Quietly she reached for the phone, meaning to dial 911, then to leave, to wait for the police on the street or in her locked car. She had started to phone when she saw the paw prints.
Greasy paw prints on the stove, catching the light when she stood at an angle. And when she examined the back of the newspaper, there were greasy prints there, as well.
Checking all the window locks, she angrily searched her apartment, looking in every tiniest niche, under every piece of furniture. In the living room she found the cat's black hair matted on her white couch: a stark and insolent greeting. She imagined the huge black creature riding in the car beside Consuela, peering coldly out the front window-laying what kind of plans?
Because they had missed stealing the jewelry, he had come here into her apartment, had very likely searched the entire apartment looking for it. What next? Her office? And where had he been when Consuela entered the bank? Riding on her shoulder snarling at the tellers? Following her on a leash like some pet jungle cat, commanding irate or amused stares from tellers and customers? Although most likely he had kept out of sight.
If he had jimmied her window, he had probably let Consuela in through the front door, and Consuela had taken her extra keys. They had most likely locked the window and locked the door behind them when they left; and now they could enter at their pleasure.
Searching again, she could find nothing else disturbed. Whatever they had done in here, that black beast frightened her far more than that little snip Consuela could ever do.
Well, she couldn't tell the cops that a cat had broken in, and she had no evidence that any human had been in here. Unplugging and removing her kitchen phone, and then her office extension, so that neither phone could be taken off the hook, she carried them into the bedroom, setting them down beside the nightstand where she left the third phone plugged in. Locking the bedroom door behind her, she checked every small hiding place once again, behind the boxes on the closet shelf, behind her clothes. She was thankful she'd had the bedroom lock installed; it gave her a sense of security after she'd been followed. She didn't like surprises; she would not want to wake with someone in her room.
Certain that the cat was not in the room with her, she washed her face and brushed her teeth. She was tucked up in bed, reading, by 8:15, the dark winter evening shut away beyond the draperies-wanting to lose herself in a favorite book as she had done when she was a child in one foster home or another.
But, again, the book didn't hold her. Putting out the light, turning over clutching her pillow, she wanted to sleep and didn't think she could. Then when she did sleep, her dreams were filled with Azrael, and with phantom worlds that beckoned to her from the darkness. She woke at three and lay sleepless until dawn, her mind racing with unwanted questions.
13
Long after Kate slept, that Saturday night, down the coast in Molena Point, rain swept in torrents along the rocky shore, turning sodden the cottages and rooftops and, south of the village, bending double the wild grass on Hellhag Hill, drenching the two friends who climbed through the black, wet tangles, desperately searching.
Joe Grey heard it first, a lonely and mournful weeping as he reared up in the tangled wet grass. He and Clyde were halfway up the hill, Joe's paws and fur were soaking. In the driving rain, he could see nothing. Leaping to Clyde's shoulder, he stared up through the windy night toward the crest. The weeping came and went in the storm as unfocused as the cries of spirits; the gusts pummeled him so hard he had to dig his claws into Clyde's shoulder. Clyde grunted but said nothing. Above them, the grieving lament increased: somewhere in the cold blackness the kit sobbed and bawled her distress. The time was three A.M. Scuds of rain hit their backs fitfully, then were gone again.
Of course no stars were visible, no moon touched the inky hill. Pressing a paw against Clyde's head for balance, Joe prayed the kit hadn't gone into the cave. Crouching to leap down, to race up to the crest, he peered down into Clyde's face. "Can you see her? Can you see anything?"
"Can't see a damned thing. You're the cat. What happened to night vision?"
"It takes a little light. I'm not an infrared camera!"
The yowl came again, louder, making Clyde pause. "You sure that's the kit? Sounds like the ghost itself." The ghost of Hellhag Hill was a treasured village myth, one Joe didn't care for. Rising tall against Clyde's head, Joe peered harder into the black night. Had he seen an inky smudge move briefly? Clyde stunk of sleep, a sour human smell.
"There," Joe said. "Just to the left of the cave."
Clyde moved to stare upward, clutching Joe tighter. The trouble had started an hour ago with the ringing phone in their dark bedroom. Burrowing beneath the covers, Joe heard Clyde answer, his voice understandably grouchy. "What?" Clyde had shouted into the phone. "It's two in the morning. This better not be a wrong number."
There was a long silence. Clyde said, "When?" Another silence, then, "Are you sure?" Then, "We're on our way." Joe had peered out as Clyde thudded out of bed and stood looking around the dark room, then staring toward the study and Joe's aerial cat door. "Joe! Where the hell are you? Joe! Come down here! Now! Wilma just called. It's the kit, she's run away!"
Joe had crawled out from under the blanket yawning. "What do you mean, she's run away? She's probably out hunting. She doesn't mind the rain. Where's Dulcie? Isn't she with Dulcie?" But the feeling in his gut was uneasy. The kit had disappeared last winter for several days-and had fallen, paws first, into trouble.
"What happened?" he said, stalking across the blankets. "Why suddenly so distressed? What else did Wilma say?"
Clyde was pulling on his pants and a sweatshirt. Joe leaped to the top of the dresser, waiting for an explanation.
"They're dead," Clyde said, staring back at him. "Lucinda and Pedric. There was an accident-somewhere north of Russian River. The minute the kit heard, she ran out of the house bawling and yowling. Dulcie raced after her, but apparently she lost her, couldn't track her in the rain and wind. They don't know where she went or what she'll do. She was so upset, Dulcie thinks she'll head for Hellhag Hill." Clyde pulled on his jogging shoes. Hastily tying them, he grabbed his keys.
In the downstairs hall Clyde dug his parka from the closet, snatched Joe up in his arms, and headed for the car. Racing down the hall, they heard Rube huffing behind the kitchen door. Clyde double-timed it through the dark living room and out the front door, not bothering to lock it. Sliding into the old Buick sedan that he'd driven home that night-to avoid putting up the top in his yellow antique roadster-he dropped Joe on the passenger seat like a bag of flour, hit the starter, and fished a flashlight from the glove compartment.
Shining the light along the sidewalk, Clyde headed for the hills, man and cat watching every shadow, every smear of darkness. Joe, crouched on the dash where he could see the street, glanced over at Clyde.
"How could there have been a wreck? When did this happen? How could they have a wreck at night? Lucinda and Pedric don't drive at night. Never. At eighty, that's smart. So how-"
"Wilma didn't give me details, she was frantic for the kit, I've never heard her so out-of-control. The Sonoma County coroner called her. A wreck, a tanker truck-gasoline. A nighttime wreck, a fire. My God, those two innocent people. The kit was wild, hysterical."
"Watch your driving. I'll do the looking. Why did Wilma tell her all that? Didn't she know the kit would-"
"Kit had her ear stuck to the phone, you know how she is. She heard before Wilma could snatch her away. And even if she had-"
"There! Slow down."