Cat Pay the Devil (6 page)

T
he old man was sitting at a sidewalk table in front
of a hole-in-the-wall café enjoying a beer when half a dozen police cars moved swiftly up the street. No sirens. Two cops in each car. He watched with interest as they turned onto the street where that Wilma Getz lived. Several blocks up, they slowed. Looked like them cops was headed for that Getz woman's place, sure enough. Fancy stone house. Cottage, they called it.

Pretty fancy place for a retired parole officer. Hard-assed old bitch. She'd throwed him out of that house when he was trying to visit his own sister, Mavity, sick in there, near to dying. Threw him right out, or tried to. Two years ago, that was. Just because he'd had a couple of drinks. Dried-up old prune…

Well, Mavity was just as judgmental. Raised a hell of a fuss this afternoon when she saw him drinking an innocent beer.

A person had to walk into the village, pay through the
nose—tourist prices—if he wanted to have a drink in peace. Open a beer in that house or let 'em see a bottle of whiskey, all hell broke loose, Mavity fussing and the other three scowling like he'd made a bad smell. One little drink…What the hell did
they
do for recreation?

Gulping his beer, watching for more cop cars, Greeley rose. If them cars was parked in front of the Getz woman's place, he sure as hell didn't want to miss the action. Tucking the price of the beer but no tip under the wet bottle, he double-timed up the sidewalk. What a joke,
him
following squad cars. How many times in his sixty plus years had cop cars followed—and lost—him. He moved fast, dodging tourists. This village with its too cute cottages and shops always made him feel smothered. Too cozy for his taste, but a good place to rip off innocent shopkeepers and not get shot at.

Ahead, them cop cars was pulled up smack in front of the Getz place. Cops in the yard and moving around behind the house. He was slipping into the shadows of a porch half a block down and across the street when a car careened out of a side street racing away. Greeley stared.

Cage?

Sure as hell was. Cage Jones, driving fast, dodging other cars. Big hulking guy like Cage Jones was hard to miss, that long face and long lip. He hadn't seen Cage since they'd got back from L.A. more'n a month ago, done their business in San Francisco, and parted. But he'd read the San Francisco papers, paid attention to the hearing, all right. Cage due to be sent back, and he walks out of that San Francisco jail easy as you please, big smile and a fake ID. What a laugh. Had to hand it to Cage, though it would have suited Greeley's own plans better if he'd stayed locked up.

But what, exactly, was he doing at the Getz house? What
the hell did Cage have in mind, coming there? He ought to be staying as far as he could from Wilma Getz; the woman meant nothing but trouble, specially for Cage.

Well, that car had sure as hell been coming from her place, cop fear written all over Cage's bony face, him bent over the wheel, ducking down, driving as fast as he dared and not get stopped—but the next racing figure left Greeley openmouthed. And then he grinned a cold, knowing smile.

As the cops burned their searchlights into the fading evening, flashing along the crowded cottages, sure as hell looking for Cage, he saw a streak of gray with white markings run through a beam high up along the roofs, then vanish. That damn tomcat. He'd seen Joe Grey for only an instant, but he knew that cat, all right. Well, the cat had sure as hell followed them cops.

In a moment he saw the cat again, sailing from an oak tree onto the Getz woman's garage roof, could see the cat's white markings as he crept along the edge of the roof. The next minute he vanished in the thick shadows of another oak. Greeley, hunkering down in the bushes, stayed out of sight, trying to put it all together, figure out what Cage had in mind, coming here.

Cage was a damn fool to come down here to Molena Point—well, he sure wouldn't go home, cops knowing where he lived. Greeley hoped to hell he wouldn't. Because that was where
he
was headed, for a little visit to Cage's place—though he sure didn't look forward to playing nice to Cage's sister Lilly. Sour old spinster, meaner than a snake.

But even if Cage was fool enough to go to ground there in his own house, with Lilly, he'd wait, make sure the cops had searched the place first.

Meanwhile
he'd
have that big house all to himself, if he hurried. And if he could sweet-talk Lilly just right. That Jones house, that was what he'd come for.

He hadn't seen Lilly Jones in some years, not since long before them little burglaries he and the black tomcat had pulled off together in the village. He'd never got caught—though them two village cats knew who did it, all right. They'd
saw
black Azrael go down through a skylight, saw his black tail disappear inside. Nosy little bastards spying on them.

Well, them cats'd kept their mouths shut and with good reason. If he'd got caught, and his black tomcat, too, that damned Azrael would have mouthed off at the cops. And that would have let the cat out of the bag, Greeley thought, laughing. Cops find out there were talking cats in the world, cops
heard
Azrael cursing them, they'd be forced to believe it. And that would sure as hell blow Joe Grey's secret.

That was when he'd met Sue, met her at her South American Shop, and first thing you knew, they were all over each other and headed on back to the tropics to get married—though the honeymoon hadn't lasted long before Sue split. Thanks in part to Azrael. That black tom sure had hated her, sure as hell drove her out. Well, but Greeley, he'd been glad to see the last of her, himself, she was such a teetotal. Hell, he wasn't made for marriage anyway.

Black tomcat was gone now, too. Greeley didn't know where. Evil little bastard, always into voodoo. Sometimes he'd even scared Greeley. He didn't miss Azrael, but he sure missed his skill at break-and-enter. Cat could get into Fort Knox if he had the time to work at it, as good with the windows as Greeley himself was with a safe. They'd made a good team, and Greeley did miss having a partner the cops would never make.

His marriage to Sue might be finished, too, but at least they'd parted friends. When she'd moved back to Molena Point, she was still willing to do a little business on the side, if it profited her. And his own line of work, at the moment,
had fit right in, her exports to the States, that shop and its replicas of devils and idols; those little geegaws she'd helped him bring back had set him up real nice. Well, Sue'd get her share when this was all over—what he told her was her share.

Sure as hell, he was past the age when he relished the diving like he once had, and his lungs was going real bad on him. And Panama starting to hire locals and younger men, the bastards. Damn doctors said lung trouble was to be expected, the amount of whiskey he drank. He'd never heard that! What the hell did they know? Screw 'em all, the medical profession didn't know no more than some jungle witch doctor, maybe a hell of a lot less.

Watching cops move in and out of the Getz house, and cop cars take off, he thought again about Lilly Jones. Strange, pale woman. He guessed she stayed on in the family house because she had nothing better. She didn't work, not that he'd heard. Maybe the parents'd left some money when they died, or maybe Cage saw that she got by, so he'd have a place to come the times he was out—and a place to hide his stash. Had to be pretty well hidden for the feds not to find it. He wondered, uncomfortably, if Lilly knew.

But hell, Cage wouldn't have told
her.
And
she'd
never figure it out. Woman was too dull. Hidebound. Spent half her time in church—until that sister of hers was born. Then, Cage'd said once, Lilly'd stopped going to church. That one, the sister, even as a child, was just as pale and silent as Lilly. Even as a child, near as dried up. No more spirit than a sick chicken.

 

Wilma's shoulder hurt badly, felt like it was swelling, getting tight against her shirt. Cage had twisted her arm so
painfully behind her, she wondered if he'd dislocated it. She'd fought him with little effect, and cursed herself for not staying in better shape. But Cage was built like an ape. Well, if she couldn't fight him, she'd have to outwit him somehow.

How many dead women, in the last hour of their lives, had clung to that same futile hope? Imagining they would outsmart their abductor?

She'd blown it when she'd let him slip up on her. How the hell did he get out of jail? What kind of scam had he pulled this time? It had been around four in the afternoon when she was grabbed from behind and shoved in the backseat of her car, where he'd jerked her down and tied her hands behind her, taped her ankles together. She'd wanted badly to ask him how he'd escaped; every time she tried to turn and face him, he'd shoved her down again. The prodding in her back had felt like a gun but could have been anything: flashlight, cigarette lighter, the blunt end of a screwdriver. She prayed he hadn't found her own gun, hadn't jimmied the glove compartment. She didn't dare try to look up over the backseat in that direction.

But now he had her keys, surely he would look. She could only hope he wouldn't want to be caught with her gun. She had managed to flip her credit card in the gutter, distracting Cage again so he wouldn't see it. Slashing at him she'd cut her hand a little on the card's ragged corner. At least, with it folded, someone finding it might be less likely to use it. Maybe someone honest would find it, if it was found at all. Cage had then slapped three lengths of duct tape over her mouth. She'd waited sickly for the blindfold, but he hadn't put one on her. Did he mean to kill her before it would matter what she saw?

How had she ever supervised this man?

But he'd needed her then, needed her goodwill, needed her influence with the court. He didn't need her now, and he could let all the hate out.

She presumed that no pedestrian, no shopper had been near enough to see him throw her in the car. He'd kept his back to the sidewalk while he tied her, his body hiding her. The tape was going to hurt like hell when it was ripped off—if she was alive when it was removed. If it
is
ever removed, she thought, fear escalating into panic.

There were two of them. The other man had slipped into the driver's seat, shoving the seat back as far as it would go; it pressed hard against her legs. He was tall, thin shouldered, looked younger: smooth neck under longish brown hair. Tan T-shirt tight across his bony shoulders, dirty brown cotton cap pulled low.

Cage had had a partner on some jobs. She must have seen mug shots or read a description, but that was ten years ago; still, there was something about this guy that rang a bell. He started the car, gunned the engine, and pulled out with a squeal of the tires. Drove three blocks to a less public side street, parked, and got out. When Cage got out, too, she managed to twist around and sit up. They stood by the front of the car, talking. There was no one on the narrow little residential street behind the mall, no one visible but Cage and his partner. Yes, this man was younger, maybe twenty-five. Six foot two or three. Lean, long face, high cheekbones. Tanned arms, tanned neck and face. She could see no prison tattoos. He swung into a blue Plymouth that sat parked just ahead of them, a car maybe ten years old and grimy with dirt. She was craning to see the license plate when Cage slipped into the backseat again and pulled a long, dark rag over her eyes, tying it tightly behind her head, and shoved her down on the seat again.

“Stay down. Or you're going to hurt, bad.” He slammed the door. She heard him open the driver's door, felt the car rock, heard the door slam and the locks click. He started the engine and pulled out; she could hear the other car take off behind them, the driver gunning the engine. Didn't he know any other way to drive? Cage made a sharp left, and when she struggled up again, hoping to hear better and to retain a sense of where they were headed, he reached over the back, hit her hard, and shoved her down.

“Stay down, bitch, or I'll fix you so you can't get up.”

She could only swallow her rage. She thought about her .38 locked in the glove compartment, and she could almost hear Clyde say, “You had to know he'd escaped. Why the hell weren't you carrying! You have a permit for a concealed weapon, and a perfectly good shoulder holster.” She could just hear him, and Max, too. In her mind, she pointed out to them that she hadn't known Cage was free, that it was Sunday, broad daylight, in an ordinary shopping mall. She could just hear her niece, too—“You are a retired federal officer, you had every right…” Worst of all, she imagined Dulcie worrying when she didn't come home.

As he increased speed, and his attention was on the traffic, she squirmed around until she could reach the door handle behind her, but it wouldn't unlock; he'd engaged the childproof locks. And she didn't relish rolling out of a moving car. There was no hope of running out of gas; she'd gassed up when she hit Gilroy, before breakfast. At least she wouldn't go to her grave hungry, she thought wryly.

Listening, and memorizing the turns, she was sure they were headed for the freeway. And in just a minute the car picked up speed, climbing, as if going up an entry ramp, and then they were whipping through heavy traffic, passing roaring trucks. Heading south, she was certain. Toward
Molena Point? If this was Cage's vindication for her testimony in court yesterday, why hadn't he killed her in Gilroy where he could dump her back in the hills somewhere? But what else could this be about?

Could Cage want something from her, or plan to use her as a hostage for some reason? She couldn't imagine what. In the past, when Cage was on parole, she'd usually been able to reason with him, on his own level, to his own degree of tolerance; on several occasions, she had even been able, with careful efforts, to sidetrack or delay his crimes.