But maybe now Fontana would make restitution of a kind more valuable than the U.S. courts demanded. Emmylou, like Kate and the Greenlaws, had decided to give some of her newfound wealth to CatFriends, their local rescue group that Ryan and Charlie and a raft of volunteers had helped to start. Money to pay for cat food and supplies, to pay Dr. Firetti, who so far had donated all his services and all the needed medications. There’d be money, too, to build a central shelter where volunteers could care for the abandoned animals that were brought to them. Joe thought about the starving cats the group had trapped when, at the first downturn in the economy, so many householders left their homes with back rent or mortgages overdue, and left their pets behind.
What would Lee Fontana think of this use of his stolen money? Maybe, from the stories Misto told of Fontana—if Joe could bring himself to believe Misto’s tales—maybe the old train robber would like that choice just fine. If the old yellow cat had been Fontana’s ghostly confidant as Misto liked to say, guiding Fontana safely through his self-inflicted troubles, then Fontana must have a warm place in his spirit for a cat, maybe he’d be pleased and amused by his unwitting gift to catdom.
VIC HAD FLED from Ryan badly shaken by the attack of the cats. Headed for open country, he had parked the Suzuki on the berm of the narrow dirt road, as far under a drooping willow tree as he could get it without tilting over into the drainage ditch; the willow was already shedding its small yellow leaves down onto the hood and, in the light evening breeze, its stringy branches dragged back and forth across the metal, scraping annoyingly. It was nearly dark inside the car, shaded by the tree and with the windows blocked by his makeshift curtains; bright-colored cashmere sweaters with their store tags attached hung down from the two lowered visors, and along the driver’s side he’d secured a blue sweater into the crack of the rolled-up window. He sat sprawled in the back where he had pushed the clutter aside, no room to put the backseat up, the whole seat was in one piece, but at least the resultant platform was low, giving him some headroom. He sat bare to the waist, his bloodied shirt wadded up, the ripped tweed sport coat already discarded, resting ten miles back in the trash can of a FastMart where he’d stopped for a dry sandwich, some salve for the scratches, a bag of corn chips, and a Coke.
He’d parked, for that quick shopping trip, at the back of the FastMart building among some scraggly trees. That area up along Molena Valley road was a mix of scattered fields, sad old houses and new ones, pastures with horses, scraggly woods, weedy unused land all mixed together. He’d got in and out of FastMart as quickly as he could, keeping his head down just a little and the collar of his ripped coat turned up. He’d bought a brown sweatshirt, too, off a rack by the refrigerator. There’d be a BOL out on him, with Birely lying dead back there and probably, by this time, Debbie Kraft hollering up a fuss that her old car’d been stolen.
Leaving FastMart after making his purchases, a café two doors down had smelled so good he’d been tempted to chance it, go on in there for a hot meal. But even as he paused, looking down that way thinking about scrambled eggs and potatoes and sausage, wondering if it was worth the risk, a pair of sheriff’s cars pulled up right in front, couple of deputies got out, moved into the restaurant hardly looking around them. Mid-morning snack, he guessed. They didn’t glance his way, didn’t make the Suzuki or they’d have skipped their meal and come after him. As soon as they disappeared inside he’d hightailed it to the Suzuki and got on out of there. As he turned out onto the two-lane highway a cat ran across, he gunned the car but missed it. He’d like to cream every damn cat he saw, his back still stung like holy hell. He’d driven on watching the side roads, looking for a place to get out of sight, to stop and smear some of the salve on, see if that would help. He wasn’t far from Molena Point, maybe only ten miles, he knew he should get on over the grade to Highway 68, head for Salinas and onto the faster freeway.
But then again, maybe not. Maybe not hit the freeway until full dark when the cops couldn’t make him so easy. Maybe hole up until then close to the village where they wouldn’t think to look for him. Lay low for a few hours and then move on. He could use some sleep, catch a couple hours before he headed for the 101, if he planned to drive all night. Up through Eureka, on up to Bremerton, he knew a guy up there he could stay with, place way back in the boonies. Dump the Suzuki, pick up some decent wheels.
Now, bending awkwardly, he smeared salve on his bare back, on the scratches and bite wounds. Damn friggin’ cats jumping down on him like that, as vicious as that cat up at the wreck. He never had liked cats, sneaky and mean. The bloody wounds stung, but then in a few minutes the salve began to ease the pain and burning. And why would that cat chase him, there in the parking garage? Dark, ugly cat, just like the others. He’d never have seen it except for that kid shouting. He’d got one glimpse of the cat racing across the concrete right at him, piled in the car, slammed the door, and when he looked back the damn thing was gone. Shivering, he’d started the engine and peeled out of there, then slowed so as not to call attention to himself.
And then when that contractor woman got in his way blocking the Lincoln and them cats jumped him for no reason. Twice attacked by cats, and chased by another one. Spooky as hell, still made him sick to think about it, unnatural, bloodthirsty beasts. Pulling the brown sweatshirt on over his salve-smeared wounds, he lay down in the space he had cleared. The bed of the station wagon was hard as hell. He pulled an old, torn blanket over him that smelled of peanut butter and sweaty kids. He wondered if Debbie had ever had the backseat down all the time she’d owned the heap. The sun had set now, the car dim under the tree and under his jerry-rigged curtains. He lay there a long time, he didn’t sleep until heavy darkness drew in around him.
32
IT WAS EARLY evening, nearly eight hours since Pedric’s knee surgery. He sat up in bed, a blue cotton robe pulled over his skimpy hospital gown, his bandaged leg propped up on two pillows. The general anesthetic had worn off. The bandage around his head had been removed. The red scar across his forehead looked raw but clean, the four stitches standing out like four little fly legs, Kit thought. Bruises still marked his forehead and down his cheek, but his short gray hair was neatly trimmed and brushed, and he looked bright, happy to have his surgery over with. Kate sat on a built-in daybed by the window, Lucinda sat in a folding metal chair beside Pedric’s bed, holding his hand with her good, right hand, comfortable to be close to him.