Cat Striking Back

27

THE NIGHT WAS still, and the sky was clear, now, above the Harper ranch, the stars glinting where, an hour earlier, rain clouds had threatened. The silence was broken only by the rhythm of the sea away beyond the pastures and below the cliffs, and by the distant singing of coyotes in the hills to the north. In the barn the horses dozed. In the house only one lamp burned, near the flickering hearth fire. Max Harper sat in his favorite chair watching the flames, an open book on the table beside him, the two big dogs sprawled on the hearthrug. Charlie’s chair was empty but still warm, her half-empty cup of tea forgotten beside the mystery novel she’d been reading. Before she’d rushed away, setting the phone down beside her book, the world had been perfect, just the two of them in their own corner of the universe, a rare evening when Max had gotten home early for a leisurely dinner and a night, he’d hoped, without interruption.

Frowning, he picked up his book again and poured the rest of his beer into the glass, his movements spare and deliberate. He stretched his lean frame, easing his feet nearer the fire, careful not to disturb the two fawn-colored half Danes. He was a tall man, lean, with the leathery look of a horseman, his face pleasantly lined from the sun. He’d be coming up on retirement soon-unless the city council extended his time past their usual retirement age for law enforcement. He’d been chief of Molena Point PD for over fifteen years, good years, all of them. Sometimes he looked forward to retirement, sometimes he didn’t like the empty feeling it gave him; it even scared him a little, though he’d never tell Charlie that.

He didn’t look forward to what went with retirement, to getting old. As long as he could do the ranch work, was healthy and could do the things he liked, age didn’t matter, it was the going downhill that could scare a guy. He didn’t like to see it in the men he knew, and he wasn’t going to like it in himself.

He wished Charlie hadn’t had to go out. She’d hurried away frowning and so tense, jingling her car keys, her jacket over her shoulder. He hadn’t liked her urgent need to hurry down to the village for what he thought was no sensible reason. The phone call from her aunt still puzzled him.

Answering the phone, Charlie had moved away with it so as not to be talking in his ear. “They haven’t?” she said. “None of them? But they often…” A pause, then, “They are? They did?” She’d glanced across at him. “It’s possible. The way they…Yes, I have keys. I’ll go right down…”

Another pause. “Yes, please do. No. I’ll bet you’re in bed, reading. No, stay there, there’s no need. It’s cold out. Yes, that’ll be fine. Tell them I’ll see them there.”

Hanging up, she’d said only that Wilma thought her cat and maybe Clyde ’s and the Greenlaws’ cats were locked in one of the empty houses. She didn’t say how Wilma would know that, and it didn’t make sense to go racing down there. Those cats could be anywhere, they wandered all over the village, no one could keep track of them. And why did she have to race down there in the middle of the night? If a cat got shut in somewhere, it would be fine until morning.

She’d said vaguely that someone in the neighborhood had heard a cat crying in one of the empty houses, as if it was shut in. But that could be any cat, most of the families in that neighborhood had cats. Why the hell would it be Clyde ’s or Wilma’s cat?

Well, hell, he thought more reasonably, Charlie’s concern hadn’t been so much for the missing cats as for her aunt Wilma, who was inclined to worry over that tabby cat. It was nearly midnight. If Wilma was still awake, then most likely she was worrying. And when Wilma worried, Charlie worried. That, plus her concern for her clients’ empty houses, was hard on Charlie though she’d never admit it. He’d be glad when she sold her business, he hoped that would take the pressure off. There was always something, a broken waterline, the resultant damage to attend to, a leaky roof…Now that her books had found a growing market, Charlie’s Fix-it, Clean-it was becoming more headache than pleasure, its many disruptions offering more stress than she needed.

Well, he guessed he was being cranky for no reason, out of sorts because a couple of cats had dragged her away on the one evening in weeks that he’d been able to come home early. But he had to smile, too, at her going down there to roust out a couple of cats. He’d grown to like those cats, and he sure wished them no harm. He’d gotten used to having them around the station, particularly Joe Grey, taking over like he owned the place, bumming Mabel’s lunch, sleeping on his desk. If that cat wanted to nap on a court order, you had to remove him bodily-independent as hell, and mule stubborn.

Looking into the fire, watching the big dogs twitch in their sleep, he thought again about retirement, about being home with Charlie, riding together, cooking together, working on the place. And while Charlie was writing, maybe he’d take a stab at writing his own book. He’d thought about it some. Something related to law enforcement, maybe a few suggestions for civilians on how to keep themselves safe in an increasingly dangerous world.

Or maybe they’d buy a few more horses, get some classes going for the local kids, get them away from TV and video games and too much computer time-help them do things rather than sitting around letting the spectator media numb their minds. Get them outdoors and make them responsible for a horse, help them see how strong they could be and how satisfying it was to become proactive in shaping their own lives.

The ringing phone brought him back. Glancing at the caller ID, he picked up.

“We’ve had a break-in,” Charlie said. “I called the station, told Officer Baker I’d call you. Davis is on her way. You don’t need to come, I just wanted to-”

“I’m on my way,” Max said. “I don’t need to tell you-”

“Not to touch anything,” she said impatiently. “They didn’t ransack the house, but Theresa’s miniature paintings are missing, and I’m worried about the other houses, Frances Becker’s beautiful antiques and Rita Waterman’s jewelry.”

“You’re still in the Chapmans’? Get out, Charlie. Get out now. And stay out. Keep your phone on, don’t hang up.”

“I’m already out, I just-”

The phone went dead. Scowling, he rang the station, told the dispatcher to get two more cars over there. Quickly he turned off the fire and raced for the door, snatching up his jacket and hardware, was out the door and swinging into his pickup, heading down the hills.