The raccoons of Molena Point seemed singularly wicked, they killed unwary cats, attacked small dogs in their own fenced yards, attacked the owners when they intervened. Several villagers had been so badly bitten they were taken to emergency for shots and stitches. Twice an angry mother raccoon, apparently rearing her kittens in the bushes of a downtown cottage, attacked small dogs as their owners took them for an evening stroll. It did no good to trap and move the beasts, they either came back or, wherever they were released, became someone else’s problem. And the village’s no-kill policy regarding predatory wild animals meant the raccoons increased in numbers at their own pleasure. One’s only choice was to stay out of their way.
As Emmylou headed away for her car, on the roof above, Dulcie said, “Didn’t Chichi Barbi trap a black-and-white cat last week? Was that one of Sammie’s cats?”
“Don’t know,” Joe said, distracted. Below them, the prisoner either couldn’t speak English, or pretended he couldn’t. Juana had joined them and was having a go in Spanish. When the guy wouldn’t talk to her, either, pretending not to understand her, Crowley helped him into the backseat of the squad car, holding the guy’s head down so he wouldn’t crack his skull, and took him away. McFarland followed in the SUV, hauling the meth supplies from Hanni’s garage, and the cats headed for the Damen cottage, where they could hear Debbie inside, complaining.
“That old linoleum’s filthy, I can’t live in this mess.” Ignoring the cleaning rags and scrub brushes, she said, “I’d better get down to the police, for fingerprints, Captain Harper did seem in a hurry,” and she fled the house, calling the kids, moving away toward her car. The cats, with both Debbie and Emmylou headed for MPPD, raced away across the roofs, eager to see how this came down, amused that Debbie hated scrubbing the floor even more than facing Harper again.
Running through the cold rain across the wet shingles and the slippery limbs of oak and cypress, Joe and Dulcie hit the courthouse roof soaked nearly to the skin, galloped its length, and dropped down through the branches to MPPD’s glass door. Any sensible cat would be curled up on a deep couch before a warming fire. But what the hell, Joe thought, pawing at the door.
Mabel Farthy, behind the counter, rose at once to let them in. There was nothing quite as satisfying to a persistent cat as an obedient human, as to see his training pay off. “Oh, you poor things, you’re soaking.” The grandmotherly woman fit snugly in her uniform, its dark color setting off her creamy complexion and blond-dyed white hair. She, and the office, smelled of cinnamon buns, testimony to the competence with which Mabel mothered the officers. From beneath the counter she produced a baker’s box, which she set beside the in-box. Enticing Joe and Dulcie up, she broke a bun into small pieces, laid them out on a clean paper plate. By the time their rough tongues had snatched up the last sticky crumb, she’d dried them both off with paper towels, all the while scolding them for getting wet. They were washing the damp places she’d missed when they heard Vinnie Kraft’s whining from beyond the glass door, looked up to see Debbie hurrying across the parking lot dragging Vinnie and Tessa.
Shoving in through the glass door, Debbie sailed past the bars of the holding cell, past the folding chairs that stood against the wall, bearing down on Mabel. “I’m here to see Captain Harper. At his request, so I don’t expect to be kept waiting.” The eyes of both children were fixed on the cats, particularly on Joe, who sat center stage on Mabel’s counter.
“That’s Ryan and Clyde’s cat,” Vinnie said sharply.
“Don’t be silly.” Debbie stared at the cats as if something disgusting had been left in a public place. “What would their cat be doing in a police station? Sit down, Vinnie.” Moving away from the cats to the other end of the counter, she returned her scowl to Mabel. “Is Captain Harper here? He as much as demanded that I come in. I don’t have time to wait.”
Mabel looked her over, her round face expressionless. “Captain Harper is busy. Would you like to take a seat?” Deftly she moved the tray of outgoing mail back from the edge as Vinnie reached a hand up. Dulcie and Joe backed away, too, watching the kid warily.
Debbie huffed and took a seat, pulling the children away with her. Mabel resumed sorting the mail, looking up only when the glass door opened again and two women and a thin little man stepped in. The women were dumpy and soft, faintly unkempt, their hair marceled into rigid waves, their dresses reminiscent of the flowered rayon frocks one saw in old ’40s movies. The man was a precise little fellow decked out in a dark three-piece suit, his thin face clean shaven except for a carefully trimmed beard of the same salt-and-pepper gray as his neatly styled, short hair; the trio might have just stepped out of the photo the cats had found in Alain Bent’s file cabinet. Their expressions were every bit as sour, though they approached Mabel’s counter uncertainly. Behind them Debbie had turned away, leaning down over Tessa to adjust the little girl’s hair bow.
Both women were squarely built, as sturdy as pit bulls, they had to be mother and daughter. The older woman’s face was pale as milk, her skin thick with small scars as if she’d suffered endless little surgeries. “I’m not sure we’ve come to the right place,” she said, “to report a missing person? Or someone we think is missing? My cousin . . . I’m Norine Sutherland. This is my daughter, Betty, my husband, Delbert,” she said abruptly. “My cousin is Alain Bent. The Realtor?” She launched into a long and complicated explanation of why they thought Alain was missing—but the cats’ attention was on Debbie. She watched the three warily, and when the older woman glanced idly at her, she leaned down again as if dusting lint from her shoe. She knew these people—but perhaps they didn’t know her? Could she know them only from the same picture, which was tucked into Alain’s file cabinet?
Yet if they didn’t know her, why was she so wary? One more glance from the older woman and Debbie rose and left, hurrying the kids out, her expression hard to read. Behind her on Mabel’s counter Joe and Dulcie sat washing their paws, highly entertained by the little drama. But across the village, another, subtler drama was unfolding.
On the cliff above the sea where the rainy wind swept cold, the big red tom stood still, looking. Something watched him, something hidden among the blowing grass; while beyond him, at the street, the lone woman still rummaged in her car, the rain blowing in on her backside as she looked for something or maybe tended to her vagabond housekeeping. Then suddenly among the shifting grasses the darker shadow moved again, staying downwind so he could get no scent at all.
He’d come a good way along the cliff, looking down at the shore below, searching for the little fishing dock. Maybe it had been torn down or perhaps swept away by a high sea, was no longer there, where Misto had remembered it from his youth? But now again Pan searched the grass, and again his skin rippled from the shadowy presence. Who would follow him, and why? No cat knew him here. This wasn’t a dangerous predator, he didn’t sense that at all, but still he crouched, ready to fight or run, whichever was expedient. Above him the dark clouds heaved lower, heralding an early dusk, and the drenched grass forest began to fill up with shadows—but there, where a tangle of blackberries wove dense and dark, something solid crouched, poised. A darkly mottled shadow, a pair of eyes bright as marigolds, holding steady on him. He eased forward, and caught the scent of her, mixed with the smell of sea and rain. He could see the tip of her fluffy tail twitching, her only movement as she watched him.