Cat Pay the Devil (17 page)

She didn't ask him into the living room, didn't ask him to sit down. She led him along the hall to a little bedroom on the first floor. “You'll have to use the guest bath,” she said, pointing back toward the bath near the front door. “I'll set out a towel. You'll find sheets in the top drawer of that dresser. When you leave in the morning…” She gave him a hard look. “What makes you think you can get a motel tomorrow if they're all full tonight?”

“I made me a reservation,” he lied. “It's Sunday night, some of them tourists don't leave till Monday morning. I got me a room for then, all fit and proper, soon as they're made up, so I won't burden you.”

Looking unconvinced, Lilly turned and left him.

He found sheets in a drawer, and spread them on the bed, listening hopefully for the sound of Lilly going upstairs to her room. He waited for a long time, but when he went to use the bathroom, the reading light was still on in the living room and he could hear the clicking of her knitting needles,
could see her seated shadow reflected against the wall between two devil masks, her shadow hands twitching and jumping as she cast on stitches or whatever the hell knitters did.

He had to brush his teeth with his finger and lavender hand soap. Didn't know why he bothered. The towel she'd left him was thin and had a hole in one corner. Why the hell didn't she go on to bed? Returning irritably to the fusty little bedroom, he fidgeted and stewed, sat on the bed with the pillows behind him and thought about Cage's stash.

He and Cage had brought most of it up from Central America packed in boxes of old books that were heavy. And the boxes stacked in with furniture, in one of them big, metal overseas containers. They'd had a regular mover in; that was when Sue left Greeley and he'd given up the apartment.

When they got back to the States and the stuff was delivered to where Cage was staying in the city, they'd made sure it was all there, then tossed the books in half a dozen Dumpsters. Sold the furniture. Cage said maybe some of them books was valuable, but how valuable could a bunch of old musty books be?

They'd waited a long time, years, for gold to hit eight hundred again, because that should nudge their prices up, too, but it never got that high. Inflation was up, though, and that was good. Then finally they'd lost patience and started making plans. Cage was inside at the time, he wrote that when he got out, they'd do it. If Greeley'd fly up, get his half wherever he had it, Cage'd take him to the best fence. Greeley never was much good at that part of it. He'd been good at making the heist, real good, and Cage owed him that, big-time.

Gold was what all them Latin American countries had been about, back in history, gold that brought them Spanish
ships, had nothing to do with saving souls. Inca idols of solid gold near as big as a house, a whole garden made of life-size gold figures and animals, hard for a fellow to believe. Made what he and Cage brought back look like peanuts—but it was still worth plenty if they'd got full price. Fence, and his dealers, everyone took their damn cut.

Still, though, he'd have enough to set him up real nice, all he'd ever want. No more diving; he was tired of working for Panama. Buy him a nice little finca up in northern Panama, couple young Indian girls to do the cooking and warm his bed, a pretty nice retirement.

Sitting on the bed, he waited for over an hour, fidgeting, until he heard Lilly go up the stairs. When he looked out, the living room was dark. Standing in the hall he saw a faint light upstairs, from a room to his left. Returning to his room, he listened for some time more as she moved around above him getting ready for bed, listened to the water running in the upstairs bath. Didn't like to think of that old turkey naked in the bath. Listened until the water gurgled out of the tub, and finally there was silence, sweet, unbroken silence. When he peered again up the stairway, all was dark above. He hoped she was a sound sleeper. Hoped to hell she didn't come sneaking down and catch him. Because if Cage knew he'd searched the house, Cage'd kill him.

But by the time Cage found his stash gone, he, Greeley, would be where Cage wouldn't ever find him. He sure wouldn't find him through the Frisco fence. Greeley wouldn't use him again, he had another contact, had lucked on to that one and had managed it all right; kept that guy under wraps, staked out and waiting. A short layover in Miami, sell the stuff and get his cash, and he was out of the States, where Cage'd never come looking.

W
ilma watched Violet vanish behind the wall and
listened to the soft hush of her footsteps on the bare, hidden stairs, footsteps with, it seemed to her, a stubborn finality. What a hard, cold young woman Violet was, despite her frail looks and uncertain ways. Wilma felt she had made no real connection with Violet, though certainly she'd tried.

Couldn't Violet, with her deep fear of Eddie, relate to Wilma's own fear and to the danger she faced? Wilma had seen no sympathy in her, no recognition of their mutual peril and vulnerability. Certain that she'd lost what might be her one chance for freedom, Wilma felt herself falling into a hopelessness that was not typical of her, that was not the way she looked at life. Cage could return at any moment, and the fear that he would kill her churned in Wilma's stomach so hard that it brought bile to her throat. This was a kind of terror she had never known, nothing like the quick surge of fear that prodded one to action. That defensive fear sharpened a person, honed one's perceptions and one's responses.
Instant, reactive fear was what she should have felt when Cage slipped up behind her undetected and shoved her in the car; her normal fear instinct should have triggered fast action, triggered a counterattack of violence, of the moves and blows in which she had been trained. Instead, she'd caved, had been too slow. And the helpless fear that washed over her now did no good at all.

Leaning backward into the drawer again, she resumed her frantic search for a knife. At one point, she had considered the stove that stood just beside her. It was gas, and she'd thought of lighting a burner, of trying to burn the ropes off. But that was a last resort, a move of terrible desperation. Third-degree burns hurt like hell, and could further incapacitate her.

There had to be another knife, no one could cook with only one. In order to search a drawer, she had to grasp its handle in her tied hands, and twist and hump the chair forward enough to pull the drawer to her; and the space was so small she couldn't turn fully. Digging behind her, she sorted through unseen kitchen implements, a grater, a peeler, pushing them aside. Ladle and measuring spoons jumbled together. As she searched, she listened for sounds from above, and for the sound of the car returning. But suddenly—was that a blade beneath her fingers?

Yes! A paring knife. Small wooden handle, and not very sharp. Excitedly, she drew it out.

Holding it by the handle, the tip of the blade pointed toward her, she rested her bound wrists on the edge of the open drawer and, with that support, attempted awkwardly to slip the blade between her wrist and her bonds. It took her many tries. The knife kept slipping, she couldn't get a grip that would allow her to twist it in the right direction. Twice she dropped it, but both times was lucky that it fell into the
drawer—she daren't drop it on the floor or she'd never be able to retrieve it. Working stubbornly, and cutting herself several times, she was able at last to slip the blade between wrist and rope in a way that gave her traction. The relief of that small accomplishment was amazing. She was sawing away at the rope, intent on gaining more pressure, when Violet spoke, making her jump.

She hadn't heard the young woman come down, no smallest sound on the stairs this time. She twisted around to glance across the room at her.

Violet stood beside the woodstove watching her with a cold resolve that had not been evident earlier. Its meaning was indecipherable; clearly the girl had made up her mind. But to do what?

Had Violet decided to release her, had she found the courage to run? Or did she mean to escape alone, leaving Wilma, thinking that the returning men would be too preoccupied with their captive to come after her?

Wilma didn't dare speak, the girl looked as unstable as quicksand. Looked as if, at one word, she could come apart. Then, who knew what she might do? Watching Violet, she sawed hard at the frayed strands and jerked, trying to break free—but swiftly Violet moved across the room, reached over Wilma, and snatched the knife away. Jerked it from her grip, bending Wilma's wrist and thumb back with more strength than she'd thought the girl possessed. The pain was sickening. Had Violet learned that excruciating trick from Cage, or from Eddie? As Violet stood gripping the knife, Wilma remained still, her head bent, fingering the frayed rope. Waiting.

When Violet leaned over her again to examine the rope, Wilma grasped it and jerked—she felt it break. Her hands were free. She lunged, tackling Violet, the chair still tied to
her. They went down in a heap, Wilma on top tangled in the chair. Lying across Violet, holding her down, she wrestled the knife from the girl. And with her knees hard in Violet's belly, she managed to cut free her ankles, then to free herself from the chair.

Twisting around, forcing the chair down on top of Violet, she untangled herself as Violet flailed and fought. With the cut rope she jerked Violet's hands behind her and tied her wrists, then pushed the chair away. Sitting on top of Violet, she pinned Violet's kicking legs and used the other piece of rope to tie them.

Leaving Violet secured for the moment, she rummaged through the kitchen drawers until she found a jumble of tools. Pliers, screwdrivers, a wrench, a roll of black electrical tape, even a flashlight that worked. Pulling open the last drawer, she withdrew a hank of old, worn clothesline cord.

Taping Violet's wrists, she tied the cord around them and around the girl's waist, then freed her ankles.

“Get up.”

Violet didn't move.

Wilma shoved her. “You're getting out of here whether you want to or not. What you do later is your business. Is there a car? Where are the keys?”

“They took the Jeep. Both cars are there. I don't have keys, Eddie never leaves keys. He won't let me have a car when he's gone.”

“You're lying. Where are the keys?” Wilma crossed the room and looked out; there was just enough light left to make out two cars parked close to the house. Neither was new, but new enough that they might be hard to hot-wire. She could make out a third vehicle farther away, by a shed. “That old station wagon—does that run?” It was one of the big old fifties models, with tall tail fins that made her think of a shark.

“It runs.”

“Are you sure? Does it have gas?”

“He keeps it full, he uses it to…He keeps it full. But if we take a car, they'll find it and they'll kill us both.”

“You think I have a choice? I stay here, I'm dead anyway.” Wilma stuffed the tools in her pockets. Holding the flashlight like a weapon, she jerked Violet up. “Get moving.”

Violet was dead white as Wilma forced her across the room and out, down the wooden steps; hurrying across the dirt yard, she shone the light on the old station wagon. It was thick with dirt over the rust. She wondered what Eddie used it for. Forcing Violet backward against the rear of the car, her hands taped behind her, she tied her to the bumper with the long clothesline, and then wound that through the bumper, and tied her feet together.

Jerking the rusting driver's door open, Wilma lay down on her back under the steering wheel and got to work. Thank God Clyde and Max, when they were wild young men, during their rodeoing days, had taught her to hot-wire a car.

It took her maybe five minutes, making sure it was in neutral and the brake on. She felt a crazy thrill when, crossing the two bare wires, she made the engine turn over. Carefully she goosed the gas pedal until she had it running smoothly, then she slid out.

Untying Violet, but leaving her hands and feet bound, prodding her with the flashlight, she made her hop around the car and into the passenger seat.

“Stay there on your own side, Violet, and don't mess with me. This flashlight, if I hit you in the right place, can be just as lethal as a gun. Where did they go in the Jeep?” She had thought, when the men left, that their vehicle hadn't headed down the hill in the direction of the coast, that they'd turned away behind the house, moving south.

“Another road,” Violet said shortly.

“Where? What road? Where did they go?” She prodded her so hard that Violet sucked in her breath. “You might as well tell me. Whether you want it or not, I'm giving you your freedom.”

“A narrow path through the woods,” Violet said sulkily. “Only the Jeep can get through there.” She looked away at a ninety-degree angle to the wider road that Wilma could make out in the darkness, to a narrow line snaking away into the woods. That would be the bridle trail where Charlie rode sometimes. The big station wagon wouldn't get ten feet along that track before it was stuck. Backing around, she took off down the wider road, moving without lights beneath the paler sky, down through the black land that fell away before her. This had to be the old dirt road she knew, that should lead to the Pamillon estate.

“Where does this go, Violet?”

“To the village. To the ruins, first. You know where that is?”

“What ruins? How far?” Wilma felt her heartbeat quicken.

“Parmean or something.”

“Pamillon?”

“I guess. All fallen down.”

Wilma's spirits soared. She wasn't lost, she was close to home, she was free and had wheels. She just wished she had a more formidable weapon. Cage and Eddie would be after them soon enough, the minute they got back and found them gone. “Where did they go in the Jeep? When will they be back, Violet?”

“I don't know where. It's just woods and then ranches. I don't know what they're doing and I don't know when they'll come back. Maybe they won't, maybe they'll hit the highway somewhere and keep going.” Violet glanced at her. “Maybe they've run.”

Wilma hoped so. “Can we get through the ruins to a main road, is this road clear?”

“They come and go this way. There are side roads, but I don't think they use them.”

“Do you know the ruins? Know how to get around in there?”

Violet didn't answer.

Wilma didn't know what had made her ask that, what had made her think that Violet would wander there. But, from her sullen silence, maybe she did know her way among the fallen walls. Wilma glanced at her but returned her attention quickly to the dark and narrow twisting road. Dare she try lights, at least the parking lights? She knew there were drop-offs here, with nothing to mark them.

But the tiniest moving light would be a beacon, a dead giveaway. As she came around a sharp curve she hit a rock, jolting them so hard she was knocked sideways in the seat. Before she could see anything, they hit another. She thought they had gone off the road, but then the way smoothed again.

“Washed-out places,” Violet said shakily; she kept watching behind them, peering into the dark, looking for Cage and Eddie. The next bump was so violent they went skidding, the car sliding and tilting. As Wilma steered into the skid, Violet slid into her, using the momentum to ram Wilma into the wheel, making her lose control. Fighting the wheel, she felt the ground drop; the car fell with a terrible jolt, they were over the side, plummeting. The car came to a halt, hitting on its side, ramming her head against the window.

Violet lay on top of her, both of them jammed against the dash and the driver's door, which was now underneath them. She couldn't turn off the key—there was no key—and the engine was roaring. Afraid of fire, she shoved Violet aside
hard, and jerked the wires loose every which way, breathing a shaking sigh when the engine quit.

She thought they must be on a ledge. She was afraid to move, the car was still rocking. The only sound was a faint ticking as the vehicle settled. Violet had fallen back on top of her, and lay there, limp. Wilma thought she was knocked out cold. She came to life suddenly, scrambling up and lunging for the passenger window above them, stepping on Wilma's shoulder to boost herself through. Wilma didn't grab her, she let her go, she didn't want a battle that would send them over. The car rocked alarmingly as Violet leaped away. She heard Violet run, her footsteps soon lost in the night.

Gingerly Wilma lifted herself out from under the steering wheel and groped for the flashlight, sure she wouldn't find it. She almost jumped when she felt its rubber-covered handle. Gripping it, envisioning the car balanced precariously on the edge of a cliff, she stood up slowly on the driver's door, then stepped up into the crack between the two seat backs. As her head and shoulders cleared the passenger-side open window, the car teetered.

She didn't see Violet in the darkness, didn't hear her; now there was no sound. She could see, above her and above the edge of the drop, the jagged ghosts of broken walls.

Before climbing out she felt in the glove compartment carefully, not expecting to find anything useful, praying for a gun but knowing that Eddie and Cage weren't that careless.

She found nothing but papers, probably old repair bills. Switching on the flashlight for an instant, shielding it in her cupped hand, she took a quick look at the cliff.

The earth looked solid enough beneath a black mass of boulders, she could see no dark empty spaces yawning directly below her. Switching off the light, she eased herself
out the window onto the door. As she crept onto the fender, the car shifted. She slid to the ground landing among the boulders, thought it would fall again, but then it settled. Closing her eyes until they adjusted again to the dark, she climbed up the rocks that loomed black above her, her every muscle already aching and sore.

She stood at last on the road feeling incredibly free—free of ropes, free of the precarious car, free, for the moment, of Violet; hindered now only by the jabbing pain in her leg and hip, and by the aching sting of her cuts and bruises. Beneath the paler sky the land lay inky black; if she was indeed above the village, and if that faraway silver line was the sea, then those tiny clustered lights might be Molena Point. The thought of
home
had never seemed so safe and dear.

But she wasn't there yet. Alone and hurting, she set off limping down the dark road thinking longingly of a hot shower, a stiff drink, and a rare steak—and entertaining herself with what she'd like to do to Cage Jones. But then her thoughts turned to Dulcie. She prayed that the little cat, in her panic when Wilma didn't come home, hadn't gone off alone looking for her.