What would Lee Fontana think of this use of his stolen money? Maybe, from the stories Misto told of Fontana—if Joe could bring himself to believe Misto’s tales—maybe the old train robber would like that choice just fine. If the old yellow cat had been Fontana’s ghostly confidant as Misto liked to say, guiding Fontana safely through his self-inflicted troubles, then Fontana must have a warm place in his spirit for a cat, maybe he’d be pleased and amused by his unwitting gift to catdom.
VIC HAD FLED from Ryan badly shaken by the attack of the cats. Headed for open country, he had parked the Suzuki on the berm of the narrow dirt road, as far under a drooping willow tree as he could get it without tilting over into the drainage ditch; the willow was already shedding its small yellow leaves down onto the hood and, in the light evening breeze, its stringy branches dragged back and forth across the metal, scraping annoyingly. It was nearly dark inside the car, shaded by the tree and with the windows blocked by his makeshift curtains; bright-colored cashmere sweaters with their store tags attached hung down from the two lowered visors, and along the driver’s side he’d secured a blue sweater into the crack of the rolled-up window. He sat sprawled in the back where he had pushed the clutter aside, no room to put the backseat up, the whole seat was in one piece, but at least the resultant platform was low, giving him some headroom. He sat bare to the waist, his bloodied shirt wadded up, the ripped tweed sport coat already discarded, resting ten miles back in the trash can of a FastMart where he’d stopped for a dry sandwich, some salve for the scratches, a bag of corn chips, and a Coke.
He’d parked, for that quick shopping trip, at the back of the FastMart building among some scraggly trees. That area up along Molena Valley road was a mix of scattered fields, sad old houses and new ones, pastures with horses, scraggly woods, weedy unused land all mixed together. He’d got in and out of FastMart as quickly as he could, keeping his head down just a little and the collar of his ripped coat turned up. He’d bought a brown sweatshirt, too, off a rack by the refrigerator. There’d be a BOL out on him, with Birely lying dead back there and probably, by this time, Debbie Kraft hollering up a fuss that her old car’d been stolen.
Leaving FastMart after making his purchases, a café two doors down had smelled so good he’d been tempted to chance it, go on in there for a hot meal. But even as he paused, looking down that way thinking about scrambled eggs and potatoes and sausage, wondering if it was worth the risk, a pair of sheriff’s cars pulled up right in front, couple of deputies got out, moved into the restaurant hardly looking around them. Mid-morning snack, he guessed. They didn’t glance his way, didn’t make the Suzuki or they’d have skipped their meal and come after him. As soon as they disappeared inside he’d hightailed it to the Suzuki and got on out of there. As he turned out onto the two-lane highway a cat ran across, he gunned the car but missed it. He’d like to cream every damn cat he saw, his back still stung like holy hell. He’d driven on watching the side roads, looking for a place to get out of sight, to stop and smear some of the salve on, see if that would help. He wasn’t far from Molena Point, maybe only ten miles, he knew he should get on over the grade to Highway 68, head for Salinas and onto the faster freeway.
But then again, maybe not. Maybe not hit the freeway until full dark when the cops couldn’t make him so easy. Maybe hole up until then close to the village where they wouldn’t think to look for him. Lay low for a few hours and then move on. He could use some sleep, catch a couple hours before he headed for the 101, if he planned to drive all night. Up through Eureka, on up to Bremerton, he knew a guy up there he could stay with, place way back in the boonies. Dump the Suzuki, pick up some decent wheels.
Now, bending awkwardly, he smeared salve on his bare back, on the scratches and bite wounds. Damn friggin’ cats jumping down on him like that, as vicious as that cat up at the wreck. He never had liked cats, sneaky and mean. The bloody wounds stung, but then in a few minutes the salve began to ease the pain and burning. And why would that cat chase him, there in the parking garage? Dark, ugly cat, just like the others. He’d never have seen it except for that kid shouting. He’d got one glimpse of the cat racing across the concrete right at him, piled in the car, slammed the door, and when he looked back the damn thing was gone. Shivering, he’d started the engine and peeled out of there, then slowed so as not to call attention to himself.
And then when that contractor woman got in his way blocking the Lincoln and them cats jumped him for no reason. Twice attacked by cats, and chased by another one. Spooky as hell, still made him sick to think about it, unnatural, bloodthirsty beasts. Pulling the brown sweatshirt on over his salve-smeared wounds, he lay down in the space he had cleared. The bed of the station wagon was hard as hell. He pulled an old, torn blanket over him that smelled of peanut butter and sweaty kids. He wondered if Debbie had ever had the backseat down all the time she’d owned the heap. The sun had set now, the car dim under the tree and under his jerry-rigged curtains. He lay there a long time, he didn’t sleep until heavy darkness drew in around him.
32
IT WAS EARLY evening, nearly eight hours since Pedric’s knee surgery. He sat up in bed, a blue cotton robe pulled over his skimpy hospital gown, his bandaged leg propped up on two pillows. The general anesthetic had worn off. The bandage around his head had been removed. The red scar across his forehead looked raw but clean, the four stitches standing out like four little fly legs, Kit thought. Bruises still marked his forehead and down his cheek, but his short gray hair was neatly trimmed and brushed, and he looked bright, happy to have his surgery over with. Kate sat on a built-in daybed by the window, Lucinda sat in a folding metal chair beside Pedric’s bed, holding his hand with her good, right hand, comfortable to be close to him.
The room was spacious and quiet, a great improvement from the crowded little cubicle in the noisy ER. The view through the wide wall of glass had sent Kit bolting to the windows, forgetting that a nurse or orderly might come barging in. She had returned only later to Pedric’s amused embrace—he was mending, he was safe and happy and she loved him, but right now she wanted to be out there in the amazing garden that rose up the hill just beyond the glass.
The two huge windows were framed by heavy white pillars jutting out into the room, part of the superstructure of the strongly built hospital. The big garden beyond was softly lit, and was enclosed at some distance by the glass walls of the three-story hospital. Kit crouched on the wide sill, her nose to the glass, her heart lost to the garden, to its cascading waterfall that tumbled down beneath the trees and past the flowering shrubs. Bright plashes of water fell and were lost within the rough escarpment of granite blocks—giant, rough-cut stones piled one on another, towering high above her looking as natural as nature’s own casual toss of rocky elements; the water fell down the stone in clear cascades, she wanted to dabble her paw in, to splash at the little pond below where the last rays of the sun reflected, she wanted to leap up the rocks, race up the little trees, she wanted to play out there in that small Eden.
The big windows were fixed in place, there was no way to open them. It would not be until later, as night fell, that Kit would discover, down beyond the end pillar, a narrow, hinged pane with a hinged screen and with handles that would open both. Now, Pedric watched her from his bed and watched the closed door, wary of a nurse’s intrusion. Kit would find the opening later, he thought, smiling, find it sometime in the dark hours and would slip out there in a wild bid for freedom just as Alice had once finessed her way through the first locked door into Wonderland. Watching her, he and Lucinda exchanged an indulgent smile.
This was Lucinda’s third journey out of the house since they’d arrived home, but she was pale still and felt weak. Yesterday’s banking transactions had tired her, as had standing for even that short time at Birely’s funeral. The aftermath of the wreck and attack, the theft of their car and the intrusion into their home, had left her feeling incredibly fragile and vulnerable, quite unlike her
self. But now, with Pedric’s surgery behind them, the torn meniscus in his right knee repaired, and with his head injuries healing, she was beginning to feel easier. Pedric’s blood work showed normal levels of sugar, the swelling in his brain had subsided, and he would come home in the morning. The anticipation of having him home so lifted her spirits that when Max Harper and Charlie knocked at the door and peered in, Lucinda’s smile was bright and she was filled with questions.
Both the Harpers were dressed in jeans, boots, frontier shirts, and smelled comfortably of horses. Maybe Max had taken off early, and they’d had a late-afternoon ride. Even before the tall couple stepped in, Kit had hidden herself in the carryall, not sure what Max would think of her there. She peered out for one look as Kate tucked an edge of the brocade down, hiding her from the police chief.
Charlie’s curly red hair was tied back with a leather thong. Leaning over the bed, she hugged Pedric. “Glad the surgery’s over with, and that it went so well.”
Max grinned down at Pedric. “Glad all this mess about the car is pretty much over, too. We’ve impounded it at Clyde’s place, locked up in one of the back shops. As soon as forensics finishes, Clyde’s crew will clean it up and start work on the scratches and dents. Forensics will be going over your packages, too, for fingerprints and to see if any stolen items are mixed in with your own things.” He looked at Lucinda. “Could you give us an inventory, and then come down later, to identify what’s there? Make sure it’s all yours, and maybe go through some of the packages?”
Lucinda nodded.
“Clyde thinks the blood stains should come out of the leather all right,” Max said. “He hopes not to have to reupholster. Blood type matches Birley’s blood in the wrecked pickup, and that on the sleeping bag up at Emmylou’s place. Forensics has particles of paper from the old bills, from the cubbyhole beneath the back console where Ryan and Clyde found Emmylou’s money.”
There had, in the end, been no way for Emmylou to avoid reporting the stolen money, reporting at least part of it when forensics found part of a torn wrapper and two musty hundred-dollar bills that had slipped down among the packages. Emmylou had told Max the money was hers, that it had been left to her by Sammie with the house, and had given Max a copy of the will, leaving her, “All contents within the house or on the property,” and she had told him about Sammie’s letter. Some recluses were like that, Max had said, guy lived in poverty all his life, he died and was discovered to have been worth several million, usually with a handwritten will leaving it all to a favorite charity, Salvation Army or animal rescue or a church that had been kind to him.
Pedric said, “Birely Miller is dead, but no sign of the other man, of Vic Amson?”
“Not yet,” Max said. “We have a BOL out on him. He’s wanted for Birely’s murder, for his attack on you two, for theft of your vehicle, and leaving the scene of the wreck. There are several old warrants for him, including a person of interest in a murder over in Fresno.
“Both Vic and Birely have records,” Max said. “Though Birely’s didn’t amount to much, most of his offenses the result of overenthusiastic bad judgment. Going along with one pal or another, and then left holding the bag. Acting as lookout during a gas station robbery, and he’s still sitting there watching for cops when the other guy slips away. By the time Birely realizes he’s all alone, two sheriff’s deputies are pulling in, to cuff him and book him. Maybe just born a loser,” Max said with a shrug. “Poor guy just couldn’t get it together.”
“If Vic Amson escaped in Debbie Kraft’s car,” Lucinda said, “then was she involved with them?”
“Not sure, yet,” Max said. “Except for what we know from the child.” He smiled. “Debbie’s little girl ratted her out.”
“Vinnie?” Lucinda said, surprised.
“No, Tessa. The little, quiet one. Detective Garza stopped by the house, wanted Debbie to come down to the station to file a report on her missing car. She’d made enough fuss about it, called the department three times since she reported it stolen, wanting to know if we’d found it yet, demanding faster action. Said we’d have to furnish her a loaner, claimed it wasn’t her fault the car was stolen,” he said, smiling. “Said that was due to our failure in protecting her property.
“In fact,” he said, “street patrol was about to haul her in, the day she reported her car missing. Brennan had been watching her, off and on, but he was reluctant to come down on her because of the kids, with their daddy already in prison.”
“What did you tell her when she said you owed her a loaner?” Pedric asked, grinning.
“What I told her,” Max said, “isn’t recorded in the department memos.”
Lucinda laughed. “But little Tessa, what did that shy, silent little child say? I can’t imagine her speaking up and defying her mother.”
“She said quite a lot. Debbie was reluctant to ask Dallas in, finally offered him a chair, in the kitchen. She was making up excuses why she couldn’t come into the station, when Tessa came out of the bedroom, sniffling, bundled up in an old pair of oversized pajamas, maybe her sister’s. She looked up at Dallas, and sniffled, and for some reason, she took to him. Came right to him, climbed up in his lap, snuggled right up to him. Maybe because her mother was being rude to him, maybe the kid didn’t like that.
“She told Dallas her momma loaned that man her car, and that Debbie had made him put all the stolen clothes in there before he took it. Debbie tried to shut her up, said there were no stolen clothes, wanted to know where she got that idea, said, why would she have stolen clothes? She told Tessa she had it wrong, that it was the car that was stolen, not clothes. Said, ‘You know that. You’ve got yourself all mixed up.’
“Tessa might be a quiet little thing,” Max said, “but not this morning. This morning she had her back up. I guess when she wants to let you see it, she does have a mind of her own.”
Maybe with Pan’s coaching, Kit thought, listening unseen, her whiskers curved in a satisfied smile.
“When Tessa said her momma gave the man her car, she pointed away across the neighborhood. ‘Drove down to that house,’ she said, pointing straight in the direction of the gray house where we found the Lincoln. Dallas could see she wanted to say more, but Debbie pulled her off his lap and hauled her back into the bedroom.”
From outside in the hall they could hear the clink of metal on metal as the dinner trays were delivered, and the smell of boiled beef and overcooked vegetables seeped in under the door.
“If they pick Victor up,” Pedric said, “you have proof enough to hold him, proof he killed Birely?” Pedric rubbed gently at his knee, as if it were beginning to hurt now that the local anesthetic had worn off.
“We have Vic’s fingerprints from the rubber-glove dispenser in the adjoining room,” Max said. “Particles of cinnamon and sugar icing on the edge of the dispenser and on the floor under it. Sugar and cinnamon scattered across Birely’s blanket, where Vic punched him in the belly. Vic might have been wearing gloves, but he didn’t think to brush off his clothes, to get rid of the crumbs down his front.
“Dallas talked with the volunteers who work in the cafeteria. Two of the women remembered Amson, from our description. When Dallas took them the mug shots, once we’d run the prints and got photos, they gave us a positive ID. They said they don’t serve anything there with cinnamon icing except for their cinnamon buns. They had a couple of stale ones from the day before, and forensics has those.
“And that fits in with the phone tip,” Max said. “That’s not admissible evidence in court, and we don’t know who she is, but—”
“A phone call?” Kate said innocently. Maybe, she thought, if no one asked, Max would wonder why they didn’t. Beside her, Lucinda and Pedric had stiffened only a little.
Max said, “The woman described Victor, said she saw him punch Birely. Said before he hit him, he was fiddling with the IV tube, bending it, that he had a syri
nge, looked as if he meant to pierce the tube, plunge the needle in. Said suddenly he dropped the needle as if something had changed his mind. Instead he pulled back his fist, landed Birely a real hard one in the stomach, and ran. She said the dials went flat, alarms went off, he passed the nurses yelling at them to help the patient, ran straight through the crowding nurses shouting for someone to help Birely, and not one of them thought to nail him.”
It was just another anonymous call, Kit thought, no different than any other, and we do have ID blocking, Pedric checks it every week to make sure it’s working. Just another phantom tip, she thought nervously, even if I was still shaky and mad, after jumping Vic, and even if I did almost yowl into the phone! Well, not exactly a yowl.
“And we have one witness,” Max said, “who was in the parking garage, who saw Vic burst out through the glass doors, running. After she got home, she caught the murder on the local TV, and she called in. Said she and her kids were just going inside, into the ER to see her sister, when a man ran out, nearly ran over them. She described Vic, described Debbie’s station wagon, saw him pile into it and take off. Dispatcher who took the call, she said the woman seemed to have more to say, but then she changed her mind. She was reluctant to leave her name and number, but Mabel talked her into it.” Max shook his head. “People afraid to get involved. Can’t say I blame them, sometimes.”
On the windowsill, Kit breathed easier. She’d gone rigid, thinking that woman would have described the whole chase. She guessed the great cat god was watching, to stop her from mentioning the cat or her kids’ excited shouts. Maybe that upset her, to see an angry cat chasing a running man. Maybe she didn’t want to talk about that and come out sounding like a nutcase, Kit thought, smiling. And maybe the great cat god was smiling, too.
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