How to Catch a Cat (27 page)

San Francisco Bay, August 1775

FAREWELL, MY FRIEND

AFTER A SHORT
but adventurous stay in the San Francisco Bay, the
San Carlos
raised its anchor and set course for the Golden Gate. The crew scurried about as the ship sailed away from its temporary berth at Angel Island, while the passengers stood on deck, taking in the departing view.

They would carry memories of this pristine place with them for the rest of their lives. Vivid descriptions of the vast protected harbor would be related to friends, family, and all who would listen.

But at least one of their number would not be making the return trip to San Blas.

This individual had decided to become a permanent—and the first Spanish—resident of the Bay Area.

Petey had given the idea a great deal of thought. It was no small matter for a domesticated parrot to part ways with a doting owner, not to mention the comfort of a warm bed and the assurance of three square meals a day.

As good as he’d had it living on board the ship, he couldn’t ignore the call of the wild. He was determined to make his new home atop a steep rise on the bay’s south shore, a prominent landmark that would later be named Telegraph Hill.

Petey circled the ship one last time, flying through its billowing masts.

Isabella paid her formal respects, nodding regally up at the bird.

Rupert gave his feathered friend a more enthusiastic send-off, romping after Petey as he fluttered above the deck.

Ayala’s brow furrowed as the parrot landed on his shoulder. The captain reached up to stroke the red-feathered head as Petey gave him a gentle nuzzle.

A moment later, he was gone, disappearing into the perfect blue sky.

Ayala gripped the ship’s steering wheel, trying to ignore the moistness that had crept into the corners of his eyes. For once, his heart ached more than his injured foot.

With a heavy sigh, he tried to focus on the narrow mouth at the far end of the bay.

This was no time to fall complacent.

The most dangerous segment of the ship’s journey was about to begin.

THE EXORCISM

AS THE
SAN
Carlos
swept across the bay toward the Golden Gate, a crew member hoisted himself to the top of the main mast and climbed into the crow’s nest.

Easily the tallest man on the ship, Vancouver was ill fitted for duty inside the barrel-shaped roost. It was a struggle to fold his long legs into the cramped quarters.

But what the post lacked in space, it made up for in solitude—that and Captain Ayala and his lieutenant often forgot about him when he was up in the sky. To the adage, “Out of sight, out of mind,” Van often added “off the work duty list.”

While others complained about the post’s blistering wind, Van reveled in the constant blast.

“What a remarkable embodiment of nature,” he’d reply to anyone who complained about the perch’s stiff breeze.

The crow’s nest assignment also gave Van plenty of time to think. He spent hours staring out at the ocean, pondering the book he was writing—or was going to write . . . eventually—about his many ocean travels.

After all, he reasoned, there was no need to hurry.

—

WITH A YAWN,
Van pulled out a spyglass, extended the lens, and looked down at the ship’s main deck. He spied Humphretto, hurrying about as always, yipping orders to the crew. The captain, still nursing his sore foot, manned the ship’s wheel.

There was Father Monty, walking along the railing. And at the far end of the stern, the chef’s niece with her two cats . . .

“Wait! What’s that?” Van pulled back from the spyglass, rubbed his eyes, and then returned his attention to the viewfinder.

“Aunt Wanda??!!”

•   •   •

FATHER MONTY PARADED
across the upper deck of the
San Carlos
, looking for the niece and her two cats. There were still several days left on the journey back to San Blas, and he hadn’t given up hope that the woman would agree to a confessional session.

He found the niece staring out across the bay, watching the serene landscape as the boat neared the gaping mouth of the Pacific.

The niece held a sleepy Rupert in her arms. Isabella had propped her front legs up on the ship’s bottom railing, giving herself enough elevation to peer out between the middle slats.

They were not alone.

Creeping across the deck, any warning of her approach drowned out by the wind and waves, was a crumpled old hag.

The stowaway.

The
murderous
stowaway.

Father Monty shuddered at the sight. Despite all of the rumors and speculation, the actual embodiment of the ghoul was far more fearsome than anything he had imagined.

The hag had scraggly dark hair, marked at either temple with a wide gray streak. She was filthy, covered from head to toe in dirt and grime.

He squinted at her face, which bore the focused expression of a skilled artisan in the midst of a delicate task.

And then he saw the object, glinting in the stowaway’s clawed hand: a curved knitting needle whose tip had been modified with a sharp blade.

The niece wrinkled her nose at a surge of lemony-sweet perfume. She turned from the railing, and exclaimed in surprise.

The hag was mere feet away, advancing on her target, knife at the ready.

The niece looked over the woman’s bent shoulders and locked eyes with Father Monty.

For once, he thought with a smile, she looked relieved to see him.

The stowaway followed the niece’s gaze and surveyed Father Monty without concern. Wielding her weapon, she resumed her pursuit of the niece.

Monty reached into his robes and pulled out the crucifix he’d been carrying in his pocket for just this occasion.

“Stop!” he hollered, waving the cross in the air.

Once more, the woman looked back. Her chapped lips parted into a demonic leer that revealed swollen gums and a few whittled teeth.

Undeterred by the crucifix, she crept closer to the niece.

Pinned against the pointed rear of the ship, the niece had few options for escape. Rupert hid his face in his person’s chest as she lunged to the left, but the hag was quicker than her age and decrepit appearance implied. She penned the niece in, all the while closing down the space between them.

Isabella hissed fiercely, jumping in front of her person, but this, too, had no deterring effect.

Leering, the stowaway raised the knifed knitting needle and prepared to strike.

“Father Monty?” the niece called out in panic. “A little help here!”

He stared at the cross he held in his hand, perplexed. “Hmm. It doesn’t seem to be working.”

The hag edged closer to her target.

“Maybe you’re not using it right!” the niece called out, shuffling the opposite direction, but still unable to safely maneuver around the other woman.

Monty stared up at the sky, trying to remember the phrasing from the ancient text he’d used a few days earlier. “What was the ceremonial term? Ah yes. I remember now.”

He adjusted his hold on the crucifix and stretched his arm out toward the stern of the boat.
“Expellorum!”

The hag didn’t flinch.

Monty shook his head. He frowned at the crucifix as if examining a defective mechanical device.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with it . . .”

“Monty!”

Hissss!
Isabella bared her fangs as the niece tried to shield Rupert from the old woman’s jabbing thrusts.

Suddenly jolted into action, Monty gripped the length of the cross, reared back his arm, and threw the wooden object across the deck.

The blunt end of the crucifix beaned the hag across the side of the head.

The knifed needle clattered to the deck as the old woman reeled sideways. A confused “Eh?” was all she could spit out.

Monty scooted across the deck and picked up the fallen crucifix. He waved it once more at the hag.

This time, the action garnered a far more wary response.

The hag climbed up on the nearest railing. With her back to the bay, she stared curiously down at the priest, the niece, and the two cats.

The ship heaved from a rolling wave, raising the side of the ship.

Releasing her grip from the railing, the old woman waved at the awestruck observers, flexed her legs, and jumped clear of the railing. Her ragged clothes flapped about her body as she dropped toward the water, landed with a splash, and then sank into the swirling depths.

Monty and the niece rushed to look down over the side.

A trail of bubbles floated up, but nothing more.

The priest slapped his hands together.

“And that, my friend, is how you perform an exorcism.”

Isabella looked up at the priest with her most disapproving glare.

“Mrao.”

Modern-Day San Francisco

WHAT A DRAG

AFTER THE BAT-CAT-FACILITATED
win on the regatta’s critical ninth race, the home team went on to take the next seven races. The astonishing turnaround represented one of the most fantastic come-from-behind stories in the history of all modern sport.

The current eight-to-eight tie meant that today’s race, number seventeen in the summer’s long contest, would decide the championship.

The Americans were brimming with confidence, the Kiwis were utterly flummoxed, and the city was abuzz.

All of San Francisco spilled out across the shoreline, fascinated by the drama unfolding on the water. What began as a lukewarm curiosity in the regatta was now a full-fledged sailing fever.

Crowds thronged in the free admission area at the America’s Cup pavilion. The members-only seating also filled in, with wealthy representatives from the city’s booming Internet businesses, stock brokerages, law firms, and biotech companies showing up to flash their clout. Local politicians and their associated entourages mingled with both groups.

Along with the commoners and the elite, the event, of course, also drew a generous sampling of the eclectic.

There were mimes clad in silver jumpsuits and nudists clad in nothing at all. Body artists put their wares on display, showcasing their tattoos, piercings, and Mohawks. A number of people showed up wearing funny hats and face paint, but that’s hardly worth mentioning.

And of course, there were those in costume: cartoon characters, a couple of forest animals, and most notably, a tall, slender Marilyn Monroe.

Somewhere within this grand mix lurked a murderer.

•   •   •

MARILYN SMILED AT
the security personnel as she approached the pavilion’s Embarcadero entrance. She recognized a donut-munching guard on loan from City Hall and approached his station to have her handbag searched.

With a goofy grin, he swallowed a bite of his pastry.

“Afternoon, Marilyn,” he said bashfully, giving the bag only a cursory perusal. He was always far more distracted by the wedding coordinator’s costume than any accessories—or knitting needles—she might be carrying in her purse.

Returning the bag, he took in a deep breath, sucking in the scent of the wedding planner’s lemony-sweet perfume. It reminded him of jelly-stuffed donuts.

Such a lovely lady
, he thought as he reached for another pastry.

—

MARILYN STROLLED ALONG
the pavilion’s main walkway, pretending to gaze out at the megayachts docked along the outer edge.

In truth, she was focused on an elderly gentleman with short, rounded shoulders who hobbled about twenty feet ahead. Marilyn had tracked the old man down the Embarcadero from the Ferry Building.

It had been a long slow pursuit. The geezer walked with the assistance of a wooden cane and didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

Even in the sturdy women’s loafers, Marilyn’s feet had worked up several blisters.

Her part would soon be over, she told herself with a wince. This was her last appearance as the famous movie star. With the payment for today’s services, she would have enough money to buy the new mountain bike she’d been craving for the last six months. She’d pack up her gear and trek off into the woods. She’d find a nice tree to camp under and finally start to work on her book.

With relief, she watched her target veer toward the crowded area near the stage.

Making no attempt to disguise the natural—masculine—nature of his voice, he pulled a cell phone from his purse and punched the button for a preprogrammed number.

“All right, Aunt Wanda. The soup guy is circling toward the Jumbotron. I’m about to head out. If you’ll just pass me my check, I’ll be on my way . . .”