Ramon returned with the coffeepot and stood beside her table, speaking softly.
"Dark the cat walks," Ramon said, watching her. She looked up at him, startled. "Dark the cat walks, his pacing shadow small." Ramon's Latin eyes gleamed. "Dark the cat walks. His shadow explodes tall. Fearsome wide and tall."
The shock of his words turned her rigid. Before she could speak, abruptly Ramon left her.
She sat very still, trying to collect her emotions. Her hands were shaking.
Why had he said that? What could he mean?
Dropping the paper on the floor, she threw down some money and hurried out to the street, wanted out of there, wanted out of the city.
What was Ramon telling me? Then, Wark can't know I'm here.
Can't he, Kate? Remember, before, how easily he discovered your secret?
If it is Wark who's killing cats, she thought, shivering, Ramon's right. He ought to be muerto. Debe murir.
Hurrying back to her apartment, she locked herself in, sliding the new dead bolt on the front door, checking the window locks. She made some cocoa and curled up with a book, a tame, quiet read that wouldn't upset her, couldn't stir any sense of threat-a soothing story that offered nothing to abrade her raw nerves.
She couldn't stop thinking about Wark.
Wasn't the Cat Museum the first place the cat killer would go?
Had he already been there, stalking the grounds? Did the museum staff not know? Or had museum cats been killed, and the museum had kept that out of the papers?
Had some of the poor, dead cats that were found around the city come in fact from the Cat Museum?
What kind of cats, Kate? What kind of cats is he killing?
Was Wark saving the Cat Museum for last? Last and best, in Wark's sick mind-before the cops got too close and he had to flee?
Was she imagining all this-the connection between Wark and this maniac?
She didn't think so. A sick, sadistic killer was loose in San Francisco. Lee Wark reveled in that brand of cruelty. Lee Wark had escaped from prison only thirty miles north of the city.
Coincidence? She had the terrible feeling that if she were to visit the Cat Museum, no matter when she went there, Lee Wark would be stalking those gardens.
5
AS CHARLIE GETZ turned her van up the quarter-mile lane that led to Max Harper's small ranch, the yellow light of the security lamps was mighty welcome. The dark roads were behind her, where perhaps a killer lurked, the hills pitch black, the sky black and starless.
Heading the van down the lighted fence line toward the white frame house and stable, she prayed for the safety of the Marners and Dillon as she'd been praying all night.
The idea of three riders missing was so bizarre-the implication of a child missing made bile come in her throat. Heading eagerly for the stable yard, she knew she was driving too fast.
Slowing the old van, she studied the dark pools of night beneath the overhanging oaks, looking for the mare. She could see, up on the hills behind the ranch, flashes of torchlight jiggling and careening, and could see lights higher up the foothills, disappearing into the pine forest. Parking before the house, she cut the engine and headlights and sat listening to the far, faint shouts of the searchers.
After the wash of light up the lane, the yard was too dark. Harper didn't like lights glaring in his windows; his yard lights were operable from remotes in his car and truck, and from inside the house and stable.
Now, in the tangle of black shapes around her, nothing shifted or moved.
She'd never been afraid at night, not in Molena Point, not when she'd lived in San Francisco. Tonight her fear made her weak.
Slipping out of the van, she switched on her torch and started across the yard toward the stable, swinging her beam wide, causing the shadows to run and dance-probably only tree trunks, maybe a wheelbarrow.
Then, beneath a far oak, a shadow shifted and turned.
She aimed her light toward it like a gun-wished it was a gun.
Her beam caught the whites of frightened eyes, the line of the mare's head and pricked ears. Redwing stood pressed against the fence, her eyes wide with fear.
Gently Charlie approached her, aiming her torch away. The mare stood stiffly, holding one leg up. The reins were broken, trailing in the dirt. Harper's nice Stubben saddle hung down Redwing's side, the stirrup dragging, the girth loose where a buckle had broken. When she reached for Redwing, the mare threw her head and snorted, rearing to wheel away. Charlie grabbed the broken rein, moving with her, letting her plunge, then easing into her. Laying her hand on the mare's neck, she felt Redwing trembling. At the same instant, loud barking erupted from the barn where the two big half-Dane dogs had been shut in their box stall for the night. The sound of their voices eased Charlie-as if their bellowing would drive away danger. And the furor seemed to calm Redwing, too. The mare knew the dogs, she played with them in the pasture; she seemed easier at their familiar presence.
Removing the saddle, placing it on the fence rail, she led the mare out to see if she could walk.
The mare limped badly.
Leading Redwing to the barn, Charlie flipped on the lights, found a halter, and carefully removed the bridle, touching it as little as possible. Maybe that was silly, but if someone had grabbed the reins and pulled Dillon off, there could be fingerprints.
Harper would laugh at her. Maybe she read too many detective stories. Hanging the bridle on its hook, she put the mare in the cross-ties and went out to the yard to fetch the saddle, supporting it by two fingers under the pad.
Maybe, when the saddle slipped, Dillon had fallen; maybe she was lying, hurt, up on the dark hills, confused or unconscious.
But why would she be alone, without Helen and Ruthie?
Ignoring the whining dogs, she wiped down the mare, cleaned her skinned knee, and daubed on some salve. Putting her in her stall, she fetched a flake of hay for her and filled her water bucket. The dogs continued to bark and to scrabble at their stall door. Too bad the year-old pups weren't trained to track; they could be of use tonight. But those two mutts, as much as she loved them, would only get in the way.
When she had the mare bedded, she removed one of the two leashes hanging from the nail beside the dogs' stall and, by opening their door only a crack, managed with a lot of shouting and strong-arming and ignored commands, to let Hestig out and leave Selig confined.
Leashing Hestig, she tied him to a ring at the side of the stable alleyway. He stood whining, watching her soulfully. She felt easier with the big pup near. The Great Dane part of him gave him a voice like a train horn, and he had the size and presence to intimidate any stranger.
She and Clyde together had started training the two strays in obedience, but it was slow going. Dog training wasn't Clyde's talent. The pups had ended up at Harper's, and she and Max had been working with them in the evenings, taking advantage of the wide, flat acreage to teach them the basic commands. They were learning. But tonight, with the unusual routine, and having listened to the shouting from the hills, they were too excited to pay much attention.
She remained still a moment, stroking Hestig. In the long, quiet evenings, she hadn't meant for her relationship with Max Harper to turn personal, hadn't meant to become so attracted to him-and the trouble was, it hadn't turned personal. She didn't think Max felt anything for her but friendship.
Harper was Clyde's best friend. It wouldn't be like him to hurt Clyde. And he was a cop, his feelings all buttoned up and in control-or at least hidden, she thought wryly.
Except, what about Crystal Ryder?
That one had thrown herself at the captain and gotten a response. But then, the woman was gorgeous, with that tawny blond hair and big brown doe eyes and deep dimples and a figure that, to quote Clyde, was stacked like a brick outhouse. How could Max resist?