Cat Coming Home

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  38

  FROM MAUDIE’S ROOF, Kit and Misto continued to watch Alfreda’s house, where Detective Garza was lifting prints from the front door and surround. It was nearly an hour since Marlin Dorriss and Jared had been taken away in a patrol car, Jared wearing his robe and sweatpants and a pair of bedroom slippers, his grass-covered jogging shoes having been bagged as evidence. They’d watched Dallas collect and bag fibers caught on the Meier house’s door molding, and photograph and make casts of five footprints incised in the garden earth along the edge of the lawn. They’d watched Maudie go down the hill and disappear within Alfreda’s house, apparently to commiserate with the frightened woman.

  Most of the officers had departed, leaving behind a barrier of yellow crime-scene tape surrounding the house and yard. Detective Ray had finished photographing the grassy trails that entered Maudie’s house and out again, and had gone upstairs to the guest room. They could see her through the window, examining Jared’s clothes and duffel and photographing with sharp flashes of strobe light. Kit didn’t know what Kathleen could take into possession without a court order, but she guessed Maudie’s house was part of the scene now, too, and she could confiscate any evidence. Ever curious, Kit padded along the narrow lip of roof beneath the window to look in, squeezing her eyes closed when the light flashed. Benny was sound asleep, as deep under as a kitten tucked against its mama. The little boy had burrowed beneath the covers, head and all, cutting out the noise and the painful flashes; all one could really see was a lump of quilt and blanket. Had he slept like this all through the chase, even through the bellow of the bullhorn? He didn’t stir at Kathleen’s intrusion, though Kit herself squeezed her eyes closed at each lift of the camera to avoid the fierce blazes of the strobe light. Kit returned to the garage roof squinting and shaking her head.

  Out on the street, before Alfreda’s house, Officer Brennan had settled down in his patrol car as if to stay and keep watch; Kit could smell the coffee from his thermos and the faint scent of cinnamon as he unwrapped what was probably a sweet roll. Dallas was packing up to leave, putting his equipment in the trunk, when his cell phone buzzed. When he flipped on the speaker, Max’s voice crackled with a tinny sound. “Arlie’s all tucked away—one more alias to add to Dorriss’s file. That tip made all the difference, put us right on the scene.”

  Dallas laughed. “Not just to mop up, this time.” Kit guessed it must have been frustrating, one invasion after another and not one fingerprint except the victim’s own, or that of a neighbor or service person, and no match to the fibers and debris they’d bagged and logged in. “Now,” Dallas said, “with Jared and Dorriss off the street and a BOL out on Kent, we’re getting somewhere. Maybe the two in jail will ID the fourth guy—or maybe that will turn out to be the woman.”

  Kit thought it might. The figure that had vanished so fast, even before Arlie was arrested, was tall and thin and might indeed have been the woman.

  Kit had already phoned and awakened Clyde to tell Joe the news. And to brag a little, to say that it was their call, hers and Misto’s, that had brought the cops on time. From the brightness of Misto’s eyes and the way he lashed his tail, it was clear he liked this new twist to his life. She bet he’d never dreamed of working alongside a bunch of cops, that he’d never imagined such an exciting interaction with humans. Now he looked almost like a young cat, his smile as excited as that of a frolicking kitten.

  ALFREDA MEIERS WAS so upset after the attempted invasion and all the fuss with the police, so nervous that two men had escaped and might return, that after Detective Garza took her statement, she wanted only to lock herself in the house and rest. But even before Detective Garza departed, Maudie Toola came down the hill and invited her up to her house for a cup of tea and a slice of pie, offering to make up the couch in her living room, on this night when both women needed company. Alfreda went back with her for the tea and pie, carefully locking the doors behind her. She felt almost comfortable, with Officer Brennan on guard, sitting there in his squad car. She told Maudie she would visit for a little while, try to calm her nerves, then would go on home. Not that she could sleep, but she could lie down, prop a chair against the bedroom door, get a little rest. She didn’t know what those men would have done to her; she didn’t want to think about that. She and Maudie hurried up the street and into Maudie’s house, looking back to see Brennan nod and wave to them.

  Maudie settled Alfreda at the kitchen table and put the kettle on, then went to make doubly sure the studio door was properly locked. She found the grass trail through the studio disturbed as if someone had walked through it. But Detective Kathleen Ray had photographed the damp lawn clippings, so maybe she’d scattered the grassy trail, hadn’t been careful—though that did seem odd. Detective Ray seemed exceptionally careful in how she went about her work.

  In the kitchen she laid out cups and plates, sugar and silverware on a tray. Neither of them took milk. She left Alfreda cutting the pecan pie that she and Benny had made, and went to light the gas log in the living room and draw up the little tea table she liked to use, opening out its two small leaves. She didn’t remember leaving the table standing out so far from the cupboard door; she preferred it snugged against the closet that was meant for the storage of firewood, and which she didn’t use. She’d thought of asking Ryan to convert the space into bookshelves, and maybe she’d do that. Maybe Benny had been playing in there, she thought as she hurried upstairs to check on the child.

  In the dark bedroom, she wanted to whisper to Benny, wanted tell him everything was all right, in case he had awakened at some point, after the commotion was over. But apparently not, he was sound asleep, snuggled down with the covers pulled up, and she moved away and let him be. She stood a moment enjoying the little-boy scent of him, smiling because he slept as deeply as had his daddy. Martin had never awakened to sounds in the house; he could have slept through an alien attack. At last she turned away, went back downstairs to her guest.

  Alfreda had cut the pie and poured the tea. “I’m better off doing something,” the frail woman said as Maudie carried the tray in before the fire. “Tomorrow I’ll be steadier, I’ll be better in the daylight.”

  “You’re more than welcome to stay here for a few days,” Maudie said, though in truth she hoped Alfreda would refuse. The woman was so frail, seemed so in need of nurturing. But in fact, Maudie’s own scenario called for solitude, she would prefer the house empty; she was relieved when Alfreda shook her head.

  “Thanks, Maudie, but I’ll be fine. Tomorrow I’m to help with the Christmas bazaar, and that’s good, that I keep busy.” She smiled wanly at Maudie. “I should feel relieved the police arrested two of those men. Detective Garza said there was little chance the other two would go on with these invasions now.

  “He said there could be more than four of them, but from the information they have, they don’t think so.” Alfreda seemed to be talking to ease herself, to calm her fears. Maudie listened and nodded and let her go on, though Alfreda’s rambling certainly didn’t calm her own fears. When she heard Benny cry out in his sleep, she hushed Alfreda to listen, but then there was nothing more. If he were having one of his nightmares, he’d make more noise than that, would be crying for Grandma, over and over. They talked for nearly an hour, about Benny and the new school, about Maudie’s son David. If Alfreda knew about the shooting, about Martin and Caroline, she didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry. Maudie avoided talking about her quilting, too, she didn’t want to have to drag a neighbor whom she hardly knew through her new studio. When Alfreda headed home, Maudie watched her hurry down the block past the squad car, where she waved to Officer Brennan, then disappear into her own house. Maudie pictured her carefully locking her door; she locked her own door, rinsed their cups and plates and put them in the dishwasher, and headed upstairs. She’d left the light on in her room, but before she got ready for bed she stepped into the dark guest room one last time, to check on Benny.

  She hadn’t admitted to Alfreda how ne
rvous she was. In a way, she wished Alfreda had stayed, even wished she had put fresh sheets on the guest bed and made Alfreda comfortable there. Not that the frail woman would be any protection. Do I just want the company? Maudie thought, annoyed at herself. Want to circle the wagons, even decrepit wagons, because I don’t know who or what will appear out of the night, out of the empty dark?

  Benny was still cocooned down among the covers. Amazing how soundly he slept. She thought she shouldn’t be calling this room the guest room, it was Benny’s room now. But it didn’t fit a child; this wasn’t a child’s room, with its grown-up, too formal furniture. Benny needed a child’s furniture: toy chests, a sturdy desk, maybe one of those bunk sets with a built-in ladder, something a boy could use, not just tolerate.

  Benny seemed drawn to the little sewing room down at the end of the hall, which Maudie was using for storage as she unpacked boxes. The room was tiny, maybe eight by nine; Benny like to slip in between the boxes and curl up on the deep bay window seat. Maybe for a few years he’d prefer that room, at least until he outgrew the space. She glanced at her watch. It was just past midnight. Guided by the night-light, she reached to straighten Benny’s covers.

  As she took hold of the covers, they gave too much under her hand. She felt the little mound, but didn’t feel the solid form of the child, only the soft give of pillows. She snatched the covers away.

  The bed was empty. Nothing but wadded-up blankets under the quilt. Flipping on the lamp, she stared at the empty bed, at the pile of blankets. She whirled to look around the room. Jerked open the closet doors. Nothing. Benny’s clothes, hanging on the lowered rod. A heap of toys lying in one corner of the closet. She knelt to look under the bed, thinking he might be hiding—as a joke, or because the commotion of police cars and lights had frightened him.

  Nothing under the bed but a toy car and dust. Hurrying down the hall she looked in the bathroom, the linen closet, then searched in her own room. She searched the entire house, up and down, the firewood cupboard, the garage and studio, everywhere a child could hide. Had he gone outdoors, in the middle of the night?

  Thinking of the two invaders who had escaped the police, she snatched up her coat from where she’d dropped it on the arm of a chair, made sure the gun was safe in her pocket. Turning on the yard lights, she locked the door behind her and hurried to her car, praying the little boy was there, curled down under the lap robe, asleep.

  The car was empty. She popped the trunk lid, looked in. She searched the yard among the dark bushes, calling for him, yet certain that he wouldn’t be hiding out here in the cold, in the middle of the night. When she looked down the hill at Officer Brennan, he’d left his car, was headed up the sidewalk, looking around into the shadows, looking up at her, frowning.

  It was Brennan who called the station to report the little boy missing.

  39

  HOW COULD HE be gone?” Kit said, looking down from the garage roof to where Maudie wandered the yard calling Benny. “He was in bed, asleep. Has she searched the whole house?” They watched Maudie hurry down the street and Brennan hurry to meet her. Their voices were faint, and Maudie sounded nearly breathless. They listened to Brennan call the dispatcher.

  Kit said, “Could he be playing games, hiding from her?” “After there were cops all over?” Misto said. “Everyone running, lights swinging everywhere? Not likely. And if he woke scared and is hiding from those men, he’d have found a place in the house, not gone outside in the dark, alone.”

  Kit began to shiver, looking down into the bushes and along the street, hopefully listening. There was no sound but Brennan’s voice, talking to the dispatcher, and the whisper of the far sea. “You don’t think someone took Benny?” Kit said in a small voice. “Kidnapped him? But how could they get him out of the house, how could anyone get him away, and we didn’t see them?”

  “We can’t see the studio door from here,” Misto pointed out. “Only from the other side of the garage.”

  “We’d have heard him,” Kit said. “We’d have heard Benny yelling.”

  “Not if he was gagged,” the yellow cat said. “And we don’t know when he disappeared. Was it while the cops were still chasing those men? Or,” he said, “did they double back and take him?” Misto rose. “If they took him out through the studio, we can pick up their trail, we can follow them,” and he headed for the nearest oak, meaning to scramble down its broad trunk.

  Kit started to follow him, then spun around and raced up across the roofs for the cottage, for the cell phone. Pawing the phone out from among the leaves, she hit the single button for the Damen house. Rock could track Benny faster, he was bigger, and she had to admit the Weimaraner could outrun even her, over long distances.

  Wilma answered, sleepily, on the first ring.

  “What are you doing at Clyde’s?” Kit said. “What …?”

  “I’m not at Clyde’s, I’m at home,” Wilma said hesitantly. “You dialed wrong. What’s happened, what is it? You sound—”

  “Benny’s missing, we think he’s been kidnapped,” Kit hissed. “I have to call—” and she broke off before Wilma could ask even one question.

  DRAGGED OUT OF a deep sleep, Clyde stared at the ringing phone and then at the bedside clock. Twelve-thirty, and this was the second call since they’d tucked up for the night. He’d just drifted off after the last frantic ringing, so what the hell was this call about? Snatching the headset off the cradle to silence it, he lay staring at it, saying nothing.

  Leaning across him, Ryan grabbed the headset. “What?” she said softly, looking at the caller ID. “What’s happened?”

  At the other end, Kit said shyly, “I … I need to talk to Joe again.”

  “Clyde will get him,” Ryan said, nudging Clyde.

  “Hang on.”

  Grumbling, Clyde swung out of bed, padded barefoot into the study, and shouted up at the cat door. “Get the hell down here! It’s Kit again. What am I, your damned answering service?”

  Joe appeared on the rafter above, pushing in through his cat door. He paused, peering down over the rafter at Clyde.

  “Get your tail down here.”

  Dropping from the rafter to Clyde’s desk, Joe hit the speaker button on the office extension. Kit had already called him about the arrests, not more than an hour ago … “Another invasion,” she’d said, “… arrested Marlin Dorriss …” It’d been hard to believe that slick con was in jail, behind bars. As Kit described the action, all he could think was that somehow Dorriss was going to slip out of this. That by morning he would have lawyered up, would have brought in half a dozen slick attorneys, posted bail, and vanished, maybe never to be seen again. “It was Dorriss who kicked the door in,” Kit had said. “Dorriss and Jared are in jail, and—”

  “Jared Colletto?”

  “Jared. And they have a BOL out on Kent. Harper and two squad cars are headed for his house, and …” Despite Kit’s giddy excitement, he’d gotten most of the story, and then had scrambled back up to his tower, where he’d sat staring into the night debating what to do. Whether to hightail it down to the station and pick up the latest as officers and detectives began to return—maybe slip back into the jail and hear what the two prisoners, once they were alone, had to say to each other about the night’s adventure.

  Except the two would be detained as far apart as possible, in the department’s small jail, so they couldn’t get their stories straight; maybe one would even be left up front, in the holding cell. And, at the scene, the action was over. The cops had left. Whatever had come down, Kit had witnessed. At last, yawning, he’d opted to wait until morning when more information would be at hand, when he could catch an early briefing in the chief’s office, if he timed it right. Curling up among his pillows, he’d gone back to sleep, had been deep under when the phone rang again, in the study, echoing in the bedroom inches from Clyde’s indignant ear, and then Clyde had shouted at him.

  Now, as he crouched on the desk listening to Kit, she sounded so scared tha
t she scared him. “Benny Toola’s missing, Maudie came running outside all frantic looking for him, searched her car and all around the yard calling him and then started down to Brennan where he was parked at Alfreda’s house and …” She paused, was silent for so long Joe thought the phone had cut out. “Here comes Kathleen’s car,” she said, “and two squad cars, they …”

  By this time, Ryan and Clyde were crowded around Joe at the desk listening to Kit over the speaker, and Rock had piled off the love seat to push against them, wanting to be in on the action. When Kit paused, Ryan nearly shouted into the speaker. “Rock,” she said, “Rock can track him.”

  “Yes,” Kit said. “That’s why I called. We—”

  From the bedroom, Ryan’s cell phone rang, belting out a Dixieland beat. “Wait a minute,” Ryan said. “Hold on.” Hurrying into the bedroom, she snatched up her phone from the dresser. She was silent for a moment, listening. “Benny Toola?” she said, trying to sound surprised. “Oh, not Benny. What? Rock? Of course we can, we’ll be right there.”

  Hanging up, she looked at Joe and Clyde. “Dallas,” she said. “He’s afraid Kent Colletto might have Benny—they only caught his brother Jared and that Dorriss person.”

  As she headed for the closet to throw on her jeans and a sweater, Rock followed her, caught up in their excitement, shivering with anticipation for whatever adventure the night offered.

  It had been nearly a year since Rock learned the protocol and honed his skills to track a human victim or criminal. A Weimaraner hunts by both sight and scent, he’s bred for many jobs, and a good Weimaraner is hungry to work. But without proper training, even the best dog is of no use. Ordinarily, such training is started when a dog is very young, and takes many months, or years, to perfect. But not Rock, not with Joe Grey running the show. In one amazing lesson, in one afternoon, Joe had taught Rock to track as skillfully as a seasoned bloodhound and with equal determination.