Cat Pay the Devil (12 page)

“E
ven if Dallas finds the safe,” Dulcie said, peering
from the pine tree, into the basement, “he won't open it if the warrant is just to look for Wilma and Cage.”

The kit's yellow eyes narrowed. “He needs to know Greeley's looking for something in there, just like Cage searched Wilma's house. If we had a phone…There's a phone in the kitchen, we can slip back in the house and call his cell…”

“No way,” Dulcie hissed. “Phone Dallas while he's in the house with us? We push our luck, and…I don't like to think about that.”

Kit sighed and settled reluctantly among the branches, watching Dallas search through the boxes and abandoned furniture, his hand never far from his weapon. When he opened the empty closet where the safe was hidden, the cats hissed with surprise: The closet had been empty, just the loose linoleum with the safe beneath it sunk into the floor. Now it was filled with boxes, a bucket of tools, the old rusted fan that had lain atop a trunk, and a tangle of
old boots. Dallas stepped back, looking. He knew that clutter hadn't been there when he'd searched the house earlier. The detective turned, his back to the wall, taking another long look into the shadows and dark spaces. He stepped to the door that led to the stairs, closed it, and shoved a heavy carton against it. Then he searched the garage.

When he found no one, he moved to the windows. Finding the unlocked window, he examined the sill, then slid it open, looking out into the dark woods. Above him, the cats crouched, unmoving. Leaning out the open window, he used his flashlight, in the darkening evening, to study the earth beneath the sill. Dulcie and Kit were glad they had trod only on pine needles. At last Dallas eased himself out the window and shone his light back and forth across the yard, looking for footprints.

“Did Greeley cover up the safe like that?” Dulcie whispered. “Or did Lilly? Is there something in it
she
doesn't want found? Did she put that stuff on top after she heard noises and came down, thinking someone was in there?”

“Someone was there. We were.”

“Someone human,” Dulcie said. “Maybe she thought it was Greeley. But what would she hide in there? Her jewelry?” Dulcie smiled. “She doesn't look like the type to ever wear fancy jewelry…And would Greeley go to all this trouble for a few pieces of an old woman's jewelry? I don't think so.”

“And,” Kit said, “what does all this have to do with Cage?”

Dallas was moving the boxes and trash from the closet; when he'd emptied it, he knelt, lifted the loose linoleum, and pulled it back out of the way. Yes, he'd known the safe was there, the cats could see that. And now that someone had taken the trouble to cover it, his attention was keen.

He tried lifting the lid, then turned the dial until it clicked, and tried again. Maybe his warrant covered this, maybe not. The detective was as curious as a cat, himself. When spinning the dial once didn't work, he remained crouched, lightly fingering it.

“Does he know how to crack a safe?” Dulcie whispered, and the tabby smiled. “Looks like he's tempted.”

“Would that be legal?”

“To finger the tumblers, and crack a safe?” Dulcie twitched her whiskers. “Not likely,” she said, enjoying Dallas's temptation.

They watched him resist, and at last he rose and began to replace the clutter that had been piled on top, putting everything back just the way it had been, his tanned, square Latino face drawn into a frown. Then he headed for the stairs, moved the barrier, and disappeared. As his footsteps ascended, the cats scrambled up again to the roof and softly across it, then crouched above the front door listening to Dallas and his officer taking their leave, Dallas thanking Lilly for her courtesy and help with a dry sarcasm that was rare for the laid-back officer; the cats watched them head for their squad car as Lilly closed the front door hard with a chill finality, a clear message that she was tired of people tramping through her house. As the officers' car made a U-turn and headed back down the hills toward the village, Dulcie and Kit streaked away across the rooftops, heading home, their minds a tumble of new facts and more than a few questions.

Racing from shingles into pine or oak trees and down across more roofs, up and down over a jumble of peaks, Dulcie hoped Max Harper was still at the cottage, and that by now there was news of Wilma—good news. Dulcie let herself think of no other kind. The evening was warm, as
soft as velvet, the late sky holding more light, now, than the dark village streets below. But when the courthouse clock struck nine, her heart sank. On a normal evening Wilma would be home, they'd have finished supper and would be tucked up together on the velvet couch, or, on cold nights, in bed by the woodstove, contentedly reading.

Dulcie's creamy stone cottage shone out of the darkness, and there were lights at the windows. The tabby ran so fast she hardly hit the shingles, and twice she tripped over her own paws. But, then, warily they stopped on the roof of the next-door house, looking.

There were only two police units, now, at the curb. And two officers stringing yellow tape around the edge of the garden.
As if this is a murder scene,
Dulcie thought sickly. As she approached the house, she began to shiver.

But of course Harper would want to mark the premises off limits, to preserve any possible evidence they might have missed. Taking heart, she leaped from the neighbors' roof into the oak tree by Wilma's living room window.

Just beyond the open window, Max Harper sat at Wilma's desk, busy with paperwork. Dulcie drew nearer along the branch, and could see that he was filling out a report. Both cats tried to read it upside down. Behind them a car pulled to the curb and Dallas stepped out, alone; perhaps he had swung by the station to drop off his officer. He hurried in through the open front door. The whole house seemed to be open, though the heat that had collected within would take half the night to dissipate; the walls would stay hot long after the late breeze had cooled the rooms. Dallas drew up a chair beside the desk, glancing inquiringly at Max.

Max shook his head. “Nothing. You?”

“No sign of Wilma, and Lilly doesn't seem to know anything. One or two details were strange; I'll fill you in later. Anything on the Tucker and Keating murders?”

“Reports just came in,” Max said. “Linda Tucker case, the only sets of prints besides the Tuckers' belonged to the cleaning lady and to a plumber who was in the house three days before.

“The Keating case, Elaine's husband had a poker game last week. All we got were the Keatings' prints, and those of five poker players. We'll need a day or two to get that bunch in for questioning.”

Harper didn't seem terribly interested in those possible suspects, and the chief's indifference shocked Dulcie. “What's he thinking? Is he off on some other track?”

But Kit's yellow eyes had widened with dismay. “Does he think…” She looked at Dulcie and shivered. “Does he think the husbands did it? Oh, that would be too bad.”

Dulcie watched Kit with interest. The young tortoiseshell cat, after helping gather information on so many cases, and hearing about other murders from Joe and Dulcie, should be inured to such matters—but she was not hardened to the thought of a husband killing his wife, and Dulcie understood. The fact that these men might have murdered the partners they had vowed to love and cherish, seemed to hurt something deep and tender in the young tortoiseshell. Kit had never, as a kitten, known a loving and nurturing family; did not remember her mother or her littermates. A close and loving family seemed to Kit rare and wonderful; she looked on family as having a sacred bond of love and decency, and the thought of murder within that family bond hurt her deeply. Dulcie looked at Kit, hunched miserably on the branch, and she licked Kit's ear, trying to soothe her; but suddenly both cats startled to attention as Max, pushing back his chair, stood up from the desk.

He shoved his papers in a folder and looked at Dallas. “I'll stop by the Greenlaws, see if they've heard from Wilma, if they have anything that could help.” The lean lines of his
face fell into a deeper dismay. “They have to be told she's missing; I don't want them hearing it on the news if some reporter picks it up. Will you call Ryan again? I'll keep trying Charlie. Those two…They get off with the horses, they never turn on their phones, the rest of the world doesn't exist.”

“I'll keep trying,” Dallas said. “Or I'll take a run up there.”

Max nodded. “Maybe by the time we get hold of them, we'll have better news.”

Dulcie and Kit watched Harper head up the walk to his squad car; as he pulled away they were already racing across the roofs, heading for Kit's house. Kit wanted to be there with Lucinda and Pedric, to be close to comfort them when Max told them that Wilma was missing. She wanted to be there for them just as, when she was little and lost and frightened, Lucinda and Pedric had comforted her, had held her close, petting her; had snuggled her in their soft bed and given her nice things to eat. Now her humans would need comforting, would need what Pedric called “a wee bit of moral support.”

Though Kit couldn't bring them good things to eat—unless Lucinda and Pedric had developed a taste for fresh mouse.

T
hat soft tapping wasn't caused by the wind; Wilma
listened to the sounds above her hoping it was a squirrel in the attic, or a raccoon, or maybe a crow on the roof, pecking at the shingles. But she knew better. Those were human footsteps, walking softly across the second floor of what she had thought was a one-story shack. Her fear of whoever was there and might come down while she was tied up and helpless sent panic through her that was hard to control, filled her with a shock of terror that dwarfed the fear she'd felt when she'd glimpsed, out the window, that dark, small shape careen away. Though surely that had been only a squirrel or a cat, nothing big enough to threaten her. She wished it had been Dulcie, or Joe, or Kit.

But no one knew where she was. In the moving car, she had left no scent trail, nothing for a cat to follow. Even those three clever feline friends had no way to find her.

Cage had told her he'd searched her house, and that filled
her with terror for Dulcie; thinking he might have hurt Dulcie.

But Dulcie wouldn't have gone near him, wouldn't have let him approach her, if she had come home and found him there. And he'd have driven away, leaving no trail for a cat to follow.

Driven away in her car, or in the other one? For a moment, she banked all hope on the quick reactions of one small cat, praying Dulcie had seen the car, that she had reported her car stolen or seen the license number of the other car and called the station.

But that was too bizarre, a far too timely solution to a messy situation. Too much wishful thinking. Still, if Dulcie had made the car, there were police patrols all over the village, and the station was just blocks away. One of Harper's units might have been able to find and follow Cage.

Awash in panic because, very likely, no one knew where she was, and no one was going to know, she ceased her awkward search for a knife and uselessly fought her bonds again, jerking and struggling as she listened to the footsteps overhead, soft shoes or slippers padding around on a hard floor. She looked for a place to hide, certain that every time she moved the chair, whoever was there would hear the awkward thumping.

The windows were growing dark; when night fell, the woods and yard and inside the cabin would be black as sin; there would be no moonlight to seep in among the masses of tall, dense pines. If whoever was there came downstairs in the pitch-black dark, when she couldn't see them…

Bending awkwardly to fight open the lowest drawer behind her, conscious of every small scrape and thump as she tilted and rummaged trying not to lose her balance, she searched with increased panic for a weapon to free herself.

 

Indeed, in the low attic room above Wilma someone heard her struggles and visualized what she might be doing down there, someone who moved softly about the dim room, someone filled with questions, with fear, and perhaps with a cold, hidden rage.

And from outside the house, others, too, watched Wilma, observing her through the window as she fought for her freedom: Three small, wild beings looked down from the stickery branches of a pine tree and in through the dusty window, watching the captive woman struggle.

The pale calico looked at her companions. “I
know
her. That's Wilma, that's Dulcie's Wilma.” Amazed and puzzled, Willow slipped around the pine's dry trunk to its far side where the tall, gray-haired woman wouldn't glimpse her, wouldn't see in the gathering night, her pale calico coat gleaming. Both she and white Cotton would stand out now, easy to observe. Only Coyote with his dark brown–striped coat would blend into the night's shadows.

But Coyote was saying, “You never saw Dulcie's Wilma,” and the big, dark cat lashed his tail with disgust, his long, tufted ears flicking with annoyance.

“I know her from how Kit described her,” Willow said. “You heard her, Cotton heard her.” She looked at white Cotton, but that tom remained silent.

“No one can know a human from a description,” Coyote said. “There could be hundreds like that.”

“There are not hundreds like her! I do know her,” Willow hissed. “You think humans are all alike? She's tall and slim, she has long silver hair. Look at her, her hair tied back with a silver clip. Jeans and a red sweatshirt. All exactly the way Dulcie said.” She glared at the dark long-haired tom whose black face stripes and tall ears made him resemble a small
coyote. “I'm not stupid!” Willow snapped. “I know Dulcie's Wilma.”

Coyote looked back at her uncertainly. Maybe she did know, who was he to say? He knew little enough about human creatures.

But it was Cotton who crept closer along the branch and looked in at Wilma for the longest time, saying nothing. And then, with a flick of his tail and a twitch of his ears he leaped away into the undergrowth; when Willow called softly after him, he said over his shouder, “Hunting. I'm going to hunt.”

“But—”

“What do I care for humans and their senseless problems?” And with that, Cotton was gone. Willow looked after him, hurt and disappointed.

But again, Willow peered around through the branches at Wilma, her bleached calico coat ghostly against the dark trunk. “Those men not only tied her to a chair, they blindfolded her. Well, but she's gotten that off! Good for her! But what do they want with her?” She looked hard at Coyote. “How rude Cotton was! We have to help her, we have to free her.”

“I don't—”

“Just like Kit freed us!” Willow hissed. “It's payback time, Coyote. Couldn't Cotton see that? We have to free her before they hurt her!”

Coyote stared at her, his ears back stubbornly. And Willow, swallowing, knew she had spoken too directly. It hadn't taken much to send Cotton off. If she got Coyote's back up, he'd leave, too, and she'd have no help at all.

Coyote was a good cat. So was Cotton. They just didn't find any value in humans. Neither tom trusted humans, and with good reason.

Most of their band felt no connection to humans. They had all grown up feral, wild and wary, keeping to themselves. Well, maybe she was glad Cotton had gone. The white cat was so bossy, always wanted to do everything his way. At least Coyote was gentler; and Coyote had a deep social feeling for their own kind, a love of their own wild rituals. Maybe she could play on that. Maybe she could manipulate Coyote into helping—if only she knew
what
to do, knew
how
to help.

But there wasn't much time. Those men might soon be back.
If they're coming back
, she thought. She was all nerves, watching Wilma struggle. With that chair tied to her, the tall lady could hardly turn. Willow could see the knives that Wilma hadn't found, she wanted to tell her where, to leap in and touch her hand with a soft paw and guide her.

But she could not; she could not bring herself to try the things Dulcie and Kit took for granted; she dare not try to open that window, or go voluntarily into a human's house. Instead, she turned a limpid gaze on Coyote. “We were in that cage two weeks, captive, just like she's captive now. I thought we'd never get out.
Her
friends helped get us free.

“I was so scared, locked in there,” she said, trembling. “We all three were. Now she's trapped like we were, and
she
doesn't even have anything to eat, like we did. Or any water until she managed to turn on the faucet.” She looked hard at the dark, striped tom. “She's brave, Coyote. She's a fighter—as strong and brave as a cat herself.”

Coyote watched her narrowly. “So? What can
we
do?”

“It was her friends who saved
us
,” Willow repeated. “It was her friend, Joe's Grey's human, who cut off the lock for us. We can't leave Dulcie's Wilma. How could we? But, how can we help her?”

 

Finding the blade of a long butcher knife, Wilma cut her finger. Swearing under her breath, she felt for the handle, then, bending and twisting, nearly dislocating her spine, she pulled it to her and hauled it out.

With the big knife securely in hand, she was twisting it around with the blade toward her bound wrists when she heard the overhead floor creaking, louder, then footsteps approached, echoing hollowly, as if coming down hidden wooden steps.

It sounded like the stairs might be behind the stone wall where the woodstove crouched. Frantically she cut at her bonds—and of course cut herself again, she could feel the slick blood. Angry at her clumsiness, and shaky with her effort to sever the rope, she was looking directly at the stone wall when a figure emerged from behind it.

A small figure, stepping hesitantly. A woman, young and pale and as insubstantial appearing as a ghost. A frail and displaced-looking creature, stick thin, dressed in an oversized man's shirt and a long, faded skirt from which her white ankles protruded like two bones. White feet shod in worn leather sandals. She stood looking at Wilma, then slowly approached; and even in the gathering shadows, Wilma could see her fear, her eyes wide in the fading light. She said no word; she watched Wilma warily, then focused on the knife Wilma clutched behind her; she reached gently out to Wilma, as if meaning to cut her bonds—and jerked the knife away. Snatched it roughly from her hands and backed away fiercely clutching it, her eyes hard now.

“Please,” Wilma said. “What are you doing? Please, cut me free.”

“I can't. They'd kill me.”

“They won't kill you if I'm free, and we get out of here, if we run before they get back.”

The girl shook her head; something about her looked familiar, something about her frail thin body. Wilma studied her, trying to make out her age. Could this thin, pale woman be Cage's younger sister? She looked as Wilma remembered her, but Violet would be around twenty-five. This girl looked maybe sixteen. “Violet?
Are
you Violet Jones?”

A faint nod, as she backed away.

Wilma looked at the cheap gold band on her finger. “Violet Sears, now? Eddie Sears's wife?”

Another nod, tinged with a downward, closed glance of shame.

“If you leave me tied, Violet, and they kill me, you'll be an accomplice to murder. You'll go to prison right along with Eddie and Cage. Federal prison. For a very long time.”

“If I untie you, Eddie will kill me.”

“What does Cage want with me? If I knew that—”

“You stole from him. What he had in the safe. He told you that, I heard him tell you that.”

“What
did he have? He won't tell me anything. I have no idea what he thinks I took, no idea what he wants.”

Violet said nothing, only looked at her.

“If you free me, maybe I can help him. Find out who did steal from him. I can't do anything tied up.”

No answer.

“I know how to help Cage. If I'm free I
can
help him.”

But the girl didn't buy it. She shook her head and turned away, heading for the hidden stairs. Wilma didn't want to believe she would leave her there, helpless. But she guessed she'd better believe it.

She hadn't seen Violet since she was a child. She might have glimpsed her on the street and not realized who she was. She'd heard that Violet was born just months before their mother died, that Mrs. Jones had died from complications developed at Violet's birth. Other village gossips liked
to say that Violet wasn't Mrs. Jones's daughter at all, but was Lilly's. That the shock of Lilly giving birth out of wedlock had killed Mrs. Jones.

Wilma hadn't lived in the village when Violet was born, but Molena Point, like all small towns, enjoyed a complicated network of—as some put it—domestic intelligence. A web of personal histories and sensitive facts embroidered liberally with imaginative conjecture.

Lilly Jones had always been reclusive, and more so after the baby came. She was never seen in a restaurant or at the library or at village celebrations; nor was the child seen except walking alone to school and home again, alone, always alone. Lilly was about thirty when the baby came. She was around fifty-five now, though she looked far older. Watching Violet head for the stairs, Wilma felt too stubborn to plead, and she knew that was stupid, stupid not to try.

“If you leave me, Violet, Cage will kill me just the way he shot Mandell Bennett.”

Violet turned, her eyes widening with shock. “Cage didn't shoot anyone.”

“Turn on the news, you'll hear it. And if he kills me, too, that will be your fault. You'll be an accomplice. It's a federal offense, to be involved in the murder of a federal officer. You'd do hard time, Violet. Time in a federal prison. Those women would make mincemeat of you.”

Violet looked back at her, her narrow face sour and un-giving. Saying nothing, she rolled up the sleeves of her oversized shirt.

Her thin arms were red and purple with bruises. She pulled up the long tails of the shirt to reveal a mass of red and purple marks across her stomach and back, and one broad and ugly red bruise. “If Cage don't kill me, this is what Eddie will do.”

Wilma had never gotten used to the signs of abuse. No matter how often during her working career she had witnessed this and worse, such violence sickened her. “What Eddie does to you…That's all the more reason for us to get out of here. I promise I'll find you a place to hide, a good place. And I'll see that you're protected.”

“Not the cops!” But Violet approached again, slowly, and stood watching her.

“Not the cops,” Wilma said. “If we
can
get away, if time hasn't run out, there are others you can trust. Private organizations. Abused women who have escaped, themselves, and who understand, who will hide you and protect you.”

To promise this battered person protection, promise her a secure shelter away from Eddie Sears, was very likely useless. If Violet ran true to form, if she was like most battered women, she would just go back to him. Wilma knew too many who did; she knew too well the terrors, and the hungers, of an abused woman. To try to help a battered woman, to try to bolster her courage and self-respect, often had no effect at all; many wouldn't listen, they were just as addicted to abuse as were their abusers.