But after a while, Dulcie said, “You’re hurting, aren’t you? I can tell, the way you sit. I bet you’re all bruises.” Dulcie quit purring and laid her ears back. “Hurting, and all alone, while Cage Jones is being patched up and pampered and covered with a warm blanket and given a sedative for pain.”
Wilma laughed. “I’m not alone, I have you. I could use something for my headache. A whiskey and a rare steak would fix that.”
“Makes my fur bristle to think of all the tax money the state of California is going to spend, making that man comfortable.”
“That, Dulcie, is the way it works.”
“Money that could be used to clean up our house, which he trashed. Why spend money on that scum?”
“Only in a dictatorship,” Wilma said, “would Jones be left to die unattended.”
“Maybe so, but that’s all he deserves. Well, I’m only a cat. I don’t have to think like a human. Maybe cats cut a sharper line between good and evil.”
“Maybe,” Wilma said, stroking Dulcie’s ear. “Maybe cats should rule the world.”
The traffic was light considering what this freeway usually handled. By nine forty-five the late work traffic had dispersed. Beyond Clyde’s open window the worst heat had abated, and the night was warm and soft; the heavy Lexus SUV provided a ride so smooth and silent that a guy could go to sleep, Clyde thought. Not like the vintage cars he restored, that let you know their engines were running. The way he babied them, his engines always purred-but louder and with more character. Tonight, he could have used a bit of engine growl to keep him alert. He didn’t even have Joe’s acerbic conversation. In the open-top carrier on the seat beside him, the tomcat slept deeply, his soft snoring rivaling the smooth rhythm of the Lexus. It had been a long day for the tomcat.
From Dulcie’s frantic phone call to the station saying that Wilma was gone, from the moment Joe raced to her house, and then their hasty trip to Gilroy; from Joe’s sleuthing in the discount shops, to playing dumb for Detective Davis, all that on top of the village murders that the gray cat had fussed over for days, Joe was done in. In the car after supper, looking out from the carrier, his last words had been that he’d catch a few winks, a small restorative nap to recharge the batteries, then be rarin’ to go again.
The calm evening drive would be peacefully restorative for Clyde, too, if he hadn’t been strung tight with concern for Wilma and for Charlie. Not in the mood for local radio or a CD, his mind was filled with a succession of scenes that ran by him like clips from old movies. Wilma the first time he ever saw her, when he was eight and Wilma in her twenties, the day her family moved in next door to him, Wilma in jeans and an old T-shirt, her long blond hair tied back, working alongside the two men her folks had hired to unload the rented truck. The tall blonde carrying in big cardboard boxes marked “kitchen,” “bathroom,” “Wilma’s room,” all the rooms of the house. Clyde’s mother had said they were probably paying the moving men by the hour, so everyone helped. Times were hard then for many families, certainly for his own folks.
A memory of Wilma playing baseball with the little kids, in the street, Wilma hitting a home run over the neighbor’s garage; they never did find the ball. Wilma making Christmas cookies in the shape of cowboy hats and horses for him; she was always so beautiful, her blond hair so clean and bright. Long years later, when it turned gray, she didn’t dye it like other women, she enjoyed that silver mane. Wilma taking him to San Francisco for the weekend when he was twelve, to the zoo, to Fisherman’s Wharf for cracked crab and sourdough. And the trip through the San Francisco PD because she knew the chief.
And then when Charlie had first come to stay with Wilma after she’d quit her job in the city, packed up her belongings in cardboard boxes, driven down to start a new life in the village. First time he ever saw Charlie she was lying on her back underneath the van, changing the oil in her old blue van, swearing when oil dripped in her eye.
For a long time he’d thought he was in love with Charlie. Maybe he had been. It had hurt bad when suddenly Charlie and Max were a pair, no hints, no working up to it that he’d noticed. They’d been training Clyde’s unmanageable Great Dane puppies for him, up at Max’s ranch, working the two on obedience where there was room for them to run.
It was a situation that neither Charlie nor Max had planned, Clyde was sure of that. It just happened. After Charlie told him, he’d never let either of them know how much it hurt.
But he’d gotten over the hurt, had seen how good they were together, had realized that in some strange way they belonged together, and he’d been glad for that, glad they’d found each other-and now Charlie was missing. Clyde felt his stomach twitch and churn, hurting for Max, felt tears of rage burn.
This wasn’t coincidence. Did Cage Jones have both women? He understood how Jones’s twisted mind might decide there were issues that warranted kidnapping Wilma, that was sick enough. But why Charlie? A hostage, additional pressure on Wilma? But for what? Both Max and Davis thought the hostage theory was valid, and that Wilma’s kidnapping wasn’t for retribution alone. Clyde slowed at the Prunedale cutoff, but then gave it the gas, deciding to keep straight on through Salinas, which was a safer route. In this light traffic, the trip should be less than an hour. Not until he’d slowed going through Salinas did he hit the phone’s button for Molena Point PD.
When the tomcat heard the ringing on the speaker, he jerked awake and pushed up out of the carrier, stretching tall and yawning. Stretching again as he listened to Mabel Farthy’s brief answer.
“It’s Clyde; I’m just coming through Salinas, headed home.”
Mabel’s voice was bright with excitement. When she said, “Wilma’s safe! Charlie’s safe!” Clyde almost wrecked the car.
“They…Hold a minute,” Mabel said, as she switched to another line. She was gone maybe twenty seconds, then cut back in. “The captain’s there with them, Dallas on his way. Jones is in custody, headed for emergency, gunshot in the face. Hold…”
Another short delay, then she came back on. “Sears is in custody, too.”
“Where?” Clyde snapped. “Where are they?”
“Don’t go up there, Clyde. Half the force is up there on a narrow road, can hardly turn a car around, you’d only be in the way.”
“Up where?”
“Hold again…” Over a minute this time. As Clyde sped up, west of Salinas, a truck passed him, cutting close. He let off the gas until there was again ample space between them. Mabel came back on. “Gotta go, three lines flashing…”
“If you don’t tell me where, I’ll keep calling, jam your lines.”
Mabel sighed. “Pamillon ruins. Come on into the station, Clyde. They should be down here by the time you get back. They…Gotta go,” she said, and cut off.
He turned the speaker off, grumbling. Beside him Joe sat erect in the carrier, staring at Clyde, then staring out the window, then back at Clyde, his look saying clearly, Step on it. Get this heap moving.
“I’m not wrecking us to get there faster. The excitement’s over. They’re safe. Thank your cat god or whatever, and keep your fur on.”
“But they…Dulcie and Kit…She couldn’t tell us what’s happened to them. Where they are, Clyde? What if…?”
“I’m not driving any faster. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
The tomcat began to wash his paws. “There was a time, you’d have floor-boarded this buggy.”
“There was a time I’d kill a quart of whiskey, get up the next morning and hunker down on the back of the meanest bull in the string. I’m older now and smarter.”