Dedication - Кроха

Joe had been amused when Scotty started attending the meetings. Scott Flannery was not a cat person and was not inclined to women’s groups. But then Ryan’s shy, quiet carpenter Ben Stonewell had joined. Ben was interested in the rescue operation. Scotty was more interested in Kate; he would come to the meetings with Ben but leave with her, “for a walk on the beach,” he would say, or, “a nightcap in the village.”

Scotty was Ryan’s father’s brother. Detective Dallas Garza was her mother’s brother. The two men had moved in with Mike Flannery after the children’s mother died, when the three girls were very young. Together the men had raised them, adjusting work schedules to be sure someone was at home for them, teaching them not only to cook but to do household repairs, to carpenter, to carefully handle and care for a firearm, and to help train Dallas’s bird dogs. Dallas and Ryan’s beautiful sister Hanni were good hunting partners.

But it was Scotty who stirred Ryan’s interest in construction, teaching her the more intricate use of carpentry tools and the basics of strong construction, years before she went on to art school to study design.

Now, at the sink tossing salad, Ryan turned at a knock on the front door, and went to let Ben in. The young carpenter hadn’t used the intercom; he was wary of that simple device, though he was comfortable enough with the high-powered carpentry equipment.

The thin, pale young man entered the kitchen shyly. He looked freshly scrubbed; he wore his brown hair shoulder length, but it was clean and neat. He always seemed pleased by the big family kitchen, the homey room with its flowered overstuffed chair and bookshelf at the far end, by the resident animals looking up smiling at him, by the warm sense of family. He was more outgoing with the two cats and the big Weimaraner than with humans. At the sight of Ben, Rock left the braided throw rug and came to lean against the young carpenter’s knee. Ben had changed from his work clothes to tan slacks, a brown polo shirt open at the collar, and loafers. Ryan pulled out a chair for him and fetched him a beer. He looked up at Clyde. “Smells good,” he said. “Real good,” and he grinned more openly. “Can I help?”

Clyde shook his head. “All under control.” The rescued pasta draining in the colander seemed none the worse for boiling over—there was enough spaghetti for a small army. The Damens always made extra. Leftovers went in the freezer for a handy future meal. That is, what leftovers Joe Grey didn’t get into during a midnight foray. Joe had learned, when he was very young, to open the refrigerator, though he was not as agile as Dulcie. The Damens’ refrigerator, as well as Wilma’s and the Greenlaws’, had emergency interior handles; these were Clyde’s invention, built at the automotive shop by one of his mechanics.

Scotty set the salad on the table, and Clyde dished up the spaghetti. Joe leaped off the table to the end of the kitchen counter where Clyde had set Joe’s own plate. He could never understand why Clyde thought he deserved a smaller plate than everyone else. Though he was amused by its pattern of fat cats. Ryan said it might encourage Joe to watch his waistline. In fact, looking at those prancing, greedy kitties only made him eat faster.

They were all seated, Ryan serving the salad, when Scotty said, “Kate told me . . . she saw another assault this evening.”

Everyone paused, Clyde’s beer mug half raised.

“When I got to the apartment she was just home from the PD, from filing the report. She was still mad, upset that she hadn’t caught the guy. She said he ran like hell, and Kate’s pretty fast herself.”

Clyde said, “She got a look at him?”

“Not much, just his back. He slid into an alley. She wasn’t that far behind, but when she got there he was gone, not a trace.”

Scotty sprinkled cheese on his spaghetti. “Slim guy, Kate said. Thin and small. Dressed in black, black cap with earflaps. Could have been a kid, or not. She was coming out of the drugstore when she saw him half a block away, saw him knock a woman down. When he saw Kate he spun away and ran. She grabbed her phone, got a blurred picture of his back, just a smear of the dark figure careening around the corner. She called 911, then chased him. When she lost him she turned back to help the woman. Officer Brennan was already there, and the medics.

“Kate said the woman didn’t seem hurt too bad. While they were taking care of her, Kate went on into the station, gave her statement to Detective Davis, and they copied the photo from her cell phone.

“They’ll enhance the picture,” Scotty continued, “but I doubt they’ll get much. The woman told Brennan she was all right, she didn’t want to go to the hospital. She went into the station with him, gave her own statement, and he took her home.” Scotty laid a copy of the photograph on the table.

Joe, leaping to the table pretending to sniff at Ryan’s spaghetti, got a good look at the picture, but it didn’t offer much, just a dark, blurred figure running, very like the hooded figure who ran when Joe shouted from the roof of the PD.

“What does this guy want?” Scotty said. “These attacks seemed no more than cruel pranks—until the murder. And then the second death, that could be either murder or unintentional manslaughter. None of it makes sense. Everyone in the department’s edgy.”

Joe knew that. He was more than uneasy himself.

At Scotty’s first mention of the attack Ben looked uncomfortable. “If people were half as decent as animals,” he said, “were as kind as animals, the whole world would be at peace.”

No it wouldn’t, Joe thought. Watching Ben, the tomcat found it hard to keep his mouth shut. He wanted to point out that predatory animals weren’t so decent, that wolves, coyotes, jungle cats, were all cruel killers, that was the way God made them. Wolves, for instance, began eating their prey before the poor animals were dead; a wolf would pull half-born calves from their mothers, or would mortally wound valuable young heifers and not even bother to eat them. They would leave their prey slowly dying and move on to kill the next little calf, as they taught their cubs how to hunt. He wanted to say that it was only the victims of the wolves and coyotes that were without cruelty.

And, Joe thought, only half ashamed, even a mouse might not die quickly in the jaws of a hunting cat. The tomcat’s own dual nature sometimes left him conflicted; he really didn’t like to analyze such matters—and now he could make no reply to set Ben straight. His opinion was locked in silence.

He realized he was scowling only when Ryan gave him a faint shake of the head, a look that said,Back off, cool it, Joe. You’re too interested. Suck up whatever you want to say. Get out of Ben’s face with that angry and superior stare.

Embarrassed, Joe turned from Ryan, leaped from the table to the kitchen counter once more, and licked clean the last of his spaghetti.

Only when Ben talked about his rescue cats did his eyes brighten. He launched into an amused and loving description of his three charges, of how well they got along together and how all three slept with him at night. Maybe, Joe thought, if Ben finds a larger apartment he might keep the three homeless cats. Ryan said his apartment was so small there was hardly room for the bed, a tiny refrigerator, and a hot plate. The little basement room and bath huddled beneath a tall old house that overlooked a shallow canyon east of the village. Ryan had described, to Clyde and Joe, the rough concrete walls, the decrepit metal windows on the two daylight sides of the corner room. She said Ben had lined up the two spacious cat cages before the windows, further darkening the little apartment but giving the cats light and morning sun. Ben’s landlord rented out rooms in the house above, but people were seldom home. No one seemed to care that Ben kept cats. Joe expected he’d find a better place soon. He’d only moved down from San Francisco less than a year ago.

Well, Joe thought, the Bleak job will finish soon and Ben will be working full-time to finish the shelter; he’ll like that better. Though Joe did wonder why Ben was so uncomfortable around Tekla, more upset at her harassment than seemed warranted.

Well, who could blame him? Joe avoided the woman, too. Now, watching Ben, the tomcat had no idea that by the next morning his idyllic picture of the young man would have changed radically—and that Joe himself would be thrown into the middle of the tangle.

9

That blonde that spotted the attack had nearly messed them up, she ran faster than you’d expect, almost got a good look and ruined it all. A hasty retreat and no harm done, but way too close—left a person shaking with nervous sweat.

But that was the only time there was trouble. All in all, every new assault was a blast. Shadowing the victims, learning their habits, learning the paths they took among the village stores, knowing where they lived and where they shopped. Watching the places they worked, where they ate if they ate out. Pausing in a doorway, waiting, silent in the shadows, that was the best part. The sudden hit—slip up with no sound, one good shove and it was done. See them fall scared and struggling and you were gone before they got a glimpse. A fast attack, then gone. How easy was that?

Well, it should have been the same this time except the damned blonde got in the way. She had a cell phone—did she get a picture? If so, it couldn’t be much. A running smear from the back. Hell, she didn’t see anything. What could she tell the cops? Anyway, that mark had been just a shill. Tomorrow would be a real one again. Tomorrow’s target knew something, knew too much and needed taking out. Tomorrow when they’d be alone, just the two of them.

It was near dawn when the setting moon angled into Joe Grey’s tower so bright that, even deep in sleep, he tucked his face under the pillows. But the afterglow stayed in his head, brought him half awake. Wriggling around, he scowled out at the offending yellow orb. Damn moon brighter than a streetlight slanting in through the oak and pine branches.

The moon had been high when he galloped home from hunting late last night, his belly full of mice atop his earlier spaghetti supper—a good hunt even if Dulcie had wanted to stay to the grassy hill that rose behind her own cottage. He was chagrined that he hadn’t been concerned, days earlier, when she preferred to stay within the village instead of out on the far hills. Why wasn’t I puzzled that my lady was slowing down?

Tomcat inattention, he thought. All wrapped up in my own interests. Expecting her to be as irate at these new crimes as she always is at village violence. I never wondered at all why she was so preoccupied.

But even though he hadn’t noticed Dulcie’s motherly condition, he had seen a different look in her eyes. That alone should have clued him in. He’d wondered only briefly what that calm look was, that deep contentment in her easy glance. He’d put it down to some passing mood, thinking,Who can understand females? He should have paid more attention, should have figured it out without having to be told. But no, not for one minute had he taken time to wonder.

Ryan had said, late last night as she climbed into bed and Joe leaped to the rafters, ready to head out to hunt, “Be careful with her, Joe. Hunt close to home, and hunt easy.” She’d pulled the covers up over her silk nightie. “Please be careful, you don’t want to stress her. Not with those precious kittens.”

Well, hell, he knew that.

“Listen to Dr. Firetti,” she’d scolded. “We’re all eager for those little kittens to be healthy and strong.”

Joe had flicked his ears in annoyance, bolted across his rafter and out his cat door.

But he’d made sure Dulcie had an easy hunt among the tall grass where the field mice thrived. He had watched her gobble mice as if she couldn’t get enough.

“Taurine,” she’d told him when at last she’d stretched out in the grass to rest. “Cats need taurine, and maybe I need more now for the kittens. We don’t make our own, like people do.” Where did she get this stuff? From Wilma? Did she and Wilma find these things online? Or had Dr. Firetti told them? Taurine, he thought. No wonder a cat craved mice.

It had been around two a.m. when he’d escorted Dulcie through her cat door and headed home himself. He found it hard to get used to his tame, sedate lady, hard to forget her wild days when, too often, he’d had trouble keeping up with her. He guessed those times would return. He hoped so. He felt tender and frightened for her, but he missed her devil-may-care fearlessness. Now, rolling over among the pillows again to block out the setting moon, he burrowed under and slept once more, deeply.

It was a reflection from the low rising sun that pulled him from the depths this time, that stirred him just enough to smell coffee brewing. Then an urgent banging, which woke him fully. He leaped from the pillows to stare around at the dawn-bright roofs and treetops. The pounding came again, from below, from the front door, and Billy Young’s voice, “Ryan? Clyde?” A quavering, shaky voice not like Billy. Joe pushed out through the tower’s open window, leaped across the shingles, and peered over.

The slim, brown-haired boy stood with his back to the front door, pressed against it watching the street fearfully in both directions, his thin face white, even his high, ruddy cheekbones white, his fists clenched. The door opened so suddenly behind him that he nearly fell inside.

Swinging around, he pushed in beside Ryan and slammed the door closed.

Startled, Joe Grey fled in through his tower onto the rafter, hit Clyde’s desk, and was downstairs before Ryan and Billy reached the kitchen. Clyde, startled, turned from the stove where he was frying eggs. Joe leaped to the table as Ryan urged Billy to sit down. He was trembling and out of breath, his dark eyes huge. She reached for the freshly brewed coffee, added milk for him. “You ran here from the job?”

Mutely, Billy nodded.

Putting the cup on the table and fetching her own coffee, she sat down next to him. At the stove Clyde dished up the eggs and set them aside. Refilling his coffee cup, he joined them. Both were quiet, waiting for Billy to collect himself. When Joe heard the familiar sound of Max Harper’s truck go by, Billy heard it, too, and glanced nervously in that direction. When Ryan took Billy’s hand, gently undoing his fist, he gripped her fingers hard, needing that strong human touch.

Only Joe heard the softer sound of the medics’ van slip by the house, following Max. No one else looked up. The medics were not using their siren, as if they didn’t want to be heard heading for the building site. What had happened? Surely there’d been an accident—but who was hurt, to call out the rescue team?

Oh, not Scotty, Joe thought. Ryan’s big redheaded uncle was often at work early—but the tall Scots-Irishman seemed as indestructible as stone. Is it young Ben Stonewell? He thought, shivering. But maybe only some local, poking around the building, fell over a stack of lumber? It was hard as hell to sit still, not to race out and follow the action.

“Max dropped me off at the job,” Billy was saying, “and went on to work. I was early, Scotty wasn’t there yet. No one . . . I used my key, went on in. Opened the garage from inside, then went out again and around to get some tools . . .” He cupped his hands around the warm mug, sat silently staring into it. Seeing what ugly replay, that he could hardly talk about?