He had talked with Wilma about this. Wilma was as close to an older sister as he’d ever have, he’d known her since he was eight and she was twenty-some, and he’d sought her opinions on many matters. Wilma’s judgment was clearly thought out, and sensible.
But in the matter of Ryan Flannery, Wilma had said only “I don’t know, Clyde. Just ask her. If she says no, don’t trash what you two have. Just swallow your pride and go on as you are. Stay the distance, and see where it leads. I like Ryan. Don’t blow your future chances.”
Wondering for the hundredth time what the hell that really meant, Clyde pulled a Mexican dinner from the freezer, stood staring at it, then realized how late it was getting and put it back-Sicily would have sumptuous party food. And anyway, frozen Mexican was reserved only for moments of extreme desperation, when the real thing was inaccessible. As he headed upstairs to change clothes, Joe trotted up past him, hit the desk, leaped to the rafter, and was gone through his cat door. Clyde could hear him galloping across the roof, double-timing for the gallery, the little freeloader.
33
A N HOUR BEFORE Clyde and Joe Grey left Ryan’s hospital room, the tortoiseshell cat sat alert behind a fuchsia vine just outside the SPCA resale shop. The time was nearly five, and the shop would be closing soon. Kit sat quietly listening to Juana Davis speak on her cell phone with the chief. The alley smelled of bayberry from the candle shop across the way. Juana and the little girl sat close together on a hand-carved bench, a small fat duffel bag at Juana’s feet, the child clutching her angel doll tight in her arms, its ragged wings flopping against her.
“Clerk says the doll and clothes, and a small duffel bag the child recognized, were in plastic garbage bags,” Juana said. “Four black bags that were left at the front door before they opened. She remembers because of the doll and the duffel.
“There were men’s clothes in all four bags, but of several sizes. Now they’re mixed in with everything else on the racks. They have a sign on the door asking people not to leave things before they open, but no one pays any attention.”
Kit knew about that. Sometimes, during her predawn prowls, she would sit among the shadows watching a car pull to the curb, watch someone hurry into the alley loaded down with boxes or bags or perhaps a small piece of furniture. Leaving their discards at the locked door, they would hurry away again as if late for work. Once, someone left a nice baby crib complete with mattress, and Kit had enjoyed a little nap before the shop opened.
But this early-morning donation had not been because someone was late for work. Hastily depositing the evidence concealed among other donations might, in the killer’s view, be far more efficient than hiding the clothes in a Dumpster.
But not so, Kit thought smugly. Not this time, my friend! This time you didn’t count on a little kid and her favorite doll.
Nor did you, Kit thought, smiling, nor did you count on the power of a cat’s nose- but the information Kit had uncovered, however, had left her indeed very frightened.
Earlier, in the shop, the child, clutching the doll to her, had gone along the rack carefully picking out her own clothes, pulling each little dress off a hanger and handing it to Juana, looking up at her with trust. From the shadows Kit had watched, impatiently shifting from paw to paw, her whole being filled with the secret she had discovered, with the scent of the man who had handled the doll, the same scent that was on the child’s discarded dresses. Shocked and distressed by what she knew, she was hardly able not to blurt it right out to Juana Davis. How she longed for a phone, longed to make just one urgent phone call of her own.
But, afraid she might miss something, she was unwilling to leave Juana. The detective was saying, “They go over them, put aside those that need mending or washing. Clerk said the doll was too fragile to wash, that they’d thought of throwing it away. Said it was too pitiful, too appealing. Clerk wiped it off, put it in the sunshine for a few hours, then laid it on the stack.”
Juana listened; then, softly, “Not a word. But she cried, Max. Silent tears. Cried and clung to the doll.” She listened again; then, “You think that’s smart? She does seem stronger, but…”
Kit could hear the indecipherable murmur of the captain’s voice, then Juana said, “Okay, we’ll give it a try. Sicily’s ‘little snack for the kids’ should be a sumptuous supper, so maybe that will appeal. She hardly touched her lunch.”
Silence; then, “That should be safe enough. We’ll stop by the apartment, give her a little rest and clean up, then we’re on our way.”
As Juana hugged the little girl close, and the child in turn hugged her doll, they rose and headed for Juana’s squad car. Kit watched Davis buckle her into the backseat and tuck a blanket over her knees, then swing in behind the wheel. She spoke on her radio and drove off, turning right at the next corner in the direction of her apartment.
Behind Juana’s car, Kit crossed the briefly empty side street and scorched up an oak tree to the roofs. And she ran, her whole being fixed on what she had learned, and on telling Max Harper, on calling the department. She was crouched to leap a narrow alley, heading for home and a phone, when she stopped so abruptly she almost fell. Clinging at the edge of the shingles, she watched the man on the sidewalk below.
He had stepped from the shadows as Davis’s patrol unit disappeared up the street. Now he was jogging quickly after her, keeping to the late-afternoon shadows along the buildings, his gaze never leaving the patrol car.
Forgetting the phone, Kit followed him, her tortoiseshell coat a dark smear racing across the windy rooftops. As evening drew down and darker clouds moved in over the village, bringing the storm that had threatened all day, and as Joe Grey slipped in through Dulcie’s cat door to escort her as formally as any human paramour to Charlie’s book signing, Kit alone followed the killer. Racing over the roofs, she followed the man who, moving fast along the shadowed street, trailed Detective Davis and the little girl. The man who, Kit was certain, the child could pick out of any lineup.
W HILE KIT FOLLOWED the killer, and Charlie’s human friends spiffed up for the party, Charlie hurried home from the hospital to get dressed. Her visit to Ryan had been brief, and worrisome. Dr. Hamry would know more in the morning.
She hadn’t wanted to leave the hospital, had wanted to call Sicily and say that they’d have to have the opening without her, that to please tell Jennifer Page, the gracious owner of the bookstore, that she’d sign books later for those who bought them, would mail them or deliver them in person. But Clyde, sitting by Ryan’s bed, said she was being foolish. And on the phone, Sicily scolded her and told her to go home at once, get herself dressed, and get her tail over there, that children were already lining up for the signing and that she’d better not show up smelling like horse and wearing boots and jeans. Clyde, gripping Ryan’s cold hand, said that if Ryan had her wits about her she’d tell Charlie more than that, and that she’d better get moving. She’d left the hospital with the sick, illogical feeling that if she left Ryan alone and she got worse…
“What could you do if you stayed?” Clyde had said. “You’re a doctor, now? A healer? Ryan couldn’t have better care. Even if she took a worse turn, which she won’t, you’d only be in the way.”
“But I’d be here.”
“Go,” Clyde had repeated. “I’m here.”