Cat Coming Home

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Racing over the roofs following the silent patrol cars, Kit heard a scream somewhere ahead—but not a human scream. It was an animal: a dog, in terrible pain. A little dog, screaming and screaming, its cries sickening her as she leaped from roof to roof, so upsetting her, she nearly fell off the edge, and scrambled to regain her footing on the damp, slanting shingles.

  The cop cars slowed, pulled to the curb. The screams came from directly below her now, from a house she knew well. She pictured the little Skye terrier who lived there, tiny and frail beneath its long silky brown fur. If that little dog was hurt, this, to Kit, was far more upsetting than an attack on a human person. To hear a little animal hurting and helpless tore at her, left her hissing and shivering.

  7

  BECKY LAKE’S SHINGLED studio home was shaded by pepper trees, its interior one large room with an alcove for the kitchen, another for the bath and closet. Its steep roof rose like a pyramid, flattened at the very peak into a four-by-four-foot skylight, the thick, clear glass usually dusted with leaves from the pepper trees and decorated with little cat paw prints. Kit had spent many hours lying across the glass looking down into the paneled room with its high rafters and wide stone fireplace, a retreat that might have been built at the edge of a mountain stream or in the Swiss Alps, but that fit right into this casual and wooded village. Peering down through the skylight, she could see Becky’s Christmas tree, all hung with little carved wooden toys. On the hearth stood a ceramic pot of holly branches gleaming with clusters of red berries. She didn’t see Becky, but she could see the little terrier. Rowdy lay on his side, biting frantically at his shoulder, his cries so loud they made her ears ring.

  Had the neighbors heard him, was that what had generated the 911 call? Well, help was here now, but why didn’t they hurry? She looked down at the three black-and-whites on the street below and the EMT van in the drive, watched Officer Brennan and Detective Kathleen Ray pile out of a squad car and double-time it up the steps. Kathleen was taller than Brennan and slimmer, her dark hair knotted sleekly beneath her uniform cap. Brennan pounded on the door and then threw it open. Weapons drawn, they eased inside. Behind them, two more uniforms moved up the walk, and Max Harper’s pickup pulled to the curb.

  The chief sent two additional officers circling around to the back, and then he, too, stepped inside, his hand on his holstered weapon. Where was Becky Lake? How badly was she hurt? Why didn’t someone help the little dog, why didn’t they help Rowdy?

  Becky Lake was only twenty-something, and she and Rob were newly married: Rob was the manager of the little local grocery store. Becky, a slim, pretty girl, always looked so fresh and clean, always smelled of soap and water as if she’d just stepped from a cool shower. Even as Kit watched, Becky appeared in the open door supported by Detective Ray, her ash-blond hair a tangle, her pale blue blouse torn, revealing a white silk bra and various bruises already turning purple or red. Kathleen supported the girl, trying to calm her, but Becky clung to her for only a moment, then pulled away, turning back toward the house. “Rowdy. I have to go back. Oh, please, he needs help, not me.”

  “Brennan is calling Dr. Firetti,” Kathleen said. “He’ll come as quick as he can. We don’t want to handle the dog and maybe hurt him worse; it’s best the doctor take care of him.”

  Becky fought to free herself. She was shaking, wiping at her tears. “Please, please help Rowdy. Can’t I just be with him?”

  “It’s a crime scene now,” Kathleen said. “We’d rather you stayed out here. If we pick Rowdy up or handle him, we could make his injuries worse. We want to wait for the vet.” But then, watching the younger woman, Kathleen relented. “Come on,” she said, “you can sit with him if you’ll stay in one place. Don’t pick him up, Becky.”

  Becky nodded and they moved inside. Above them, Kit slipped down from the roof into the foliage of a pepper tree and then into the bushes beside the open door. She could see where the glass pane beside the door had been broken out, could see Becky inside kneeling beside the fireplace gently stroking the little terrier. Officer Brennan stood by the far glass wall speaking on his cell phone. He had pulled on cloth booties, as had Kathleen and the chief. Kit didn’t have cloth booties, and as she slipped inside she hoped to hell that, if they used some electronic gadget to see footprints, they’d miss hers. Shards of glass sparkled everywhere across the dark wood floor; she stepped carefully among them, staying in shadow and close to the walls. The little dog continued to scream. She wasn’t sure what she thought she’d see that the sharp-eyed cops would miss. But visual surveillance didn’t matter so much, the detective would be on top of that; it was the scents that Kit was after, the elusive smells that no human could detect.

  Against a far wall, two armchairs had been overturned and an end table broken. One of Becky’s sandals lay beside them. As Kit prowled the room staying out of sight behind the overturned furniture, she could detect no scent but the sharp cinnamon smell of baking that flowed from the kitchen to drown any scent of the invaders. Across the room Brennan was growing nervous, shouting into the phone for Dr. Firetti to hurry.

  John Firetti was Kit’s own doctor, she knew he’d drop everything and come—if he wasn’t in the middle of some other emergency. Beyond the overturned chairs a lamp lay broken, and the phone fallen beside it. By the time Brennan holstered his cell phone and looked up, Kit had abandoned her search and slipped back outside to the porch—that was when she caught another smell, a rank smell, faint but unpleasant. The faint stink of fish so old and ripe it made her pull a face of disgust, flehming and nearly gagging.

  Kit liked her seafood fresh, preferred it the day it was caught. This smell was like the rotting fish Lucinda buried under the rosebushes to keep them blooming with such careless abandon. Had one of the attackers come from a fishing boat? Or perhaps from the wharves along the coast where fish might have been cleaned and the offal left to rot? Or maybe from the little fishing wharf at the edge of the village? Kit took a good whiff, gagged again, and backed away. She kept backing, straight into the bushes, as Captain Harper appeared inside the house, coming out of the kitchen. Harper didn’t need to catch her snooping, he already had too many questions about cats and crime scenes.

  Though the chief had grown used to the three cats wandering in and out of the station, sleeping in an office bookcase or on a desk, enjoying handouts from the dispatcher, being spotted at a crime scene wasn’t so smart, they didn’t need the officers’ puzzled stares. Now, hidden from Harper, Kit stuck her nose out of the bushes and watched as Dr. Firetti pulled up to the drive in his white van.

  Parking, he stepped out, and an office nurse with him. The two hurried into the house, and soon the scent of alcohol wafted out. Maybe Firetti was giving the little dog a shot for the pain? Kit listened for several minutes to their mumbled voices, and soon the screaming stopped. Then, Dr. Firetti came out carrying little Rowdy on a dog-size stretcher. Kit watched through the van’s open side door as they settled Rowdy in a padded bed with high sides, and the nurse sat down beside him. Sliding the door closed, Firetti stopped to speak with Becky. He’d call her when he’d examined Rowdy. Stepping into the van, he headed for the veterinary hospital. In the bushes, Kit breathed a sigh of relief for the poor little mutt. Rowdy was no bigger than a cat himself—though a hell of a lot louder. Becky stood on the porch clutching Kathleen’s hand. Kathleen sat down on the step, drawing Becky down beside her, waiting as the young woman tried to collect herself. Kit, hidden beneath the mock orange bush, crouched only a few feet from them. Kathleen said, “Do you feel like answering a few questions? After that, the medics will take you to the hospital. Is your husband at work?”

  Becky wiped her tears. “The questions are fine, but I don’t want to go to the hospital. And please don’t call Rob—yes, he’s at work, but he’ll be so upset. I’ll call him myself, in a little while.”

  “You need someone to be with you. And,” Kathleen said gently, “we need to know how badly they hurt you. We need to know ex
actly what they did.”

  Becky looked down at her torn clothes, at her bruised arms. The side of her face was red and swelling. When she looked up at Kathleen, her eyes were steady. “They didn’t rape me. Thank God they didn’t do that.”

  Kathleen studied her. “If they did, and you press charges …”

  Becky shook her head. “They didn’t. Maybe Rowdy stopped them. He’s such a little thing, but he went after them real fierce, screaming and biting them. One of them kicked him. He’s hurt so bad. Will he be all right?”

  “Dr. Firetti will do the best he can,” Kathleen said, then was silent, waiting.

  “I’m just bruised,” Becky said, seeing her look. “I don’t think anything’s broken. They beat me, the one did. There were two men, they ran when you drove up. They took money from my purse. Kept trying to make me tell them my PIN number. I don’t have a PIN number, Rob and I don’t have ATM cards, we’ve never wanted them. They wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Can you describe them at all?”

  “Both tall. One thin, maybe stooped a little. The other square and well built. Black hair, I could see that much under the stocking. A little taller than the thin one.” She was silent a moment. “Clean fingernails,” she said, frowning. “The bigger man had nice nails, as if he’d had a manicure, and that surprised me. He was the one who kicked the door in, kicked it off the chain, and burst in ahead of the other. I should never have trusted a chain.”

  Officer Brennan appeared in the doorway. “Dr. Firetti called. He said Rowdy’s shoulder is broken, but so far he hasn’t found any internal injuries. He wants to put him under anesthetic so he can set the shoulder. He’ll go ahead, but he wonders if you’ll stop by later to sign the release.”

  Becky nodded. Kit listened to Becky and Kathleen argue until, under Kathleen’s gentle but stubborn urging, Becky agreed to go to the hospital. The minute she had left with the EMTs, Kathleen retrieved a black bag of crime-scene equipment from the squad car, pulled on the cloth booties again, and went inside to photograph and lift prints. Behind her, Kit returned to the little cement porch, took another sniff of the odor of ancient fish, and followed it.

  The fishy trail led into the house, but then out again at the other side of the threshold. She followed it to the sidewalk, trying to look casual, like a neighborhood cat out for a stroll. After only a little way, the trail vanished at the curb, most likely transferred into a waiting car.

  Unable to find another trace of the scent, she left the scene and headed for Ryan’s cottage, hoping to find Joe and Dulcie. Becky’s cursory description of the invaders, plus the smell of fishy shoes, had to count for something, and Kit wanted to share what she’d learned. She was high up the hills, below Maudie Toola’s and a block over, when Maudie’s son David came jogging downhill, his short brown hair tucked under a cap, his tanned face smooth and lean. She peered down from the roof as he passed below her and disappeared down the hill, soon blocked from her view by shaggy, overhanging branches. Kit moved on up, drawn by the screech of nails and the echo of tossed boards.

  Trotting along above the side street that would lead to Ryan’s cottage, she watched an ancient brown pickup truck pull to the curb beneath her, just before it reached Maudie’s street. A rusty, dented old truck with a dirt-smeared windshield. It stood with the engine idling. When the driver didn’t get out, but simply sat there, a dark shadow behind the dirty glass, a ripple of unease made her fur twitch, and she settled down to watch. The shingles beneath her paws were rough and damp.

  From where she crouched she could see Maudie’s Tudor house and the roof of Ryan’s cottage. Could see Joe Grey and Dulcie lounging on the cottage roof, glancing idly up at the little birds that flitted among the branches above them—and then everything happened at once. She saw Ryan leave the cottage and head downhill to Maudie’s, saw Maudie come out her own front door heading for her car at the curb, her keys jingling in her hand. She watched Maudie step off the curb, pop the trunk open, and begin pulling out packages. At the same moment, the old truck took off fast, heading straight down the hill at Maudie. Ryan shouted. Joe and Dulcie and Kit shouted and damn the consequences as Ryan grabbed Maudie and pulled her out of its path. The truck barely missed her; it swerved around the Lincoln, metal screeching against metal, skidded downhill and around the corner and was gone.

  Kit crouched among the branches, shivering. Why would anyone want to hurt Maudie? Why would anyone try to run their truck into a harmless old woman?

  Down on the sidewalk, Maudie clung to Ryan. On the porch, Benny didn’t move, he stood on the step, white and frozen. As Scotty came rushing out, Ryan grabbed her phone and started to dial, but Maudie snatched it from her. Joe and Dulcie had fled to Maudie’s roof, Kit watched them scramble down to the garden and slip into the house behind Maudie. Kit remained very still, setting into memory every detail of that strange attack: the vague shadow of the driver’s face behind the dirty windshield, a thin face beneath what might have been a dark hood, the rusty scars on the truck, the mud on the back bumper and license plate. Kit’s distress at the beating of Becky Lake, and now the attack on Maudie, left her feeling very small and useless. Ears and tail down, she at last made her way from the rooftops down into Maudie’s yard, where she crawled under a camellia bush and curled into a little ball among its fallen petals. She didn’t understand humans. She thought about all the ugliness among humans that she and Dulcie and Joe had seen, and about the grim photographs and reports of murders that were available to them on the desks of their law-enforcement friends, and the more she thought, the more defeated she felt; all alone, she put her head down on her paws, filled with a terrible remorse for humankind.

  8

  AFTER KILLING MARTIN and Caroline, the driver and shooter had paused for only an instant to watch the victims’ car veer off the road, its headlights swinging crazily through the black night as it rolled onto its side and crashed into a pine tree. The shooter had tucked the .45 Colt revolver behind the seat as the driver floorboarded the pickup. They pulled to the side of the road a quarter mile on, where the driver got out, slipped into a small black sedan, and was gone, speeding away into the night. The shooter slid into the driver’s seat and moved on, knowing the narrow two-lane well enough to keep out of the ditch, knowing precisely when to make the turn into the yard of the deserted ranch house. A second turn up the old concrete driveway, and the pickup was out of sight from the country road.

  How much had the old woman seen? In the flickering moonlight, before she grabbed the kids and ducked to the floor, had she gotten a look? It was only an instant that she could have seen anything, but it was a loose end, a cause for worry. Over the subsequent months since the shooting, the question had eaten and rankled. If Maudie had seen enough for a tentative ID, what had she done about it? Gone to the cops? Or, fearing for her own life, sensibly kept her mouth shut? Was there a warrant out complete with name and description, or had she seen no more than the blinding flashes of gunfire?

  That night, easing around behind the farmhouse, unlocking the machinery barn and easing the pickup inside, sliding closed the heavy door and stepping into the sleek sports car that stood next to where the pickup was always parked, the shooter had waited for more than an hour, listening for any sound from the road, lounging on the soft leather seat but not daring to play the radio even softly. Then jerking suddenly alert at the sound of the sirens.

  How could anyone have called the cops? Martin and Caroline had to be dead, at that close range, or too badly wounded to make any kind of call. And as for Maudie, even if she’d had the presence of mind enough to grab a cell phone, reception out there was dicey; usually there was no way to get through.

  It was unlikely anyone else had heard the crash; on the little-used back road there’d been no other cars. The scattered houses and what people called ranches were all set back away from the narrow two-lane, and there hadn’t been a light anywhere; half those houses were summer places, locked up until the weather grew hot, in Jun
e.

  But someone had called the cops.

  Getting out of the sports car, standing at the door listening, she hadn’t heard a sound. The barn seemed safe enough. By the time sheriff’s deputies got around to searching the nearby yards and fields, and got warrants to search inside the houses and outbuildings, the pickup would be dead cold, sitting unused as the vacationing owner had left it weeks earlier. The heavy padlock on the sliding shed door would show only the owner’s fingerprints.

  Listening to the sirens and then to the thumping of a helicopter, the shooter had slid the big door open just a crack, to look out into the night. Lights from the gathered cars a mile away were reflected up into the sky in a milky haze, more cars and a hell of a lot sooner than you’d have thought, way out here in the boonies.

  The shooter had waited for a couple hours more after the police lights were gone, and the helicopter gone, before opening the door fully, starting the engine of the sports car and pulling out. Had checked, with a flashlight, the garage floor and wiped away the vague tire marks. Sliding the door closed again and locking it, the shooter had headed sedately away into the night, driving slowly and carefully along the country road, flicking the beams to high when there was no car coming, flicking them low again out of courtesy when another vehicle approached.

  Passing two oncoming black-and-whites, the shooter lifted a hand from the wheel in the country way of greeting, though probably that gesture would not be seen in the dark car. And all the while swallowing back a rush of adrenaline, trying to control a heart-pounding panic. The two CHPs must be headed to the scene of the wreck, to join whatever sheriff’s units might have remained behind. Maybe looking for shell casings—but they wouldn’t find any. That was the good thing about a revolver: the casings remained in the gun, didn’t scatter all over. Cops would be checking for tire marks, too, but quite a few cars and trucks, locals, used this road in the daytime.