Кроха - Dedication
Nor was there ever a loiterer nearby to be questioned as a witness. With each incident, the cats’ frustration grew apace with that of the detectives, the patience of both sets of sleuths wearing thin. The cats’ usual pleasure at offering Molena Point PD a telling clue, the officers’ stoic reception of mysteriously proffered information, all came to nothing. There was no information. Meanwhile lone senior citizens were being injured and frightened. Those older folks who had not been attacked, but who read the local paper, listened to the news, and gossiped among their friends, grew more wary and angry. One of the victims had been in a wheelchair, two walking with canes, folks out to take care of a few errands, get a little air. Each one was knocked down, wheelchair or cane cast aside. And the perp was gone, vanished, leaving the victim to the mercy of whoever might happen along and find them; but none of the marks was robbed.
When the assaults first began, MPPD had put on extra patrols: more squad cars cruising, officers on foot dressed in street clothes. Vacation leaves were postponed, overtime was increased. Of the seven who were accosted, one lady was a ninety-two-year-old music teacher living in a retirement home. A frail, retired banker, Ogden Welder, was fatally injured, the assailant gone before anyone heard his cries; Welder died in the hospital two days later.
No arrests and no witnesses. Only when someone heard shouts for help and arrived to find a frail person, frightened and angry, sprawled on the cement among spilled packages, was anyone aware of the crime. As more officers of MPPD worked the streets, their response to drug crimes, traffic accidents, shoplifting, and domestics demanded additional personnel that Max Harper didn’t have. Like every police department in the state they were understaffed, their budget stretched too thin for adequate overtime. There was plenty of city money for beautification and tourism promotion, but never enough for law enforcement—money for the politicians, but not enough to protect those who voted them in. Max Harper’s men and women grew ever more frustrated.
At the first assault, the cats’ anger had flared. At the second one, on a lone, helpless citizen, their rage revved high. Slipping into Molena Point PD they had lounged in Chief Harper’s bookcase, innocently reading field reports over his shoulder—though there hadn’t been much that they didn’t already know, that they hadn’t read in the paper, heard on the news, or heard from Joe’s housemate. Clyde Damen had grown up with Max Harper. Often over dinner or playing poker Max shared information that he knew—or thought he knew—would never go any farther than the Damens’ kitchen table. There, as the cards were shuffled and poker chips tossed into the pot, no one paid attention to the gray tomcat and maybe Dulcie, too, curled up in the easy chair quietly napping. Who would notice the twitch of an ear, the flip of a tail at some interesting new detail of the street crimes? Joe Grey’s own housemates were as secretive, regarding the tomcat’s spying, as was Joe himself.
Now, at the edge of the roof, the cats alerted again at the sudden swish of tires approaching down the fog-wet street. They watched an unmarked white van slip into view, but it was maybe only the delivery truck of some small company bringing produce or bakery goods to one of the restaurants. Farther on, a lone runner trotted by heading for the beach; there were always runners, lean men or women, tanned and seemingly carefree. Soon, from the shore, a dog barked. A flock of gulls rose screaming, and then silence again; when they heard nothing more they lay down at the roof’s edge and had a leisurely wash.
“I wish,” Dulcie said, “Kit and Pan were home. Surveillance would be easier with four of us. Besides, I miss them,” she said, giving Joe a green-eyed look.
“Just wish them home safe,” Joe said crossly. He didn’t approve of the flighty tortoiseshell and the red tomcat chasing off into a world that Joe himself could hardly believe in, a world Kit called magical. Except he had to believe there was such a place, when their human friend Kate Osborne had gone there. Kate told startling tales, and had brought back enough jewels and artifacts to convince even Joe himself—and to make him even more nervous thinking of Kit and Pan venturing down into those vast caverns beneath the earth. They had been gone only a few days, and still the thought of that journey made his fur crawl.
That land had fascinated tortoiseshell Kit even when she was very young, listening to a band of feral cats tell their stories. Only later when she was older had thoughts of those hidden caverns begun to frighten her. But Pan had no fear; he had traveled the length of California and Oregon on his own, a hobo cat, staying out of danger. Now, learning of the Netherworld, he had burned to see that farthest, most enticing realm of all.
Kit, half longing to go and half afraid, had given in, to please him. And, because her two human housemates had longed to be off on their own adventure. Lucinda and Pedric would never have followed their own dream, of an Alaska cruise, if it meant leaving their beloved companion alone at home. The little speaking cat was their treasure beyond all other joys. Kit knew that. She knew Alaska beckoned to her two housemates. But only if she herself journeyed away from Molina Point would her old couple feel free to take the leisurely, small-ship cruise they longed for. Lucinda and Pedric weren’t getting any younger. “If you don’t go now,” she’d told them, perhaps with more honesty than finesse, “you may never go at all.”
Kit had given Lucinda a soft purr. “Ryan’s father and his new wife are keen to go with you—it will be an easier trip with another couple. Mike and Lindsey are quiet and steady, and—”
“And they are younger and stronger than we are,” Lucinda said, laughing. “You needn’t say it, they’ll take good care of us. They’ll be good companions to investigate the little ports and scattered villages.”
Kit smiled, and nosed at Lucinda. “You will take your adventure, and Pan and I will take ours. That is what life is about. And then,” she said, purring, “we’ll be home together again. Oh, my! To tell each other all the wonders we saw!”
It was just a few days ago that they had said their teary good-byes. That Lucinda and Pedric, Mike and Lindsey boarded their plane for Vancouver—and Kit and Pan crossed the village up into the hills and joined the waiting group of feral, speaking cats who had lingered, waiting for them. Waiting to set out together down into the Netherworld; and none of the speaking cats, not even Pan himself, had any notion that Pan’s father would soon lie ill.
Now, this foggy morning, Joe and Dulcie, left without enough cat power for efficient surveillance, were about to separate, each to watch the streets alone, when a siren’s whoop and the wail of the medics’ van brought them sharply alert. As the roar of the engines headed fast for Ocean Avenue, they glimpsed the van and two squad cars make a skidding turn onto the divided main street and vanish beyond the buildings. The cats marked where the sound of the engines died, heard vehicle doors flung open and men running, and they fled over the roofs toward the action.
2
Old Merle Rodin said later, it was his wristwatch that put him in the hospital. His wife wasn’t home at the time. He was alone, dressed in old denim pants, a faded denim shirt and suspenders, working in his shop when he tore his watchband on the corner of the vise. The soft leather was worn ragged anyway and had been ready to tear. And then, as he was cleaning up from painting the wooden chairs, he spilled turpentine on the band and he knew the wet leather would tear worse. He didn’t want to lose the watch, it was the only kind he could read anymore, the new ones were all dots and squiggles. This was a good, reliable Swiss Army with big black numbers so a person could tell the time. Big dial, plain and no-nonsense. He left the watch loose on his wrist, finished cleaning up the workbench, got in his car and drove the few blocks into the village to get the band replaced.
He parked in a handicapped spot in front of the Village Inn. He eased out, pulled his crutches out, locked the car, and swung along the narrow walk that led behind the hotel to the little courtyard, to the row of small shops tucked in around a patch of garden, heading for the jeweler’s door. There were miniature courts all over the village with their little, half-hidden vendors. Each retreat was, to a tourist, a new and exciting discovery; that’s one of the reasons visitors came to Molena Point, for this kind of special charm.
He didn’t like his reflection flicking along the fog-dim windows. His white beard and crutches, his hobbling walk made him look older than he was; some days he felt old, but he didn’t like to see it.
The village was nearly deserted this early, the stores not open yet, and the streets so foggy. The few early tourists would still be holed up, and most of the locals, too. But the jeweler was always there early working on the books, cleaning up, puttering around; even if he kept the door locked, he’d let you in if he knew you.
The newspaper warned folks not to go into empty courtyards and alleys alone, since the attacks began. But this court was safe enough, being right by the hotel. The paper claimed the cops didn’t have a lead yet to the source of the crimes—and the Molena Point cops were good at what they did. Too bad, nice little village like this, so much crime suddenly. Maybe he was getting old. He didn’t like the changes he was seeing in the world, didn’t like what the world had become.
Moving on into the courtyard, walking slowly, he placed his crutches carefully on the uneven bricks so not to stumble on the edge of a flower bed and tip over into the cyclamens. Their array of red and pink flowers had bloomed all winter among their intricately patterned leaves. They would die back soon now, once summer was on them. Sure enough, there were lights on in the jewelry store. He was heading across the court, for the glass door, when he was hit from behind. His crutches flew out from under him. He spun around, striking out at the attacker. He hit a glancing blow with his left fist and fell sprawling, his arm twisted under him. His legs twisted, too, tangled in the crutches. A violent pain dizzied him where his head was struck.
He didn’t know how long he’d lain there, the wind knocked out of him, when he heard the siren, a blurred, faraway sound as if he were half asleep. One whoop, then silence. Then a tangle of voices, and people kneeling around him, putting machines on him to take his blood pressure, his pulse. A man wiping at his forehead with something cold and stinging. Uniformed medics lifting him onto a stretcher, covering him with a blanket, really careful of his arm, lifting it gently. He didn’t try to move it, he knew it was broken. He didn’t know, until later in the hospital, that he’d lost his watch.
He didn’t know, and never would know, how the Swiss Army watch was found, that two cats found it lying in the flower bed deep beneath the cyclamens.
Joe Grey and Dulcie discovered the watch long after Merle Rodin had been lifted into the medics’ van and driven away, after the cops had finished their search of the scene and the crowd had dispersed. Merle wasn’t there to see the gray tomcat and his tabby lady slip down a vine from the hotel roof and trot across the courtyard to where he had lain; to see a discerning tabby nose and a gray and white nose sniffing among the cyclamens, twitching at the smell of turpentine that the cops, with their inferior sense of smell, had missed. Merle didn’t see a soft tabby paw reach down among the leaves to investigate the wristwatch or see Dulcie sniff at it again. He didn’t see the two cats slip out of the courtyard leaving the watch where it lay, the cats galloping fast up the street, noses to the faint breeze following the turp-scented air where the attacker had fled.
Fog held the stink of turpentine low against the sidewalk. But as Joe and Dulcie raced after the scent that had transferred to the mugger when Merle struck out at him, the smell vanished. It ended at the curb, replaced by the smell of exhaust as if the attacker had stepped into a car and sped away.
The street was empty. No car moved now in either direction. But then as the fog shifted, the heady smell of sandalwood drowned all other scents. The cats slid into the shadows as the proprietor of the oriental rug shop passed them, sandalwood aftershave drifting back to them as he paused to unlock his store. As he disappeared inside, Dulcie sniffed again at the curb.
“There’s not only exhaust,” she said, looking up at Joe. She watched as he, too, sniffed again at the concrete.
“Oil,” he said, his yellow eyes brightening, “bicycle oil. Maybe he didn’t get away in a car.” He sniffed again, breathing deeply, his whiskers twitching. “But still a hint of the turpentine, too. Maybe we can catch him.” Noses to the pavement like a pair of tracking hounds, they raced away, ran out along the street swerving past parked cars, glad there was hardly any traffic, that they needn’t dodge moving wheels.
The smells they followed continued for three blocks but then suddenly the turp and oil were gone, vanished in the wake of a noisy street sweeper, its huge roller-brushes sucking away every leaf, every scrap of paper, and every errant smell. Its roar drove instinctive fear through the cats: every fiber of their beings trembled, fearful the hungry juggernaut would crush them if they drew close. They might be wiser than most cats, they might be brave when facing a human killer, but this monster reached down into their darkest, ancient instincts, terrifying them both.
Only when the sweeper had passed did they relax. They followed it, sniffing along its wake, but no scent remained. The giant spinning brushes had destroyed the trail. And the perp himself was long gone. A faint sea wind began to tease them, and to stir and thin the fog. Soon all they could smell was salty iodine, a hint of dead fish, and the pine and cypress trees that sheltered the narrow streets. Glancing at each other, the cats were of one thought.
Leaping up the nearest oak, they headed for Molena Point PD. By this time, Chief Harper would have information on the victim: driver’s license, other identification from the man’s billfold, maybe a hospital report on his condition. Maybe the responding officer’s field notes were already on Max’s desk. Off they raced over tiles and shingles, Joe’s mind fully on the assaults. But as the gray tomcat tried to understand the perp’s motive, Dulcie lagged behind, feeling tired again suddenly, feeling awkward and heavy.
She didn’t like to think that as her pregnancy advanced, she would become truly clumsy, that she wouldn’t be able to keep up with Joe. Who needed a fat, slow partner trying to do detective work? This frustration, plus having lost the trail of the attacker, plus her underlying distress over Misto, left the little tabby padding slowly and disconsolately across the tiled roof of the courthouse.
Ahead on the roof of the PD, Joe had stopped. He stood looking back at her, puzzled by her slow approach, his lady who usually ran circles around him. It was just as she joined him that a woman came out the door of the police station below, her high heels tapping. She didn’t notice her scarf slip off her shoulder to fall among the bushes, a pink scarf hidden now beneath the bottlebrush blooms. Dulcie froze, watching.
