that cage two weeks, captive, just like she’s captive now. I thought we’d never get out. Her friends helped get us free.

“I was so scared, locked in there,” she said, trembling. “We all three were. Now she’s trapped like we were, and she doesn’t even have anything to eat, like we did. Or any water until she managed to turn on the faucet.” She looked hard at the dark, striped tom. “She’s brave, Coyote. She’s a fighter-as strong and brave as a cat herself.”

Coyote watched her narrowly. “So? What can we do?”

“It was her friends who saved us,” Willow repeated. “It was her friend, Joe’s Grey’s human, who cut off the lock for us. We can’t leave Dulcie’s Wilma. How could we? But, how can we help her?”

Finding the blade of a long butcher knife, Wilma cut her finger. Swearing under her breath, she felt for the handle, then, bending and twisting, nearly dislocating her spine, she pulled it to her and hauled it out.

With the big knife securely in hand, she was twisting it around with the blade toward her bound wrists when she heard the overhead floor creaking, louder, then footsteps approached, echoing hollowly, as if coming down hidden wooden steps.

It sounded like the stairs might be behind the stone wall where the woodstove crouched. Frantically she cut at her bonds-and of course cut herself again, she could feel the slick blood. Angry at her clumsiness, and shaky with her effort to sever the rope, she was looking directly at the stone wall when a figure emerged from behind it.

A small figure, stepping hesitantly. A woman, young and pale and as insubstantial appearing as a ghost. A frail and displaced-looking creature, stick thin, dressed in an oversized man’s shirt and a long, faded skirt from which her white ankles protruded like two bones. White feet shod in worn leather sandals. She stood looking at Wilma, then slowly approached; and even in the gathering shadows, Wilma could see her fear, her eyes wide in the fading light. She said no word; she watched Wilma warily, then focused on the knife Wilma clutched behind her; she reached gently out to Wilma, as if meaning to cut her bonds-and jerked the knife away. Snatched it roughly from her hands and backed away fiercely clutching it, her eyes hard now.

“Please,” Wilma said. “What are you doing? Please, cut me free.”

“I can’t. They’d kill me.”

“They won’t kill you if I’m free, and we get out of here, if we run before they get back.”

The girl shook her head; something about her looked familiar, something about her frail thin body. Wilma studied her, trying to make out her age. Could this thin, pale woman be Cage’s younger sister? She looked as Wilma remembered her, but Violet would be around twenty-five. This girl looked maybe sixteen. “Violet? Are you Violet Jones?”

A faint nod, as she backed away.

Wilma looked at the cheap gold band on her finger. “Violet Sears, now? Eddie Sears’s wife?”

Another nod, tinged with a downward, closed glance of shame.

“If you leave me tied, Violet, and they kill me, you’ll be an accomplice to murder. You’ll go to prison right along with Eddie and Cage. Federal prison. For a very long time.”

“If I untie you, Eddie will kill me.”

“What does Cage want with me? If I knew that-”

“You stole from him. What he had in the safe. He told you that, I heard him tell you that.”

“What did he have? He won’t tell me anything. I have no idea what he thinks I took, no idea what he wants.”

Violet said nothing, only looked at her.

“If you free me, maybe I can help him. Find out who did steal from him. I can’t do anything tied up.”

No answer.

“I know how to help Cage. If I’m free I can help him.”

But the girl didn’t buy it. She shook her head and turned away, heading for the hidden stairs. Wilma didn’t want to believe she would leave her there, helpless. But she guessed she’d better believe it.

She hadn’t seen Violet since she was a child. She might have glimpsed her on the street and not realized who she was. She’d heard that Violet was born just months before their mother died, that Mrs. Jones had died from complications developed at Violet’s birth. Other village gossips liked to say that Violet wasn’t Mrs. Jones’s daughter at all, but was Lilly’s. That the shock of Lilly giving birth out of wedlock had killed Mrs. Jones.

Wilma hadn’t lived in the village when Violet was born, but Molena Point, like all small towns, enjoyed a complicated network of-as some put it-domestic intelligence. A web of personal histories and sensitive facts embroidered liberally with imaginative conjecture.

Lilly Jones had always been reclusive, and more so after the baby came. She was never seen in a restaurant or at the library or at village celebrations; nor was the child seen except walking alone to school and home again, alone, always alone. Lilly was about thirty when the baby came. She was around fifty-five now, though she looked far older. Watching Violet head for the stairs, Wilma felt too stubborn to plead, and she knew that was stupid, stupid not to try.

“If you leave me, Violet, Cage will kill me just the way he shot Mandell Bennett.”

Violet turned, her eyes widening with shock. “Cage didn’t shoot anyone.”

“Turn on the news, you’ll hear it. And if he kills me, too, that will be your fault. You’ll be an accomplice. It’s a federal offense, to be involved in the murder of a federal officer. You’d do hard time, Violet. Time in a federal prison. Those women would make mincemeat of you.”

Violet looked back at her, her narrow face sour and un-giving. Saying nothing, she rolled up the sleeves of her oversized shirt.

Her thin arms were red and purple with bruises. She pulled up the long tails of the shirt to reveal a mass of red and purple marks across her stomach and back, and one broad and ugly red bruise. “If Cage don’t kill me, this is what Eddie will do.”

Wilma had never gotten used to the signs of abuse. No matter how often during her working career she had witnessed this and worse, such violence sickened her. “What Eddie does to you…That’s all the more reason for us to get out of here. I promise I’ll find you a place to hide, a good place. And I’ll see that you’re protected.”

“Not the cops!” But Violet approached again, slowly, and stood watching her.

“Not the cops,” Wilma said. “If we can get away, if time hasn’t run out, there are others you can trust. Private organizations. Abused women who have escaped, themselves, and who understand, who will hide you and protect you.”

To promise this battered person protection, promise her a secure shelter away from Eddie Sears, was very likely useless. If Violet ran true to form, if she was like most battered women, she would just go back to him. Wilma knew too many who did; she knew too well the terrors, and the hungers, of an abused woman. To try to help a battered woman, to try to bolster her courage and self-respect, often had no effect at all; many wouldn’t listen, they were just as addicted to abuse as were their abusers.

But she had to try. If she meant to live, she had to try. Because it looked like Violet Sears was the only chance she might have.

She looked at the week-old newspaper on the counter, wondering if it was Violet who had kept it-maybe out of some twisted fascination? Or because she felt a kinship with the murdered woman?

Or was it Eddie who had dog-eared the page, reading it over and over? She looked at the picture of Linda Tucker, then looked at Violet.

“I knew her,” Violet whispered. “I knew who she was, I’d see her in the grocery when we lived in the village, when Eddie let me go out to the store. I saw the look in her eyes, and I knew…She always wore long sleeves, and her shirt collar buttoned up. I knew…,” Violet repeated in a whisper. She looked at Wilma, desolate. “Now there’s been another one. Tonight. Another murder, a woman at home alone, in her bed. The paper calls it a break-in murder.” Her eyes narrowed. “Those weren’t break-ins.

“This woman who died tonight, she was the same as Linda Tucker. I’d see her, too, in the grocery or drugstore…The same look, same cover-up clothes. We knew each other. We’d look at each other, and we knew.”

She pressed her clenched fist to her mouth. “There was no burglar to murder those women. Eddie…He just keeps reading about Linda Tucker, reading it over and over.”

She looked for a long time at Wilma. “He’s been reading that paper all week, like…like he would read a dirty book. Real intent, drinking beer and looking at her picture and reading about what her husband did to her.”

“You have to get away from him, Violet. We can get out of here now, together, and I’ll help you. Now, quickly, before they come back-before they kill us both.”

The village streets and unlit doorways were inky between soft spills of light from shop windows. Only above the rooftops where Dulcie and Kit raced did the last gleam of evening reflect a silver glow across the shingles; the two cats flew over peaks and dodged between chimneys and crossed above the narrow streets on the twisted branches of old and venerable oaks-but they were not as fast as the squad car.

When they landed on Kit’s own roof, Max Harper’s big white police car was already parked at the curb, heat rising up to them with the faint stink of exhaust; the chief still sat at the wheel, talking on his cell phone. Quickly the cats scrambled down an oak tree that overhung the street, then crouched on a low branch, listening.

Harper’s voice was coldly angry. “…and call me back, Charlie! Now, at once.”

Shocked, Dulcie and Kit stared at each other. Max never talked to Charlie like that. The Harpers had been married not quite a year, they were still newlyweds, he loved his redheaded bride more than life itself. Loved every freckle, loved her unruly carroty hair, loved her sense of humor and her quick temper. The tall, lean police chief loved Charlie Harper in a way that made both cats feel warm and safe. Now, did Max feel guilty that Charlie’s aunt Wilma had disappeared, on his watch? Was that what made him cross? That didn’t make any sense; it wasn’t his fault.

But a lot about life didn’t make sense, a lot about humans didn’t make sense. They watched him step out of his unit and head up the brick steps to the wide porch; as they trotted across an oak branch to Kit’s little cat door in the dining room window, and pushed through into the house, they heard the door chimes and watched Lucinda hurry to answer.

Opening the door, the tall old lady laughed with pleasure. “Max! This is a nice surprise. Come in.” Then she saw his expression and drew in her breath. “What? What’s happened?”