Cat in the Dark (10 page)

Her heart pounded; if she had been human, her face would have flamed red.

“My dear Dulcie, I know all about your little escapades. About the box that your Wilma Getz keeps on her back porch so the neighbors can retrieve their stolen clothes, about Mr. Warren's chamois gloves that were a present from his wife, about Wilma's own expensive watch that was ‘lost' under the bathtub for nearly a year.”

She watched him narrowly. Where had he heard
such things? All her neighbors knew, but…
Mavity.
It had to be Mavity—she could have heard it anywhere. She'd probably told that cute little story to Greeley, having no idea she would hurt Dulcie.

“Mavity thinks you're charming,” Azrael told her, “dragging home the neighbors' underwear.”

The tomcat twitched his whiskers. “And Greeley, of course, was most fascinated by your display of, shall we say, perspicacity and guile.”

He looked up to the shelves above them, drawing her gaze to a row of ugly black carvings. “Those figures up there, my dear, those ugly little feathered men—you
do
know that those are voodoo dolls?”

“So?”

“That dark voodoo magic is of great importance.” His smile was oily.

“It is that kind of darkness in you, Dulcie, that entices you to steal. Oh, yes, my dear, we are alike in that.

“You know the tales of the black cat,” he said softly, “of the witch's familiar. Those are the tales of the dark within us—that is the darkness that invites the joy of thieving, my dear. That is the darkness speaking within your nature.”

She had backed away from him, her paw raised to slash him, but his golden eyes held her, his pupils huge and black, his purring voice drawing her, enticing her.

“You and I, Dulcie, we belong to the dark. Such magic and passion are rare, are to be treasured.

“Oh, yes, the dark ways call to you, sweet tabby. The dark, voodoo ways.” He narrowed his eyes, his purr rumbling. “Voodoo magic. Black magic. Shall I say the spells for you, the dark spells? The magic so dear to your jungle brothers? Come, my Dulcie…” and he slid close against her, making her tremble.

She spun away from him hissing and crouched to
leap to the transom, but he blocked her way. She fled into the showroom. He followed.

“In the jungle, my dear, the voodoo witches make dark enchantments, such exotic and exciting spells—spells to sicken and waste your enemies—and love spells, my dear…”

She leaped away but he was there pressing against her. When she lashed out at him, his topaz eyes burned with amusement and his black tail described a measured dance.

“My dark powers fascinate you, sweet Dulcie. My cunning is human cunning, but beneath my black fur, my skin is marked by the spots of the jungle cat.

“I have teased jungle dragons as big as two men and have come away unscathed. I have hunted among constrictors twenty feet long, have dodged snakes so huge they could swallow a dozen cats.” And the tomcat's words and his steamy gaze filled her with visions she didn't want.

“I have hunted in the mangrove trees, dodging hairy beasts with the faces of ghosts, creatures that hang upside down among the branches, their curving claws reaching as sharp as butcher knives, their coats swarming with vermin.” The black tom purred deep in his throat. “I have witnessed human voodoo rites where an image of Christ is painted with goat's blood and common cats are skinned alive, their innards…”

“Stop it!” She twisted away, leaping to the top of a cabinet—but again he was beside her, his eyes wild, her distress exciting him. “Come run with me, Dulcie of the laughing eyes. Come with me down the shore under the full moon. Come where the marsh birds nest, where we can suck bird's eggs and eat the soft, sweet baby birds, where we can haze the bedraggled stray cats that cower beneath the docks, the starving common cats that
crouch mute beneath the pier. Come, sweet Dulcie…”

His words, frightening and cruel, stirred a wildness in her, and the tom pressed her down, began to lick her ear. “Come with me, sweet Dulcie, before the moon is gone. Come now while the night is on us.” His voice was soft, beguiling, dizzying her.

She raked him hard across the nose and leaped away, knocking sweaters to the floor, tipping a tall wooden man that fell with a crash behind her as she fled through the storeroom and up the pile of crates and out the transom.

Dropping down the vine to the mist-damp sidewalk, she fled up the side lane and across Eighth, across Seventh and then Ocean past the darkened, empty shops, never looking back, her heart pounding so hard she couldn't have heard a dozen beasts chasing her, certainly couldn't have heard the soft padding of Azrael's swift pursuit.

But when, stopping in the shadow of a car, she crouched to look behind her, the sidewalk and street were empty. Above her, along the rooftops, nothing moved.

What had happened to her back there? Despite her anger, she had been nearly lost in a cocoon of dark desire.

Pheromones,
she told herself.
Nothing but a chemical reaction. His sooty ways have nothing to do with real life.

Shaken with repugnance at herself, she spun away again racing for home, speeding past the closed shops and at last hitting her own street, storming across Wilma's garden, trampling the flowers, up the back steps and in through her cat door, terrified of the dark stranger and terrified of herself.

Crouching on the linoleum, she watched her door swinging back and forth, unable to shake the notion that he would come charging through.

But after a long time when the plastic door grew still and remained pale, without any looming shadow, she tried to calm herself, washing and smoothing her ruffled fur and licking at her sweating paws.

She felt bruised with shame. She had for one long moment abandoned Joe Grey—for one moment abandoned the bright clarity of life and slipped toward something dark, something rancid with evil.

Azrael's twisted ways were not her ways.

She was not an ignorant, simple beast to whom a dalliance with Azrael would be of no importance. She was sentient; she and Joe Grey bore within themselves a rare and wonderful gift. With human intelligence came judgment. And with judgment came commitment, an eternal and steely obligation and joy from which one did not turn away.

In her gullible and foolish desire, she had nearly breeched that commitment.

There would never be another like Joe Grey, another who touched her with Joe's sweet magic. She and Joe belonged to each other; their souls were forever linked. How could she have warmed, for the merest instant, to Azrael's evil charms?

Pheromones,
she told herself, and defiantly she stared at her cat door ready to destroy any intruder.

L
ATER THAT MORNING,
in the patio of the Spanish-style structure, where piles of new lumber lay across the dry, neglected flower beds, from within a downstairs apartment came the sudden ragged whine of a skill-saw, jarring the two cats as they padded in through the arch past a stack of two-by-fours. The air was heavy with the scent of raw wood, sweet and sharp.

Joe couldn't count how many mice he and Dulcie had killed in the tall grass that surrounded this building, before Clyde bought the place. Situated high above the village, the two-story derelict stood alone on the crest of the hill facing a dead-end street. The day Clyde decided to buy it was the first time Joe had gained access or wanted to enter the musty rooms. Even the exterior smelled moldy; the place was a dump, the walls stained and badly in need of paint, the roof tiles faded and mossy, the roof gutter hanging loose.

That day, trotting close to Clyde entering the front apartment beneath festoons of cobwebs as thick as theater curtains, he was put in mind of a Charles
Addams creepy cartoon; beneath the cobwebs and peeling wallpaper hung old-fashioned, imitation gas lights; under Joe's paws, the ancient floors were deeply scarred as if generations of gigantic rats had dug and gnawed at the wood.

“You're going to buy this heap?”

“Made an offer today,” Clyde had said proudly.

“I hope it was a low offer. What are they asking for this monstrosity?”

“Seven hundred.”

“Seven hundred dollars? Well…”

“Seven hundred thousand.”

“Seven hundred
thousand
?” He had stared at Clyde, unbelieving.

Over the sour smell of accumulated dirt he could smell dead spiders, dead lizards, and generations of decomposing mouse turds. “And who is going to clean and restore this nightmare?”

“I am, of course. Why else would I…”

“You?
You
are going to repair this place? Clyde Damen who can't even change a lightbulb without a major theatrical production?
You're
going to do the work here?
This
is your sound financial investment, and you're going to protect that investment by working on it yourself?”

“May I point out that one apartment
has
been refurbished, that it looks great and is rented for a nice fifteen hundred a month? That most of what you're seeing is simply dirt, Joe. The place will be totally different when it's cleaned and painted. You take five apartments at fifteen hundred each…”

“Less taxes. Less insurance—fire insurance, liability insurance, earthquake insurance—less yard maintenance, utility bills, general upkeep…”

“After expenses,” Clyde had said patiently, “I
figure ten, maybe twelve percent profit. Plus a nice depreciation write-off, to say nothing of eventual appreciation, a solid capital gain somewhere down the line.”

“Capital gain? Appreciation?”
Joe had sneezed with disgust, imagining within these walls vast colonies of termites—overlooked by the building inspectors—chewing away on the studs and beams, weakening the interior structure until one day, without warning, the walls would come crashing down. He had envisioned, as well, flooded bathrooms when the decrepit plumbing gave way and faulty wiring, which at the first opportunity would short out, emit rivers of sparks, and ignite the entire building.

Which, he thought, might be the best solution.

“It
is
insured?”

“Of course it's insured.”

“I can't believe you made an offer on this. I can't believe you sold those five antique cars—those cars that were worth a fortune and that you loved like your own children, those cars you spent half your life restoring—sold them to buy
this.
Ten years from now when you're old and feeble and still working on this monstrosity and are so in debt you'll never…”

“In ten years I will not be old and feeble. I am in the prime of my life. And what the hell do you know about houses? What does a cat know about the value of real estate?” Clyde had turned away really angry, hadn't spoken to him for the rest of the day—just because he'd pointed out a few obvious truths.

And, what was worse, Dulcie had sided with Clyde. One look at the inside of the place and she was thrilled. “Don't be such a grouch, Joe. It's lovely. It has loads of charm. Big rooms, nice high ceilings. All it needs is…”

“The wrecking ball,” Joe had snapped. “Can you imagine
Clyde
fixing it up? Clyde, who had to beg Charlie to repair our leaky roof?”

“Maybe he'll surprise you. I think the house will be good for him.” And she had strolled away waving her tail, padding through the dust and assessing the cavernous and musty spaces like some high-powered interior designer. Staring above her at the tall windows, trotting across the splintery floors through rooms so hollow that her smallest mew echoed, Dulcie could see only fresh paint, clean window glass, deep windowseats with puffy cushions, soft carpets to roll on. “With Charlie's help,” she had said, “he'll make it look wonderful.”

“They're both crazy, repairing old junkers—Clyde fixing up this place, Charlie trying to save that heap of a VW. So he rebuilds the engine for her, does the body work, takes out the dings and rust holes, gives it new paint…”

“And fits out the interior,” Dulcie said, “with racks and cupboards for her cleaning and repair equipment—for vacuum cleaners, ladders, paint, mops, cleaning chemicals. It'll be nice, too, Joe. You'll see.”

Charlie had made it clear that her work on the apartments would be part-time, that her other customers came first. Her new business was less than a year old; she couldn't afford to treat her customers badly or to turn customers away. She was lucky to have Pearl Ann on the job. Pearl Ann Jamison, besides having useful carpentry skills, was steadier, Charlie said, than most of the men she'd hired. Except for her solitary hikes up and down the coast, Pearl Ann seemed to want no other life but hard work. Pearl Ann's only faults were a sour disposition and a dislike of cleaning
any house or apartment while the occupant was at home. She said that the resident, watching over her shoulder, flustered her, made her feel self-conscious.

Now, the cats sat down in a weed-filled flower bed, listening for any mole that might be working beneath the earth. The patio was sunny and warm. The building that surrounded them on three sides contained five apartments, three up and two down, allowing space on the main level for a bank of five garages that were entered from a driveway along the far side of the building. Winthrop Jergen's apartment was directly above the garages. Strange, Joe thought, that well-groomed, obviously well-to-do and discerning Winthrop Jergen, with his elegant suits, nice furniture, and expensive Mercedes would want to live in such a shabby place, to say nothing of putting up with the annoyance of a renovation project, with the grating whine of skill-saws and endless hammering, as he tried to concentrate on financial matters in his home office. But despite the noise, Jergen seemed content. Joe had heard him tell his clients that he liked the privacy and that he was totally enamored of the magnificent view. From Jergen's office window he had a wide vista down the Molena Point hills to the village rooftops and the sea beyond; he said the offbeat location suited him exactly.

And Clyde was happy to have the rent, to help pay for materials while he was restoring the other four units.

Dulcie and Joe watched, through the open door of the back apartment, Charlie set up a stepladder and begin to patch the living-room ceiling; the patching compound smelled like peppermint toothpaste. Above them, through an upstairs window, they could hear the sliding
scuff, scuff
of a trowel and could see Pearl Ann mudding Sheetrock. All the windows stood open except
those to Jergen's rooms; Winthrop Jergen kept his office windows tightly closed to prevent damage to his computer.

As the cats sunned in the patio, Mavity Flowers came out of the back apartment and headed upstairs, hauling her mop and bucket, her vacuum cleaner, and cleaning caddy. The cats, hoping she might stir up a last, lingering mouse, followed her as far as the stairwell, where they slipped beneath the steps.

The dusty space under the stairs still smelled of mouse, though they had wiped out most of the colony—mice as easy to catch as snatching goldfish from a glass bowl, the indolent creatures having lived too long in the vacant rooms. Winthrop Jergen's only complaint when Clyde took over as landlord was the persistence of the apartment's small rodents. A week after Joe and Dulcie got to work, Jergen's complaints ceased. He had no idea that the cats hunted in his rooms; the notion would have given him fits. The man was incredibly picky—didn't want ocean air or dust to touch his computer, so probably cat hair would be the kiss of death.

But the mice were gone, and it was while hunting the rodent colony that they had found the hidden entrance into Jergen's rooms.

To the left of the stairs was a two-foot-wide dead space between the walls, running floor to ceiling. It could be entered from a hole beneath the third step, where the cats now crouched. Very likely Clyde would soon discover the space, which ran along beside the garages, and turn it into a storage closet or something equally useful and dull. Meantime, the vertical tunnel led directly up to Winthrop Jergen's kitchen. There, a hinged flap opened beneath the sink, apparently some kind of clean-out access for the plumbing, so a work
man could reach through to the pipes—an access plenty large enough to admit a mouse, a rat, or an interested cat into Jergen's rooms.

Now, scrambling up inside the wall from fire block to fire block, they crouched beneath Jergen's kitchen sink listening to Mavity's vacuum cleaner thundering back and forth across the living-room rug; the machine emitted a faint scent of fresh lavender, which Mavity liked to add to the empty bag. They could not, this morning, detect any scent of new mice that might have entered the premises, but all visits to Jergen's rooms were of interest, particularly to Dulcie with her curiosity about computers—she was familiar with the library functions but spreadsheets were a whole new game.

Waiting until Mavity headed for the bedroom, they crossed the kitchen and sat down in the doorway, ready to vanish if the financier turned around. He sat with his back to them, totally occupied with the numbers on the screen.

Jergen's office took up one end of the spacious living room. His handsome cherry-wood desk stood against the front windows, looking down the Molena Point hills—though all the cats could see from floor level was the blue sky and a few clouds, whose dark undersides hinted of rain.

The light of Jergen's computer cast a faint blue gleam across his well-styled silver hair. His busy fingers produced a soft, constant clicking on the keys. His pale gray suit was smoothly tailored. His shoes, in the cats' direct line of sight, were of soft, gleaming black leather. Everything about Winthrop Jergen presented an aura of expensive good taste.

To Jergen's right stood two cherry file cabinets, then a row of tall bookshelves filled with professional-looking volumes. The thick Kirman rug was oversized,
fitting nearly to the pale walls, its colors of ivory and salmon forming a soft background to the creamy leather couch and the rose silk easy chairs. The six etchings on the left wall were delicately detailed studies of far and exotic cities, each with unusual rooftops: conical roofs, fluted roofs, straw ones topping stone huts, and a vista with sharply peaked domes. Each city flanked a seaport, as if perhaps the etchings embodied Jergen's dreams of far and extensive travel. The vacuuming ceased, and the cats backed into shadow. As Mavity returned with a lemon-scented cloth and began to dust the end tables, Jergen stopped typing.

“Mavity, would you hand me that file? There on the credenza?”

She picked up a file from the cherry credenza, brought it across to him, her work-worn hands dry and wrinkled compared to Jergen's smooth hands and neatly manicured nails.

“And that book—the black account book.”

Obediently she brought the book to him, complying as a kindergartner might obey a revered teacher.

“Thank you, Mavity. Your Coca-Cola stock is doing very well; you should expect a nice dividend soon. And though I can't be certain, it appears the Home Depot stock should split this month, and that will give you a really handsome bonus.”

Mavity beamed. “I don't know no way to thank you, Mr. Jergen, for all you're doing for me.”

“But, Mavity, your good fortune is in my interest, too. After all, I enjoy a nice percent of your earnings.”

“Oh, and you deserve it,” she said hastily. “You earn every penny and more.”

Jergen smiled. “It's a fair exchange. I expect your niece and her husband have arrived by now, for their visit? Didn't you tell me they were coming this week?”

“Oh, yes, all tucked up in my little place, and enjoying the beach.” Mavity began to wind her vacuum cleaner cord, turning away to straighten it.

Jergen smiled briefly and returned to his computer; he began to work again, deep into columns of numbers. Dulcie's eyes widened at the large amounts of money flashing on the screen and at the names of the impressive financial institutions—firms mentioned with serious respect in the library's reference department. But soon both cats grew impatient with a world so far removed, that they could not smell or taste or deal with directly, and they slipped away, leaping down within the dark wall, crouching at the bottom.

In the musty shadows of the narrow, hidden space, Dulcie's eyes were as black as midnight. “Mavity trusts Jergen totally. She thinks he hung the moon. Why does he make me uneasy?”

Joe looked at her and shrugged. “Don't start, Dulcie. There's nothing wrong with Jergen. You're just bored—looking for trouble.”

She hissed at him but said nothing as they padded out beneath the stairs into the sunny patio. And they both forgot Winthrop Jergen when a pale blue BMW pulled up in front.