"He has a gun," Dulcie whispered, "I saw it earlier."
Joe glanced at her "I didn't…" But from below in the shop came muffled voices and the clang of tools.
"Clyde's down there, I can hear him. They've started work. If I shout…"
"No! It'll bring his light." She dug harder, clawing at the dense Sheetrock. Below they heard an engine start. But even over that sound, Wark would hear them digging. He had drawn closer, and his angle of vision was steeper now. He could see partially behind the last beam. Dulcie had managed a shallow indentation in the Sheetrock when Wark's light found them, blinding them. They were trapped in light. A shot cracked through the attic, exploding with ragged flame as Joe lunged against her, knocking her away. And a second shot thundered.
25
Ten minutes after Kate Osborne left the courthouse tucking her shirt more securely into her jeans, the cream-colored cat entered the Osborne backyard.
She scanned the neighbors' windows, and when she thought she was unobserved, she leaped to the back porch. There she rubbed against the porch rail, surveying again the adjoining dwellings.
She would just slip in, change back to the Kate who was Jimmie's wife, grab the bankbooks, throw her clothes in the car, and get out.
When she was sure she was alone she clawed the door open, wondering, as she kicked at the molding, if she was leaving claw marks.
Inside, she prowled the house, wary and skittish. Though Jimmie's car wasn't in the drive, she couldn't shake the feeling that he'd appear and grab her-that he would handle her as viciously as Wark had done, bruising and injuring her; that Jimmie was fully capable of killing her, no matter what form she took.
Gentle Jimmie Osborne, the quintessential wimp. Maybe wimps, when they turned mean, were the most vicious of all.
When she was satisfied that the house was empty, she paused in the hall. She was starting to say the Welsh words that would change her when she heard his car in the drive.
She ran into the living room and leaped to the back of Jimmie's chair, digging in her claws. Peering out through the curtains, she was struck by sunlight careening off the hood of the silver Bugatti. The car glistened in sleek silver curves.
She hated that car. The damned machine had to be worth many times what Jimmie had admitted paying for it. She hated that he lied to her. The Bugatti seemed all of a sudden the symbol of everything ugly about Jimmie. When she saw Sheril getting out, a growl of rage rumbled and shook her.
They came up the steps snuggling and pawing each other. Jimmie had his hand under Sheril's blouse, but why bother? Everything Sheril had was right there in plain sight. That lace hid nothing; she might as well be wearing a plastic bag.
She didn't know whether to change to Kate and confront them, or to hide until they left. Hide, then get the bankbooks for Max Harper, and clear out.
Hiding seemed so cowardly.
But if she telegraphed her punches, if she confronted Jimmie, he might snatch the bankbooks and take off. She might be physically strong enough to keep him from taking them, and she might not.
As they opened the door she fled for the bedroom and under the bed, into her shoddy little hiding place.
Crouching on the carpet just beneath the box springs, she heard them coming down the hall. Their voices sounded flat and tired. Had they been partying in Sheril's bed the whole night?
Their shoes hushed on the carpet. Sheril's nasal voice rose flat and piercing. Jimmie laughed, and Sheril started to giggle. It was ten o'clock in the morning. Why wasn't Jimmie at work?
Sheril said, "Your house is so-domestic, lover. Just like your little housewife."
Jimmie chuckled. "What if the little housewife comes home?"
"She walked out on you, lover."
"You like doing it in her bed, don't you, baby? Like a bitch wetting on another's territory."
Her claws knifed into the carpet. Her tail struck so hard at the springs she thought they'd hear her. They came into the bedroom yawning. Sheril kicked off her sandals and sat down on the bed, then her feet disappeared upward and the springs creaked.
Jimmie kicked off his loafers, dropped his pants and hung them over the chair. His shorts came next. So much for preliminaries. She could hear Sheril wriggling around, undressing. Jimmie moved to the bed; the springs creaked heavily as he lay down. This is disgusting. She fought a powerful desire to leap on the bed and claw them.
"I don't see why we have to wait, lover. I don't see why we can't get the plane reservations in another name, and haul out of here. It will be so sunny in the Bahamas, so nice and warm. If Wark's arrested for Sam's death, or if Clyde is, what difference? The cops have nothing on you. Why do we have to hang around being so careful? I mean…"
"Give it a rest, Sheril. How do you think it would look if we ran out now? You really want to blow it."
"But we didn't do anything. Not to Samuel. Wark did that. And Sam…"
"I said, cool it. We're not going now. Forget it. You don't understand anything about what the cops think, what the cops might find out."
Under the bed, Dulcie smiled. He was incredibly nervous. She guessed Sheril didn't see how nervous, or didn't care.
The springs squeaked as if he had rolled over, then again as he reached for her. She thought that they really needed a new mattress, then was both appalled and amused that that had even occurred to her. The springs kept squeaking. To the accompaniment of grunts and moans, she crept out and fled for the study.
As she pawed open the desk drawer, she realized with alarm that Jimmie's car was blocking the garage, that she couldn't get her own car out.
She wasn't leaving again without it. She wanted her car and her clothes and everything she could load into the Chevy. She thought about taking Jimmie's car, but abandoned that. He might let her go without tracking her down, but he'd be after that car. He'd raise all kinds of hell to get the Bugatti back.
Clumsily she clawed out the foreign bankbooks and the savings book, pawing them onto the floor.
This wouldn't do, she couldn't carry all these in her mouth, and fetch her car keys and purse.
She listened, but heard only a low moan from the bedroom.
She didn't want to go back in that room, but it couldn't be helped. They might be there all day. She wasn't staying in the house listening to that for hours.
Quickly she changed to Kate.
This time, as she changed, she got a nice little rush that amused her, a surge of exhilaration like a stiff drink. She was tall again, and very grateful, now, for the dexterity of hands and fingers as she picked up the bankbooks and stuffed them in the pocket of her jeans.
She laid the bank statements back in the drawer and closed it softly, then moved back down the hall toward the bedroom.
They were still at it. When, standing against the wall, she glanced in, she could see Sheril's naked thighs. They were both turned away. She slipped in, snatched her purse and overnight bag from the closet, and dug Jimmie's keys from his pants pocket, muffling the jingle in her tight fist. She lifted the cash from his dresser drawer, too.
She left the house by the front door. Sliding into Jimmie's car she backed it out, and parked it at the curb. She'd like to ram it hard into a tree, but that wouldn't be smart. She pocketed his keys, backed her own car out of the garage, shut the garage door, and headed for the police station.
She entered the station from the courthouse, praying that Max Harper was there. She passed his empty desk, looked around the room for him, then went up to the front, to the counter.
He wasn't in. She talked to Lieutenant Brennan, a deep-jowled man, older than Kate, who looked like he'd been poured into his uniform as clay is poured into a heavy mold. Brennan wouldn't tell her where Harper was. He couldn't tell her when Harper would return. His attitude was unnecessarily formal and distant. He told her only that Harper was out on a call. She wondered if that was what the sirens had been about-she'd heard them east of the village as she was driving to the station.
She didn't want to give anyone but Max Harper the bank books. "I'm certain Captain Harper will want to talk with me. I have something for him that I can give only to him. A piece of evidence that I think he'll be pleased to have."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Osborne. I have no idea when he'll be back. Whatever you want to give him will be perfectly safe with me. I can lock any evidence in the safe, if that will ease your mind." "Can you reach him? On the radio?" "He can't be disturbed. Those were his instructions." She thought that part was probably a fabrication. How would an officer know, when he left the station, that something even more urgent might not turn up? "If you can get him on the radio," she said patiently, "let me talk to him for just a second. I'll tell him what I have, and then I'll stop bothering you."
Brennan just looked at her. She pressed in again, bullying him, making such a pest of herself that at last Brennan sighed, swung away to his desk, and got Harper on the radio.
The call changed Brennan's behavior. Within seconds, Captain Harper phoned her, on a private line which Brennan said she could take in the back, at Harper's desk. She had graduated from faceless civilian to someone Brennan paid attention to. Walking back to Harper's desk, she glanced innocently at the two officers who had watched her, a little while ago, trot past their desks in cream-colored fur behind the heels of the office clerk.
She picked up the phone at Harper's desk, standing away from the desk top so she wouldn't appear to be reading the stack of papers and scattered notes.
Harper's voice was strained and hurried. "You have some evidence to give me, Kate? For what? What kind of evidence? What is it that can't wait?" He did sound as if he was in the middle of something urgent.
"I have some bankbooks of Jimmie's. They were in our desk."
"What kind of bankbooks? Tell me about them." His voice had softened, and slowed. He sounded like he might be sitting down.
"There are five books, on five foreign accounts. Big balances. Several hundred thousand each. Money," she said, "that he couldn't have legally. I didn't know what else to do with them, but I think they're important. I didn't know who else to go to. I don't have an attorney, not one I trust."
She couldn't say that she knew Harper wanted the bankbooks, that she had heard him tell Clyde how important this evidence was. "There are two accounts in the Bahamas, two in Panama, one in Curacao. The sums have been deposited over a four-year period. They add up to more than two million. This year's deposits are about two hundred and fifty thousand. Captain Harper, there's no way Jimmie could have this kind of money."
"Kate, you bet I want to see them. Can you wait at the station for, say, half an hour? We're in the middle of something urgent here, but I'll be back as soon as I can. Within the hour."
"I have some errands. Could I come where you are?"
"No. Will you leave the books at the station? Meet me there in an hour?"
"I'd rather give them to you."
"Kate, give them to Officer Brennan. He's completely reliable. Those bankbooks are-may be more important than you can guess. You can watch Brennan book them in, watch him put them in the safe. Tell him to make photocopies for you. And Kate, do you know where Jimmie is?"
"Right now? He's… at home. He's-in bed."
"At home? Is he sick?"
"He's-not alone."
"Oh?" There was a long pause, then, "Thank you, Kate. Let me talk to Brennan. I'll see you at the station in an hour. Meantime, be… Don't go home."
"Not likely," she said, laughing. But she felt, suddenly, chilled and shaky.
She nodded to Officer Brennan, and he picked up an extension. She hung up. Why had Harper asked her where Jimmie was? Why wouldn't he assume that Jimmie was at the shop?
In a minute Brennan hung up and came out to the back, his stomach preceding him slightly in the tight shirt. He led her down the hall and into the evidence room. She watched him book in the evidence and make photocopies for her of the bankbook covers and the deposit pages. He stapled them with an itemized receipt on which he listed every detail, names of the banks, the cities and countries, the amounts. She watched him lock the books in the safe with a duplicate of her receipt. The man might be officious, at least sometimes, but he was thorough.
From the police station she drove directly to the Molena Point bank and drew a cashier's check for the forty thousand in their joint savings account. She took that across the street to the Bank of California.
In the cool, high-ceilinged lobby, with its skylights and potted ficus trees, she sat opposite a bank officer at his desk filling out the required cards and forms for an account in her name alone. And, because everyone in Molena Point knew everyone else, she told the young man that she and Jimmie were making some adjustments for tax purposes.
Leaving the bank, she drove north through the village. The sun was pushing up toward noon through a clear blue sky. It was going to be warm, one of those clear sunny innocuous days that, to Californians, sometimes grew tedious by their very bland repetition. Though according to village custom, this kind of grousing was sure to bring on atypical floods, high winds, or earthquake.
She realized she hadn't had breakfast, that she was famished again though she'd stuffed herself so late last night on Clyde's spaghetti and garlic bread. There was a new little restaurant up on Highway One that was supposed to serve light French pancakes, and she headed up Ocean. She'd have breakfast, then drive on up into the hills and sit quietly until time to meet Harper. Take time for a last look at the view she loved; once she was out of town, it might be a long time before she could enjoy the hills again. The morning, despite the sun's brilliance, was still nice and cool. The heat wouldn't descend until afternoon. She drove slowly with her windows down, tasting the salt wind. Going up Ocean she saw patrol cars clustered around the shop, and a shock of coldness hit in her. She pulled over, looking.
The police had blocked off the entry to the shop with two squad cars and some sawhorses, and they had blocked off Haley Street with a patrol car angled across it. An officer stood before the door of the agency showroom, as if to let no one inside. She parked, locked her car, and walked over.
26
The cats crept behind a beam, cringing down as Wark's light swept the attic above them; it returned low, just missed them, flashing over along the top of the heavy timber where they hid.
And suddenly he fired again, into the dark beyond the beam but too close, they heard it ping into the ceiling not three feet from them; it was a wild shot. His light careened on along the base of the slanted roof, searching.
When he failed to find them he fired twice more, wild and uselessly. But he was crawling in their direction, hunching along a narrow joist straight toward them. "Split up," Dulcie whispered. "We can jump him from behind."
"And get blown to confetti."
"Have to make him drop his gun, hit him, and leap away. If he drops it down among those wires, that will give us time while he tries to fish it out."
"I don't think…" He had started to say it was a crazy idea, when, from below in the street, sirens screamed.
Nothing, nothing had ever sounded so good.
Immediately Wark's light went out and they heard him scuttle away, back toward the hole in the ceiling. That earsplitting squad car wail was the finest sound Joe had ever imagined.
Two more sirens screamed from the front of the building, then another from the side street. He could just picture the police units careening up Ocean, converging on the agency-fierce and predatory, all muscle.
They sat up and stretched, and slowly their pounding hearts eased into a gentler rhythm. They heard, below, the big metal gates roll open, and then voices. And, nearer, they heard a thud as if Wark had dropped down, perhaps onto the desk in the office.
"Is he gone?" Dulcie breathed.
"He'd better be. This is no way to spend the rest of your life."
"Short lives," she said shakily.
In a moment they heard the smaller gate to the restaurant rattle, then thuds and voices in a con
fusion of sound, and a shout. Then the whish of the men's room door opening.
When footsteps rang on the tile, they rose and headed for the hole in the ceiling and for civilized company. A click stopped them, a click from the blackness as Wark cocked his revolver. They dropped and crept away; he was still with them.
The ladder rattled, someone was climbing, likely a cop was climbing up. In another second the guy would stick his head up like a target in a shooting gallery. "Look out!" Joe shouted. "He'll shoot! Keep down!"
Joe didn't think about what he was doing. He had no choice. At his shout, Wark burst out of the blackness half-running, half-crawling. Avoiding the hole into the men's room, he dived for the opening over the office. He was a blur plunging down. They heard him hit the desk, a huge thud, hit the floor, heard him running, and heard a door bang.
They approached the opening and looked over.
The office was empty.
Behind them the ladder clinked again, the rattling of footsteps on the metal rungs.
Joe knew he'd blown it, that the fuzz would be very interested in where that voice came from. Well, so the cops had heard a shout. So there was no human up here. So, what cop was going to believe that was a cat shouting?
Another clink, and another. And Clyde's head appeared rising up through the lit hole.
Joe gaped. He leaped, piling into Clyde, licking his face, purring so hard he choked.
"What the hell? What are you doing up here? What are you so excited about? That was you who shouted! I heard the guy run, heard him jump down." Clyde held him away. "Are you hurt? I don't see any blood. Where's Dulcie?" They heard running and shouting from the laundry, and two more shots were fired somewhere below.
"What the hell's going on, Joe?"
Joe swallowed.
He'd sworn he could never talk face-to-face with Clyde. He stared at Clyde, frozen. He stared until they heard officers' voices ring out from below in the restaurant.
They heard the gate slam again, and a car door slam. Then from behind Joe, a soft voice said, "When are we going to get out of here? I'm tired of this crawl hole. I'm tired of cobwebs on my ears, and I'm tired of being shot at." And Dulcie strolled into the light.
Cat On The Edge Page 18
