Cat Bearing Gifts (10 page)

14

T
HEY'RE SURE TO
stop us,” Ryan told Clyde as they entered the hospital from the covered walkway. She avoided looking directly at the two guards in dark uniforms who watched them from within, through the wide glass doors. “We look like a couple of tramps, with our dirty backpacks, look like we're up to no good.” Their wrinkled, stained clothes smelled of sweat and of dog, of gunpowder and maybe of coyote, too, to a discerning nose, maybe even the scent of animal blood. “And my mop looks like a Brillo pad,” she said, pushing back her dark hair where it clung, frizzled into tight curls from their night in the fog. “Not to mention how your backpack is bulging. Be still, Kit,” she muttered, leaning close to the pack, afraid the guards would see it move and want to investigate, would paw through the pack and find Kit staring up at them or scrambling to bolt away.

But no one bothered them, they received only a bored glance from the two uniformed men who were deep in conversation, totally uninterested in what they might be carrying inside with them. Maybe they looked too tired and limp to be bringing in a bomb, to be smuggling in anything that would take much effort. Or maybe Santa Cruz Dominican hadn't had any problems yet with bomb threats or petty vandalism, as the bigger city hospitals were experiencing.

But when they reached the emergency room, down an open flight of stairs, that area was more secure. The ER's doors were locked, they had to give a nurse their names, and provide Lucinda's and Pedric's names, and wait for another nurse to lead them in through the heavy double doors. The short, pillow-shaped woman in green scrubs escorted them past the inner nurses' station and on past rows of small, glass-walled rooms not much larger than a walk-in closet, some with the curtains closed, some open so they glimpsed patients within, sleeping or looking forlornly back at them. Lucinda's glass doors stood open, the canvas curtain drawn halfway across, the lights dimmed down to only a soft glow. Wilma Getz and a lean, dark-haired nurse in scrubs stood one at each side of her bed, frowning as if they'd been arguing. Lucinda lay awake, scowling, but she seemed groggy, too. She smiled vaguely at Ryan and Clyde. “Kate and Charlie were here,” she said. “Gone down to Pedric.” And almost at once she dropped into sleep again. The cast and bandage on her left arm looked heavy and uncomfortable. Her right arm lay across a red windbreaker, holding it possessively. Wilma stood beside her, holding the red jacket, too, keeping it firmly in place as the nurse reached to remove it, apparently not for the first time. At Wilma's angry glare, she paused and drew her hand back. Wilma's gray ponytail was awry; she looked as if she'd pulled on her jeans and navy sweatshirt while climbing straight out of bed. But she looked, even so, not a woman to defy, with that steady and uncompromising gaze. Wilma had intimidated her parolees for thirty years, until she'd retired from the federal court system. She didn't tolerate patronizing behavior from a person committed to easing the suffering of others, particularly of helpless patients.

“Lucinda wants the jacket near her,” Wilma said. “She says it smells of pine trees, and of the hills of our village. What harm, if it comforts her?” Her stubborn grasp on the jacket, and Lucinda's own protective arm across it, even in sleep, didn't hide adequately the little mound beneath but, confronted by Wilma, and now with Clyde and Ryan's presence, the dark, sour woman seemed reluctant to push the matter. She smiled woodenly at the Damens, shook her head as if there were little she could do about unreasonable patients or visitors, and turned away leaving the jacket in place.

Moving to Lucinda's bed, Ryan reached beneath the jacket, speaking softly to Dulcie, smiling up at Wilma.

Wilma grinned back at her. “Lucinda thinks Kit's cuddled next to her. She's much more peaceful since Dulcie slipped into bed with her. If the nurses will just leave us alone.”

“The best therapy,” Clyde said, slinging his pack off, resting it on the edge of the bed. “But there's no need for a stand-in now.” And Kit peered out at them, her green eyes bright.

“Oh,” Wilma said, reaching for her, pausing to glance out the door and then leaning to hug her. “Oh, you're all right, you're safe.” She hugged Kit, squeezing almost too hard. “Pedric's been asking and asking for you, they've been so upset. That's made the doctor upset, he doesn't want Pedric stressed.”

Ryan moved to the glass door and pulled it closed. She stood a moment looking out to the big, center island of counters and desks from which the nurses and doctors and orderlies could see into all the rooms. Only the canvas curtain offered privacy. When she closed that, too, leaving only a crack to look out, Kit slipped from the backpack, her dark coat stark against the white cover.

“Hurry,” Ryan said, “she's coming back.” Kit didn't crawl under with Dulcie, but returned to the depths of the canvas pack.

“Come on,” Clyde said, slinging her over his shoulder. “We'll look in on Pedric. What time does the shift change, when does that nurse leave?”

“Twelve, I think,” Wilma said, glancing at her watch. The clock above Lucinda's bed had almost reached eleven. Clyde and Ryan moved on out with their stowaway, leaving Lucinda sleeping happily with Dulcie as surrogate, and Wilma standing guard.

“How many cats,” Clyde whispered, moving down past the nurses' station to the other side of the big, open square, “how many cats can you smuggle in, before you have Security in your face?”

“They let therapy dogs in,” Ryan said softly. “If the cats wore those same little therapy coats, maybe . . .”

He gave her a lopsided grin. “Don't even think about it. This is dicey enough.”

“What would they do if they caught us?”

He laughed. “What could they do? Two innocent little cats? At least we don't have to worry about Joe and Pan.” They'd left the two tomcats in the king cab, both solemnly promising not to open the door, not to set foot outside, had left them pacing back and forth past Rock, who lay curled up asleep. Having completed his night's work, the silver Weimaraner didn't mean to be kept awake by a couple of edgy tomcats.

“I just hope those two are as good as their word,” Clyde said.

“And how good is that?” she said nervously.

P
EDRIC'S ROOM WAS
brightly lit, the overhead fluorescents turned up high as if the softer lights of evening would too easily lull the patient to sleep when, with a concussion, he must be kept awake. Charlie and Kate sat crowded into folding chairs that they'd jammed between the wall and Pedric's bed. His head was wrapped in a thick white bandage. His thin, lined face was painted with black-and-blue marks down the right side and around his eye where Vic had hit him with the tire iron, bruises that made him look like a dignified clown halfway through applying his makeup. A young, redheaded nurse was fluffing his pillows, he was talking softly to her, the look on his face intense. Whatever he was saying made her uncomfortable. She turned away as Ryan and Clyde entered, bending to adjust the height of the bed. She glanced up embarrassedly at them and at Charlie and Kate, her face flushed, and silently fled the room. Behind her, Charlie and Kate exchanged a look of amusement.

“What?” Ryan said when she'd gone. “Pedric, what were you saying? You weren't coming on to her?” she said, laughing.

Pedric looked puzzled. “I was talking about the old country, the old myths, the old Celtic tales. I told her she looked like the princess from under the hill, but I guess she didn't understand. I guess I made her nervous.” He looked vaguely up at them. “I guess if you're not into mythology, that might sound a bit strange?”

Charlie pushed back her red hair, where a loose strand had caught on her shoulder. “You got her attention, all right. Maybe nurses aren't into folklore. Maybe, when you work in a world of discipline and hard facts, slipping away into imaginary places can be unsettling.” Though for Charlie that wasn't the case; she seemed, in her paintings and her imaginative writing, to live comfortably in both realms.

But Pedric's attention was on Clyde's backpack, which had begun to wriggle. When he saw Kit's bright eyes peering out through the mesh his face broke into a smile, he raised his arms to her as she struggled to get out to him. She was about to leap down beside him when another nurse, a blond, shapely woman, started across from the nursing station and Kit ducked down again. She was stone-still as the nurse entered. Her name tag said
HALLIE EVERS
. She opened the glass door wide, and opened the curtain.

“You can visit,” she said, looking sternly at the four of them. “But not so many at once. One, maybe two if you're quiet. We don't want him excited, though we do need to keep him awake. We need to do that calmly, do you understand? Dr. Pindle will be in shortly. Are you all relatives of Mr. Greenlaw?”

“We're good friends,” Clyde said. “The Greenlaws have no relatives. We came to do whatever we can for them.”

She frowned. “He's been talking strangely, going on about some kind of fairy tale, about harpies and dragons as if they were real,” she said doubtfully. “Maybe the concussion has stirred up some childhood fancy.”

Kate hid a smile. Charlie frowned, looking down at her hands.

“That's not surprising,” Ryan said, giving Nurse Evers her most beguiling smile. “Pedric's a folklorist, that's his profession. He
studies
the old, classical myths and folktales, he has an impressive collection of ancient literature, he tells wonderful stories. You should visit with him sometime, if you're interested in such things. But you're right,” she said, her green eyes wide and innocent. “Four of us is too many, all at once.” She turned to Pedric. “We'll take turns visiting, then, seeing that you don't sleep,” she said gently.

Kate grinned at Charlie and rose, and the two of them left, highly amused by Nurse Evers.

“We'll be quieter,” Ryan told the nurse. “How long must he be kept awake?” Still smiling, she stepped back, easing against Clyde.

“Until the doctor has done an evaluation,” Nurse Evers said, “possibly longer, depending on what is found. Dr. Pindle will give you that information. Mr. Greenlaw's hurt his knee badly, as well. He seems to want to wait for treatment on that until he returns home to his own doctors. He's very vague, most likely due to the concussion. The doctor may want to talk with you about that.” All this as if Pedric were not in the room with them or as if he didn't hear or understand her. “Vague, and then he'll start in again on those strange stories.”

Clyde pretended to adjust his backpack, where Kit had begun to wriggle with impatience.

“He seems able to remember only fragments of the accident, but that's to be expected. He remembers more distant . . . things. I suppose,” she said doubtfully, “if these stories are his profession, I expect he would remember those.” She gave them a brighter smile as if to humor them, and she left abruptly, leaving the door and curtain wide open behind her. Returning to the nurses' station, she moved directly to a computer where she sat facing them, keeping them in view.

Ryan moved to the door, smiled across at Nurse Evers, then closed the door and drew the canvas curtain. She turned to the bed, where Clyde had lowered the backpack and opened it. Kit's black-and-brown ears emerged. As her little tilted nose pushed up over the edge of the pack, Pedric reached in to her, such joy in the older man's face that Ryan had to wipe her eyes and Clyde turned away embarrassed by his own emotion. Quickly Pedric lifted the sheet and Kit crept under, tucking down so close to him that when he'd covered her again, she was barely a lump in the thin white blanket.

“After the wreck,” he whispered, “where did you go? Where were you when they found you?”

“Above the landslide,” Kit said softly. “Rock and Joe and Pan found me and Ryan and Clyde right behind them and Ryan had her revolver, one shot at that coyote that was trying to
dig
me out of the rocks, and
that
mother died, serves him right, trying to eat a poor little cat, and those other two ran like hell and then Pan was there and, oh my . . .” She stopped talking, purring so loudly that anyone passing might have heard her. But then, suddenly yawning, she went quiet beneath the blanket, all worn out. Snuggling deeper against Pedric's side, she drifted off into a deep and healing sleep—while Pedric, longing for sleep, for a forbidden nap of his own, lay watching over her, as their friends stood guard.

15

I
T WAS MIDNIGHT
when Vic crawled into his sleeping bag on the floor of the stone shack, careful not to wake Birely and have him start whining again. The little turd was finally sleeping deeply, despite having to breathe through his open mouth. Even in the dim glow of the battery light, he was pale as milk. Vic had tried to get him to eat but he didn't want anything, just sucked at the water in the limp paper cup. He'd woken up once and talked for a while, his voice slurry, rambling on about his childhood again and his sister, Sammie, and how she came by all that money. Birely'd never say why the old man would send that kind of money to a young niece, send it clear up from Mexico, maybe didn't know why. They'd already found over a hundred thousand, and sure as hell Sammie'd had more down in the house. Weird, her growing old in that run-down place when she'd had enough to live high on the hog. Birely said she liked living the way she did. He said, look at Emmylou, her only friend, another recluse just like Sammie.

Strange, the change in Birely. He used to be a real wuss, a drifter, went right along with whatever anyone wanted him to do. But after Sammie'd given away what was his, now he was all anger, so mad at Sammie that he got moving, all right, looking for her hidden stash.

Birely never knew the old uncle, all he knew was what Sammie and maybe their folks told him. Old train robber did his share of prison time back then, Birely knew that much. Sammie was about nine when Lee Fontana made his big haul and lit out for Mexico, running from the feds, got out of the country shortly before Birely was born. Sammie called him the cowboy, Birely said. She claimed that sometimes she knew from her dreams what he was doing, knew what was happening to him even when he was halfway across the country. Well, you couldn't believe half what Birely told you. Birely said the old man's last robbery was big in the papers back then, and Vic could believe that, all right. Some kind of federal money, Birely didn't know exactly what. Said you'd get burned bad, back in them days, for a federal heist. Vic wondered if the feds kept records back that far. If, tucked away in some musty drawer of ancient files, some federal office had the serial numbers on those old bills.

But what the hell? Even if these cops here in Molena Point got their hands on the money, which wasn't likely, even if they figured out it was real old money, who would think to look back to the last century for some federal robbery? Who would even care?

Except, he thought, if that federal case was still open and he did take Birely to some hospital and Birely started talking, who knew what the dummy would blurt out? Enough to make some nosy cop curious, start him rooting around into the past? Birely could talk on and on, and Vic didn't want to chance that—there were times when a man had no choice, when he did what was needed just to save his own neck.

T
HE
D
AMENS WEREN'T
night people, Ryan and Clyde were early risers, they were often in bed by nine or ten, but somehow in the small hours of this long night they managed to stay awake and to keep Pedric awake, taking turns, one dozing, one asking Pedric for details about the wreck to keep him from drifting off.

Charlie had gotten two adjoining motel rooms nearby at Best Western, so they could all take turns sitting with Pedric; Ryan had stayed with him while Clyde left to take Rock and the two tomcats there, to feed them and get them settled in. Kibble and dog food for Rock, a nice spread of takeout for Joe Grey and Pan, of rare burgers and fried cod. He praised the three trackers lavishly again for their night's work before he left to join Ryan.

Rock, having bolted down his supper, was tucked up with Charlie on her bed. Joe sprawled across Wilma's empty pillow while she and Kate and Dulcie were still at the hospital; Pan didn't settle but paced restlessly, leaping onto the daybed that had been set up for Kate, aimlessly wandering the two rooms, missing Kit, wanting to be with her, still suffering the aftermath of his worry over her.
How strange is that?
he thought. Kit was his first true love, and he didn't quite know what to make of the condition, of the intensity and turmoil that had descended to change his carefree life.
Kit is all fluff and softness—over slashing claws,
he thought, smiling,
sharp teeth, and a will more stubborn even than my own
. She was brave as a cougar one moment, dreamy the next, always volatile, keeping him forever off balance. All he knew was that right now he missed her; he paced until he wore himself out, and then settled down next to Rock and Charlie and, like the softly snoring Weimaraner, Pan slept.

I
T WAS ONE A.M
. The lights in most of the ER rooms had been dimmed, only Pedric's lights shone brightly behind the drawn curtain. Ryan had left the glass door cracked open, but the few nurses and attendants visible were busy at their desks, able to get computer records entered, now that most of the patients were sleeping. At this predawn hour a quiet lull held the ward, perhaps before the next sudden round of broken legs and stomach cramps that would have nurses hurrying again to minister to the wounded and accident-prone. Quietly, Clyde pushed in through the canvas curtain.

Pedric was sitting up in bed, in his skimpy hospital gown, a white cotton blanket around his shoulders, looking relaxed despite the fierce headache he said still plagued him. Beneath the blanket he held Kit safe, so happy to have her there. Ryan sat beside the bed, Clyde's backpack near, in case someone came to tend to Pedric; nurses were never shy about waking patients from sleep to administer pills, to poke and prod and straighten blankets.

“I can remember only fragments of this week,” Pedric was saying worriedly, “a breakfast of Swiss pancakes, a cable car ride in the rain. Kit stretched out on Kate's windowsill,” he said, smiling, “watching fog slip in beneath the Golden Gate. Whole mornings and evenings are blank.

“I remember Kate's stories more clearly, the granite sky, those cavernous sweeps of stone lit by the green glow of the subterranean daytime, a winged woman with a . . .” He went still then as the canvas curtain moved and was eased aside.

A doctor in a white coat stepped in. “Dr. James Pindle,” he said, rigidly watching Pedric. He didn't offer to shake hands with him, or with Ryan or Clyde. He was a thin-boned man, narrow arms and shoulders, small hands. Milk-white skin against ink-black hair, eyes so black you couldn't see the pupils.

“I left orders for only one visitor at a time,” he said accusingly. “I don't want him talking away like this, I don't want him stressed. Didn't the nurse
tell
you that?”

Ryan had risen, pretending to straighten Pedric's covers as Kit slid deeper down; too late now to slip into the backpack, and they were terrified Pindle would lower the rail to examine Pedric.

“At least you didn't let him fall asleep,” Pindle said. “I hope he hasn't slept. The nurse must have told you that much, if you were allowed to stay in here with the curtain drawn. You
must
have been instructed what to watch for.” He glanced out toward the nurses' station, where Nurse Evers seemed totally preoccupied at her computer.

“You do understand,” he said coldly, “that with a concussion he can't have drugs or painkillers or caffeine, and that he will try to escape the pain by retreating into sleep.”

“We understand,” Clyde said. “He hasn't slept. We've been very quiet, and he hasn't talked much.”

“He just seems glad for the company,” Ryan said. She didn't say which company had so pleased and calmed the patient. Pindle gave her a chill look and moved to the bed rail, forcing Ryan to step aside. He stood not inches from where Kit hid beneath the blanket, looking at Pedric. “One of you will have to leave. The patient is a bundle of nerves, surely you can see he's disturbed.”

“Not at all,” Pedric said, smiling easily at him, putting out his hand for a proper introduction. “In fact, I'm feeling better, the headache is less severe. I'd like something to eat, if there's anything available at this hour.”

Pindle's face seemed frozen into scowl lines. “I'll tell the nurse. Maybe some crackers and applesauce.” He looked at Clyde. “Is he still worrying about his
cat
?” he said with disgust. “This foolishness about a cat has him unduly upset. I can't have him worrying, certainly not over something so inconsequential. I'm moving him to the ICU in the morning, until he's stable. Blood sugar way too high, and that could mean any number of things. And the torn knee needs attending to. The hospitalist will be in shortly, he's the one who will admit him. I don't suppose either of you have a medical power of attorney?”

“We both do,” Clyde said coolly. “As do Ms. Osborne, Wilma Getz, and Mrs. Harper. Ms. Osborne is down the hall with Pedric's wife. We are all listed on both of the Greenlaws' health care directives. Mrs. Harper signed him in, so that should be on the chart.”

“Then there should be no problem if further tests are warranted,” Pindle said. “His wife will be kept in ER overnight. If nothing else shows up, she can go home. I'm on my way to look at her. We'll keep Mr. Greenlaw until the concussion has healed and the torn meniscus in his knee is repaired, though we may find that other procedures will be needed.”

What other procedures, Ryan thought, here in a strange hospital? And who said Pedric and Lucinda weren't alert enough to do their own signing?

“Maybe Dr. Carroll can deal with him,” he said without explanation, and without any comforting word to Pedric, he left the room, the canvas curtain swinging behind him. Ryan looked after him, rigid with anger, then hurried to catch up as he moved along the hall toward Lucinda's room.

“I'm not sure,” she said, walking beside him, “that it's wise to separate Lucinda and Pedric, to send Lucinda home alone.” She kept her voice loud enough to alert Kate and Wilma. One close call was enough, they didn't need this man finding Dulcie. Dr. Pindle didn't respond, he didn't speak or turn to look at her. He pushed past her, was just entering Lucinda's room when Ryan, glancing back, saw another doctor leave the room next to Pedric's, heading for Pedric's door.

Praying Kate and Wilma had heard her warning, she turned back again, to help Clyde get Kit out of there unseen, or try to get her out. But, stepping in behind the doctor, he didn't alarm her as Pindle had; his movements were easier and unthreatening as he turned to look at her.

He wore the requisite white coat with its little brass name tag, same dark slacks as Dr. Pindle, soft-soled black shoes. But this man looked relaxed, he had an easy walk, a big man, big hands, tousled red hair framing a face that looked sunny and thoughtful. As he approached Pedric's bed she saw Wilma hurry out of Lucinda's room carrying her heavy tote bag, the canvas bottom sagging. Had Pindle seen Dulcie and angrily sent them packing? Or had Wilma moved fast enough to clear the premises before they found themselves in a nasty tangle of red tape and security guards, mired in a diatribe that would leave both the cats and humans shaken, leave the two patients sicker than they'd been when they were admitted?

E
VEN BEFORE
R
YAN
left Pedric's room Kit was digging her claws into the mattress trying not to squirm, not to burst out hissing at that Dr. Pindle person. She felt trapped by his cold voice, trapped by the bed rails and the tightly tucked blanket that hid her, trapped even by the tubes and wires that confined Pedric, that seemed to confine them both. Hidden in the near dark against Pedric's warmth, she couldn't see out; she'd listened with growing anger to Dr. Pindle, had heard Ryan follow him out of the room, heard her voice moving away down the hall as if to warn Kate and Wilma, but still she felt he might appear again, and the man made her fur crawl. But then, crouched there listening, she sensed Pedric start to fall asleep. She felt Clyde shake his arm, prodding him awake. “Talk to me, Pedric,” Clyde urged.

Oh, don't talk about the Netherworld again
, Kit thought, but already he was saying, “A world so green, like the green underworld of the old myths,” and even as he rambled on again, to keep himself awake, she heard footsteps in the room next to them, a man's soft-soled step. “Green drifting out of the granite sky . . .” Pedric was saying, and she pawed at him to make him be still. She heard the next door slide open, the scuff of rubber-soled shoes approaching Pedric's door. She peered out searching for the backpack, but she couldn't see it. Yes, there, Clyde was holding it open. She tensed to slip out but she was too late. Another doctor had stepped in and with no time to hide she pushed closer to Pedric, her heart pounding.

He came to stand beside the metal rail. He would be looking down at Pedric, looking right at the covers where she hid. She tried not to move even a whisker, prayed not to sneeze or purr. Purrs weren't always controllable, sometimes they just slipped out.