Cat Breaking Free (3 page)

T
he lemon tree outside Chichi Barbi's window was
useless for cover, and Joe had another thorn in his paw. He didn't like blood on his paws—not his own blood. Mouse blood or rabbit blood was fine. Now he had no choice if he wanted to learn anything, unless he clawed at Chichi's door and joined the party. Easing his position in the little tree he stayed on its far side, trying to conceal his white markings as he peered between the leafy twigs and in through Chichi's dirty window.

Her room was not as glitzy as Joe would have expected. But she was only house-sitting. The bedroom had pale blue walls and scarred, cream-colored Victorian furniture arranged on a worn, brown carpet. Chichi and the two men sat bent over the small night table, engrossed in the map. He couldn't see much; wherever he moved, one of the men was in his way. Both had their backs to him, so he had only to feel nervous at Chichi's possible glances.

Both men were fairly young. Smooth necks, smooth
arms, smooth, strong hands. Both looked strong, hard-muscled. The gringo had styled his red hair in a harsh, spiky crew cut. He had masses of freckles on his neck and arms, more freckles even than Charlie Harper. On Charlie, the little confetti spots were bright and charming. On this guy, combined with the spiked hair and macho body language, they were blemishes. He wore a powder-blue T-shirt, and jeans. The back of his shirt proclaimed, “One Sweet Irish Lad.” The Latino guy had straight black hair over his collar, and was the heftier of the two—a Peterbilt truck with legs. His red T-shirt advertised a brand of Mexican beer and had a picture of a cactus. The window glass must be single pane, because now that they had settled back to talk more normally, Joe could catch most of the conversation, which was centered on the map of Molena Point.

The redheaded man pointed to the intersection of Dolores Street and Seventh. “Little restaurant there,” he said. “And a good view from inside the drugstore.”

Good view of what? Joe tried to remember what else was on that corner. A country furniture store, one of those with faux country antiques. A bakery. And an expensive leather and silver shop. When Chichi leaned over to make a little mark at the intersection, she exhibited alarming cleavage. “That's seven,” she said, sitting up. She glanced toward the window, making Joe wince, making him wish for the thousandth time that he was gray all over. Even among the tangle of twiggy branches he had to perch all hunched over to hide his white parts.

Well, but he was only a cat. So she saw him. So who would suspect a cat? And suspect him of what?

When Chichi kept looking, Joe began to fidget. Ca
sually he turned away to wash, watching her obliquely. Only when she seemed to lose interest did he relax.

“You have it all laid out?” she was saying. “You're all set—sure you can handle this?”

The dark man's shoulders stiffened, and he raised his head in defiance. Chichi gave him a fetching smile. “Well of course you can handle it, Luis. You're a pro. A professional.”

Luis's shoulders relaxed. “It's all worked out. Nothing
you
need to worry over.”

Joe saw her temper flare, but it was immediately hidden as she glanced down. The redhead said, “The test run won't hurt nothing.”

Luis glared at him, glancing in the direction of Clyde's house. “Keep your voice down.”

“He won't hear you,” Chichi said. “I don't hear a thing from over there, even when he has company—that woman carpenter. What kind of guy dates a carpenter? She doesn't have any clothes but jeans and muddy boots. So, what do I do for the test run?”

“The usual,” Luis said. “You and Tommie.” He nodded at the redhead. “Watch, listen. Keep count—numbers, direction. You know the drill.”

Tommie punched at the map, picking out another intersection. “There's an alley here, north side of the street. One of them fancy alleys, a bench halfway down it, out of the way.”

Chichi nodded. “I can't wait for the big one.”

Luis laughed. “Just like old times.”

“Better,” she said softly. Joe saw a flicker of impatience cross her face, but it was gone at once. She gave Luis another dazzling smile and touched his hand. “What a blast.” When Chichi looked up at the window
again, Joe pretended interest in a branch above him, stealthily moving higher as if stalking a bird. What was the woman staring at? But then she looked away, and leaned for a moment on Tommie's shoulder. “Just like old times.” That made both men smile.

Joe watched Luis fold the map and stuff it in his pocket. The men rose. He didn't want to leave the tree until they were gone. When at last they swung out the door, he leaped to the roof above them, peering over. Chichi stood in the doorway then moved to the drive, watching them approach their car. Joe followed above them, trotting along beside the metal roof gutter. When they turned to get into the car, he got a better look at their faces.

The redhead, Tommie, might be thirty, his face sharply sculpted, sharp nose, sharply pointed chin, angled cheekbones, his features as harsh as his stiff crew cut. The Latino guy was about the same age, but his broad, tanned face was more pleasant. He seemed to have a built-in smile, the kind of smile that would encourage anyone to like him, the kind of smile Joe seldom trusted. They swung into the brown Plymouth and backed out. As they pulled away, Joe headed back across the roof to the lemon tree, ignoring the voice in his head that said, “Watch your step, tomcat. Keep your eye on Chichi.” Dropping down among the brittle twigs and sparse leaves, he glanced into Chichi's bedroom.

She had moved the night table back into place beside the bed. She was sitting on the bed with two pillows behind her, her feet tucked up, her eyes closed, her face so sad that Joe stared, amazed. What was she thinking? What sad memory filled her?

Likely some scam that went wrong, some crime left uncommitted. But for a long moment, as Joe watched
her, his critical judgment almost softened. For one instant, he almost began to like the woman—until common sense kicked in once more, until the tomcat was himself again, suspicious and judgmental. Well, he
was
a cat, he could be as judgmental as he chose. That was his God-given feline prerogative.

Chichi was quiet for a long time, sitting with her eyes closed, lost in some scenario he'd give a brace of mice to understand. When at last she rose and left the room, moving away through an inner door toward the front of the house, he remained in the tree, thinking.

What was this plan involving the village? What he'd heard could mean anything. Some con game, maybe during a sports event? An onslaught of pickpockets? Nothing he had heard clearly indicated a crime in the planning, but what else could it be? He heard the TV come on from the living room. The daytime soaps? Oh, spare us, he thought irritably.

But the sound of those inane and tasteless melodramas would serve him well enough; and he studied Chichi's window, below him.

It was old, of the double-hung kind. Most such windows had old, round locks, frail or long ago broken.

Clyde would say he was overreacting, that Chichi had committed no crime nor had the trio actually talked about a crime. And maybe he would be right.

Or not, Joe thought. Whatever the truth, in the tomcat's view it was best to have a look, see what he could see.

He had leaped to the sill, his face pressed to the glass, when the distant TV went silent. As he sailed back into the tree, she returned to the bedroom carrying a cup of coffee. Setting down the cup, Chichi
looked right at him, right smack into his eyes. Panicked, Joe dropped into the scruffy grass and fled, his macho dignity forgotten.

Slipping around the corner of the house, he sailed to the top of his own wall and dropped to his own safe patio. That woman scared him, gave him the creeps. Crouched on the barbecue, he looked down at Clyde, who was kneeling beside Rube, feeding him bits of the special diet the doctor had prescribed. The old Lab was not fond of what was best for him. Joe had to agree; most often, anything really good for you tasted like shredded bank statements. Clyde looked up, scowling.

“I take it you were eavesdropping, given your usual nosiness.”

Joe fixed Clyde with a cool yellow gaze.

“Can't she have company without you spying on her? What did you do, watch them through the window?” Clyde would never admit that he, too, might be curious.

Joe shrugged and twitched his whiskers. “Probably tourists, friends visiting, deciding where they want to go, what sights they want to see.” He didn't say any more. He wished the conversation had been more explicit. Why were humans so vague? Whatever was going on, he would prefer not to drag Clyde in. Clyde could be so opinionated.

At Joe's silence, Clyde raised an eyebrow and returned to feeding Rube, giving the sick old dog his full attention, making it clear that he thought Joe was imagining misdeeds where none existed.

It made no difference that Joe, his tabby lady Dulcie, and their young pal Kit had solved innumerable crimes in the village. With Clyde there was always that preliminary unwillingness to accept their skill and exper
tise, an inborn reluctance to face facts. Giving Clyde a cool glance, Joe considered Rube. At the moment, the old Labrador was far more in need of true understanding than was Joe himself.

“He's hurting, Clyde. I don't like the way he's breathing, don't like the way he smells.”

“I just gave him his medication. You know it takes a while to kick in. I called Dr. Firetti again. He's increased the dose by a fourth. Said to watch him, see if I can get him to drink more. I made him some broth, he drank half a cup. Firetti said if he seems no better in an hour, bring him in.”

Joe nodded and curled up next to Rube, pressing against the Lab's warm, black shoulder. Even the feel of Rube's body was different, more rigid and ungiving. The prognosis was not good, he knew that. Death would come; the old dog was dying, and there was only so much any human could do, no matter how skilled and attentive.

He thought about death, about their animal friends and human friends who had died. At one time he'd found the concept one of total emptiness, found it easy to fall into a deep malaise over a loved one's death. Dulcie had taught him differently, Dulcie and her housemate, Wilma. Plus a lot of thinking on his own, a lot of observation—and a few very strange experiences. Yet now when he thought about Rube's impending death, trying to come to terms with it, it was a very long time before he turned his attention again to Chichi Barbi.

W
hen, within the pine woods, the fleeting shadows
grew bolder, Bucky snorted and bowed his neck, nervously staring. Another sprint of shadows flashed among the trees to vanish behind a tumble of deadfalls; then across the leafy carpet, a stealthy creeping so subtle it might be only light shifting among the foliage as the sun rose. If there was something there, it was small and quick. But what kind of small animals would follow them? If they were in Ireland, Charlie thought, she'd imagine being tracked by some impossible mythical creature. Beside her, Ryan and Hanni watched intently. She was glad Ryan hadn't brought her big Weimaraner. Rock was becoming well trained, considering his uncontrolled first-year running wild and unwanted. But he still had moments when his highly bred hunting instincts and keen sense of smell—and his macho nature—tore him away from all commands and sent him, defiant and disobedient, racing maybe fifteen miles or more before Ryan could find him and bring
him home again, the big silver dog worn out, deliciously happy, and not at all contrite. If Rock were here, he'd be running now, chasing those mysterious cats—and cats they were, she felt certain.

Though Rock would not normally hurt a cat, if they ran from him he would chase them. Any dog would. And who knew how far? This wilderness land went on for many miles.

Another shadow flashed through the mottled light, small and swift. If these
were
cats, they were not the three cats Charlie knew. Those three would not follow them secretly, they'd be right out in the open running beside the horses, begging a ride home across their saddles. Charlie had taken the young tortoiseshell up on the saddle with her several times, and the kit quite liked that excitement. Anyway, those three wouldn't be clear out here, miles south of Molena Point. Even on horseback, the riders were still a good hour from home. They were well south of Hellhag Hill, which was as far south, she thought, as Joe Grey or Dulcie ever ventured. Though the kit had come from much farther south when she first found the village, escaping from just such a band of feral cats. Small and hungry and troubled, Kit had taken refuge on Hellhag Hill and there, frightened and nearly starved, she had found the first two humans she'd ever been willing to trust.

Edging Bucky off the trail, Charlie looked back at Ryan and Hanni. “Go on. Whatever is there is small, I don't want to frighten it. I'm just curious. I'll catch up.” And she headed alone into the woods, the buckskin stepping with exaggerated care and snorting. Behind her, the two women moved away, their horses' sorrel and gray rumps bright in the morning. Ryan
glanced back at her once, frowning, then moved her mare up to match the gray's hurrying walk.

Charlie was glad Max wasn't there. If this was the feral band, Molena Point's police chief didn't need any more close encounters with speaking cats. He got plenty of that at home, though all unknowing. It was hard enough to keep the three cats' secret from him, without other sentient cats appearing. Approaching the dense woods, Bucky continued to stare and fuss, but he moved ahead sensibly. Bucky was Max's gelding, he was well trained and reliable. Though he would not so willingly have approached a band of coyotes or an unusually bold cougar. Cougars had attacked several hikers this year and, in one instance, a lone rider, raking and tearing the horse badly before the wounded rider shot him.

The three women were armed against that kind of danger. Three females traveling alone did not, to Max Harper's way of thinking, go into the California wilderness unprotected from some strange quirk of nature or a marauding human. These days, there could be a nutcase anywhere, the wild hills no exception. Particularly with marijuana growers squatting on state land, angry men who would kill to protect their lucrative illegal crops.

Charlie was police-trained in the use of a weapon and not, in any way, hasty or hot-headed. And Ryan and Hanni, having grown up in a law-enforcement family, had been well schooled from an early age. All three carried cell phones, but it would take a while for outside help to reach them. A Jeep could manage these hills, but they were riding the old original highway that had deteriorated over sixty years into a rough dirt track
with patches of broken, washed-out blacktop—an impossible road for any car with only two-wheel drive. She entered the wood where the trees grew thick, the gelding picking his way among deadfalls, dry, rotting invitations to forest fire. Around them, nothing moved.

Where the trees parted sufficiently, thin shafts of light grew brighter as the sun rose. Away at the far side of the hill, the woods dropped into a ravine. Bucky's ears flicked and twisted, and his skin rippled with shivers. She could hear behind her the faint hush of the sea, then a distant click as one of the retreating horses stepped on a pebble. The pine forest was cold; she drew her jacket close. And suddenly for no reason she wanted to turn back. At the same moment, Bucky froze.

Something shone ahead, unnaturally bright between the trees, something glinting like metal. She frowned at the long silver streaks half hidden within the dark bushes.

No rock would glint like that, with those long, straight flashes where the sun shot down. Pushing Bucky closer, booting him deeper in among the crowding pines, she approached the bright gleams where a shaft of slanting sun picked out metal bars.

An animal cage. A trap. A humane trap, made of thin steel bars, not wire mesh as were most such cages. Its top, sides, and back had been covered with a heavy towel so that a trapped beast would settle down in the darkness and not harm itself lunging and fighting. A friend who worked for a cat-rescue group had told her that a trapped cat would fight its cage until it tore off hanks of its own skin, injuring itself sometimes so se
verely that it must be destroyed. The towel did not cover the front of the cage. She could see a cat inside, a big cat, crouching and silently hissing, its eyes dark with fear and hate.

Sliding off Bucky, she knelt to look. The cat fixed her with an enraged glare, a furious stare from keenly intelligent eyes. This was no ordinary cat. He watched her with intent human comprehension, and everything about him was demanding. Much as Joe Grey would have stared if he were caught in a trap. Though she could not imagine such a thing happening. Joe was far too wary.

How had this obviously intelligent creature let himself be caught? The huge, broad-shouldered tom exhibited such a deep and violent rage. This was a wild, rebellious intellect trapped not only in the cage but in a feline body with physical limitations that had betrayed him. With no hands to manipulate that complicated lock, he had no hope of escape. He glared at Charlie as if he would tear her leg off.

His rough coat was a mix of gray and tan and dirty white; his broad, boxy head scarred as if from fighting, his ears torn, his yellow eyes fierce. She had no desire to touch her fingers to the cage to see if this might be a domestic cat, an angry lost soul who might be longing to trust her. There was nothing lost about this soul. Enflamed, bedeviled, not to trust or be trusted.

His eyes never left her. His teeth remained bared in a snarl as lethal as that of any cougar, eyes like an imprisoned convict. She could see him debating how he could best use her, how he could force her to free him. Stepping away from the cage, she put her hand on
Bucky's shoulder, steadying herself against the solid buckskin gelding. She stood silently for a long time watching the cat as he continued his careful assessment of her.

At last she knelt again, and spoke softly, though the other riders were on down the trail. “You run with the wild band. With the band that, almost two years ago, came to Hellhag Hill.” Even as she said it, she thought, alarmed, that if he was one of that band, they might have come back searching for the kit.

But why would they? To take the little tattercoat back into their clowder? Why would they want her back? She had been nothing but an outcast.

Would they want to remove any cat of their kind from human company? Would they hurt Kit to keep their secret?

But that didn't make sense. If that was the case, why had they ever let her stay in the village? Why hadn't they taken her away at once?

Or was this a new and stricter leader? Charlie knew from Kit that the band had been ruled by a tyrant. Was there now a worse dictator, a beast even more predatory and controlling? Kit had said the leaders changed whenever a stronger male killed the old one. Was this tom even more anxious to keep his kind from being discovered? The cat continued to glare.

“If you will talk to me,” she said, “if you will tell me why they trapped you—tell me how they managed to trap you—and if you'll tell me why you are here, I'll set you free.”

His snarl rumbled.

“I promise I'll free you,” she whispered.

In order to free him, she would have to handle the
cage. If he chose, he could slash her fingers to ribbons through the bars before she could ever release the door and push it in.

Rising, she slipped her hoof pick from its little case on the saddle and fished her knife from her pocket. Because Bucky was tense and snorting, she was afraid he wouldn't stay ground-tied. She undid her rope from the saddle and tied him to a deadfall.

Opening her saddle bags, she found her leather gloves and slipped them on. Crouched again before the cage, studying how best to spring the latch, she heard Ryan call her from far up the trail. Oh, they mustn't come back.

“I'm fine,” she shouted. “I'm coming. Give me a minute.”

She had thought at first the cage belonged to one of the animal-rescue groups that trapped feral cats, that gave the cats shots and “the operation,” then turned them loose again. But this cage wasn't like theirs. Though of the same humane design, it had stainless steel bars instead of wire mesh, and a different kind of tripping mechanism, too. A different way to release the door, and a far more complicated latch. But what gave her chills was the bungee cord.

The strong elastic cord was used to keep a trap open for many days so the victim would grow used to going inside for food. Normally, the cord was then removed, and the trap set. An ordinary cat would not realize the difference, but would go on in and trip the trigger, slamming the door shut before it could escape.

But this bungee cord hung in three pieces, frayed apart. It did not look chewed, but tampered with. The door had been sprung while the weakened cord was still in place, and it had pulled apart.

She looked into the tom's blazing eyes. “Was the cord on when you went in? So you thought it still held the door?”

The cat blinked, as if to say yes. It glared, and would not speak.

“You didn't chew it in two? It doesn't look chewed.”

He lashed his tail, reluctantly letting her know he understood, but still unwilling to speak. This was too bizarre, kneeling in the wilderness talking to a trapped cat from whom she fully expected answers. This was a scene out of
Alice,
crazy and impossible.

But it indeed was quite possible.

“Tell me,” she said impatiently. “Just tell me, and I'll free you! There are two more riders, they'll be over here in a minute. We can't talk in front of them.”

The big cat studied her, ears back, teeth glinting.

She said, “This trap was not set by the rescue people. Whoever set it knew you, knew that he was setting it for an animal as smart as himself.” She was studying the heavy, complicated latch when Ryan began calling again.

“Tell me now! Quickly! Speak to me now, and I'll free you. Otherwise I'll leave you. I swear I will.”

The cat smiled with teeth like ivory daggers. His look said, Isn't this proof enough? My smile, my cognizance? That is all the proof you need, so get on with it.

Rising, she turned and swung onto Bucky and headed out, meaning to stop Ryan. She could feel, behind her, the cat's alarm.

Ryan had left the trail. Behind her, Hanni waited. “Go back,” Charlie said. “It's all right. A feral cat in a cage, I don't want to frighten it. Looks like it's been
there a long time. I'm going to free it; I think I can spring it all right.”

“Let me help, I'll be gentle.” Ryan booted her horse, moving beside Charlie before Charlie could stop her, and sliding from the mare. The cat, now crouched at the back of the cage, snarled and spit. Now its eyes were shuttered, giving away nothing. Charlie, opening her folding hoof pick and knife, began to work on the lock.

No cat could have opened this, it was hard even for her, with the simple tools she had. As she wedged the pick into place, Ryan forced her own knife into the moving part of the mechanism; Ryan's knife was heavier and sturdier than Charlie's. By wedging in both knives, they were able at last to spring it. The moment they did, the cat surged forward against the closed door. But then, realizing he must get out of the way for it to be pushed open, he moved back. Ryan stared at him, puzzled. Immediately, he began hissing and growling as if frightened, trying to hide his too-intelligent behavior.

“I must have scared him,” Charlie said, “when I stood up.” Retrieving a fallen branch, she lifted the cage door.

As Ryan, using a second stick, pressed the door back into its open position, the cat moved a step toward the opening. He paused, looking fiercely up at them. Neither woman moved. He took another step. Another, toward freedom. His eyes never left them. He watched them secure the door open, wedging the branches in. Watched them back away from the cage. And he streaked out and through the woods—a flash and he was gone, they were looking at empty woods.

But then, from the shadows where he had vanished, the whole woods seemed to shake and shift, a violent stirring that came from every direction like silent small explosions. And then gone, the woods utterly still.

“What was that?” Ryan said, swallowing.

“I don't know,” Charlie whispered, seeing in her mind's eye the swift, cat-shaped shadows vanishing among the trees. She watched the woods as Hanni joined them, her gray gelding prancing and fussing. Hanni took in the scene, the empty trap, and the woods beyond. The widening shafts of sunlight showed nothing alive, not even a bird flitting.