“What the hell are you up to, Kit? You called them out here on a ruse? Some kind of…”
But the space beneath the tree was disturbed, and was splattered with blood; Joe could smell the blood, and he could smell death. And he said no more. They watched Dallas Garza study the short trail of blood, seeing where it led, and then look away at the plaza gardens, his dark eyes taking in the shadows beneath the small trees. Joe glared at Kit.
“There was a body, Joe! I swear! There was a child! A scared little girl with the dead man’s blood on her sweater! I suppose it was his blood,” she said. “Or was it the child’s blood? Oh, was the child hurt, too?” Crouching at the edge of the roof, Kit peered down into the windows of the squad cars, still looking for the victims. She could see no one, no glimpse of long black hair and dark eyes, no little white sweater. She looked at Joe forlornly. And even if his nose hadn’t told him, Joe would know she hadn’t made this up-Kit did not make up disasters.
“What will Garza do now?” Kit whispered. “Will they all go away, will they think it’s a hoax? But the blood…”
The paramedics had sat down on the back bumper of their vehicle, waiting for someone to come up with a victim. Detective Garza, stepping carefully around the tree, began to take photographs. Beyond the Christmas tree in the darker reaches of the plaza, officers continued to search, and on the dark streets beyond the plaza, squad cars slipped along like silent, hunting hounds, their sudden spotlights sweeping into sheltered doorways and down narrow walkways-and before Joe could stop her, Kit leaped off the roof into a pine tree and down to the plaza gardens to disappear among the flowers and shadows in her own search for the frightened child.
T HE MOMENT THE running footsteps had ceased and the dark street had grown silent again, when he’d been able to see no one watching among the shadows, the killer had hurried around to the main street to the rental car parked in front of the plaza-if someone had seen the shooting, and had called the cops, he had only seconds to get the body out.
Backing quickly in over the curb between the plaza gardens, and stepping out, he’d seen that the kid was gone. That scared him. Where the hell? Well, he had no time to look for her, and anyway, she wouldn’t talk. He’d dragged the body up the walk and into the front seat, pushing it down partially under the dash, and at the last instant he’d grabbed the ragged cloth doll-it was obviously handmade, and might be traced, and he didn’t need that kind of evidence. Swinging into the driver’s seat, he’d sped away from Ocean heading for the nearest hiding place of the seven he’d pinpointed earlier, this one just two blocks away. All these residential streets were dark, no streetlights to deal with in this quaint little town. Pulling into the drive, he’d heard the first siren, and he’d backed the car around behind the row of tall bushes. The house was empty and dark, the part-time residents were in China for the holidays-he read the Molena Point Gazette religiously, at least the society column, to get a fix on the planned vacation schedules of the village’s well-to-do residents.
He’d thought of pulling the body out of the car and shoving and rolling it under the bushes, covering it as best he could with dry leaves and dead branches. The bushes were thick there, heavy with shadow. But then he’d changed his mind, in case he might have to move in a hurry-it would take a while to get the ID out of the car, remove the VIN number, and get the plates off.
He’d waited a long time until he thought they’d quit searching. When all seemed quiet, he silently opened the empty garage, folding the old hinged doors aside, and pulled the car inside; he knew there were tools in there.
Shutting the doors without sound, he got to work. He worked nervously, worrying about that kid and if they’d found her, wishing he’d had time to look for her. Maybe she’d be so scared she’d stay hidden, scared of what she’d seen and then of the flashing red lights and dark figures milling around. He imagined her crouched somewhere frozen like a frightened rabbit. Did a rabbit ever die of fear? he thought hopefully.
If they found her, she couldn’t tell them anything-and yet…
He’d better go back. As soon as he took care of the car’s ID. See if the cops had her. Maybe hear where they were taking her-then it would be a cinch, he’d take care of her later, if needed.
4
R ACING AWAY FROM Joe into the dark plaza looking for the vanished child, the tortoiseshell cat didn’t care that the body had vanished, she thought only of the terrified little girl, afraid that the killer had taken her-or had the child run before he could grab her? Had the sirens scared him away before he could snatch up the frail witness? A little girl like that, could she get away from a grown man? Maybe hide where he wouldn’t find her? If she’d seen the shooter’s face, she was surely marked for death.
Trying to find the child’s scent among all the cops’ trails as they’d quartered the plaza sent Kit doubling back again and again, sniffing at every brick, at every patch of earth, scenting around every bush trying to catch the smell of the little girl over the sharp trails of shoe polish, testosterone-heavy sweat, gun oil, and the pungent odors of geraniums and Mexican sage that seemed to want to drown out all else. Though Kit could track as no cop could, as only a dog could do, this morass of fresh scents was indeed daunting.
And was the killer still nearby, watching the police? Maybe even watching her, wondering what that cat was doing?
The day had begun so happily amid all the Christmas bustle. As Kit had trotted out of the house that morning through the dining-room window onto her favorite oak branch, behind her the dining table was strewn with wrappings and boxes; in the living room, the tree lights glowed; and in the kitchen her two human housemates had been chopping nuts for fruitcake, the tall, eighty-some newlyweds as happy as a couple of kids, laughing and teasing each other, surrounded by the delicious smells of baking, of vanilla and almond flavoring and ginger and candied cherries. Racing away toward the village over the familiar tangle of rooftops, Kit had found Joe Grey and Dulcie on the tiled roof of the Patio Café, the big silver tomcat having a morning wash while tabby Dulcie waved her darkly striped tail, caught happily in the milieu of delicious Christmas smells and of taped Christmas music that rose up to them from the small shops, and listening to the villagers’ cheerful greetings as they hurried from one small store to the next. The cool morning had been jewel bright, almost balmy for December, a day to roll on warm concrete or, for a human, to abandon the house for the sunwashed village and seashore. After a week of icy winds and lashing rains, everyone had seemed to be out and about, as busy as field mice emerging from their holes on the first nice morning. But then, by late afternoon, the weather had turned stormy again, dark clouds rolling in and the wind whipping up foam off the ocean. Since early November, the weather had been wildly unpredictable, the central California coast awash with bright sun one day, battered by dark rain and heavy winds the next. Kit’s human friends hardly knew, when they got out of bed in the morning, whether to dress in shorts and a light shirt, or sweaters and rain gear. Even the newscaster on TV seemed unable to predict heat or cold, rain or sun, his broadcasts so uncertain that he should be embarrassed to show his face on the big screen. In six weeks’ time, the Pacific Coast had been hit by five gusting storms that ripped away tree limbs, tore off shingles, and made everyone as grouchy as if the weather’s tantrums were personal assaults. Then would come a few days of sunshine that made everyone smile and laugh and go out Christmas shopping before another storm hit, the pre-Christmas temperatures as crazy as if the weather gods were binging on catnip.