Cat Breaking Free

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  As Lucinda watched the captain and detective enter the jewelry store, up the hills north of the village two of the thieves, free of danger now, slipped into a darkened house. They carried no loot from the job, no little bags filled with diamonds, no pockets bulging with Carrier watches, though Marineau's was the most prestigious jewelry store in Molena Point, the kind of shop where every entering patron was treated with courteous respect but even the most elegantly dressed among them, if they were not regulars, were carefully observed.

  The house they entered was dark, tall, built against the hillside, the drive climbing steeply up beside it. The thieves had not emerged from a car-there was no car in the drive or on the street. They appeared out of the shadows, moved halfway up the drive and onto the little porch, and slid noiselessly in through the front door. They did not speak until the door had closed softly behind them, then the two resumed arguing, but quietly; dark-haired Luis angry and cursing in whispers, his redheaded partner snickering until Luis turned on him with cold rage, grabbing him by the collar.

  "Shut up, Tommie! He's not your brother!"

  "You said you'd as soon be rid of him! You've said it a hundred times, he's a damn screwup! Now he's out of your way. What trouble can he get into, in jail? Safest place for him!"

  "We don't need a screwup in the hands of the cops, you dummy!" Luis pulled off his dark windbreaker, dropped it on a chair, and headed down the hall through the dim house toward the kitchen. "Cops hassle Dufio enough, he'll spill everything."

  "Nah. He knows better. Even Dufio ain't that stupid."

  "Keep your voice down."

  "Knows damn well," Tommie muttered, "stoolies die in jail." He followed Luis into the kitchen, shutting the door behind them as Luis turned on the light. Luis didn't call his sister to the kitchen as he usually did, to fix their meal. They stood at the counter, eating what Maria had left out for them-cold beans, cold tortillas, a dozen small cold tamales, a twelve-pack of beer. Around them in the silent house the other residents slept, or pretended to sleep.

  Only in the back of the house, in the smaller bedroom, did anyone make a sound. There, from within a cage, came the faintest mewl as one of the captive cats woke. The men didn't hear her, nor would they have paid any attention as long as the beast didn't yowl loud enough to wake the neighbors. In the shadowed bedroom, the cat looked around her. She listened to the two women's breathing. She listened to the men's harsh arguing from the kitchen, her ears catching small sounds that the women, even awake, would not have heard.

  She stared at the crusting food dish in the corner of the cage, but she didn't approach it. She drank a little water, listened shivering to the voices, then curled up tightly again on the wadded cotton towel and stuck her nose under her tail, trying to get warm.

  She was a pale calico color, her white coat marked with bleached gray like pussy willow buds, and with pale orange, a subtly colored cat with a rather long, distinctive face, and a look of distrust in her green eyes. The three cats had been in the cage for two weeks. They kept careful count of the days, not that it did them much good. In all that time, they had not been able to breach the lock. They had tried every way they could think of, but no cat, not even one with their talents, could open a padlock. Even if they'd had the key that Luis kept in his pocket, even though they understood the functions of lock and key, they could not have manipulated such a tool. It would take fingers to do that, and opposable thumbs; these were among the few blessings they wished they possessed along with their ability to speak and understand human language.

  The hinges and joints of the cage were welded, too, so there was no way they could force them apart. Their only chance of escape was when, once a day, Luis's sister, Maria, removed and changed the litter box-except that Luis was always there, watching her. Luis would unlock the cage, then slam the door shut the instant Maria pulled out the litter box. He would slam and lock the door again when she'd put the box back inside. She seldom changed the sand, just scooped out the wet and dirty part, so the box stunk bad. That made the food and water taste bad. Even the air tasted like poop. Willow felt sick all the time, confined so. All she wanted to do was growl and hiss and hunch to herself and not eat. She thought they'd die there. She longed for the green hills and fresh winds, for cold fresh water.

  She even longed for the clowder of cats they had run with, even as mean as those cats were, even as much as she feared the leaders. She was not a brave cat; she felt safer in the clowder than trying to survive alone.

  From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes, then the men's voices rose, and they went stumping down the hall to the front bedroom. She could smell their stink of beer beneath the closed door like a sour wind, she could taste the beer smell.

  She heard Maria come awake in one of the two beds, her breathing suddenly quicker and shallower. But, wary of the men's approach just as Willow herself was, Maria lay still and made no sound. Only when both men had used the bathroom and gone back into the bedroom and shut the door, only when at last they could be heard snoring, did Maria settle down once more, pull the covers over her face, and go back to sleep.

  Willow didn't sleep. She paced the cage, stepping around the sleeping forms of white Cotton, and dark tabby Coyote of the long, canine-like ears. Ever since they'd been trapped, she didn't sleep until she was so exhausted she could no longer hold her eyes open. Pacing, she thought about where this house must be in relation to the hills south of the village where they were captured. How foolish they had been to get caught, to trust those spliced bungee cords that had come apart and let the three traps spring closed. Their only excuse was that those traps had been rigged like no other they'd ever seen.

  Usually, the door to a cage-trap was held open for a week or more with a brightly colored, elastic bungee cord, and new food would be added every day. This was meant to lure a cat inside again and again, they all knew that. They all knew it was safe to snatch out the food when a bungee cord was in place-but that when the bungee was gone, no matter how delicious the bait smelled, no sensible cat would go near.

  How unfair, that these three traps had been rigged differently. Once the doors had sprung closed behind them, they'd been as helpless as mice skewered in their own claws.

  Someone had known what kind of cats they were. But why did these humans want them? Willow's fears combined with the stink and the sour food and the crowding, were becoming nearly intolerable. She had never known, until she was caged, how very dear was her freedom. How precious was their ability to run free across the grassy hills, to curl down at night in the leaves or bushes in the cool wind, looking up at the vast sky and endless stars.

  All that was gone now, and Willow was afraid.

  She thought about that horrible noisy ride down the hills in a tiny cage tied on the back of the motorcycle, its roar so loud that their ears nearly burst. They had been shaken, thrown against each other, and miserably cold in the sharp wind. That terrible fear and noise and cold had left her shivering for hours after they were brought into this room and locked in here.

  But coming down the hills, flung about in the bouncing cage, they had seen clearly where they were going. They had recorded every scent, every change in the wind, had looked down on the village rooftops and the crowded hills on the north, and looked back at the hills from which they had come. They had learned about the house as they were carried through.

  The house had two bedrooms and a lower floor of some kind. At night she could hear Hernando and Dufio descending the stairs; she thought they slept down there. She hadn't heard Hernando in a day or two, though. Alone down there, Dufio had been quiet, except for a TV. Dufio didn't like cats, none of the men did, and that made their capture all the more frightening; they didn't like to think what Hernando and Luis intended for them.

  Maria was kind to them, though, when her brother wasn't around. She brought them nicer food and even milk sometimes. But she was afraid of Luis. Maria was, Willow thought, almost as much a prisoner as were they.

 
; Of course, they did not speak in front of Maria; they whispered among themselves only late at night, when they were certain that Maria and the old lady slept. Maria called her Abuela. Willow watched Maria sleeping now, and the calico cat was filled with questions about the young woman who seemed more Luis's servant than his sister; questions she supposed would never be answered.

  Maria woke when she heard the men come in. As usual, they were arguing. They always made a mess in the kitchen for her to clean up in the morning. She prayed their job had gone okay, so that Luis would be in a decent mood. Her arm and back were still black and blue from the last beating. To Luis she was property, not good for much.

  One of the cats was fussing around in its cage. She hated seeing those cats there, pacing like wild animals. She fed them through the bars. And when Luis unlocked the cage door so she could clean the sand box, they always looked like they'd bolt. She didn't know what would happen if they tried and Luis grabbed them. She had no idea why Luis and Hernando had trapped cats or what they meant to do with them. She'd heard them talking and whispering, but what they said didn't make sense. Maybe Hernando had been drunk, or smoking a joint. She hated when he did that. But no cat could talk, that was what she'd thought Hernando said. And something about the cats knowing something, having seen something. Crazy talk, as crazy as Dufio, but in a mean way, not just dumb like Dufio.

  Maybe Luis was just doing what Hernando wanted; Luis treated his older brother with more respect than he treated poor Dufio. She wondered where Hernando was, gone so long. It angered Maria that Luis and Tommie had taken the big front room, Abuela's room. That Luis made Abuela sleep back here with her and the stinking cage. She was, after all, his grandmother, and he should show respect.

  Until Maria came, Abuela had lived here alone. But after she fell twice, once tripping on the worn carpet, once on the stairs, she asked Maria to come live with her. She was afraid of breaking a hip, of lying there unable to call for help. Maria was her only granddaughter.

  Maria had been eager to get away from Luis. Estrella Nava was ninety-three; God knew she needed someone to take care of her. Maria had been so happy to be off by herself, to take the bus up from Irvine. But then, months later, Luis and their two brothers and Tommie McCord had decided to come here. Maria thought they were ditching the L.A. cops. They didn't ask Abuela if they could come, they just moved in, greedy for the free rent and a new territory to make trouble.

  Well, at least Hernando had gone off somewhere with his noisy motorcycle. Luis didn't look for him, so probably he was with a woman. And Dufio… Sometimes she thought Luis felt sorry for Dufio, because Dufio was so different.

  Luis had nailed the bedroom windows so she could only open them a few inches. What did he think? That she'd run away and leave Abuela, leave her grandmother? Or that she'd haul the frail old woman out through the window? And take her where?

  But as crude as they were, they were her brothers, they were family. She would not have considered trying to call the police to report that she and Abuela were prisoners or nearly so. Maria had no clear notion of alternate choices, she trusted fate and God. Her decision to get on the bus and come to Abuela had been a singular and frightening moment, she might never again do such a brave thing.

  Though she had gone to American schools, though she had been in Los Estados Unidos since she was ten, she was nothing but a poor Mexican girl in a strange country. Luis told her that over and over. In a country she could not understand and that would never understand her, Luis said, no authority would care what happened to her.

  When she heard the three-colored cat's tiny little mewl, she got out of bed and poured some kibble through the bars into the bowl, on top of the stinking canned food. There was nowhere else to put it, they were crowded in there with the two bowls and the sandbox. The cat mewed again; it always sounded like a kitten; it looked at her for a long time, a look that made her feel strange-as if it was asking why she didn't free it.

  "I can't!" she whispered, shivering. Then she hurriedly crossed herself and moved away. She was getting as crazy as Hernando.

  Returning to her bed, she listened to the cat picking kibble off the top of the little heap, and crunching it. In the other bed, Abuela snored with the harsh breathing of old age. When the calico cat finished eating it stared out at her again. She could see the shine of its eyes from the window where the night clouds reflected pale light. The cat looked and looked at her, then closed its eyes. As if, like Maria, it had no hope left. As if it could never expect anything different from this imprisonment.

  But Willow had not lost hope. She was determined they would get out of there, she did not mean to die there. Despite her kittenish voice and her terrible fears, she was a stubborn cat, and in her own way, she was bold.

  She only suspected what these men wanted: they talked about selling them for money, or putting them on television or in the movies. Then, they said, they would drive fancy cars. But they wanted, as well, to make sure that she and Cotton and Coyote did not tell other humans about the money they stole. And about the men they had killed.

  But who would she and Coyote and Cotton tell? And why? All they wanted was their freedom.

  They had discussed a dozen plans for getting out of the cage, had talked late at night, in whispers. But no plan seemed to be the right one. Cotton wanted to attack Luis the minute he opened the cage, leap on him, rake and bite him and streak past him to freedom. Coyote wanted to pretend to be sick, but she thought if they did that, Luis would indeed kill them.

  Thinking fearful thoughts, for a long time she didn't sleep. She huddled into herself thinking of possible new ways to escape that would be less violent. She was not a brash warrior like the two males; she was the kind of hunter who liked to run her prey down and trip them, then make a quick and humane kill. She hunted because she had to eat, not because she enjoyed killing. Praying for sleep, she worried and planned until at last she dropped into exhausted dreams, into the only escape she knew.

  10

  The roof was so steep it was all Dulcie and Kit could do to keep from sliding down the shingles into the face of the cop below. Claws were no good at this angle. Bracing their paws as best they could, they watched Officer Brennan fasten a belly chain on a handcuffed Latino guy dressed in dark jeans, black T-shirt and black sneakers. He was maybe thirty, with a scruffy little beard and one earring, his expression a strange mix of anger, puzzlement and guilt. Brennan and his partner had chased him for blocks, as Dulcie and Kit raced along above them over the rooftops. The arrestee was small and light, and was a fast runner, zigzagging through back streets and alleys. Three times the cats had nearly lost him, as had Brennan. But then at the corner of Fifth and Dolores, where a low roof dropped nearer the sidewalk, Kit had skidded on a loose shingle, knocking it off right in the guy's face. Scared him so bad he spun back swearing in Spanish-into Brennan's hands.

  Brennan was just as surprised as the perp. Nearly as surprised as the kit who, Dulcie told her later, had made her first arrest, or nearly so. "This," Dulcie said, licking the kit's ear, "should make you an honorary officer."

  Kit, watching Brennan cuff the guy, had shivered with mirth and with smug triumph, though she was glad Brennan hadn't seen her. On the roof, they followed Brennan and his captive back to Brennan's squad car where he forced the belly-chained prisoner into the back seat, pushing his head down so he wouldn't crack his skull. No one wanted an inmate suing the department. Seemed like cuffs and belly chain were a lot, Dulcie thought, when the distance to the station was only a few blocks. But Brennan, with the extra weight he packed, sure wouldn't want to chase this one again. As Brennan headed for the station, Dulcie and Kit were still laughing; and as they dropped down from the roof to a little bench that stood in the shadows, they could see into the jewelry store where officers' lights flashed.

  The exploding brilliance of strobes made them shutter their eyes as Detective Garza photographed the broken, empty display cases. Max Harper stood talking with two officers
and with Garza, but soon he left the scene again, swinging into his pickup, driving off in the direction of the high school. Dulcie thought about the lovely chokers and bracelets the cases had held, and how often she had reared up to peer in through Marineau's windows, admiring those treasures-wondering how she would look in platinum or emeralds. Except that the idea of a confining collar gave her the shivers; even such a multimillion-dollar confection as a sapphire choker from Tiffany's would scare her if she couldn't claw it off and free herself.

  Both cats felt sad looking in at the ruined shop, at the shattered glass cases, at the silk-covered walls now scarred with ugly gouges. An inner door had been torn off its hinges. The thick, creamy carpet had been ripped back as if the thieves were searching for a floor safe. Such destruction by humans sickened them.

  If Dulcie had her way, the people who did this would be cooling their heels for a lifetime. And not in a cushy cell with free TV, three hot meals, laundry service, ample medical care, and unlimited phone privileges. In her view, the universal need for freedom ended when it was used to destroy the lives and livelihood of others.

  "How much do you suppose they got?" Kit said.

  "In value?" Dulcie said, surprised by Kit's uncharacteristically practical turn of mind. "Whatever they got, they didn't get what they deserved. Come on," she whispered, dropping down into deeper shadows beneath the bench as Detective Garza turned in their direction.

  The Latino detective had finished photographing and was putting away his camera equipment. They waited, very still, until he turned away again and, with his back to them, began to dust showcase and door surfaces with black powder. As Garza lifted prints, two officers approached along the sidewalk, stopping before the window.