Cat Deck the Halls (22 page)

Dallas pulled in behind as they forced the Suburban onto the median. He heard three shots—and saw the blue van in his mirror, careening at him from behind. The explosion of two shots from that driver's window jerked him to attention. He hit the brakes to avoid ramming the two units, but as he turned to fire behind him, another shot exploded. He spun the wheel, wondering if he'd been hit. A jam of cars ahead. The two units and the Suburban filled the median. Two more units coming fast on the other side, pulling over to divert traffic. His shoulder wasn't working right.

He could smell his own blood. Damn it to hell. He didn't have time for this. Where the hell were Wendell and Hendricks? Then his radio squawked, “Officer down. Officer down,” and he knew one or both had been hit. Blood was seeping through his jacket. When he turned to look behind him, the blue van was gone. In a second he heard the siren of the EMT.

He swung out of the unit swearing as McFarland jerked the female driver out of the Suburban, and Officer Bean, standing on tiptoe, rammed the burly passenger against the
vehicle, hands on the roof, Bean's weapon jammed in the small of the guy's back.

McFarland was cuffing the woman as she fought and screamed. She had dropped her gun, and McFarland had it safe. More sirens as two more units arrived and another EMT. Dallas's shoulder was beginning to hurt, he couldn't make his right hand work. Heading for the dark-haired woman as she twisted and swore, fighting her cuffs, he had to forcefully keep himself from touching her, from pounding the hell out of her. They'd damn near killed Ryan and he wanted to see them hurt, see them dead.

R
YAN WOKE HEARING
voices far away, but she couldn't see anyone. Fuzzy voices. She was dizzy, so dizzy. Pale walls around her swimming into darkness and tilting back again. Something swung at her from nowhere, a hammer, she tried to duck, caught her breath with pain. A woman swinging a hammer, big woman, darkly clad, her voice blasting loud but then faint. Dizzy. The woman was gone. A man's voice, blurred. “Mabel…it's Mabel Mabel Mabel…” She was so cold, cold deep in her bones. “Stanhope studio studio studio studio…Ryan Ryan Ryan Ryan…” Ringing in her ears like diving deep underwater. Fuzzy voices all throbbing and she was falling, falling…

Then men's voices, coming clearer. She reached up to touch them, but she couldn't find anyone, her hand met cold metal. Metal bars…

A cell? A prison cell? Why would she be in a cell? No, it was a bed, she was under blankets in a bed. She hit out at the bars, but someone pushed her back. She tried to fight but
was pushed down hard against the mattress, strong hands but gentle, easing her down. She had no strength…

She woke to a light burning, a metal lamp, and wondered why she'd been asleep when all she'd wanted was to sit up. A figure leaned over her, making her cringe.

But it was Clyde. It was all right, it was Clyde. As he smoothed her sheet and blanket, she remembered being lifted and carried. White paramedic uniforms. Everything after that seemed far away, car doors slamming, men's urgent voices, a truck engine, lying on a cot or something, bumping along. Blackness and then bright cruel light in her eyes like a knife, and voices leaping so her head throbbed. It was still throbbing, she tried to pull away from the pain, and couldn't.

“Be still, Ryan.” Clyde leaning over her again, his reassuring voice. “Lie still.” Again she tried to sit up, but again he held her back. “Lie
still,
Ryan,” he said in a no-nonsense voice. “You're in the hospital. You're going to be fine. You have a concussion, and you have to be still. Someone hit you with a hammer. The doctor wants you to lie still. Do you understand?”

She knew there'd been a hammer, she could hear the shattering sound when it hit her and she felt her belly twist sickly. When she moved, her head hurt bad, she guessed she'd do what Clyde told her, she really didn't want to move. She tried to remember what had happened.

There had been trucks all around, and forklifts. And parts of little houses cut apart…the playhouses, the contest. But then she was in an empty house. How could there be green hills inside a house? Huge green hills in her face, stormy sky…Then strangers. Two men, and the tall woman. Their startled scowls at her, the woman hissing something…
swinging the hammer, then another hammer came at her, the crushing
thunk
that sent her reeling. She remembered falling, hitting the stone floor…She looked up at Clyde. He leaned down over the bars and kissed her. “There were cats,” she said.

“Cats?”

She tried again to sit up, but he wouldn't let her. “There were cats. I was lying on a stone floor. Cold. Cats were looking down at me. Your cat, Clyde. Joe Grey. But they…” She swallowed, her mouth dry.

He lifted her head enough to guide a bent straw to her lips. She drank, then reached her hand to feel the tightness across her forehead, to feel the thick bandage. “They were talking, Clyde.
Talking.
”

“Who was talking? The medics? They—”

“The cats. The cats were talking.”

Clyde smiled. “You do have a concussion.”

“I could see light in the roof. Skylights. There were huge green hills inside the room. But then when the cats came, the hills were gone. It was all stone walls. Cold. Cold stone floor, cold under me.

“I was in the Stanhope studio,” she said, looking at him more clearly. “And the three cats
were
there. Your cat. Wilma's cat. The Greenlaws' cat. Standing over me. Talking about me.”

His mouth twisted. “You had a concussion. Dr. Hamry says—”

“Talking, Clyde. I swear.” And in her head, the voices repeated themselves,
Mabel Mabel Mabel Mabel…Ryan Ryan Ryan Ryan
…She looked intently at him. “I swear. Cats. I heard cats talking. Something about my cell phone, and then
Mabel Mabel Mabel
…”

Clyde grinned. “That'll be the day, when a
cat
talks. I wouldn't want to be around to see that. I'm surprised you didn't think Rock was there, giving the medics directions.”

“But Rock's here,” she said, feeling the weight on her legs. “He always sleeps on my bed.” Reaching gingerly down so as not to make her head throb any worse, she felt across the covers for the big hound.

But now the weight was gone. She could feel the warm place, but no one was there. And, had that weight been heavy enough to be Rock? Was that warm patch of blanket under her hand big enough to accommodate an eighty-pound Weimaraner? She looked up at Clyde. It hurt to move her eyes. “Where's Rock?”

“Will you lie still?” Clyde eased her back. “You're hurting yourself. It's dangerous to thrash around like that. The blood…”

“Where is Rock?” she whispered. Under her hand, the warm spot was already cooling.

“Rock's at my house. He's fine, Ryan. Feisty, and missing you.” Leaning over, he smoothed her covers again. She felt herself drifting, drifting into sleep…

 

S
HE WAS TRYING
to climb out of a dark pit, trying to open her eyes and come awake. A voice beside her said, “Ryan?” She wanted to be helped up, to be pulled up out of the darkness.

“Ryan?”

She opened her eyes, and a harsh light reflected on the
pale wall, a stark metal lamp so bright it made her head hurt. This wasn't her studio apartment, she wasn't in her own bed, she didn't know this place. But beside this bed, Clyde sat in a chair, watching her. “You've been asleep.”

She was in a strange bed, in a strange room, her head hurt like hell. Gingerly she fingered the bandage. “Why am I…What happened to me? I heard Charlie's voice, and Hanni. Why is everything so muddled?”

“Someone hit you. You have a concussion. Leave your bandage alone, don't pick at it. Don't try to sit up, and don't wriggle around. You had a blow on the head and if you…”

She turned just a little, to look at him, and her head throbbed. She remembered the stone room, Betty Wicken swinging a hammer and a man with a hammer…

“It's going to hurt for a while. Everyone's been here. Scotty; your sister, Hanni; Charlie; Wilma; the seniors; Lori and Dillon…Slipping in, holding your hand for a minute, and then leaving. The doctor pitched a fit. But they were here, touching you for a moment like some kind of blessing.”

“How long have I been here? You didn't say Dallas was here. Where's Dallas?” She sat upright, jarring a pain through her head that made her sick to her stomach.
“Clyde, where's Dallas?”

“Chasing the bad guys,” Clyde said easily. “Chasing the people who hit you. He's fine, Ryan.”

She tried to relax, tried to think clearly. “Charlie was here? I'm missing her book signing, her opening…”

He glanced at his watch. “It's nearly six, she'll be there now, for the children—the adult party starts at seven.”

She tried to look sideways toward the windows to see if it was still daylight, but that hurt. “And the contest? The girls…?”

“Their house is all in place. The judging is tomorrow.”

“Clyde, I can't miss Charlie's opening. I could just…?”

“You're not supposed to talk so much. You need to rest, and mend.” He kissed her on the cheek and rose. “The doctor will be in around six. He'll have the CAT scan and X-rays. He'll want me out of here, he's not happy about so many visitors.”

He picked up a gym bag that he'd set on the floor beside his chair. “There's a guard outside. When Dr. Hamry leaves, go to sleep. They're bringing a cot in for Hanni, for the night. She'll be along later, after the opening, in case you need anything extra. I imagine she'll bring you some party food.” He kissed her again, tenderly. “I'll be back in the morning.” He turned away and was gone, disappearing into the hall with his heavy gym bag. Why would he bring a gym bag to the hospital, he didn't work out in the evenings. As he swung the door halfway closed, she glimpsed a uniformed officer sitting on a straight-backed chair, just outside.

What had she done to deserve a police guard? Or, what had she seen? That she did not remember?

She guessed she slept, because the next thing she knew, more lights burned, the room was bright, and Dr. Hamry stood beside her bed, touching her shoulder. His voice was very soft and caring for such a clumsy-looking big man. She had dreamed about cats. Cats talking. She imagined she could still feel warm fur against her neck and cheek.

 

N
OT UNTIL HE
was back in his yellow roadster did Clyde open the gym bag. “I hope you didn't leave cat hairs on the bed.”

The tomcat stuck his head out, sniffing the cold wind, then stepped out onto the creamy leather seat, stretching luxuriously. “That's better. I thought I'd smother in there. Did you have to
zip
the damned thing?”

“It has air vents. What do you think that screen is? That's why I used the gym bag, so you could breathe.”

“This is your
gym bag,
Clyde. You put your sweaty clothes in here. The damn thing smells like a jockstrap.”

Clyde glared, and started the engine. Joe, as they headed for Ocean and home, was still wondering how that bogus, look-alike blue van had been slipped into the school and successfully hidden back in the trees behind the Stanhope house with not one of Harper's patrol guys seeing it. He looked up when Clyde started to laugh. “What?”

“She thought you were Rock. On the bed.”

“Watch the road. You don't have to look at me to talk. What's so funny about that? Rock isn't some scroungy mongrel, I don't see being mistaken for Rock as an insult. Anyway, the woman's half out of it.”

“You have a lot of sympathy. I should have left you in the car.”

Joe looked a long time at Clyde. “You think she'll be all right?”

“If she lies still and does what she's told.” Clyde glanced at Joe. “She kept talking about cats. You heard her. About
talking
cats, Joe.”

“She was out cold, after Betty hit her. Well, we thought she was.”

Clyde turned to glare at him.

“When she's better, how much will she remember?” Joe said diffidently. Then, “
You
heard her, her thoughts are all mixed up.”

“Let's hope,” Clyde said.

“She thinks too much like a cop to believe that stuff,” Joe said. “Talking cats? No way.”

“Charlie figured it out.”

“Charlie's an artist and a writer. Charlie encourages her imagination, it's part of her work. With someone like Ryan, who's all facts and reality, something that far out would never wash. Not for a minute.”

“Ryan
isn't
all facts and reality. That's really unfair. Don't you think it takes imagination to create the houses she designs?”

Joe looked at Clyde, and shut up. For once, Clyde was right. “Just for the record,” Joe said, “you were so shaken over Ryan that you damned near asked her to marry you.”

“I didn't do any such thing. Now whose imagination has gone wild?” Turning into their drive and killing the engine, Clyde reached to stroke Joe. “That would screw up our lives. You could never utter another word in your own home.”

“Sometimes even a cat has to make sacrifices.”

Clyde looked surprised. “Not you.”

Joe gave him a long yellow-eyed gaze.

“You'd do that for me?”

“Would I have a choice? If things got too uncomfortable, I could move in with Dulcie and Wilma.”

“I wouldn't ask her to marry me without settling it with you. We're family, Joe.”

“Maybe,” Joe said, “it's time you got married. You're not getting any younger. You
would
be acquiring a live-in carpenter, electrician, and plumber. And Rock is a very nice dog, as dogs go.”

Clyde swung out and headed for the front door. Unlocked it, flipped on the lights, and scowled down at Joe. “I'm not marrying anyone for her talents at home maintenance.”

Joe leaped to the couch. “You're not marrying her at all, yet. You haven't asked her properly. She won't remember that half-assed hint at marriage when she was just coming to. Talk about a coward's proposal.” Leaping up onto the mantle, he looked hard at Clyde. “The problem is, you're not sure Ryan wants to get married. And you're scared to find out.”

Clyde sat down on the couch. Confirmed bachelor and tomcat looked at each other. It was Clyde who glanced away, and rose again, and headed for the kitchen.

And his bachelor mind was indeed full of questions. There were a lot of reasons why Ryan might not want to get married, at least in the near future. She was still recovering from a bad marriage. She wanted some peace and independence. She was a self-sufficient woman, busy building her own design/construction business. She rented a nice big studio apartment with the room and solitude to work uninterrupted on her blueprints and architectural drawings. Did she really need, or want, to be jammed into the same house with him, on a full-time basis?

He had talked with Wilma about this. Wilma was as
close to an older sister as he'd ever have, he'd known her since he was eight and she was twenty-some, and he'd sought her opinions on many matters. Wilma's judgment was clearly thought out, and sensible.

But in the matter of Ryan Flannery, Wilma had said only “I don't know, Clyde. Just ask her. If she says no, don't trash what you two have. Just swallow your pride and go on as you are. Stay the distance, and see where it leads. I like Ryan. Don't blow your future chances.”