Cat Bearing Gifts (3 page)

“If she's
found
any,” Vic said, “why's she driving that clunky old car? I'd get me a new car, first off. And if she
is
looking for the money, why would she have help coming in, those two carpenters that are here sometimes, and that woman carpenter? She wouldn't have no one else around. That dark-haired woman's a looker, I wouldn't mind getting to know her better.” Slim woman, short, roughed-up hair. Fit her faded jeans real nice. He'd heard the old woman call her Ryan, she drove a big red king cab, her own logo on the side, Ryan Flannery Construction. Pretty damn fancy. Well, hell, Vic thought, she was likely too snooty to give him a second look.

He did meet a little gal down in the next block, though, and she wasn't too good for him. Debbie Kraft, flirty little gal with two small children, both girls, light-fingered woman not too good to steal, neither, he soon found out.

They burned no lights in the stone house at night, and didn't cook none, or warm up their food. Just opened a can of cold beans, kept a loaf of bread handy and maybe doughnuts. He missed hot coffee. Even in the hobo camps they boiled coffee. And they didn't drive the truck, just left it hidden in the shed below and hoped she'd stay away from there. If they needed beer and food they'd walk up the hill through the woods and then down the next street to the village. Carried out their trash, too, dropped it in a village Dumpster, in one alley or another, always behind a different restaurant. Fancy place like Molena Point, even the Dumpsters were kept all neat and covered.

They'd kept on slipping down to the house whenever Emmylou went out, searching where she was starting a tear-out, fishing back between the studs, but then one night she came up the hill snooping around the stone house. They were inside sitting on their sleeping bags eating cold beans and crackers, they heard her come up the steps, saw her through the smeared window, and they eased down out of sight. They were sure she'd have a key, but she didn't come in. They'd stayed real still until they heard her leave again, her shoes scuffing on the steps, heard her rustling away down through the bushes, heard her door open and shut.

They'd waited a while after her lights went out, feeling real nervous. They'd opened the shed door real quiet, shoved some food and their sleeping bags in the pickup, with what money they'd found, hoping she wouldn't hear the pickup start. Had eased up the dirt lane and around through the woods, and moved on away from there. Had parked for the night way up at the edge of the village beside an overgrown canyon. Had waited until dawn, then had made a run back down near Emmylou's place, where Vic tended to a deal he'd made with Debbie Kraft. Had picked up some goods he'd told her he'd sell for her up in the city and some fancy, stolen clothes. A nice stroke of luck, when he'd seen Debbie and her older child shoplifting, and had got the goods on them. A nice little deal he'd set up with her: he'd make the sale and take his share, and not turn her in to the cops. He'd met with Debbie, picked up the goods, and then headed for the city. Let Emmylou think they were gone for good—if she ever
was
onto them living right there above her.

They were gone a week up the coast, boosting food from a mom-and-pop grocery or a 7-Eleven, and they'd gone on into San Francisco, where he'd made the business transaction. That turned out pretty good, except for the damn cops sitting out in front, there. Well, hell, the goons hadn't followed them, maybe it was just coincidence, maybe they were watching someone else.

He'd made a bit of cash off that, and who knew what other arrangements he might make with Debbie. Now, headed back down the coast to the stone shack, he hoped the old woman had settled down and they could finish looking for the money. Vic was daydreaming about what he'd do with that kind of cash, when the produce truck he'd passed came roaring down right on their tail, its lights so bright in his mirror he couldn't see the road ahead. Swearing, he eased over to let it pass. Truck hauled right down on them, riding their bumper. Let the bastard tailgate that big sedan up ahead, it was moving too damn slow anyway. That was what was holding him up, some rich-ass driver in that big Lincoln Town Car—one more curve, he was right on top of the Town Car, and the damn truck was climbing his tail. Swearing, he pulled over, pushing the big sedan closer to the edge. “Go on, you bastard!” Why the hell didn't the guy driving the Lincoln step on the gas, get on down the grade? Vic drew as close to the edge as he could to let the truck pass, tailgating the Town Car, then pulled toward the left lane. But the truck shot past him, rocking his truck, kicking up gravel, shaking the road with a hell of a rumble, and its headlights made the cliff look like it was moving—well, hell, the cliff
was
moving, rocks falling, bouncing across the road. He stood on his brakes but couldn't stop. The whole mountain was sliding down. The Town Car shot past, rocks thundering down across its tail. A whole piece of the mountain was falling. The big truck skidded, Vic smashed into its side and into the cliff. The front end of his pickup crumpled like paper, squashed against the bigger bumper. The passenger door bent in against Birely like you'd bend a beer can, Birely struggling and twisting between the bent door and the crumpled dashboard. Pebbles and rocks rained down around them. The produce truck lay turned over right in his face, one headlight striking off at an angle, catching the rising dust, its other light picking out the black Town Car on the far side of the rockfall, where it had plowed into the cliff. That light shone into the interior where the driver and passenger were slumped, and picked out through the back window the eerie green glow of a pair of eyes, he could see the animal's tail lashing, too, and realized it wasn't a dog, but a cat. Who would travel with a
cat
! A damn cat, its eyes reflecting the lights of the wrecked truck where it peered out, watching him.

3

V
IC COULDN'T OPEN
the truck door, it was bent and jammed. The passenger side was pushed in, trapping Birely against the dash. Birely lay moaning, his face and neck covered with blood, reaching out blindly for help. The big delivery truck lay on its side among the fallen boulders, Vic's pickup crumpled in against the roof of the truck's cab, its right front fender jammed deep against its own wheel. Well, hell, the damn thing was totaled, was no use to him now.

But when he looked off across the rockfall at the Lincoln, it didn't look too bad. Looked like it had missed most of the slide, rocks and rubble thrown against it and scattered across the hood, but he could see no big dents in the fenders to jam the wheels, and the hood and front end weren't pushed in as if to damage the engine. The couple inside hadn't moved.

Reaching under the seat for the tire iron, he used that to break out what remained of his shattered window. Knocking the glass away, he crawled out and swung to the ground. Stepping up onto the unsteady heap of rocks, trying not to start the whole damned mountain sliding again, he worked his way around to the other side of the pickup, to have a look.

Birely didn't look good, sprawled limp and bleeding across the dash. Poor Birely. So close to finding the rest of his sister's money, and now look at him. What kind of luck was that? Vic thought, smiling.

Vic's one working headlight shot into the big truck's cab, casting a grisly path onto the driver. He lay twisted over the wheel, his head and shoulders half out the broken window, his throat torn open by a spear of metal from the dashboard, his blood coursing down pooling into the window frame. Dark-haired guy, Hispanic maybe. No way he could be alive with his throat slit. Vic turned his attention again beyond the fall of rocks, to the black sedan nosed in against the cliff. As the door of the Town Car opened, he stepped back behind the turned-over truck, out of sight.

The driver's forehead was bleeding. Vic watched him ease out of the car, supporting himself against the open door. The minute his feet touched the ground his right leg gave way. He fell, pulled himself up, stood a moment, his weight on his left leg, then tried again, wincing. Tall old man, thin. White hair. Frail looking. Easing out of the car on his left leg, clinging to the door and then to the car itself, he moved painfully around to the back of the car, making his way on around to the far side, to the woman. He stood beside her, reaching in, clinging to the roof of the car. She was as thin as the man, what Vic could see of her. She sat clutching the cat to her, mumbling something. The man reached past her into the glove compartment, found a flashlight and held it up, looking at her, and then looking at the cat, studying it all over, giving it more attention than he gave to the woman; but he was talking to the woman, mumbling something Vic couldn't hear over the crashing of the sea below. The man spoke to the cat, too, spoke right to it, the way someone'd speak to a pet dog. People made asses of themselves over their dogs. But a cat, for Christ's sake? He watched the old man flip open a cell phone. Speaking louder, now, the way people did into a phone, as if they had to throw their voices clear across the damn county. He was talking to a dispatcher, giving directions to the wreck. Hell, here he was, the truck no use to him, smashed too bad to get him out of there, and the damn cops on the way.

The old guy had turned, looking across the rock slide toward him, but Vic didn't think he could see him, there behind the truck. Guy told the dispatcher, “Nothing stirring over there. I'll have a look, see what I can do. Yes, I'll stay on the line.”

He spoke to the woman again, dropped the phone in his pocket, and started limping across the rock slide. He turned back once, to the woman, his voice raised against the pounding of the surf. “You sure you're okay?” She nodded, then mumbled something as he moved on away. The old guy negotiated the rock pile half crawling, his white hair and tan sport coat caught brightly by the truck's one headlight. But Vic's attention was on the Town Car, on the big, heavy Lincoln. A car like that could take a lot of abuse. Even with deep dents and dings from the slide, it looked like it would move right on out and with plenty of power to spare.

Easing back around to the pickup, where the old guy crossing the rocks couldn't see him, Vic pulled the plastic bag of money out from under the seat and stuffed it inside his shirt. He didn't speak to his passenger; Birely was pretty much out of it, close to unconscious, gasping as if he wouldn't last too long. Vic watched the old man approach, balancing precariously, the pain showing in the twist of his long face. He moved on past Vic, never seeing him, and as he scrambled and slid down the unsteady boulders, Vic eased closer in behind the camper, hefting the weight of the tire iron. The old guy paused at the turned-over delivery truck, stood looking in at the dead driver. Shook his head and moved on, to the pickup. He still didn't see Vic until Vic stepped out into the truck's headlight, holding the tire iron low against his leg. The old man looked him over, took in the tire iron, and glanced into the cab of the pickup. “Your friend needs help.”

“Best let him be,” Vic said, “best not move him.”

The old man nodded, watching him. “My wife's hurt. I called 911, ambulance is on its way. They'll both have help. I've got to get back to her, I think her arm is broken. You have any flares? I have two, I can set them down the road, at that end.”

Vic didn't say anything. He nodded and stepped closer. The man was lean and, despite his look of frailty, Vic could see now that he was wiry, tightly muscled. He wore his white hair short, in a military cut, ice pale against his tan. The old guy was quick, he saw Vic's intention—the instant Vic swung the tire iron he lunged, grabbing for it despite the hurt leg.

But his timing was off, Vic stepped aside, hit him a glancing blow across the head. When he tried to break his fall, clutching at loose rocks, Vic kicked him hard. He went flat, didn't move again, lay bleeding onto the blacktop. Stepping around him, Vic saw Birely looking out at him, helpless and pleading.

He'd thought to leave Birely, the guy was already half dead, but some stupid softness touched him, he couldn't leave the dumb bastard. “Hoist yourself out of there, Birely.” He didn't wait to see if Birely
could
get out, he headed on past the old man, who was bleeding bad now, past the turned-over truck and across the rockfall toward the Lincoln. He heard Birely struggling behind him, groaning as he tried to free himself. Hell, he wasn't jammed in there that tight, he could get out if he tried.

Approaching the driver's side of the Lincoln, Vic saw that the bumper was knocked loose on one end. It wasn't low enough yet to drag and make a racket, he'd find something to tie it in place. He didn't see much else wrong, he just hoped to hell the other side wasn't bashed in or that the other wheel wasn't bent. The passenger door hung open, the interior lights on. The woman sat holding her left arm, the damn cat still in her lap
.
He could see the keys in the ignition. He stood by the hood, watching her, holding the tire iron low and out of sight.

K
IT WATCHED HIM
approach, the thud of his steps timed to the rhythm of the breaking waves. He paused by the hood of the car, and frantically she nudged Lucinda, her nose against Lucinda's ear. “Get out,” she whispered, “get away. Now, Lucinda! Move!”

Slowly Lucinda climbed out, unsteady on her feet, shaking her head as if to clear it, cradling her hurt arm.

“Hurry,” Kit hissed.

“I can't, I can't move faster.”

The man stood watching.
Can he hear me
? Kit thought.
So screw him
. “You can!” she hissed, her fur bristling. “
Run
,
Lucinda
.
Run!
” her voice more hiss than whisper.

He stepped to the car, blocking Lucinda. Lucinda grabbed Kit with her good hand, catching her breath with the pain. She twisted awkwardly, threw Kit as far as she could, out toward the rock slide. “Run, Kit! Run!” Kit landed on rubble, spun around and leaped atop the car. Lucinda had turned, reaching in. She backed out holding the big flashlight where he might not see it. When he grabbed for her, she swung.

But again he was faster, he snatched her hand, jerked the flashlight from her, shoved her down against the fallen rocks. Kit leaped on him, landed in his face clawing and raking him. Lucinda rose awkwardly, turned, kicked him in the shin then in the front of the knee. He swung the tire iron hard across her shoulder, shoved her down again as Kit rode his back, clawing. He grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, swinging her out away from him. When she bit down hard on his arm, he threw her against the car. She tried to run, but staggered dizzily. Sick and confused, she backed away among the fallen rocks. He was a hard-muscled man, his arms brown and knotted and tasted unwashed. Long hair hanging down his back, dishwater brown, a short scraggly beard oozing blood where her claws had raked. Ice-blue eyes, cold and pale. He had moved around the Lincoln to the driver's side when, across the slide, she heard a car door open.

The passenger in the pickup staggered out. A small man with short brown hair, his face and plaid shirt slick with blood, his nose running blood. He came slowly across the rock pile, stumbling uncertainly, breathing through his mouth, wiping at the blood that ran from his nose. The man with the tire iron got in the Lincoln. “Get a move on, Birely.” He started the engine, gunned it, paying no attention to Lucinda sprawled so near the front wheels. His friend stumbled on across, falling on loose rocks, clutching at the larger boulders, stepping over Lucinda as if she were another rock. Edging around the Lincoln, he crawled awkwardly into the passenger seat. The driver pushed the engine to a roar. Kit ran to Lucinda, Lucinda grabbed her and rolled away as he backed around narrowly missing them. He took off in a shower of rocks, heading fast down the mountain on the twisting two-lane.

A
LONE AMONG THE
wreck with only a dead man to keep them company, Kit and Lucinda huddled together trembling with rage. Against the rhythm of the waves came the metallic ticks of the two wrecked trucks, settling more solidly into the highway. From higher up the mountain among the pine forest, a lone coyote began to yip.

“Cops will be here soon,” Kit said, “and an ambulance.”

“I'm fine,” Lucinda told her. “Go to Pedric. Go and see to Pedric.” Her color was gray. She held her left shoulder unnaturally, and her left arm hung limp. Kit pressed a soft paw against Lucinda's wrinkled cheek, pressed her face to Lucinda's jugular, listening. Lucinda's heartbeat was too rapid, faster even than Kit's own feline rhythm. She pawed into her housemate's jacket pocket, careful not to touch Lucinda's arm or shoulder, searching for Lucinda's phone. It seemed forever ago that Pedric had called 911, but she couldn't hear even the faintest sound of sirens down on the flatland, could see no flashing emergency lights below approaching up the two-lane, no one to help them. The shushing of the sea, with its eons-old assurance that all was well, that all of importance in the world would last forever, didn't comfort her much. She thought about a car coming down the mountain from above moving too fast as those trucks had done, the driver ignorant of the wreck ahead, not yet seeing the lone and disembodied headlight shooting up the rock slide. How far could such a light
be
seen, on that curving road? With no flares to mark the wreck, would an approaching car stop to help or would it crash into them? She found the phone, and before she raced to Pedric, she hit the key for 911.

She had no notion where central dispatch was located for these small coastal towns north of Molena Point, and she didn't know if they could track a cell phone. Some areas could, and some didn't have that equipment. When a woman dispatcher came on, Kit gave directions as best she could. She said Pedric had called earlier but that no one had come. She was so afraid of another car plowing into them that she was nearly yowling into the phone, her frightened words not much better than the scream of a common alley cat. “Hurry! Oh,
please
hurry
. . . They've stolen our car, a black Lincoln Town Car, could you watch for it? Put out a BOL on it? Two men in it, one hurt bad.” She described the men as best she could, all the while thinking about the treasure hidden in the doors of the Lincoln, wondering how soon the thieves would find that. The wealth was of no consequence, compared to her hurt housemates, but it enraged her to see it stolen. Clicking off, she stood looking down the highway wondering if, alone, she could drag Lucinda off the road and up among the boulders, safe from an oncoming car? Drag Pedric up, too, get them both higher up, away from further danger? When the dispatcher asked for her name, she said, “Lucinda Greenlaw. My husband's hurt, the man who took our car beat him.” When the dispatcher told her to stay on the line, Kit laid the phone down, set her teeth firmly in Lucinda's jacket on her unhurt side, and began to pull. She
could
do this, she
had
to do this. Maybe the loose rocks beneath Lucinda would serve as a kind of rolling platform. Straining to get Lucinda up onto them, she fought as she had never fought, every muscle of her small cat body taut and stretched, crying out, her paws scrabbling for traction until her pads tore and became slick with blood that made her slip and slide. Lucinda tried to help, tried to roll with her, tried twice to get up but fell back, sweating with pain.