Cat Chase the Moon

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  But Seaver barely looked their way. He went out the first back door, through the workroom, through the second door to the garage. They heard its door slide up, and in a minute heard his car start, heard it back out. Where was he going this time of night?

  When the garage door had gone down again Courtney said, “He goes out late sometimes. If his wife is dead, maybe there are other women.”

  Dulcie, squirming out from under the pillows, said, “Maybe there are other women anyway.” Her daughter was growing up, she needed to know how humans led their lives. They were not the same as cats—as speaking cats. She crawled out from under, and licked Courtney’s ears and face as if the calico were still a small kitten, and she cuddled Courtney as they settled down. “Come now, sleep. You can do nothing about Seaver—not just now. And your dream . . . It was only a dream, Courtney, and soon it will vanish,” and she could only hope the source of the dream was like that, like steam from a kettle, that it would hang in her memory for a few moments, then dissolve into nothing and go away.

  But Courtney’s dream had been so real. She snuggled against Dulcie, trying to cling only to her mama’s comforting ministrations; and at last, under Dulcie’s mothering, the terror did begin to fade, the fear and the screaming horse to slide away, until she began to feel safe again, and she knew that her daddy was safe, that he was with Charlie, and safe; and she began to feel sleepy and soft once more. Dulcie watched her child until all the fear was gone, until she slept.

  Earlier, when the medics had come for Nevin, he still lay hunched up, his leather jacket twisted around him—and Joe Grey slipped in through the open stall door for a look. Atop Nevin’s earlier wounds, received in his father’s kitchen, a bloody tattoo of hoofprints marked his neck, and his left cheek was already swelling. There was a long wound on his chest where the horse’s shoe had torn down his shirt. His leather coat had a ripped side pocket with a pale cream envelope spilled out, hundred-dollar bills scattered thick across the straw bedding. Joe Grey’s idea to trap Nevin had proceeded on its own, without his help; yet a sudden shame held the tomcat as his belated conscience kicked in: this might be the result he’d hoped for, but he hadn’t planned on Nevin being hurt this bad—Joe really didn’t care so much about Nevin’s condition, he looked like he’d live to stand trial. But the way things had turned out could have gotten Charlie hurt, bad, and that did give the tomcat a guilt trip.

  When the medics entered, the two big dogs dropped down at Charlie’s command, and were quiet. They felt certain that it was their barking that had saved the day. At the far end of the paddock, the stud was nibbling grass. He’d worked off his rage, for the moment. But when he saw McFarland and Crowley enter the stall to photograph Nevin and collect evidence, his ears went flat and he headed fast for the closed paddock doors. When Charlie spoke to him, he quieted. She walked into the paddock carrying a small bucket of oats; a halter with a stud chain hung over her arm. The black horse put his ears up listening to the rattle of grain in the bucket, he gave Charlie a more kindly look and came right to her. Greedily he ate the oats, gave her a friendly nudge, and settled down again.

  “That’s better,” she said. She shut the door to the paddock, locking him out of the stall as two of the same young medics who had rescued Zebulon hurried in, ragging Charlie for making a busy night; in fact it was nearly morning, the moon almost gone, its last gleam dull and fading to nothing out across the face of the sea.

  Moonlight gleamed on the locked glass doors of Seaver’s Antiques where Courtney had settled down, putting her fear away, feeling now that her daddy was safe; and her mama was right there cuddling and calming her. Dulcie did not say, For a great big, grown kitten, you are as spooky as a wildcat. Dulcie had no idea whether Courtney’s sudden alarm had sprung from some keen feline telepathy—another wonder of the kitten’s amazing nature; or only from too much storytelling. But all in all, good and bad, the sun would soon rise, and wherever Seaver had gone was his own business.

  And if, Dulcie thought, the weeks to follow were filled with more puzzling situations than a cat wanted to deal with, if no two events seemed to fit together—and then if all of a sudden they all did fit, smooth as a paw in a mitten, wouldn’t that be fine.

  But who, she thought, would be responsible for that? The skill of the cats themselves and of the cops? Or, she wondered, a power greater than theirs?

  15

  On the night that Buffin’s patient slipped away from the convalescent home, when the young cat woke to find Maurita gone, he was more than ashamed. He knew that she was healing, that the nurses had had her up during the day, walking with her. He felt so close to her, could feel her getting stronger. He could feel her needing him, could feel that she was happier. If she had seen the man again, why hadn’t she rung the nurse?

  She had a corner room, small but with heavily mirrored windows looking out on two sides, her own bathroom, a little desk and a phone. If she’d seen the prowler again—even if he couldn’t see much through that heavy, prisonlike mirror—why hadn’t she grabbed the phone and called the cops? She could speak that much, even if her voice was garbled.

  On this night when he didn’t appear, she had crept completely under the covers, and they slept peacefully. But even in sleep, something within Buffin remained focused on Maurita, stubbornly maintaining the mysterious strength that burned within him, to ease her, helping her to rest, to heal in ways that he did not understand. He was just a plain buff-colored kitten with nothing special about him, yet he could feel the sickness and pain in someone, in an animal, in a human, and soon, if he gave himself to them, if he put all his soul into them, he could feel the patient slowly, slowly growing stronger.

  But now, tonight, when he came half awake, chilled, and heard no breathing beside him, felt no warmth there, he woke fully. Maurita was gone. The patient he had grown to love, with whom he had spent cozy days and nights, wasn’t there. Maurita was not in the bed.

  She was not in the bathroom, that door was open, the room dark, he could hear no sound from within.

  But the door to the hall was open, and in the room across the way where a gleam of moonlight shone in, where the nurses and attendants hung their dark blue scrubs and extra sweaters, a closet door stood open. He could see where hangers had been pulled back, could see Maurita’s nightgown lying on the closet floor—and he heard the front door open. The big, main door that led past the admitting desk and outdoors. At first he heard some scraping and rattling, then heard the lock give; she had found where they hid the key. He was out of bed on the nightstand reaching a paw to the phone. He started to punch 911, then instead called the Firettis. He had learned early from his parents how urgent it was to remember phone numbers—and had learned from Kit her tricks of concentration that set facts and imprinted stories and numbers forever in her head. Although she was fluffy brained sometimes in her wild conversations, the information she meant to remember was imprinted as solid as hieroglyphs carved in stone.

  In the Firetti cottage, the phone rang only once, John answered half awake.

  “Maurita’s run away, out the front door. I’ll follow her, but can you follow me?” Buffin dropped the phone and raced out the door tracking Maurita’s scent.

  Pausing in the shadows, he couldn’t see her on the street. So slim and beautiful, with that long black hair, how could he miss her? He followed her trail mixed with the smell of the uniform she’d taken from the closet, and of the borrowed nurse’s shoes. Followed her down the sidewalk clinging to the dark side of the convalescent home, clinging to the next building, then across a yard where she couldn’t help but be seen in the moonlight—but she had already passed.

  He followed her borrowed scents among the shadows of peaked roofs that further darkened the street—but here came a car driving slowly. Its lights picked her out, and Buffin raced after her. He wanted to shout that this was the Firettis’ car, that they had come to help her. How many times, in Buffin’s life to come, would he fight the terrible urge to yell out
human words? To cry out, Stop! Wait, please! To yowl out an urgent message that he dare not utter?

  And now, behind Buffin came Striker running and scenting out, both young cats wanting to jump on her shoulder, to tell her they came to help, tell her the Firettis wanted to help her escape the prowler. John pulled up beside her and got out, he reached kindly to stop her, taking her hand. “It’s all right, Maurita, we’ll take you where you want to go.” But then here came the cops.

  Maurita froze, surrounded by the Firettis’ car and two patrol cars in the narrow street, the drivers jumping out facing her, their holstered guns in clear sight and John holding her, and she didn’t know what to do. Her whole being was still traumatized by her near murder, and then her attacker prowling, trying to look in the windows. Now, she could only stand shivering.

  The last of her bruises shone dark in the car lights. Her long black hair was tangled, covering her lumpy ear. The cats could see the stitched-up scar down the other ear where the one earring had been ripped away. John Firetti still held her hand but he was as gentle with Maurita as he would be with a tiny animal, gentle and kind; he put his other arm around her shoulder so she wouldn’t run away.

  Only slowly did her dark, frightened eyes look directly at the doctor and the two officers. Only reluctantly did she warm to the kindness in their faces. She watched Mary Firetti step out of the car, and Mary, too, drew her closer.

  Leaning against Mary, Maurita said, “There was a man, looking in the windows. Back and forth, but I don’t think he could see in. When, tonight, he wasn’t there, I knew I had to get away . . . I know him . . . I need . . . I need to see Captain Harper.”

  The Firettis didn’t know why she hadn’t called the station, just as Buffin had wondered. Both young cats watched as plump Officer Green helped her into the backseat of his squad car. Buffin leaped in and she held him close. Green said, “Captain Harper’s at the hospital, with a prisoner. Detective Davis will take good care of you, she’s on her way to the station. I think Dr. Firetti had better take the cat, there could be a lot of turmoil, he might try to run away. The night clerk . . .”

  John said, “Let me ride in back with Maurita and the cat. Mary can follow us and then take the cat and me on home.” Buffin scowled at him, he didn’t like being called the cat, but when Green grinned and nodded and Dr. Firetti slid in beside Maurita, the tan cat didn’t fuss.

  Mary, in their own car, called Ryan on her cell phone to tell her that Maurita was all right and they were headed for the station.

  In the squad car, Green glanced in the rearview mirror at Maurita. “This isn’t exactly protocol, taking you to jail when you’ve committed no crime. But Davis will see that you’re safe. You two will get along fine, Davis has cats, too, she loves them like babies.” Green didn’t look as if he was comfortable dealing with nervous women. Maurita was still shaking, she did want to get into the station with a female detective who would care for her, who would understand. Her trauma from the grave had not left her, she was not herself again, not yet.

  “Except,” she said, thinking of MPPD, “that man will find me here, the station’s so open. The bars . . .” As if the stalker wanted so badly to finish the job. As if, if she were put behind bars, he could easily see her and shoot her there, would finish her before she was securely hidden. Cops had been shot in other PDs. Prisoners had been shot in front of police stations in sudden gun battles—had been sent to their demise by their enemies while being arrested and before they could talk.

  She wanted to hide somewhere secret and unobserved. The information she had for Max Harper embraced more than one well-timed robbery that her attacker planned. He and his partners had talked over a number of break-ins, all lucrative, all clearly laid out. But Maurita had, as well, evidence on newsworthy robberies in other cities and other countries, cases that distant law enforcement agencies were already working; some spectacular thefts that she had participated in and about which she might offer additional facts.

  Green pulled into a red zone before the station. Mary parked a few spaces away. Both John and Mary walked in with them, Mary hugging Maurita, who in turn hugged Buffin securely in her arms. She glanced over at Green, then looked down at Buffin.

  Green winked at her. “It’ll be all right.” But, entering the station through the bulletproof glass doors, Officer Green and the Firettis paused.

  EvaJean was at the desk, finishing her temporary assignment of night duty. As Green guided them past her, she snapped, “Wait there, Green. What are you doing? You can’t bring a cat in here. And you have to book your prisoners in, you know that. How long have you worked for this department! Fingerprints, forms to fill out. You know the routine,” she said coldly.

  Green kept walking, past the desk and down the hall, one hand lightly on Maurita’s shoulder.

  “You can’t take a prisoner back there, Green. You have to have identification, fingerprints. Officer Green . . .”

  Green continued to ignore her, his short brown hair catching the overhead light; his uniform had been recently getting too tight. He said it was his age, not the lunches he ate. Never glancing at EvaJean, he guided Maurita down the hall to the third door on the left.

  Alerted by EvaJean, Juana Davis stepped out of her office. Her black Latin eyes were like Maurita’s. But Juana was shorter, more squarely built; black uniform, black skirt and hose, black regulation shoes. Davis seldom took liberties like the other three detectives, who might come to work in jeans and a sweatshirt. Why would Max Harper care, when he preferred jeans to his own uniform. Davis’s square face softened as she smiled at Maurita and petted Buffin. Mary, turning to leave, started to take Buffin from Maurita but the tan cat put his paws tighter around Maurita’s neck. She held him close and kissed the kitten on the head.

  “Let him stay,” Juana said, “she needs him.”

  Maurita looked gratefully at Davis as Officer Green and the Firettis headed out. Green, glaring at EvaJean, paused long enough to put a guard in place by Juana’s door.

  In her office, when the Firettis and Green had left, Davis took a look at the thin blue scrubs Maurita was wearing, and pulled a blanket from the closet. She found a pillow, and got woman and cat settled on the love seat. “You’ve been lying in that bed a long time, and then the stress of the escape. A little more rest won’t hurt.”

  Maurita was embarrassed at being so raggedly dressed in the company of a uniformed detective. She pulled the warm blanket over her as Buffin snuggled into it, and she felt a tear come. She was being treated not as some kind of abandoned refugee, but only with thoughtfulness.

  Juana cracked open the door, asked the armed officer who was sitting outside if he would have someone bring them a cup of tea, then she looked back at Maurita. “Do you feel like answering some questions? You’ve told no one who attacked you?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Do you know him?”

  Maurita nodded.

  “And do you know who found you?”

  There was a knock on the door, and a young officer poked his head in, offering two cups of tea and a sweet roll.

  “That’s the strange thing,” Maurita said, accepting the tea and roll gratefully. “I was hurting so bad, and bleeding, I felt like all my insides were broken. I must have passed out. I woke so dizzy. It was dark but when I looked up I saw the moon, then I went dizzy again. I heard a little noise like a branch snapping then heard the man who hurt me running away, I heard a car start and recognized the sound. I tried to look around toward the street but he was gone, I didn’t see anyone.”

  “You knew your attacker. Was it the same man as outside your window, the man you ran from tonight?”

  “Yes. Oh, please. He’s known in the village. He has a record, enough to send him up for life. If he finds out you’re looking for him, with what I know about him, he’ll kill me before you catch him, he’ll keep looking until I’m dead.”

  “He almost did kill you! How can we stop him if you won’t help us? We’ve co
mbed the whole crime scene, not a hair, not a thread or button. His footprints all scuffed in dry grass and sand. It looked like he was wearing some kind of cloth booties over his shoes.” Juana looked at her for a long time. “You know him but you won’t tell me his name—a man who almost buried you alive. What did you do, to put him in such a rage?”

  The young woman was silent. Then, “It’s what I wouldn’t do, that’s why he wanted to kill me. That, and what I know. He’ll kill me because of what I could tell. Don’t be hurt, or angry, but . . . I have to tell Captain Harper first. Do you understand that?”

  “I understand,” Juana said gently. Then, “You said someone else was there, whoever found you. The crack of a branch. You heard someone else, then heard your attacker running. But you saw no one else, no one chasing him?”

  “No one; and that was odd. Maybe someone heard him digging and came to look, and he saw them and ran, but I didn’t see anyone, not from down in the ditch—from in that grave,” she said, shivering. “I heard little sounds but no one was there. How can that be?”

  Juana lifted a second blanket from the closet, and covered her more warmly. She turned off the overhead lights, leaving only her desk light burning. “Rest a little while, until I finish up some work. There’s a guard sitting outside the door. He can call more officers if we need to. Someone will bring fresh clothes for you, and we have a secure place for you to stay.”

  Maurita nodded gratefully; she sipped her tea, set the cup down, closed her eyes and, already half asleep, pulled Buffin close against her cheek.

  She had no idea how long she slept. It was daylight through the office window. She sat up, swallowed down her cold tea and ate the breakfast roll, ate the still warm breakfast that sat on the table, a pancake, bacon, and scrambled eggs, sharing them with Buffin. Were they treating her so well only to get the information about the attacker, or were these cops really that kind? She’d known others that weren’t. Latin American cops that treated you like dirt. She looked up at Juana’s back, her face reflected in the computer screen.