Before Kate could answer, Pedric said, "A world beneath the green hills." His thin, lined face was so intent. His eyes never left hers. Kate had to remind herself that this old man had grown up on the ancient Celtic tales, that those myths were an important part of his heritage.
"A world entered through a cave," Pedric said, "or through a door, or through a portal into a hill. A door that, in the old country, might be found hidden at the back of a root cellar."
Kate wanted to say, Those are only stories, Pedric. Ancient, made-up stories. But she couldn't say that to him. She glanced at Lucinda. The old woman touched her hand.
"Joe and Dulcie and Kit are real," Lucinda said. "In their amazing talents of speech and understanding, they are very real. Yet most everyone in the world would say that such a thing is impossible, that such a cat can be no more than myth."
The old lady cracked the windows so they could sit in comfort for a few minutes. Around them, the gardens and the lovely complex of shops and restaurants presented a sense of safety, a bit of the world where nothing bad could happen. The warm air was filled with the smell of chocolate mixed with the scent of flowers. All along the square, the shop windows presented wares beautifully wrought, delights meant to be enjoyed in a safe and ordered world. But within the car hung the hoary shadows of a chaotic environment, and it seemed to Kate that around her writhed dark myths, chill and threatening.
Looking at Kate, Pedric said gruffly, "The kit believes in another world than this. All her short life she has longed for that world."
But then the old man smiled and shook his head. "Joe Grey wants nothing to do with such an idea. Joe says this world is quite enough for him. Let's go have some breakfast."
But, over breakfast, Kate could not leave such thoughts behind her. The Greenlaws had stirred anew her unease, mixed with the persistent small thread of interest. She thought about the black cat, about the old house he believed opened to that other world, thought how deftly the snarling tom had guided her unwilling thoughts. Last night after his visit to her apartment she had found herself, just at the edge of sleep, imagining such a world and falling into dreams where she wandered that exotic land-and she had awakened that morning lost and frightened.
Now, sitting comfortably at the little breakfast table between Lucinda and Pedric in the pretty cafe, she took Lucinda's hand, holding fast to the old woman's steadiness, holding fast to the real and solid world.
27
Marlin Dorriss's condo was in the Marina District with a fine view of the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz Island, and the cold blue waters of San Francisco Bay. The complex was prime residential property and beautifully maintained. The sky to be seen from the condo's wide, clean windows this morning was streaked with wisps of white cloud that lay so low they threaded through the tall orange towers of the great bridge. The occupants of the condo, at the moment, were not enjoying the view but were cursing the brightness of the day.
The prominent location of the sprawling third-floor apartment was not an element that pleased them. Cops cruised that street routinely; and twenty minutes ago a silver gray Cadillac had parked across the street but no one had gotten out. Under the shadows of the tree that half hid the vehicle, they couldn't tell much about the man sitting in the driver's seat, but he had to be watching their building.
"Marlin could have bought a place away from the main drag," Hollis growled. "There's another cop car."
Consuela shrugged. "Maybe they're watching the tourists, getting an eyeful of those short little skirts blowing up around their crotches, and no bras under their sweaters."
"Cops seen all that stuff. And you had to park right in plain view. Might as well put up a sign."
"They won't spot the car; they have no make on the car."
"She's got a make on it. How many blue Corvettes do you see? You should'a done her."
"That's so childish. I don't do things like that; that's stupid. I'd rather spend a few years locked up with free meals, free phone, and laundry service, than to burn."
"You don't burn in California. Get a lawyer, you're out before your clothes start to stink."
"If you'd find the key to the garage, we could get the car out of sight."
"You should know where he keeps the key, you spend enough time here. I'm surprised you stayed in that fancy hotel across town."
"That place was perfect, a block from her apartment." She glanced up to the top of the armoire. "Damn cat liked it fine. In and out of her window, and I didn't even have to open the door for him."
From atop the armoire, the damn cat fixed Consuela with a look that came close to doing her. If looks could kill, she would be squirming like a decapitated cockroach.
Hollis, picking up a cloisonne lamp that stood on a carved end table, put it roughly on the floor, and sat down on the table, straddle-legged, looking out the window to the street below. Munching on a quarter-pounder, he dripped an occasional slop of mustard and greasy meat juice onto the oriental rug. Consuela, sprawled in a leather chair beside the phone, munched French fries and chicken nuggets that she had dumped onto a porcelain tray and sipped a Coke, leaving rings on the burled maple. She had been dialing Marlin Dorriss's cell phone for half an hour. They had dropped their jackets and canvas duffel and the takeout bags on the brocade couch.
The condo, which had smelled subtly of furniture polish and fine leather when they first entered, now smelled of fries and mustard, rancid grease and raw onions. Atop the tall, hand-decorated Belgian armoire, the black tomcat had already slurped up his burger. Digging his claws into the hundred-year-old cabinet, he studied Consuela and her disgusting friend, wondering how long he wanted to tolerate the pair. He didn't mind working with Consuela, this randy master of shifting identities, as long as she was associated with Dorriss. Only under Dorriss's influence-or because she wanted to influence Dorriss-did the little slut put on any class. She'd far rather dress like a streetwalker than make herself up for Kate Osborne, even if her turnout had been nearly flawless.
Hollis, on the other hand, was always scum. No one could clean up Hollis Dorriss or make him into anything more acceptable. No wonder Marlin had all but disowned his useless pair of sons. No wonder he preferred that they go by the name Clarkman.
Dorriss had used them whenever they came around, then paid them off and sent them packing. Now of course he had only one to deal with, and good riddance. That last fiasco, here in the city-Sammy teaming up with that cheap gang of third-rate jewel thieves and getting hit on the head-that had been the ultimate stupidity. Sure as hell it was Sammy's ultimate stupidity; that little caper got him dead.
But then Hollis flubbed it even worse stealing that RV and hitting that tanker. Too bad the jerk got out alive. Well, it didn't matter; Hollis was just marking time until some cop slapped the cuffs on him-jail meat waiting to happen.
You'd think, with the number of ventures the two had tried, they'd have put away some kind of stash. Instead, Hollis and Sammy had spent whatever they stole. Having done everything from residential break-and-enter to mugging old ladies, the two hadn't learned much. He'd heard it all from Dorriss; the man did not seem the kind to go on about his personal life, particularly to a cat. But a few drinks, late at night, and Dorriss's soft underbelly showed. The sophistication peeled away and he let it all out, his disappointments-and his grandiose and elaborate plans.
Well, you had to admit, those carefully thought-out burglary scenarios were not hot air. Marlin Dorriss could pull off the most bizarre operation without a flaw-thanks, in part, to yours truly. Azrael was quite aware that he had spectacularly increased the range and possibilities of Marlin Dorriss's ventures.