Dedication - Кроха

Kate shook her head, embarrassed. “I was lovely,” she said longingly. “Though not as beautiful as you.” She stroked Kit’s mélange of black, brown, and orange fur, as soft as silk. “I couldn’t change,” she said again sadly. “My own magic was gone.”

Kit felt sad for her. But she couldn’t change, either, she never had; in the Netherworld she and Pan had tried. But they were happy; they didn’t need the complications that came with being a human person. Mortgages, income taxes, stalled cars. Let humans deal with those irritations. Maybe next time around she and Pan would be human, burdened with human responsibilities. But right now they were free spirits.

Each night Kit slept safe and content beside Kate, waiting for her own humans to come home. Each morning, Kate rose early, if only to enjoy the sunrise. She liked to sit on the deck with a cup of coffee, looking down on the village, watching the world come awake. On the fourth morning when Kit woke she heard the glass door slide closed, heard it lock, heard Kate’s step up the outside stairs, heard her car start in the drive. Heard her back out and head away. Kit rose, yawning. Sometimes the carpenters came early to the shelter. In the tiny kitchen, leaping to the table, she found the porridge and the fried egg Kate had left for her. Beside them lay a note, held down by the porridge bowl.

Lucinda called my cell. They took a late flight last night, the four of them. I’m picking them up at San Jose. We’ll be home before noon.

Kit licked the note, shivering. Lashing her tail, she raced the length of the apartment, leaped from bookshelves, bounced on the unmade bed, flew to the dresser and almost slid off again. She was so excited she thought she couldn’t eat, but the next minute she was back in the kitchen devouring the cereal and egg, slurping it up so fast she scattered half of it on the table. Then she was out the cat door, up the hill, up her oak tree, up its rough bark into her tree house, where she could see the approaching street, where she tried to settle down to wait. Tried to settle down. Fidgeting and twitching, she knew quite well it would be hours before they got home.

She thought of going to tell Pan, but she didn’t want to disturb their grieving household with her own excitement. She could go tell Dulcie and Wilma or she could tell Joe Grey if she could find him. She could call anyone, she wanted to tell someone.

But Kate would do that, Kate would call their friends from her cell phone; and Kit didn’t want to leave home, because what if they caught an earlier flight and got home sooner than Kate said and she wasn’t there at all? Sighing, she wriggled deeper into her pillows, put her nose under her paw and tried to be patient. For the flighty tortoiseshell, patience didn’t work very well.

31

Pictures of sporting dogs filled the walls of Dallas Garza’s office, a fine succession of bird dogs with whom Dallas had hunted for much of his childhood and most of his adult life; had hunted any time he could, between college, the police academy, and then police work. Dallas’s last two, aged pointers had died not long ago. He had not bought another pup, he had little time now to train and work a sporting dog—and he was not a man to replace his respected hunting partners with a little lapdog; that was not his style.

Beneath the handsomely decorated walls, the detective’s desk was a tangle of odd papers, handwritten notes, computer printouts, faxes, and bank information from a dozen cities: account numbers, the names of his contact at each bank. Leaning back in his chair, the phone to his ear, Dallas was talking with the manager of a small Kentucky bank. So far this, too, sounded like a dead end. Each account Tekla had opened across the country, each in a different name, had been closed out, the money withdrawn, and all information on the bank records had proved to be counterfeit. False addresses that turned out to be short-sale houses or vacant lots. He had left Juana’s office some time ago, where she was tracking the couple through rental agreements.

The Bleaks had apparently lived this lifestyle for several years, under a revolving collection of pseudonyms. Apartments secured with invented information, bogus past employment that no rental office had bothered to check. Or, if the information had been looked into and found wanting, the applicants had simply been sent packing. Tekla and Sam would move on, and no complaint was made. What good was it to have efficient police, if civilians didn’t pass on suspicious information when they had the chance?

When he heard Juana’s step crossing the hall he motioned her in. She looked frustrated and tired. She poured a cup of coffee, filled Dallas’s cup, sat down at one end of the couch, laid a clipboard on her lap, the page covered with neatly inscribed notes. They looked at each other in silence. They looked up when Max appeared, coming from his office, carrying a half cup of coffee. His twisted smile held them both.

“What?” Davis said.

“The Bleaks’ brown SUV is a Ford,” he said, looking smug. “Don’t know what year, but we have the license number, I just put it on the BOL. It’s all across the country now.”

Davis laughed. Dallas said, “Was that from the snitch?”

Max grinned and nodded, making Dallas smile. The detective said, “I heard Evijean grousing at some phone call. When she shut right up, I assumed she put the call through. Is our snitch getting her trained?”

Max laughed. “Let’s hope so.” He glanced at Dallas’s scattered notes, then at Juana’s yellow pad. He sat down at the other end of the couch. “What’ve you got?”

“I think we know this much,” Juana said, “the Bleaks—Gardners—began this marathon in Northern California, when son Herbert was first arrested on suspicion of molestation. As far as I can find, Gardner is their real name; they lived in Seattle for some years. Herbert was twenty-three when the first complaint was filed against him. Without sufficient evidence, Seattle held him only a short time, released him with a warning.” She looked across at Max. “There was plenty of evidence, no reason the district attorney shouldn’t have pursued the case. Would have saved everyone a lot of trouble—would have saved a life.”

“Too busy,” Dallas said, shrugging. “Docket too full.”

“From that point on,” Davis said, “I have twelve charges, all molestation. All insufficient evidence, or so the DA thought. Seattle, Tacoma, Spokane. Tekla and Sam had already distanced themselves from him. They moved to several cities in Southern California, then back up the coast to San Francisco. Herbert tracked them somehow. When he found them, he moved right in.

“Two weeks later he was arrested on a rape charge. A neighbor saw him attack the girl and identified him. Girl was hurt real bad, she filed charges, but then she dropped them, she was too scared. This time Tekla and Sam left the city in a hurry; they must have thought this one could turn really serious and didn’t want to be involved. They changed names as usual, closed bank accounts, ended all contact with Herbert. I think I’ve traced them to Denver under one of the names, but that was some time ago. There’s no new contact in Denver. I found where her father had left her a sizable amount of cash. She manipulated that very well, both legally and illegally, using a number of names.”

Max said, “There’s no indication they ever tried to put Herbert into treatment?”

“Not that I can find. As if they just wanted to get away from him.” Davis looked up at the chief. “How often does treatment help a rapist?”

“It doesn’t,” Max said. “But getting him off the street helps. Now that we have some ID on the car, let’s see what we can do. They’ve got Herbert locked down tight, but his murdering folks aren’t much better.” Max paused as Joe Grey strolled into the office, his ears up, his head high with tomcat bravado.

Leaping to the couch, Joe stretched out between Davis and Max. The chief looked mighty pleased, Joe thought. They all three did, and that made him hide a smile. The ferals had done all right, they’d found what the department needed. Now it was a matter of waiting for the enhanced BOL to pick up more reports—and a matter of Joe catching up on the conversation he’d missed. Rolling over closer to Juana, he leaned against her arm where he could see her notes.

Davis was saying, “After she filed charges, then dropped charges, as soon as she could travel she left the state. Scared, afraid Herbert would find her. Herbert did some jail time, then walked. Surprisingly, he stayed in the city. Found a job of sorts, as an assistant janitor, rented a cheap room.

“It was not until his next arrest, maybe three months later, that the charge stuck. He was found in the storeroom kneeling over the body of Marilain Candler. The head janitor walked in on him, hit him with a shovel. While he was down, janitor made the 911 call.

“Herbert’s indicted for rape and murder,” Davis said. “He chooses a jury trial. Tekla learns about it, in the papers or on TV, her son on trial for murder. And she has one of those emotional turnarounds. This is her son, charged with murder. Suddenly she’s as angry as a mother tiger. They can’t do this to her son. She hikes on out to San Francisco to be there for the trial. What did she think? That she could stand up for Herbert, could defend his character?”

Dallas smiled. “That could be the odd-looking woman in Ben’s notes, the woman he watched from the jurors’ box.”

Davis nodded. “The woman always in the back row. When Herbert’s convicted and gets the death sentence, that’s the real turning point. She goes hot with rage against the jurors that convicted her boy. Herbert is misunderstood, he’s been grossly wronged, and she vows that each and every juror will experience exactly what they dealt out to him.”

Dallas finished his coffee. “I’ve called the lab twice to hurry them up on the ballistics. Maybe, now that we have the license number—if the Bleaks don’t switch cars or change plates—someone will pick them up and ship them back to us.”

“Let’s hope,” Juana said. Beside her, Joe Grey tried not to look smug. The license number and make of car were a big plus; he was mighty proud of his feral friends. That timely information from those shy, reclusive cats was one more nail in Tekla’s coffin.

32

In her tree house Kit turned round and round among her pillows. She curled up and dozed for a little while. She fidgeted and paced, waiting for Lucinda and Pedric to get home. The morning sun rose high and higher, but still it was far too early, it was a long drive from the San Jose airport to Molena Point. Below her, no car came along the street, not even a neighbor going to grocery shop or drop the kids at school. She slept fitfully again and dreamed of her elderly couple surrounded by polar bears. She woke terrified for them, surprised there was no snow.

Crawling out from under the pillows, she climbed up the branches onto the high roof of the tree house. She sat in a patch of sun looking down at the empty street. Where were they now? Still on a plane somewhere in the sky? Or were they already leaving the plane, going with Kate to claim their luggage?

The sun was higher, they could already be on the highway heading home. They could already be turning off Highway One down into the village. She waited. No car appeared. At last she crawled among her pillows again, trying to quiet her restless nerves. This time when she fell asleep she and Pan were safe in the Harpy’s arms flying through the green-lit Netherworld over the craggy, dark lands . . .

She woke, startled.

A car was coming up the street. She wished it were Lucinda and Pedric and knew it couldn’t be because the sun still wasn’t high enough.

But the sound was Kate’s car. She leaped up to peer over, watched the SUV pull into the drive. Yes, Kate’s Lexus, curved bars on top where the Greenlaws’ luggage was tied. Kit fled down the oak tree, dropped the last six feet as Lucinda opened the passenger door. She flew into Lucinda’s arms. Lucinda’s wrinkled cheeks were sunburned; she was dressed in safari pants and a khaki jacket. Pedric stepped out from the backseat dressed in khakis, too. They held her between them, hugging and loving her so hard they nearly squeezed her breath out. Lucinda was crying. Pedric’s wrinkled cheeks were wet—but then they were all laughing and Kit thought she’d burst with happiness and they couldn’t talk here in the front yard for fear of the neighbors, though they saw no one about. They hurried in the house, leaving the luggage on the car. Inside there was more hugging and Kit scrambled from one to the other and all of them talking at once. They were home, her dear family was home, they were safe, they were all together and safe.

In the living room Kate turned on the gas logs, made sure the tired couple was settled comfortably in their own soft chairs—as if Lucinda and Pedric were guests in their own house—then, in the kitchen, she put the kettle on for tea. As bright flames danced on the hearth, Kate went to bring in the luggage. The Greenlaws had traveled light, just their three canvas duffels. Why had they been tied on top when there was plenty of room in the big Lexus? But then Kit caught a whiff of salmon as Pedric went to help Kate carryin an oversize Styrofoam cooler; she sniffed a stronger scent as they headed for the laundry where the big freezer stood.

In the living room again, Kate told Kit, “At the last minute they changed their flights, decided to all come home together. I dropped Mike and Lindsey off first, so they could get their own salmon in the freezer.

“Lovely salmon,” Lucinda said, leaning back in her soft chair. “A lovely trip,” she said as Kit leaped into her lap. “But a tiring flight home, we didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Tired and hungry,” Pedric said. The couple stayed awake long enough to enjoy the hot tea and the quick lunch Kate had put together. Gathered before the fire, they shared a favorite, grilled cream cheese and salami sandwiches on rye; then Lucinda and Pedric headed for the bedroom, yawning. They didn’t unpack, but pulled on nightclothes and crawled into bed, where Kit snuggled between them purring a sleepy song. She could hear Kate in the kitchen rinsing the dishes; soon she heard Kate leave, locking the front door behind her, heard her car back out. And Kit snuggled deeper, safe between Lucinda and Pedric—an unaccustomed midday nap for her two humans. Contentedly Kit dozed, drifting on a cloud of happiness that only a little loved cat could truly know.

It was nearly a week before Lucinda and Pedric felt up to a party for their homecoming, a simple gathering of friends to celebrate their safe return. It would be two weeks more before MPPD would celebrate the end of another journey: the end of the Bleaks’ cross-country escape, the moment when neither of the Bleaks could any longer dodge the law. Much would happen, between.

While Lucinda and Pedric rested at home with Kit, exchanging tales of their adventures, while Dulcie languished in her own house feeling heavy and nervous, Joe Grey prowled the offices of MPPD scanning computers, listening to phone calls, waiting, as Max and the detectives waited, for a positive response to the BOL. A few calls came in where a citizen thought he’d spotted the car speeding by, tried to follow it, lost it, and didn’t get the license number. It was raining across several states, and the Bleaks, taking advantage of stormy night travel, managed to slip through. Meanwhile MPPD was busy with the usual shoplifting, car break-ins, and domestic violence cases that, these days, plagued even the tamest of small towns. There were, as well, daily inquiries from concerned citizens asking if there was any line yet on the attacker. The next report on a brown SUV, again with only a partial license number, put the couple somewhere in Alabama, still heading east. Alabama HP put patrols out, but in the heavy storm that had hit the state, the Bleaks had the advantage.