Cat Bearing Gifts (17 page)

Down and down on silent paws

Deep into the earth I go

Down and down through caverns black

Stones hang like spears above me

Green light glows from granite sky

Harpies fly above me

Castles fall around me

Farms lie dead around me

Herd beasts dead around me

Bones all white around me

What was grand is lost

Twisted into ruin

Magic shattered now

Used too long for evil

What was loved is lost

Gone, that earthen magic

Gone, those magic people

Used too hard for evil

Used by greed and power

By the cold hard lust of evil

She didn't know if it was a good poem or without value. She didn't care, she needed to write it. She wrote quickly, changed a few words, and then sat reading the lines back to herself, her small cat being filled with sadness for that land where, now, neither she nor Kit would ever want to venture.

23

I
RAN OVER TO
look at the leaky plumbing,” Ryan said, pulling into Debbie's weedy driveway beside the station wagon. The dark-haired young woman was unloading her grocery bags, and at Ryan's voice she turned, startled, a secretive look crossing her face, replaced at once by a too bright smile. Ryan smiled back, and killed the engine. She had, for the last few minutes, been sitting up the street in her truck beneath some overhanging juniper branches, watching Debbie haul a baby stroller out of the back, open it up and pile grocery bags into it. She had also seen, the instant Debbie opened the back of the wagon and turned away, a flash of red and of gray leap out, the two tomcats streak across the drive behind the woman and disappear up the pine tree near the front door. What was that about? Now the cats crouched on Debbie's roof, peering over; Ryan didn't dare look up at them, she kept her eyes on Debbie.

“You came to fix the leak now?”

“I came to look at it,” Ryan said. “To see what's needed.”

“Go on in, then. It's the kitchen sink,” Debbie said, turning away, busying herself with the stroller.

Ryan went in, watching through the kitchen window, pretending to be occupied with the faucet as Debbie wheeled the stroller up to the little porch. Hauling it backward up the three steps with its heavy load of groceries, she passed on by the kitchen and parked it in the bedroom. She returned with three bags of groceries, leaving the rest in the stroller. Outside the window, the two tomcats seemed just as interested as Ryan was. She watched them scramble down the pine again, to pause among the lowest branches, intently looking in. Ryan, herself, had no chance to look at the remaining bags, under Debbie's gaze.

Returning to the truck, she let Rock out, snapped on his long line so he could roam the yard, and tied that to the pine tree. He didn't like being tethered; but she didn't like his propensity to take off suddenly on some track he considered too urgent to ignore. Already he was sniffing over some scent, his ears and tail up. Maybe a deer that had been in the yard, or a raccoon. Whatever had crossed the dry grass, Rock had that look in his eyes that told her she'd better keep him under control. The Weimaraner's long generations of breeding for a powerful and single-minded hunter and tracker had produced a strong-willed individual. This, plus his lack of any early training, had produced a dog eager to outstubborn human orders in deference to his lust for the hunt.

Rock was eighteen months old when he and Ryan had found each other; he'd been roaming stray in a wild stretch of country north of Molena Point. Unclaimed and untrained, his habits already indelibly formed, he came to her defiant and headstrong, with a burning power to do as he pleased. She had worked hard to redirect his talents, sometimes with the help of the gray tomcat. It was Joe Grey who had taught Rock to track on command, to heed to his handler and stay irrevocably on the scent when seeking a felon or a lost child. Joe's method of tracking with nose to the scent himself as he gave his commands, could not have been accomplished by any human trainer. Now when the gray tomcat spoke, the big dog paid attention; though still, Ryan's own commands were not always heeded.

As she moved on inside again, Debbie was just coming out of the bedroom. Saying nothing, Ryan stepped past her into the little room crowded with its twin beds. The loaded stroller stood against the far wall, five grocery bags lined up on the floor beside it, a loaf of bread sticking out, and boxes of crackers. Behind her, Debbie had returned nervously to the kitchen as if hoping she would follow. Ryan gave the bags a cursory look and followed her back into the kitchen where she turned her attention to the sink. She knew what was in the bags, but right now she was too tired to play games; it had been a long day, after a sleepless night.

She and Clyde, after leaving Lucinda's house, had dropped Pedric's duffel off at the hospital. Charlie was still there, waiting with Pedric for the ICU doctor, and she seemed to have everything in hand. Pedric was in better spirits, now that he was back in the village, and soon Ryan and Clyde had gone on, stopping for a bite of lunch in the hospital café before heading home, sitting at a small table beside the café's big reflecting pond. They'd left Rock in the truck, snoring away in the backseat. The shallow water and plashing fountain shone brightly where the sun struck down through a great, domed skylight. Waiting for their order, they'd watched the red and black koi fish, as strikingly patterned as Japanese kites, dashing mindlessly through the water from one onlooker to the next, hoping for a handout. After lunch she'd dropped Clyde at the shop and headed on for Debbie's, having promised to look not only at the faucet but at an electrical plug that had stopped working.

She had never been fond of Debbie, she hadn't seen her since their art school years in San Francisco, then suddenly Debbie had gotten in touch. She wrote that she was moving down from Eugene, was divorced and claimed to be destitute, and was needing a place to stay. Joe Grey said, “Demanding a place to stay,” and that was closer to the truth. It was Joe who discovered Debbie wasn't broke at all but had a nice wad of cash tucked away in her suitcase. Between Debbie's patronizing ways, and Vinnie's rudeness and loud tantrums, her sojourn in the Damens' guest room had lasted one night. Neither Ryan, Clyde, nor Joe himself wanted her there. Rock, who liked most children, kept his distance from Vinnie, his lip curling in warning, though he let Tessa climb all over him.

Unwilling to put Debbie out on the street, in desperation they had offered her the empty cottage which, later in the year, they intended to remodel. She was to clean up the cottage and the yard, and do as many repairs as she was capable of, under Ryan's direction. So far, she had pulled a few weeds, which she'd left lying in a limp pile in the driveway, and had made a poor stab at painting the one bedroom, abandoning half-used paint cans in the garage with their lids off, leaving the unused paint to grow dry and rubbery. As for any temporary plumbing repairs, the woman was sullen and evasive. “A busy mother,” she told Ryan, “with two children to support and care for shouldn't have to be doing a man's work.” Ryan wasn't sure what a man's work consisted of, but Debbie seemed to know, and the prospect of pliers and wrenches didn't appeal.

She glanced in again at the loaded grocery bags. If they had held only groceries, one would have to wonder where Debbie had gotten the money for such a large purchase. Debbie'd said she was looking for work, and sometimes Ryan did see her go out dressed as if for an interview. But so far no job had materialized, not even the most menial employment—though Debbie didn't think much of cleaning houses or bagging groceries, those pursuits didn't fit her idea of a suitable lifestyle.

It was Joe Grey who had first told her about the shoplifting. “How long,” he'd said, “before someone peeks under that pink blanket, baby-talking, and finds themselves prattling on to a pile of soup cans and designer jeans?” But neither Ryan nor Joe wanted to blow the whistle on Debbie. There seemed no way to nail her and yet leave Tessa unscathed. Examining the faucet, she saw it would be better to replace it. The thing was shot, several parts loose, its joints rusting beneath the chrome. Knowing how particular her men were, she thought maybe she'd do this job herself, just a temporary fix. She and Clyde had bought the house to remodel, they expected to replace the ancient plumbing at some point.

The building was old but solid, its frame was good and the ceilings were nice and high. It was hard to lose money on a spec house in Molena Point, particularly in a hillside location with a view down over the village—hard to lose, she thought, once the economy turned around. She hoped that
would
happen soon. Stepping outside, she fetched her tool belt from the backseat of the truck. Moving into the garage, to the junction box, she turned off the master breaker so she could look at the malfunctioning wiring. As she stepped out again, Debbie came down the steps headed for her car. Leaning in over the open tailgate, she dragged a rumpled blanket heavily toward her. Ryan saw Tessa stir within, knuckling at her eyes as if she'd been asleep, heard her grumble as Debbie lifted the child out.

“She was in the car all the time you . . . shopped?” Ryan asked.

“I parked in the shade, she slept the whole time,” Debbie said innocently.

“How long?”

“How long, what?”

“How long was she in the car? She looks flushed.”

“She has a little cold,” Debbie said. Saying no more, she headed for the house carrying the child, the blanket dragging behind her along the drive. Ryan followed her into the bedroom, watched her tuck Tessa under the covers, and then move to the kitchen where she poured canned orange juice into a glass. Moving to the bed, Ryan put a hand on the child's forehead. She was warm from the car but didn't seem fevered. Behind her, Debbie had set the juice on the dresser and was rooting in the closet. Turning, she threw a blanket over the stroller as if that were a handy place to put it down, letting it trail across the grocery bags.

“Shall I give her the juice?” Ryan asked.

“I'll do it.” Debbie grabbed the glass, pulled Tessa up, propped her against the pillow. The child drank sulkily, but she drank it all. Looking past her mother, up at Ryan, her resignation was far beyond her years. When Debbie spoke to her she didn't respond. When Debbie turned away, Ryan smoothed the child's pale, damp hair. Tessa gave her the tiniest smile and reached to touch her hand.

But then she turned over again and burrowed down beneath the cotton spread. As Ryan stood watching her, Pan appeared at the window, looking in and glancing warily toward the kitchen where Debbie had disappeared. Deciding the coast was clear, he remained there watching the sleeping child, disappearing only when Debbie's footsteps approached again, vibrating on the hard linoleum. Standing by the dirty window Ryan could see him below her on the brown lawn, but instead of racing away he stood frozen, looking up along the side yard to the street in front, his ears twitching uneasily.

When she looked along the side of the house, all she could see was a slice of empty street and part of a ragged cottage on the other side, crowded by overgrown cypress trees. Below her Pan turned and looked up into her eyes with a smug little cat smile, and when she looked at the street again, the nose of a squad car was slipping into view, the black-and-white moving slowly along, the young officer at the wheel scanning the driveways and cottages. Beside him she could see Officer Brennan's heavy profile.

When she turned, Debbie stood behind her, occupying herself with the child. “It's just a cold,” Debbie said, “she'll be better tomorrow.” She leaned to straighten Tessa's covers, and when Ryan looked back out the window, Pan had gone and the squad car had moved on, she could see it moving away up the hill toward Emmylou's. She spotted Pan and Joe two roofs over, keeping pace with it as it cruised slowly along.

Turning to Debbie, she said, “I guess nursery school doesn't want Tessa there, with a cold.”

Debbie nodded. “So much sickness.”

“She'll be going back, when she's well?”

Debbie looked up at her, her expression flat. “The nursery school's too expensive, I took her out. Why doesn't the village have a free preschool? Not everyone can afford . . .”

“So, you take her with you when you . . . shop,” Ryan said, “and leave her in the car?” Moving toward the stroller, she lifted the loaf of white bread and a box of Sugar Pops from the nearest grocery bag. Beneath, neatly folded, lay an assortment of cashmere sweaters, cherry red, turquoise, lime green, all still bearing their sales tags.

“Why would you buy so many sweaters, when you don't have a job, Debbie? When you can't pay for nursery school, or pay rent?”

“They were on sale, they were really a great bargain.”

“Debbie, you have a choice here. Do you think that squad car was cruising this street by accident?”

Debbie just looked at her.

“You can clean up your act, take these things back to the store, and stop any further stealing. Or you can move out, find somewhere else to live. We can't let you stay here,” she said, trying to be gentle, “when we know you're shoplifting, when Clyde and I are connected to MPPD. Our friendship with Chief Harper and Charlie, and the fact that my uncle Dallas is one of Harper's detectives, doesn't leave any choice. You will quit stealing and return every item you stole to the store it came from. You can beg them not to report you, not to press charges. If you don't do that—and I'll know whether you did—you will be out of here by the end of three days.

“If you do neither, I'll report you. You'll be arrested and most likely held, unless you can make bail. Your two girls will be taken to Children's Services.” It broke Ryan's heart to say that, to think of the children being taken away. She didn't tell Debbie she meant to talk with the store owners. She knew several of them and was hoping, if Debbie followed through, they wouldn't press charges. Turning back to the grocery bags, she went through them all, writing down in the back of her purse calendar every stolen item, its brand, and the name of the store as it was printed on the price tag. Maybe those two officers already had that information, maybe they had already made Debbie when they'd followed her, or maybe not. Maybe they were just cruising, keeping an eye on this problem neighborhood with its empty cottages and foreclosures.