Cat Pay the Devil (19 page)

“Told you, car was damn near out of gas. Running on fumes. Told you I was out of canned gas. No, they hid the wagon somewhere; could be anywhere in this mess.” The other car door slammed, and their footsteps crunched across stones, the twin beams of their torches flashing up the steps and across the porch, then blazing straight in through the front door and across the tangles of fallen furniture.

Cage stood in the doorway looking in, seeming, in the flashlight's reflection, as big as a giant. “You go find the station wagon. I'll take care of this bunch. Still don't know why you left the keys in it. If you can't find it, look for tracks, try to make yourself useful.”

“Told you I didn't leave the keys in it!” Eddie stood on the porch behind Cage, shining his light back into the ruins as if hoping the station wagon would miraculously appear and he wouldn't have to go searching for it in the dark.

“You didn't leave them in it, then you gave 'em to Violet! Or you told her where they were. I swear, sometimes—”

“There,” Eddie shouted, jumping off the porch, swinging his light and running.

Cage turned and looked. “What the hell!” then took off after Eddie. When they were gone, Wilma rose and went to the window, stood watching them.

“They found it,” she said as Charlie joined her. They could see the men's two lights shining down the embankment, could hear their voices clearly in the still night. Eddie began to laugh. “Guess that did 'em.”

“What the hell?” Cage's torchlight shining down silhouetted his tall bulk. “What you mean, that did 'em? Ain't nobody in the damn wagon. Damn women got out.” As he turned, staring back toward the house, Wilma grabbed Charlie's hand, ready to go out the back.

But Charlie pulled away and moved to the front door, staring into the night.

“Come on!” Wilma said, grabbing her. “Before they come back.” Outside, at the wreck, the men were quiet for a moment, as if looking over the damage to the old car. When Wilma tried to pull Charlie with her, Charlie jerked away roughly.

“What?” Wilma snapped.

“Look,” Charlie said softly, slipping out onto the porch. “Watch, maybe half a mile back along the tree line—where the trees part. Watch the little dip, with the sky a shade lighter behind it. Watch right there, something's coming, I saw movement farther back…” She gripped Wilma's hand. “Horses. Horses on the trail…Max…”

Wilma could not hear horses. This was Charlie's wishful thinking. She had dropped Charlie's hand and was starting to turn away when…

“There,” Charlie hissed. “There, see!”

Wilma glimpsed something moving past the little dip, then it was gone. Two riders, making for the ruins.

Terror filled Charlie's voice. “Cage has a handgun, and there's a shotgun in the Jeep. If he hears them…” She pulled Wilma through the front door and down the steps. “Go! Go down to Max's men, tell them to come fast, on foot, and quietly…”

“But you can't…”

“Go!” Charlie snapped. “Take the cats!” She snatched up Kit and shoved her at Wilma. “Go with her, both of you!” And she moved away through the blackness, toward the Jeep. Wilma wanted to drag her back, but knew she could make things worse by charging after her and alerting Cage. She could only go for help, as fast as she could go, down through the rubble and the dark road.

“D
amn bitch!” Cage hissed, staring down the cliff. “How
the hell did she get loose! That bitch Violet. Why the hell did you give her the keys! She cut that bitch loose and now she's wrecked the wagon! Look at it! And both of 'em gone!”

“I didn't give her no keys, I told you! Maybe they hot-wired the car.”

“That's sure as hell lame! Violet couldn't hot-wire nothing, she hardly knows which end of a hammer to use! What'd you do, have extra keys made? I thought I could trust you!” He looked so hard at Eddie Sears that Eddie took a step back.

“I swear, I never had no keys made. I never
drove
the car, it's your car…I thought you planned a few more heists and then would dump it…I swear, Cage…”

“If you never drive it, how'd it run out of gas? Where'd you drive it to? What else have you been lying about?”

Eddie's voice shook. “I swear, Cage, I never. You drove it two weeks ago. If I'd used it, you know I'd of put gas in!”

“And why the hell didn't you work Violet over beforehand? Look at the mess you've made.”

“I should of,” Eddie said, backing away. “Should of beat her up good.” But then he rallied. “That old woman'll show herself. She'll come out when she knows you have her niece, when we drag the redhead out where the old bitch can see 'er.”

 

As the men left the edge of the cliff, heading for the trailer, in the blackness beside a fallen wall Charlie slipped toward the Jeep. She could hear, above her, the soft hush of hooves on the trail and the occasional click of a shod hoof against stone as the riders approached and, once, the faint jingle of a bit. In another minute, Cage would enter the trailer and see that she was gone and come roaring back. Enraged, would he return to the Jeep to grab his shotgun? Max would be nearer, then. They'd hear the horses and shine their lights on Max like jacking a deer. She daren't shout to warn him, daren't telegraph his presence.

Racing toward the dark silhouette of the Jeep, she couldn't tell where Max would enter the ruins. Would the horses spook among the unfamiliar night shadows, shy and make a fuss, rearing and backing, and give Max away? As well broke as their mounts were, this was no easy place for a horse in the pitch dark and looming shadows, when he couldn't see where he was stepping, and with dark figures moving mysteriously in the night.

Peering into the Jeep, then slipping inside onto the seat, she snatched up Cage's wadded jacket. Yes, beneath it, between the two narrow front seats was the sawed-off shotgun. It took her precious moments to find the bracket that held it in place, then to discover how it worked. She was sweating and shaky when at last the gun came free.

Carefully fingering it, she could find no lever. She decided the shells must be ejected by the movable portion of the stock, like Max's shotgun. Everything was harder in the dark, more so with as little as she knew about shotguns, and her increasing urgency as the horses drew closer; she heard one of the horses snort.

Laying the gun across her lap and wrapping the coat around it, she snapped the stock to eject a shell. She felt the shell fly out inside the coat, against her thigh. With shaking fingers she found it and snatched it up. She explored the parts of the stock and barrel as best she could, then pressed the shell into what she prayed was the feed. She had no idea how many shells the gun contained, but her guess was, if it was loaded, it would be fully loaded. Maybe six to ten rounds? She didn't like to depend on a guess. Feeling for the safety, she found the little button pushed in; pressing it to a protruding position seemed logical for it to fire, if the in position sent a bolt through the firing mechanism. She was praying hard that she was right when she heard the two men burst out of the trailer. They came pounding straight toward the Jeep. They weren't swearing now, they were silent and fast, only the sound of their running and stumbling on the rocks. At the same instant, she heard a low exclamation from the trail. She heard the horses milling, as if they'd been pulled up short. She was scrabbling her hands over the dash trying to find the light switch—and the men were there, racing at the Jeep. She found the switch and pulled it.

Twin beams like lasers cut the blackness, catching Cage with a shock of light; he loomed out of the dark, diving for the Jeep, blinded by light, then dropped down behind the fender, taking cover as he reached beneath his jacket. Eddie had ducked down on the other side; Charlie saw the top of his head, his cap moving as he began to circle, to get behind her.

Standing up in the Jeep, she braced herself against the dash, the stock of the gun jammed hard into her shoulder, her stomach flipping as she tried to hold steady, to keep her hands from shaking.

 

When Wilma ran down the dark road, looking for the nearest patrol car, the two cats didn't follow her, but had leaped away, in the opposite direction. She prayed for their safety; she could never have made them come with her, she'd only have wasted precious time. Running, searching for the first dark vehicle, she thought she'd spent half her life saying prayers for those three cats. Ahead, she saw a dark shape that had to be a patrol car; she stopped when a dark-clad figure stepped out, and she caught the glint of a handgun, stood with her hands out away from her sides, waiting. “It's Wilma Getz,” she said softly. “Don't shine a light, they'll see you. Max is coming on horseback. And Charlie…” She caught a flash of the officer's badge, the line of his dark uniform, the tilt of a familiar jaw. “Is that Jimmie? Jimmie McFarland?”

“Yes, ma'm.” Young Jimmie's soft, bright voice sounded truly glad to hear her. She paused when a second officer emerged, stepping around from the far side of the unit, and she saw the broad curve of Brennan's belly.

“Fill us in,” Brennan said quietly, staring up into the unbroken dark of the old estate. “How many men? And where? Where's Max? He called us from the trail. Where does it come out?”

“To the left, above the Jeep,” Wilma said, taking Brennan's hand and pointing with it to where the Jeep stood.

“Get in the unit and stay there,” Brennan said, and he and McFarland moved away. She wanted to go back into the
ruins, but knew she would only hinder them. She slipped into the hot squad car and had hardly pulled the door to, making no sound, when far up among the rubble a pair of lights flashed. Headlights. Someone was in the Jeep.

 

The diffused gleam of the Jeep's lights washing out across the ruins cast into stark silhouette the broken walls and gnarled oaks—and the small shapes of the feral cats, one poised atop a ragged tower, a pale cat padding across the sharp slant of a collapsed roof, and a stark white cat treading the top of a wall high under the stars. All watched the scene below. Curiosity, anger, and fear filled them. Then along the wall, two more cats appeared, dark creatures, rearing up, a pair of yellow eyes and a pair of green catching the light. Kit and Dulcie, fearful and intent, watched as Charlie stood up in the Jeep, her shotgun leveled behind the light—and as Cage Jones lunged to grab her.

 

Standing in the Jeep, her back to the dark where Max was approaching, the stock of the shotgun jammed against her shoulder, Charlie swallowed. “Stop, Cage. Stop now!”

Cage laughed. “Gun ain't loaded, missy. And it'd be double-aught bird—if the gun was loaded. It ain't.”

“Want to find out?”

Cage laughed again and lunged for her. She fired. He staggered and fell back, and grabbed the fender, bent double, rocking the Jeep. She felt Eddie's weight rock it in the other direction and she spun around. He ducked, and disappeared beyond the light, then she heard him running in the blackness. She didn't dare fire where she couldn't see. Eddie was gone, pounding away as Cage clung to the Jeep, his face a
mass of blood that turned her stomach. Slowly he slid down the fender, clutching it with bloody hands.

She waited for him to fall, but suddenly he twisted up again, righted himself and came up over the fender straight at her. She fired again, point-blank. He went down. This time, he stayed down.

How strange, the way that shot had echoed. Too loud and with an unnatural thunder, not like the first round.

But now the night was so still, only the echo of the shots ringing, the blackness unbroken except for the acid path of the headlights, beneath which Cage Jones lay crumpled.

Holding the gun at ready, knowing he couldn't be a threat now but alert in case he was, she swung out of the Jeep.

He lay writhing in a way that sickened her. Where was Eddie? Her shots had stopped Cage from slipping up on Max in the dark, but where was Eddie Sears?

She heard no sound of running. And, now, she did not hear the horses. “Eddie's out there,” she shouted. “Cage is down. Eddie ran.”

But the shots had warned Max. Somewhere in the dark, he was ready.

She didn't think Eddie Sears would go after Max, not alone. Eddie was a coward, and this wasn't Eddie's battle. He'd be crazy to shoot at a cop. But still she stood scanning the night, watching for a dark figure slipping back toward the riders. She was thinking maybe she was stupid to think Max would be caught off guard, when Max said, behind her, “Thanks, Charlie.”

His hand brushed hers as he shone a light on Cage; he knelt with his gun on Cage, checking his breathing and searching him for a weapon. Then, standing again, he switched on his radio. “Need a medic for Jones. Eddie Sears ran.” He looked at Charlie. “Is he armed?”

“He didn't fire at me, but…I don't know.”

He relayed that information, and then he held her close, warm, so warm. He smelled of male sweat and horse and gunpowder. She lay her head against him and only now knew how weak she felt, how scared.

“It's all right,” he said, stroking her hair and shining his torch into the night, searching—and watching Cage.

And then McFarland and Brennan were there; they took charge of Cage. Other lights moved through the night, throwing looming shadows as officers searched for Eddie Sears. She heard the horses behind her and then Bucky loomed over her, and beside him her own Redwing—and then out of the darkness Rock leaped at her, the silver hound all over her, wagging and whining, jerking the long lead rope that Ryan held.

Ryan sat Redwing, looking down at Charlie, holding Rock's rope, and holding Bucky's reins. In the glancing reflection of the headlights, Ryan had that long-suffering look on her face as Rock made a fool of himself.

“He tracked you,” Ryan said.

Charlie looked at her. “You've never trained him.”

Ryan shrugged. “He tracked you.”

Max said, “Where's Wilma?”

“She's all right, she went…” She nodded toward where the patrol cars were parked. Lights were flashing now, men running, dark shadows dodging among the ruins as if someone had spotted Eddie Sears.

Max was on the radio. “Wilma down there?”

“I'm here,” Wilma said.

Max handed Charlie the radio. She nearly dropped it. “You all right? Where are you?”

“In a nice comfortable squad car drinking someone's leftover coffee and starving to death. Are
you
all right? What was the firing?”

“I…I shot Cage Jones. He…Could we talk about it
later? I'm beginning to feel…” Charlie swallowed. “I think I need to…”

“Later,” Wilma said, and the radio went silent. Charlie listened to the sounds of running feet and rocks being dislodged and the faint, harsh mumble of the radios as officers searched for Sears; she prayed that no one else would be hurt. Max looked down at her and, with the back of his hand, wiped the tears from her face. She wondered why she was crying. Max put his arms around her, and it was all right, everything was all right.