Cat Spitting Mad

20

THE TIME was 9:30, the night sky clear, the slim moon and stars as bright as polished diamonds. On the village sidewalks, traffic was beginning to thin, late diners emerging from the restaurants, heading home or to their motels. While the tourists dawdled, looking in the shop windows, Joe Grey hurried along, brushing past their ankles, dodging across the narrow streets between slow-moving cars until soon he had left the shops behind and was among the crowding cottages. Passing Wilma's house and moving up the north slope of the village, he paused before Crystal Ryder's duplex.

Above the two double garages, with their closed, unwelcoming doors, Crystal's windows were ablaze. In the far unit, only a faint light burned. Two different kinds of music came out-modern jazz from Crystal's side, country from her neighbor, the two mixing in nerve-jangling discord.

Padding up the tall flight of wooden stairs, he leaped to Crystal's window.

The screen was still loose, but the window itself was locked. He was peering between the curtains when the garage door rumbled open below him. Dropping to the deck, he looked over, watching Crystal's black Mercedes back out, the top down, Crystal's amber hair catching the light from the overhead. Behind her, as she headed down the hill, the door rumbled closed again. He watched until she was out of sight, then tried the front door, leaping up to swing on the knob.

Locked.

Galloping down the stairs, he fled around the building and up the grassy hill, to where the back windows might be accessible.

From the steep slope, he peered across a six-foot space to a lone window, very small, perhaps the bathroom window. The top half was open a few inches.

No light burned in the bathroom, but light seeped through from the studio. Springing across to the sill, he leaped for the top of the double-hung. Under his sudden weight, it crashed down so hard it nearly sent him flying. Scrambling over, he dropped down inside, narrowly missing a cold bath in the commode. He was just congratulating himself on his graceful entrance when the garage door rumbled up again and he heard the Mercedes pull in.

Had she forgotten something? If he only waited a few moments, would she drive away again?

Since he and Dulcie had followed the kit and found the tapes and escrow papers, he hadn't been able to shake his uneasy feeling about this apartment. Call it overactive curiosity, call it senseless fear. Joe thought of it as the kind of feeling a cop got-he'd heard plenty of stories over the poker table as he lolled across the cards, getting in the way. Sometimes an officer just knew something was amiss. Knew that the perp had a gun stashed in the seat behind him. That the innocent-looking high school girl batting her eyes at him from the driver's seat had a trunkful of drugs. No rhyme or reason. Just a feeling. He had it now, about this apartment.

Crouched in the bathroom where he'd landed, he heard a door open in the garage, then close again, and a lock snap or slide home. Heard Crystal come upstairs within the house, heard the door at the top open, heard her cross to the kitchen.

He peered out. The door to the stair stood ajar. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce filled the stairwell. He beat it down to the garage before she came back.

He heard her cross the room, heard the door close above him, heard her crossing back and forth, heard the water running, then in the kitchen heard her pull out a chair, then silence.

The garage was empty and neat, not like many village garages, filled with cast-off furniture, moldering storage boxes, and greasy yard equipment.

This two-car space had been swept clean. It contained only Crystal's black Mercedes, a broom standing in the corner, a square metal furnace, a washer and dryer, and some empty metal shelves fastened to the wall. Beneath the stair was a small wooden door. He could hear, from within, a soft shuffling noise, then a tiny thump as if rats were at work on whatever was stored there.

The aroma of spaghetti clung around the door.

Sniffing beneath the door, he caught a scent that made him rear up, pawing at the bolt, then leaping and fighting, trying to slide it back.

The sounds from within ceased.

Above him, footsteps crossed the room. The door opened, spilling light. Crystal came down, opened the little door, slipped inside, and closed it behind her.

In the small space, the two female voices echoed sharply, one young and angry, the other haughty.

"I want to call my mother. I want to tell her I'm all right. If you really mean to help me, I don't see why-"

"How many times do I have to go over this? He's bound to have a tap on their phone. One call, and he'll find you. And if he finds you, Dillon, he'll kill you. You're the only witness."

"I'm tired of being shut in this stinking place. I'm cold. I'm tired of the dark! I'm tired of using a bucket for a bathroom."

"It's better than being dead."

"Not much. Why can't I come upstairs with you! I hear you moving around, I hear the TV and radio. I hear the water running-the shower! I want a shower! And last night I smelled steak cooking."

"I brought you spaghetti. And here's some Hershey bars. Eat them and shut up. You should be thankful that I got you out before he found you. Thankful I'm taking the trouble to protect you. If I hadn't found you, you'd be rotting dead up there on that mountain."

"You could've taken me to the cops. Why didn't you take me to the cops?"

"What would they do? Question you and take you home. And the minute you're home, he'd have you. Your parents couldn't protect you. You told me they don't keep a gun. He breaks in, kills you all. Kills you first, Dillon. In front of them. Then kills your mother and father."

"I don't want to stay here! I want out!"

The sounds of a scuffle. Dillon yelped as if Crystal had hit her. "Leave me alone! And what do you get out of this? What do you get for saving me?"

No answer.

"I want to call my mother. I'll make her promise not to tell anyone."

"The worst thing you could do. No mother would keep a promise like that; she'd hightail it right to the cops. And he'd find you. Now shut up. It won't be much longer."

"Much longer until what}"

"Until I can set you free. Until the coast is clear and I can let you go."

But in the shadows, Joe Grey had a different interpretation, one that made his skin crawl.

There was only one window in the garage, a small dirty glass high in the back wall, just below the ceiling. He had noticed it from the hill, but it did not lead into the house. He thought Dillon might squeeze through, if he could get her out. But she would need a ladder. He could see no ladder, nothing to stand on but the Mercedes, and it was too far from the window. Maybe Dillon could push the dryer across. All she'd have to do was unplug it, and the dryer would be lighter than the washer.

Right. And it would be noisy as hell-and first he had to open the locked door.

Crystal came out, ducking through the low door and sliding the bolt home with a hard clunk. Hurrying up the stairs, she slammed that door and slid the bolt across. The dissonant jazz music had ended long ago. From next door, the cowboy lament was filled with misery.

Leaping at the bolt, he found it immovable, hard and ungiving. He tried for some time; then, crossing the garage, he tried the lock on the pedestrian door, thinking he could go for help.

It, too, was beyond his strength. And he realized he was as much a captive as Dillon.

Looking up at the ceiling, he studied the automatic opener, then prowled the garage until he found the button to operate it, to the left of the washing machine. That would be easy enough to spring.

Right. And bring Crystal on the double.

He fought the bolt on Dillon's door until his paws throbbed. His thudding battle must have terrified her. "Who is it? Who's there?" Dillon's voice was both frightened and hopeful. "Please," she whispered, "who's there?"

He was sorely tempted to speak to her.

Oh, right. And blow his cover forever, him and Dulcie both. Enough people knew about them. And a kid-even a kid as great as Dillon-was too likely to spill. In one trusting moment, tell someone.

He had started to search for a vent, to see if he could tear off its grid or screen and slip through, when the upstairs door opened yet again, the light spilling down around Crystal as she descended. Swinging into the Mercedes, she raised the garage door, and backed out, the big door rolling down again like a giant guillotine.

He could have streaked out beneath it, except his passage would have made it halt. He guessed he could have leaped over the electric beam, left it unbroken. But he didn't want to leave Dillon, he was afraid for her, he had a gut feeling he shouldn't leave her.

He was pacing the garage trying to think what to do when he heard a police radio. Light flared under the garage door as the unit pulled up the drive.

All right! Help was on the way.

But what had alerted the patrol? Was this only a routine neighborhood check?

He had to get their attention.

The car door opened, he heard hard shoes on the concrete, heard the officer walking along the front of the duplex, then hushing through the bushes.

Joe followed the sound as the officer walked around the building, all sound lost at the far end, then came back behind the building through the tall grass of the hill. Heard him try the pedestrian door, then cross the drive again, and double-time up the front steps.

The bell rang three times, then a key turned in the lock-or maybe some kind of pick; Joe could hear the metal against metal. He followed the hard-soled footsteps above him as the officer prowled the house.

That was the way it sounded. Like prowling, not just walking around. Joe heard him open the closet door, then the shower door. What-or who-was he looking for? Did he have a warrant? Not usual, even with a warrant, to come into an empty house. When he stopped beside the door leading down to the garage, Joe slid behind the washer, his heart pounding. Who was this, which officer, prowling Crystal's apartment?

The bolt turned. The door at the top of the stair was opening when, out in the drive, a siren began to whoop and the light beneath the garage door turned pulsing red. Whoop, whoop, whoop. Flash, flash, flash.

The officer pounded across the room and down the front stairs, jerked open the car door. The siren stopped. Joe heard him walking the front yard as if looking for whoever had entered his vehicle. He left at last, slamming the door, burning rubber as he backed down the drive.

Collapsing against the washer, Joe felt as limp as a slaughtered rabbit. He was staring at Dillon's door, trying to figure out how to get it open, when up the stairs the door swung wide and light spilled down-silhoutting a small tabby-striped figure, her tail lashing.

He reared up, watching her. "How did you know I was here? How did you get in?"

"Through the bathroom window," she said, galloping down. "Same as you." She smiled and nuzzled him. "You're not the only one who can break and enter-or follow a trail of scent." She sniffed at the door beneath the stair. "Dillon! Oh, Joe! Is she really there?" she whispered.

"Alive and well. Who was that, tramping the house?"

"Officer Wendell. He didn't open a drawer or cupboard, but he checked everywhere a person might be hidden, the closet, even under the sinks and in the shower. Stood on a chair and pushed up the little door into the attic, swung his torch all around. He checked the food in the kitchen and the clothes in the closet." She narrowed her green eyes. "Looking for little-girl clothes? And why did he come so secretly? This isn't his beat-he's on day watch, south side of the village."

"Did you set off the siren?"

Dulcie smiled. "I saw Crystal at Binnie's Italian, saw her come out with two cartons of take-out. On a hunch, I nipped on over here. Caught your scent. Went on in. Then Wendell came snooping."

"Nice," Joe said, nipping her ear.

Together they tried the bolt, leaping and grabbing and twisting, but they couldn't budge it. They daren't speak beyond the faintest whisper. They could hear Dillon just inside, softly breathing, as if she was pressed against the door.

"When we get her out," Dulcie whispered, "where can we take her? We can't take her anywhere. We can't talk to her."

Joe didn't have an answer. "The first order of business is to get her out."

She touched his paw. "The minute we set her free, she'll run straight home. And that's the first place Crystal will look. You can bet she's armed, Joe. If she gets there before they call the station… Dillon's parents are such-gentle types."

"Only her father. Her mother has spunk."

"But-"

"We'll think of something. I don't want to leave her here. If we knew how long Crystal will be gone…"

"She went to meet someone. She called him but didn't use his name. Just, 'I need to talk with you,' then, 'I can't. Meet me the same place.' "

"Wark?"

"I'm guessing it was Wark."

Leaping across the garage, Joe toppled the broom with one swat, where it leaned against the wall. Pushing and pulling together, they got it across the floor and upended, angling it against the bolt. They were forcing the broom with teeth and claws, pushing it against the bolt, when a furry warmth thrust between them, trying to help.

"How did you get here, Kit?" Joe snapped.

"Followed Dulcie," she whispered, pushing with all her might.

From beyond the door, Dillon's muffled, frightened voice cried, "Who's there? What are you doing? Crystal, is that you?" The cats imagined her cowering in the small, dark space while a stranger-quite possibly the killer-pried at the door to get at her.

They tried again, with the kit pushing too-she was stronger than she looked-but the bolt seemed frozen in place.

"We need help," Dulcie said, licking her bruised paws, crouching to race up the stairs-flying to the kitchen, to knock the phone from its cradle.