Cat Pay the Devil (18 page)

But, no, first Dulcie would have called Max or Clyde. That would have the whole department looking for her, would have the law in Gilroy searching, going through the shops, talking with the clerks. Maybe they would find her credit card and know she'd been there, know something was wrong. She looked hopefully down the hills, longing to see the dark silhouettes of police units climbing without lights up the dark road—and yet, why would they come here? No one knew she was here, there was nothing to bring them looking for her in this desolate place.

Around her there was no sound, just the empty night and the looming hulks of broken walls—and, hiding some
where among the tangles of stone, Violet Sears. Was Violet waiting, still meaning to harm her? Perhaps wielding some sturdy piece of metal she'd picked up among the rubble? But why would she bother, now that she had escaped? Wouldn't she run head down the dark hills to freedom?

Or, if Cage and Eddie appeared suddenly, she would hide among the invisible tangles of stone and rubble and sudden drops. Maybe Violet
knew
the lay of these ruins, maybe she
knew
where to hide. Living so close, might she have come here during the day, when Eddie was gone? But then, eased of her stress, each time she would return, lacking the courage for escape?

Limping, hurting so badly she wondered if something was broken, and not sure how far she could walk, Wilma made her way slowly among the fallen walls, debating whether to start for the village or wait until the pain dissipated.

S
lipping through the dark village streets, then through
heavily shadowed, overgrown gardens, Cotton had at last found the oak that held Kit's tree house. Thankful to have left traffic and people behind him, reassured by the night's silence in the quiet neighborhood, he'd scrambled up the oak—and found himself face-to-face with Kit herself, and Dulcie, standing in the door to the tree house. Observing the street below, they had watched him for some time.

Already the two cats knew the redheaded lady was missing. And when Cotton described her capture, panting out his urgent news, within minutes Kit was across a branch to a window of the big house and inside, shouting and nearly mewing into the telephone to Police Captain Harper.

He'd told them how he and Willow and Coyote had seen the older, gray-haired woman through that kitchen window, how he'd gone for help and seen the two men grab the redheaded one and tie her up, and drive away with her up the
dirt trail through the woods, and how the big man talked about the ruins—

“But Wilma…!” Dulcie had exploded, lashing her tail, her green eyes wild. “Where exactly
is
that house? Why did…?”

He had told them all he knew. And now when Kit finished the call, and went right in to talk with her humans, Cotton was ready to race away. But he was too curious—and the next thing he knew, the thin old woman, Lucinda, was bringing him food, and he
was
very hungry. He ate with one eye on the woman and the man, and listened to Kit argue boldly with them.

“You can't be sure where they're taking Charlie,” Lucinda said. “It's late and dark, and you—”

“Cotton is sure,” Kit said. “He heard them, they said ‘to the ruins.' We—”

“The police can get there faster, Kit. Those empty hills at night are wild with coyotes and bobcats. You
do
remember the cougar?”

“The cougar is not there now, we haven't smelled him on the hills for a long time. We can
be
there in the time it takes to argue!”

“There could be shooting. You could end up in the middle of gunfire, and what good would that do Charlie or Wilma? Max will have half the force up there, armed officers who—”

“We have sense enough to stay out of the way!” Kit hissed at Lucinda. “You know you can't keep us in, we—”

“If you
must
go, if you absolutely
must
, then Pedric and I will take you.”

“But you can't. There will be too many police cars, they'll be all over that little dirt road. They'll have it blocked and…How will you explain being there? How would you explain that you already know about Charlie and Wilma? It won't
be on the news yet. Maybe it isn't even on the police radios, maybe they're using their cell phones so no one else will pick it up. You can't—”

“We'll take you as far as we can. I'll just get my keys.” Lucinda stared hard into the kit's blazing yellow eyes. “Wait for us! Promise me! Think of the time you can save.”

“Cotton won't ride in a car!” Kit shouted. “Cotton won't get in a car! He's feral! He won't—”

But he had gotten in. And that had amazed Cotton himself. And now here he was riding in the backseat beside Dulcie trying to put down his panic at being shut inside the noisy, moving vehicle while Dulcie and Kit thought nothing of such a journey. The old woman drove. Her husband, Pedric, sat beside her with the kit on his lap.

Cotton was glad that Dulcie sat close to him to give him courage, purring to ease his nerves, and licking his ear. But then as they moved up among the dark hills, she reared up with her paws on the window, staring out into the night. And now he was beginning to get the feel of the moving car; it wasn't as loud or as bumpy, or as windy and cold as when he and Willow and Coyote were hauled down from the hills in that metal cage tied on the back of a motorcycle. That had been more than a cat could bear, trapped and caged and carried down the mountain in that violent, bumpy ride and the icy wind battering them trying to tear out their fur. They'd all thought that was the end of them.

It was Dulcie and Joe Grey who had come looking for them and gotten trapped, too; and it was Kit who had rescued them all. So he guessed he could try to be as brave as she was. Well, this car
was
nice and warm. And the motor wasn't so loud; its voice was almost a purr.

But then soon the ride grew bumpier once they turned off the smooth road onto the dirt one that led, winding, up the
hills. Dulcie was still rearing up; in the front seat Kit stood up in Pedric's lap, to look out, too. And she said all in one breath, “Cop cars, Lucinda, without lights. Slow down and put out your lights or we'll give ourselves away and give the cops away. Turn them off now!”

“They're off, Kit!” Lucinda snapped, pulling to the side of the road, onto the rocky edge. At once, Kit put her paw on the door handle.

“Kit…,” Lucinda began, holding down the master lock.

“Please, Lucinda. You've brought us this far; we're as safe now as we ever can be. You can't—”

“I know,” Lucinda said sadly. “We've had this argument before. I can't run your life; I'm overprotective, and you can't live that way.”

“Let them go,” Pedric said.

Lucinda flipped the lock. Kit leaped out the door, and Cotton beside her. Only Dulcie paused, looking at the bright tears on Lucinda's cheeks. Then she, too, was gone.

But away among the rocks Kit reared up to look back. “We'll be fine,” she whispered. “Go home, Lucinda. Go before the uniforms see you and come asking questions.” And, spinning around, she followed Dulcie and Cotton away fast, streaking up the hill toward the jagged, fallen walls that loomed above them against the dark night sky.

 

On the second floor of the ruined mansion where the front wall had crumbled away, the big, old-fashioned nursery stood open to the night like the stage in an abandoned theater. Beside a broken rocking horse, Willow and Coyote crouched, looking down the black hills, watching yet another car move up the road without lights. Already, half a dozen
cars were parked along the shoulder, dark and still. Police cars. The two cats watched this car stop, saw the door open and a white cat streak out beside two darker companions.

“Cotton!” Willow hissed. “That can't be Cotton. Riding in a car? But…that's Kit and Dulcie.” They watched the three cats race up toward them and vanish among the tumbled stones. “Cotton went to find Kit and Dulcie?” Willow whispered, ashamed that she had doubted him. “When we saw Wilma through that window, I thought he ran away to hunt, that he didn't want to be bothered. But he—

“He went to find them,” she said. “Even though he hates humans and fears human places. He hates that village where we were captive—but he went there, all alone.” Admiration for the white tom filled Willow. Beside her, Coyote was silent; and when Willow looked at him, he was scowling. Willow's eyes widened. Was he jealous? She had never known Coyote to be jealous.

But there was so much else to think about, so much happening, first that car going over the side and the thin young woman scrambling out and climbing up to the road and running, and then the silver-haired woman following her more slowly, and limping. The young one called Violet seemed very afraid. Her every movement sent messages of fear, like the movements of a cornered mouse. And then the cop cars had come, and parked, never turning on lights.

“There,” she said, glimpsing Violet. Spinning around, she raced through the cluttered nursery to the back where the wall still stood intact. Leaping to the sill of a broken window, she looked deeper into the interior of the ruined estate. “Violet's headed for that old trailer, the place she goes when that man has beaten her.”

“She thinks she's safe there,” Coyote said, “She doesn't know he watches her go in there.”

“Here comes Wilma,” Willow said softly, “following her. We have to tell them those men know about that place, that they will find them there.”

“We can't talk to humans!” Coyote stared at her, shocked.

“We'll tell Dulcie and Kit, they'll tell them…” But even as she spoke they heard a car coming from the woods along the horse trail, heard the rattle of that rusted, open car, and there was no time to find Dulcie; Willow leaped away down the broken stairs and out the back, heading for the old trailer. Behind her, Coyote didn't move, he stood staring after her. Glancing back, Willow gave him a scornful look, and slid away into the ivy.

 

Wilma moved warily and painfully downhill, approaching the derelict mansion, looking for Violet's pale, swift shape, imagining her flashing away like a ghost among the ruins to some secret hiding place. The Pamillon estate had remained without repair for more than a generation, awaiting disposition of a title so tangled among two dozen heirs that even a vast array of attorneys seemed unable to sort out the many wills and trusts in a way that would establish legal succession. Pausing to get her bearings, shielding the flashlight and switching it on just long enough to be sure she wasn't headed for a sinkhole, she flicked it off again, startled when she glimpsed Violet's thin white shirt vanish among the jagged walls. Quickly she followed.

In the shadows of a collapsed garden shed and tangled ivy trellis, the girl stood unmoving, as ethereal as a ghost; Wilma approached her, expecting her to run.

She didn't run, she stood shaking, white as paper in Wilma's shielded light. Wilma studied her thin face and then
took her icy hand. “Come on, Violet. We have to hide. Show me where.”

Violet stared into the shielded light. “There's a place, but there are spiders and—”

“If we can hide there,” Wilma said, listening to the faint rumble of a distant, ragged engine approaching from the south, “then get on with it! They're coming.”

Violet listened to the Jeep crunching over gravel and rocks and brushing through the trees, breaking branches. She stiffened when it did not turn up the hill toward the house but continued on through the rubble, heading directly toward them.

“Move it,” Wilma snapped. “Now!”

Violet spun, and ran.

W
illow and Coyote watched the two women slip
quickly in among the vines that hid the old trailer. The shelter stood in such a tangle that only a cat might find it, prowling the rubble as they had, a hunting cat slipping through the heavy growth. They didn't know how Violet had discovered it—but that man knew about it, too. More than once he had followed her there; months earlier he had watched her slip in there to hide, had waited for her to leave, and then he had pushed into the mildew-stinking trailer to see where she'd been.

The next time she went there the cats had expected him to go in and drag her out, but he didn't. He watched her, then turned away smirking in a silent, ugly laugh. As if, once he knew her secret, he meant to wait until just the right time to sneak up on her and—what? Thinking about that made them shiver; they feared that sour, sneaky man.

Now they watched the two women disappear quickly beneath the ivy and the metal roof, escaping from the Jeep.
Did they think they were safe? A voice behind Willow made her spin around.

“Did she get away?” Cotton said softly. “Did the silver-haired lady get away?”

Willow leaped at him, happily licking his ears. “Did
you
bring help? Did
you
bring the cops? There are cops all over, sitting in their dark cars. But how…?” Then behind him she saw Dulcie and Kit, and she leaped at them, too. “Quick, you have to tell them. Tell Wilma to run, that the Jeep is coming and those men know where they are. Oh please—” But Dulcie and Kit and Cotton were three streaks racing into the old, hidden trailer.

 

The trailer was dark inside and smelled of rot and mildew; the door Wilma had come through flopped on one hinge, hanging out into the mat of vines. Safely inside, she shielded the flashlight with her cupped hands and switched it on.

“Where'd you get that?” Violet said.

“In the glove compartment.” She shone the light around the tiny trailer, across surfaces heavy with dirt and rust and rat droppings, over damp wood spongy with rot and smelling sour; everything was thick with mold. Who knew how many varieties of lethal spores Violet breathed in here. If she came here often, no wonder she looked pale and sick—though more likely it was the stress of living in fear of her husband that left the girl so frail.

Going in ahead of Wilma, Violet had curled up at one end of a single bed that was built between a minuscule kitchen counter and a closet that held a smelly toilet. The bed was covered with a filthy spread and smelled sour. Wilma sat down on a narrow bench, one of a pair flanking a small table that had been folded out from the wall and was sup
ported by a flimsy leg. The trailer, cooler than the outdoors, rang with the sounds of crickets, dozens of crickets hidden in the dark around them celebrating the hot, humid night. Wilma sat with her elbows on the table, her chin on her hands, trying to quiet her fear, ignoring the pain in her leg and hip, encouraging her pounding heart to settle to an easier rhythm. A demanding mewl brought her up startled, swinging around to the open door.

Dulcie stood looking in at her. The dark little striped being was hardly visible in the night, but for her lighter nose and ears and the gleam of her green eyes. Crouching, she sprang at Wilma, landing on her shoulder, clinging to her, licking and nuzzling her face. Laughing, Wilma cuddled and hugged Dulcie, kissing her ears. “You're all right! You don't know how I missed you, how I worried, how bad I felt for you…”

Dulcie couldn't talk in front of Violet. She couldn't have talked anyway, she was too choked up, all she could do was mewl. But then, getting hold of herself, she whispered faintly against Wilma's ear, her words so soft that Wilma could hardly make out what she was saying.

“They're back. They know about this place! Get away. Cage knows where she hides. Run! Run now!”

Wilma rose fast, holding Dulcie tight. “I hear them, Violet! The Jeep, they're coming, headed straight here, I hear them talking…Run!” And she was out the door, clutching Dulcie, and away, letting Violet decide her own fate. In the dark behind her, the crickets had stopped. The noise of the Jeep was like thunder. Wilma ran, dodging fallen rubble, her every painful step jolting her. She could hear someone running behind her.

Violet caught up with her, they fled together as headlights veered at them, then vanished. Had they been seen? The engine roared as if goosed, roared again and died.

Silence. Wilma watched Violet warily as they crouched behind a fallen wall maybe thirty feet from the trailer, half that from the Jeep. Dulcie clung tightly to Wilma, her heart pounding against Wilma's chest. They heard the men step out, their shoes crunching on broken stone. Wilma prayed Violet wouldn't move—wouldn't intentionally give them away. The girl started to rise. Wilma shoved her down and twisted her arm behind her. “Be still. Not a sound.”

Violet moaned at the pain of her twisted arm. “Let off a little! I won't do anything! There's someone in the back of the Jeep, they're forcing someone out…”

Dulcie breathed one word in Wilma's ear, turning her cold. “Charlie. They have Charlie.”

There was commotion around the Jeep, the prisoner was fighting them. Cage yelled, “Bitch! Damned bitch. Hold her, for Chrissake!” Then a dull thud and a woman's muffled moan. But then Charlie snapped, “Go to hell!” That brought Wilma up, rigid.

Both men were facing them, they could see the pale smear of Cage's face and shirt, his heavy shoulders against a stone wall as they dragged Charlie away from the Jeep. “Untie her feet,” Eddie grumbled. “I'm not carrying her, she's too damn heavy.”

“Shut up and take her shoulders, I'm not untying her. Hurry the hell up!”

Wilma hugged Dulcie close and then jerked Violet up. “Come on. Now.” Pulling Violet, she slipped away fast among the broken walls. They moved as silently as they could through the scattered rubble. Wilma didn't dare run and risk stumbling noisily over the rocks. But suddenly she was aware of small shadows running with them. Kit? Yes. And she could see Cotton, white in the blackness. No time to think what other cats there were. Intent on getting away, she forced Violet ahead, brutally prodding her, hoping the
sounds of their running were drowned by Cage and Eddie's arguing as they dragged Charlie into the trailer.

 

Hauled roughly out of the Jeep and across ragged stone into what appeared to be a cave, Charlie saw, high among the fallen walls, a hint of swift movement, something small and quick. And despite the men's arguing, she caught the faint whisper of voices, distorted by Cage's swearing and Eddie's whining replies—but now, all was still. Could that band of feral cats still be here, in the ruins? For a moment, hope filled her.

But those shy little cats; even if they were here, how could they help? They were so wild, and so fearful of humans. They wanted nothing to do with humans except to steal food, to scavenge from the alleys and escape. They would be escaping now, running from invading humans, would have been alerted by the first sounds of the Jeep, terrified by the men's angry voices.

She had spoken to them once, spoken as a friend to three of them. But still, she thought they were too shy and far too fearful ever to help her.

Dragging her across a hard floor, Cage dumped her on what seemed to be a dirty, rumpled cot. He flicked on a small, weak flashlight. They were in some kind of little shack, or maybe a trailer.

Yes, it was a trailer, a small old camping trailer, every surface rimed with mold and dust. She tried to picture where she was in the ruins, could only be sure it was somewhere behind the main house she had seen looming against the sky when Cage dragged her out of the Jeep. She had walked these ruins, she and Max, and they had ridden up here to picnic, as had she and Ryan, leaving their horses tied while
they explored the broken rooms and cellars—but they had never discovered this trailer.

The first time she'd ever seen the ruins, she and Max and Dillon Thurwell had hidden here from another killer, hidden in one of the cellars just under or just behind the main house, a cellar with broken concrete stairs leading down to it. If she could free herself, could she find it again and hide there? She didn't like the fact that it would be a dead end, only one way out, but it would be better than nothing. Strange that she was a prisoner here a second time. That first had been enough.

When Cage tried to tie her bound legs to the bed, she twisted and kicked him hard, her feet striking him in the chest. He grunted, sucked air, and hit her, knocking her against the wall so violently that her vision swam—hit her again and she went dizzy; fighting to stay awake, she could feel herself reeling and falling as if into a black pit.

 

From her hiding place, Wilma watched the two men drag Charlie into the trailer, swearing and arguing; she burned to get her hands on Cage. Kneeling, she felt among the rubble of fallen stones until she found a long, well-balanced rock. And she headed for the trailer.

“Wait,” Violet hissed, grabbing her arm. “They're leaving. Look, they're coming out. They…they've left her there.” She looked at Wilma. “Who is that woman?”

Wilma didn't answer. She watched the men moving away, glimpses of their dark figures shifting against the broken stone walls; she expected that any minute they would turn back, to further hurt Charlie. But they hurried on, to the Jeep. She heard the engine start, listened to it pull away without lights, heard it head uphill, its engine whining—she
felt Dulcie jump down, the little tabby gone before Wilma could grab her. “Dulcie…” She could see nothing in the blackness. Dulcie had vanished.

“The house…,” Violet said. “They're going back to the house, and they'll see we're gone. They'll be back and they'll find us.” She rose to sprint away, but Wilma grabbed her. Violet hit her hand with a painful chop and jerked free, and ran; Wilma could hear her stumbling through the dark, toward the mansion. She stared after the girl, half hating her for not wanting to help Charlie, half glad to be rid of her. She rose and, carrying the rock, headed for the trailer and Charlie.

She daren't switch on the flashlight. As she hurried, stumbling through the rubble, listening to the Jeep's roar grow fainter, she felt Dulcie brush her ankle, warm and furry.

“Good riddance,” Dulcie said softly.

Wilma picked her up, glad to hold her close again. “Where did you go?” But Dulcie said nothing. Pushing in through the curtain of ivy and stepping up into the dark trailer, Wilma, meaning to rush to Charlie, switched on the flashlight.

She stopped in midstride.

Four cats were crouched on the cot, over Charlie where she lay tied up. All four were busily chewing at the ropes—like some strange, impossible fairy tale. Chewing at Charlie's bonds just as, not long ago, Kit had chewed at similar bindings to release a younger hostage, freeing twelve-year-old Lori Reed when she had been kidnapped. Wilma watched, not knowing whether to laugh with delight or weep at the cats' bold kindness. It had not been easy for these wild little cats to come in here, to put themselves so close to humans—but now, the minute the light flicked on, the three feral cats froze, staring up at her with eerie reflective eyes. And they were gone, dropping soundlessly from the bed and melting into the shadows.

She supposed they vanished out the door, though she saw and heard nothing. Only Kit remained on the cot, diligently chewing at Charlie's ropes and glancing sideways up at Wilma, her golden eyes caught in the light, her tortoiseshell fur dark against Charlie's red hair. Then Dulcie leaped from Wilma's shoulder to help.

Quickly, Wilma removed the dirty bandanna from around Charlie's mouth, and began to work on the half-chewed ropes, jerking them apart where the ferals had chewed almost through them. It was the look on Charlie's face that made Wilma laugh, a look of terrible wonder and disbelief.

Charlie struggled up as Kit chewed through the rope that bound her hands. Wilma jerked the last rope off, and Charlie swung off the bed—and they ran, Charlie and Wilma, Dulcie and Kit, up across the ruins. “Where can we hide?” Wilma said. “Where are…?”

The roar of the returning Jeep barreling down the road silenced her. They stopped and turned, heard it pull up close to the trailer, Cage swearing.

“We still have the niece,” Eddie said, “and the aunt'll come back for her. She'll do whatever we say when she knows we have her precious niece.”

“This way,” Kit hissed, and the little cat ran, slipping past the Jeep in blackness, Charlie and Wilma stumbling behind her.

“We can't see you,” Charlie whispered. But Kit mewled softly, then mewled again. Cage was still swearing as Kit led them away between dark and fallen walls, up four steps and into the kitchen of the ruined house, then through the kitchen and the living room, tripping over rotting furniture. “The captain,” Dulcie said, “has men down there, six units parked along the road. We can just…”

But the Jeep had pulled around the house, they heard it skid to a stop before the broken front door; they had time
only to duck behind the tumbled furniture, into the deepest shadows.

“Damn women,” Cage growled, slamming the door of the Jeep. “How the hell…You take the first floor, I'll look upstairs. How the hell did Violet get the keys to the wagon! You gave 'em to her, Eddie! I told you—”

“I never!”

“Don't lie to me! Violet cut her loose and took the damn car keys. Why the hell did you…?”

“She wouldn't dare, and she didn't know where them keys were. Even if she did, she ain't got the balls to take them.”

“You shoulda beat her before we left there the first time, made sure she couldn't run. Come on…”

“They wouldn't hide in here, right in the house. There's basements and things.”

“Them black, caving-in cellars? Not Violet. Scared of spiders, scared of the dark. And where the hell's the station wagon? You think they went on down the hills?”