Cat Breaking Free Read online

  "She backed off Rube fast enough," Clyde said, smiling. Chichi had been mad as hell when Rube growled at her. In Joe's opinion, the old black Lab was sometimes smarter than Clyde. He looked down at Rube, stretched out across the bricks, his aging black bulk soaking up the sunshine. "Rube knows his women. He should, he's lived with you since he was a pup." Joe watched the elderly Labrador roll over onto a warmer patch of paving.

  "Slowing down," Clyde said sadly, setting down his coffee cup and kneeling beside Rube to stroke and talk to the old dog. Rube lifted his head to lick Clyde's hand, his tail flopping on the bricks. But Clyde and the tomcat exchanged a look. Rube hadn't been himself for some time; they were both worried about him. Dr. Firetti had prescribed a heart medication, but he hadn't been encouraging.

  Joe was thinking it a blessing that the morning was quiet so the old dog could rest, a silky calm Saturday morning, when their peace was suddenly broken. Loud rock music shattered the silence, jolting all three of them, hard rock coming from next door where they heard a car pulling up the drive on the far side of the neighbors' house. They could hear nothing but the car radio blasting. What ever happened to real music? the tomcat thought. In Clyde's house, the old Basin Street jazz was king; and, since Clyde and Ryan started dating, a certain amount of classical music that even a tomcat could learn to like.

  The radio went silent. They heard two car doors slam, then two men's voices, one speaking Spanish as they headed down the drive, to the entry to Chichi's back bedroom. They heard the men knock, heard the door open, heard Chichi's high giggle as the door closed again, then silence. Rising, his ears pressed back with annoyance, the tomcat leaped from the chaise to the barbecue to the top of the plastered wall, where he could see the door and the drive.

  An older brown Plymouth coupe stood in the drive. Stretching out along the top of the wall, Joe watched the one bedroom window he could see; the other was around the corner facing a strip of garden and the drive. Inside, Chichi was sitting on the bed facing the two men who sat in straight chairs, their backs to Joe. The three had pulled the night table between them and were studying some kind of papers they had spread out. Frowning, the tomcat dropped from the wall down into the neighbors' scruffy yard. Racing across the rough grass and around the corner, he leaped into the little lemon tree that stood just outside Chichi's other window.

  Scorching up into its branches he tried to avoid the tree's nasty little thorns, but one caught him in the paw. Pausing to lick the blood away, he tried to keep his white markings out of sight, hidden among the sparse foliage. What were they looking at? A map? He climbed higher, stretching out along a brittle limb, peering down.

  Yes. A street map of the village. He could see the words "Molena Point" slanted across one corner. One man was Latino, with collar-length black hair. The other was a gringo, with sandy-red hair and short beard. Of what significance were the streets and intersections that the Latino man traced so intently with one stubby finger? Joe could not see the notes Chichi was making, where she had propped a small spiral pad on the corner of the table. He tried to peer around her shoulder but couldn't stretch far enough without risking a fall out of the spindly little tree. He caught a few words, but they were doing more tracing than talking. They seemed to be working out some scenario. It was clear to the tomcat that these three were not, by the wildest stretch, planning a Sunday church picnic.

  2

  Nothing could be seen on the vast green hills but the three riders, their horses jogging across the rising slopes high above the sea; they were pursued only by swift cloud shadows as ephemeral as ghosts slipping along behind them. Far below them where the hills dropped away, a carpet of fog hung suspended, hiding the cold Pacific. California weather, Charlie thought, loving the swiftly changing contrasts of light and shadow and the damp smell of iodine and salt. The chill wind was refreshing after a good night's sleep and a big breakfast; she was deliriously warm inside her leather jacket; her mass of wild red hair, held back with a leather band, kept her neck warm. She sat the big buckskin easily; she was watching a gull swoop low to disappear below the fog when her attention turned suddenly to the pine forest that followed on her right, deeper inland.

  Something moved there, something small and quick. Many somethings, she thought, frowning. Small creatures slipping along fast among the shadows as if secretly following them. In the shifting patterns of sun and shade she tried to make them out, but could see nothing clearly. She didn't want to move Bucky closer and alert her two companions. Uneasily, she studied the woods. She had been watching for some time when, behind her, Ryan put the sorrel mare to a gallop and moved up beside her.

  "What are you watching?" the dark-haired young woman said. "What's in there, what are the horses looking at?" Both horses were looking toward the woods, their ears flicking nervously as they stared into the tangled shadows.

  "Maybe rabbits," Charlie said. "I really can't see what it is. This time of year, maybe baby rabbits." Though none of their horses was in the habit of shying at rabbits.

  Ryan frowned. With her dark Latin beauty and startling green eyes, Ryan Flannery looked, in Charlie's opinion, more like a model than a building contractor. Even this morning with her short dark hair tucked beneath a battered slouch hat and wearing faded jeans and faded sweatshirt, Ryan Flannery was striking, her mix of Irish and Latino blood creating a stunning and singular beauty. Riding Charlie's sorrel mare, turned in the saddle, Ryan peered into the shadows of the woods with curiosity but warily. She looked ready to act if action was needed.

  Ryan's sister, moving up beside them so not to miss anything, watched the woods intently. Mounted on a dappled gray gelding whose coat exactly matched her short, well-styled silver hair, Hanni Coon was the glamorous one of the three. Hanni's designer jeans, this morning, were of a skillfully faded shade that dramatically set off her hand-knit coral-and-blue sweater. Her Western boots were too new to look natural; they sported rattlesnake insets and had been handmade by Tony Lama. Hanni's roping saddle was plain but expensive, elegantly understated, with a soft, elk-suede seat. The saddle blanket was hand-woven llama wool from Peru. Even the temperament of Hanni's gray gelding matched her own. He was as flamboyant as Hanni, a flashy, meddlesome Arab who would rather prance and sidestep than take the trail at a sensible walk. As the three women watched the woods, Ryan and Hanni perhaps envisioning baby rabbits, Charlie knew that what she had seen wasn't rabbits. As they crested the next hill, she deliberately turned away.

  "I guess it's gone," she said, hiding her nervousness. Ryan and Hanni didn't need to see what was there. The three women rode quietly for some time, caught in the beauty of the rolling green land and the muffled thunder of the waves crashing against the cliffs far below. The piping of a meadowlark shattered the air, as bright as tinkling glass. A hawk dropped from the clouds screaming, circling close above them; but the meadowlark was gone. In all the world, at this moment, there seemed no other presence but the birds and the innocent beasts of the forest. Of the creatures that followed them, only Charlie guessed their true nature. She told herself she was wrong, that probably those small, swift shadows were only rabbits.

  Ryan and Hanni soon strung out behind Charlie again into a comfortable riding distance. She looked down at the fog far below her, the fog she had loved since she was a child, imagining hidden worlds among the mist's pale curtains. Even when she was grown, in art school in San Francisco, she had indulged herself in fantasies as she walked the city's steep streets where fog lay thick. Peering into mist-curtained courtyards and gardens, she had imagined all manner of wonders; as if, if she looked hard enough, she would glimpse unknown and enchanted realms.

  Now below her hidden beneath the fog lay her own village, her home of two years-her home forevermore, Charlie thought, smiling. Molena Point was her own enchanted village-enchanted if one didn't look too closely, at the dark side that any idyllic setting could reveal.

  Stroking Bucky's neck, she thought how lucky she was to have moved to Molena Point.
She was certain that fate had led her to Max. To have married Max Harper was more than a dream come true. She wished he were here, riding beside her instead of home at the station slugging it out with the bad guys, with the dregs of the world.

  So strange that she, eternal dreamer and optimist, had married a hard-headed cop. A man who, by the very nature of his work, was forced to be a cynic-at least in most matters.

  But not a cynic when it came to her, or to his horses and dogs. There was not, in Max Harper's view, any reason to be a cynic regarding the nature of animals, for they were the innocent of the world.

  Max had promised that they'd take this trip together, soon. A belated honeymoon, to make up for their original honeymoon plans a year ago, when their wonderful cruise to Alaska was aborted by the bomb at their wedding. A bomb that was meant to kill them.

  That didn't matter now; though the bitter aftertaste was there. They were together, that was what mattered. And despite the perfection of this weeklong journey, she could hardly wait to get home.

  She and Ryan and Hanni had ridden for three days down the coast, with a day's layover at the Hellman ranch to get the sorrel mare shod when she threw a shoe. It had been an easy trip, no roughing it, no camping out in the rain, no pack animal to lead, though they had carried survival gear, just in case. They had stayed each night at a welcoming ranch, dining before a hearth fire, sleeping between clean sheets and stabling their horses in comfort; had experienced nothing like what the first explorers and settlers had known traveling these hills, sleeping beneath drenching rain, eating what they could shoot or gather, fighting off marauding grizzly bears with muzzle loaders. It was hard to imagine grizzlies on these gentle hills; but this had been grizzly country then. The early accounts told of bear and bullfights, too, staged by the Spanish vaqueros and American cowboys in makeshift arenas; and Charlie shivered at the cruelty.

  Now that they were nearing home again a bittersweet sadness touched her, but a completeness, too. Her soul was filled with a hugeness she could not describe; she felt washed clean. No religious retreat could ever, for Charlie, be as healing and inspiring as this open freedom, on the back of a good mount, wandering through God's country away from the evils of the world. As the sun began to burn through the fog, she could see the rooftops of Molena Point far ahead, a montage of red and brown peaks, hints of white walls softened by the deep green oaks and pines that rose between the cottages and shops. Soon she would be able to see their ranch, too, the white fences and oak trees of their own few acres. All three women were silent, drinking in the first sight of home, all with the same mix of sadness.

  Hanni said, "I feel like an eighteenth-century traveler rounding the hills in a strange land, amazed to suddenly see my own rooftops." That made Charlie smile; but then she pulled Bucky up, again looking at increased movement in the woods. Had she heard a plaintive sound? A soft cry mixed with the wind and the crashing of the surf against the cliffs? Or maybe she'd heard only the faraway cry of the hawk? Dropping the reins across Bucky's neck, she sat listening.

  The wind struck more sharply, hiding any sound. Above the pine woods a sliver of sun grew brighter as the clouds parted again. Pushing back her kinky red hair, Charlie brushed loose strands off her forehead and buttoned the throat of her jacket. Very likely she had heard nothing; she was as foolish as Hanni's gray gelding.

  But no. Bucky had heard; he was watching the woods and he began to fuss, flicking his ears and rolling his eyes. Bucky, unlike the gray gelding, wasn't given to fantasies. Steady as a rock, the buckskin did not shy without good reason. Apprehensively Charlie studied the dark tangles among the pine trunks and deadfalls. She had not imagined that stealthy running, low to the ground among the dry branches and scrub bushes; had not imagined something intently following them. And she did not want-must not-let Ryan and Hanni know its true nature.

  3

  The lemon tree outside Chichi Barbi's window was useless for cover, and Joe had another thorn in his paw. He didn't like blood on his paws-not his own blood. Mouse blood or rabbit blood was fine. Now he had no choice if he wanted to learn anything, unless he clawed at Chichi's door and joined the party. Easing his position in the little tree he stayed on its far side, trying to conceal his white markings as he peered between the leafy twigs and in through Chichi's dirty window.

  Her room was not as glitzy as Joe would have expected. But she was only house-sitting. The bedroom had pale blue walls and scarred, cream-colored Victorian furniture arranged on a worn, brown carpet. Chichi and the two men sat bent over the small night table, engrossed in the map. He couldn't see much; wherever he moved, one of the men was in his way. Both had their backs to him, so he had only to feel nervous at Chichi's possible glances.

  Both men were fairly young. Smooth necks, smooth arms, smooth, strong hands. Both looked strong, hard-muscled. The gringo had styled his red hair in a harsh, spiky crew cut. He had masses of freckles on his neck and arms, more freckles even than Charlie Harper. On Charlie, the little confetti spots were bright and charming. On this guy, combined with the spiked hair and macho body language, they were blemishes. He wore a powder-blue T-shirt, and jeans. The back of his shirt proclaimed, "One Sweet Irish Lad." The Latino guy had straight black hair over his collar, and was the heftier of the two-a Peterbilt truck with legs. His red T-shirt advertised a brand of Mexican beer and had a picture of a cactus. The window glass must be single pane, because now that they had settled back to talk more normally, Joe could catch most of the conversation, which was centered on the map of Molena Point.

  The redheaded man pointed to the intersection of Dolores Street and Seventh. "Little restaurant there," he said. "And a good view from inside the drugstore."

  Good view of what? Joe tried to remember what else was on that corner. A country furniture store, one of those with faux country antiques. A bakery. And an expensive leather and silver shop. When Chichi leaned over to make a little mark at the intersection, she exhibited alarming cleavage. "That's seven," she said, sitting up. She glanced toward the window, making Joe wince, making him wish for the thousandth time that he was gray all over. Even among the tangle of twiggy branches he had to perch all hunched over to hide his white parts.

  Well, but he was only a cat. So she saw him. So who would suspect a cat? And suspect him of what?

  When Chichi kept looking, Joe began to fidget. Casually he turned away to wash, watching her obliquely. Only when she seemed to lose interest did he relax.

  "You have it all laid out?" she was saying. "You're all set- sure you can handle this?"

  The dark man's shoulders stiffened, and he raised his head in defiance. Chichi gave him a fetching smile. "Well of course you can handle it, Luis. You're a pro. A professional."

  Luis's shoulders relaxed. "It's all worked out. Nothing you need to worry over."

  Joe saw her temper flare, but it was immediately hidden as she glanced down. The redhead said, "The test run won't hurt nothing."

  Luis glared at him, glancing in the direction of Clyde's house. "Keep your voice down."

  "He won't hear you," Chichi said. "I don't hear a thing from over there, even when he has company-that woman carpenter. What kind of guy dates a carpenter? She doesn't have any clothes but jeans and muddy boots. So, what do I do for the test run?"

  "The usual," Luis said. "You and Tommie." He nodded at the redhead. "Watch, listen. Keep count-numbers, direction. You know the drill."

  Tommie punched at the map, picking out another intersection. "There's an alley here, north side of the street. One of them fancy alleys, a bench halfway down it, out of the way."

  Chichi nodded. "I can't wait for the big one."

  Luis laughed. "Just like old times."

  "Better," she said softly. Joe saw a flicker of impatience cross her face, but it was gone at once. She gave Luis another dazzling smile and touched his hand. "What a blast." When Chichi looked up at the window again, Joe pretended interest in a branch above him, stealthily moving higher as if stalking a bir
d. What was the woman staring at? But then she looked away, and leaned for a moment on Tommie's shoulder. "Just like old times." That made both men smile.

  Joe watched Luis fold the map and stuff it in his pocket. The men rose. He didn't want to leave the tree until they were gone. When at last they swung out the door, he leaped to the roof above them, peering over. Chichi stood in the doorway then moved to the drive, watching them approach their car. Joe followed above them, trotting along beside the metal roof gutter. When they turned to get into the car, he got a better look at their faces.

  The redhead, Tommie, might be thirty, his face sharply sculpted, sharp nose, sharply pointed chin, angled cheekbones, his features as harsh as his stiff crew cut. The Latino guy was about the same age, but his broad, tanned face was more pleasant. He seemed to have a built-in smile, the kind of smile that would encourage anyone to like him, the kind of smile Joe seldom trusted. They swung into the brown Plymouth and backed out. As they pulled away, Joe headed back across the roof to the lemon tree, ignoring the voice in his head that said, "Watch your step, tomcat. Keep your eye on Chichi." Dropping down among the brittle twigs and sparse leaves, he glanced into Chichi's bedroom.

  She had moved the night table back into place beside the bed. She was sitting on the bed with two pillows behind her, her feet tucked up, her eyes closed, her face so sad that Joe stared, amazed. What was she thinking? What sad memory filled her?

  Likely some scam that went wrong, some crime left uncommitted. But for a long moment, as Joe watched her, his critical judgment almost softened. For one instant, he almost began to like the woman-until common sense kicked in once more, until the tomcat was himself again, suspicious and judgmental. Well, he was a cat, he could be as judgmental as he chose. That was his God-given feline prerogative.

  Chichi was quiet for a long time, sitting with her eyes closed, lost in some scenario he'd give a brace of mice to understand. When at last she rose and left the room, moving away through an inner door toward the front of the house, he remained in the tree, thinking.