Cat Bearing Gifts (13 page)

He finally found the button in the visor. The door slid up with hardly a sound. He smiled at the empty two-car space, pulled on in, and killed the engine. Hitting the button to slide the door closed behind him, he fished his flashlight from his pocket and stepped out of the Town Car.

He tried three keys before he had the inner door open. Shielding the flashlight, he moved in through a hall that opened to a laundry and bath, and then on into a big, raftered living room, high ceiling, windows all along two sides. The drapes were open and through the tall glass he could see the lights of the village down below, all pretty damn fancy. Garden lights at the back, too, a level lower, picking out a narrow deck that probably opened to a daylight basement. No light shone from that level out onto the deck or bushes, but in case anyone was sleeping down there, he took off his shoes. Still shielding the flashlight, he checked out the living room.

Big, flat-screen TV hidden in a cabinet, that should bring a nice sum but would be a bitch to haul around, there wasn't room in the Lincoln unless he dumped what he already had in there. CD and DVD players and music system were small enough to tuck in the car. Nothing else of much value in that room, a wall full of old, worn-looking books along the back, cracked leather bindings, nothing worth taking. In the dining room they'd cut a cat door in the window, at table height, he supposed for that cat they'd had with them. People were weird about their pets. There was a kind of study in one corner of the living room, desk and computer and more books, floor-to-ceiling books, all of them old. The money these people had, why didn't they buy some new ones, buy some of them fancy bestsellers with bright covers?

There was just the one bedroom, but it was nearly as big as the living room, with a bath and two closets, his and hers. In the old guy's closet he tried on several pairs of pants and sport coats, looking at himself in the full-length mirror. Everything fit pretty good. He settled on a tweed sport coat, tan chinos, and a brown cotton turtleneck, a pair of soft leather Rockports that were stretched enough to fit his larger feet.

In the bathroom he dared a light, closing the shutters first, pushing their louvers tight together. Rooting through the drawers, he abandoned the idea of a barber, he didn't want to wait until one opened, and he didn't want some guy to ID him later. Small town, cops poking around, in and out of places, asking questions. He found a pair of scissors and set about trimming off his long hair, and that took him a while. Felt strange as his hair dropped away, made him feel naked. Belatedly he spread out a towel to catch the mess, sweeping what had fallen onto it with his hand, trying not to leave evidence. When he'd done as good as he could, he found a razor and shaved the back of his neck, holding a hand mirror he'd found on the woman's side of the cabinets, twisting awkwardly to see.

He shaved off his short scraggly beard, which never would grow thick the way he wanted. He took a shower, using a big thick towel on the rack. He slapped on the old guy's aftershave, which had a lime smell. He found clean shorts and socks in a dresser drawer, and pulled on the brown turtleneck. Posing in the full-length mirror, he thought he looked pretty good. Except for his white, newly shaven cheeks and chin and the back of his neck. He rooted around among the woman's things, looking in the medicine cabinet and in drawers, but couldn't find any bottle of colored makeup to disguise the pale marks.

It took him a while, in the kitchen, working by flashlight, to figure out the fancy microwave. In the freezer he found a package of spaghetti, read the directions, opened it, and shoved it in. While he waited, he put his own clothes in the washer, threw his canvas jogging shoes in, too. While the washer rumbled away, and with the spaghetti smelling good, he opened a cold beer from the refrigerator door.

Retrieving his supper, he found a plate to put it on, and sat down at the table where he could look down at the village lights. He even found a paper napkin, tucked it in the high turtleneck to keep it clean. How would it be to live like this, in a fancy house? Well, hell, with the money he'd stashed in the Lincoln, and maybe twenty thousand more when he unloaded the car itself, he could live any way he wanted.

But not in a house like this. Not in a tame village like this where he'd be bored out of his mind. The kind of money he had now would put him in Vegas or some Caribbean island with plenty of action. Party all night, poker and roulette tables to help him double or triple what he had, and a choice of showgirls offering anything he could pay for.

Finished eating, he dumped his dish in the sink. He'd meant to make his way back to the hospital tonight, what was left of the night. Walk right on in, with his new, respectable look, take care of Birely and be done with it. But when he thought of going back there so soon, and maybe with those same goons on duty, he decided to hide the Lincoln first, maybe around Debbie Kraft's place, empty houses on the streets around her. He couldn't think of a better neighborhood. That woman contractor was around there some, but he could avoid her. Meantime, tonight, he wouldn't turn down a few hours' sleep, he thought, yawning.

Moving into the bedroom again, he undressed, folded his new clothes all neat on the upholstered bedroom chair, and climbed naked into the old folks' bed, sliding down under the thick quilt. Before he switched off the flashlight, its beam on the pillow picked out a couple of dark cat hairs. He flicked them off with disgust, turned the pillow over, got himself comfortable, and dropped into a deep, untroubled sleep.

19

M
ISTO, HAVING WATCHED
the four EMTs load Birely into the ambulance and head away for the hospital, sat now on Emmylou's porch, alone, pondering again Birely's presence there in the village, Birely whose grown-up photograph in Emmylou's house was neatly inscribed along the bottom with his name and Sammie's and the date the picture was taken, just a few years ago. Once when he'd hopped up on the dresser for yet another look, Emmylou had laughed at him. “You're an art critic now? I took that picture myself, with my old box camera, took it right out on the highway by the market where Sammie and I used to work. Took it one time Birely showed up, the way he did without ever letting her know, stopped off at the village from wherever he'd been wandering.”

Misto had already died by the time Birely was born, the family already out in California, he was dead but he'd never left Sammie's side. Call him a ghost cat or whatever one liked, he'd stayed near her as they headed for the West Coast, stayed nearby through all that happened to her and to Lee Fontana, moving effortlessly in and out of their lives. Seeking to protect them, to face off whatever would harm the old man or the child. He'd been protective of Sammie's little brother, too, when Birely came along, and now in this different life he still felt protective of that little boy grown up and grown older. Birely was still irresponsible and maybe often useless in his ways but he was still Sammie's brother, lying alone in that cold stone house injured and hurting until Emmylou had discovered him and saw that he was cared for. When she'd left for the hospital behind the EMTs, Misto had paused at the edge of her yard, undecided whether to follow.

It was a long journey up to the hospital through tangled woods, down through a deep ravine, and across the busy freeway. Even if he could avoid the coyotes and occasional loose dogs, and dodge the fast cars, even if his aging bones didn't give out, it wasn't likely he could slip inside unseen through those bright halls, among so many people, and find Birely's room. Even if he got that far, how could he help Birely? He was only mortal, now. What could
he
do to help? He'd been more effective as a ghost without the limitations of a mortal body—and without the aches and pains. When he was spirit alone, he could appear suddenly wherever and whenever he chose, and more often than not he could subtly influence others with his whispers, just as he'd prodded tough old Lee Fontana.

He knew he'd had an effect on Lee's life, that he had hazed Lee away from some of the more shameful moves he'd considered. Even that last big robbery, when Lee held his forty-five to the head of the cowering postal clerk, Lee hadn't hurt the man. How much of that was due to Fontana's own sense of kindness, which he couldn't seem to escape, and how much to Misto's influence, would never be clear—though Lee's successful escape from the law was Lee's own sly plan. Misto couldn't take credit for that any more than he could be blamed for the darker presence that harassed Lee, and that Misto had sought to drive away.

But Misto's own ghostly power hadn't lasted long, and he found himself again among the living, encumbered again by a living cat's uncertain existence, by the forces of pain and of joy that the mortal world bestowed, and now by the pains and aches of old age descending on him once more; he didn't like that part of growing old.

Deciding against that perilous journey to the hospital, he left Emmylou's yard wanting companionship, wanting the other cats to talk with, Joe and Dulcie and his son, Pan. Scrambling up a pine to Emmylou's roof, he looked down upon the shabby neighborhood of small old cottages, to the village stretching out beyond, and to the vast expanse of lonely peaks and steep ridges that sheltered the coastal town. Tonight he had no heart for wandering, for roaming through the chill wind and the unforgiving dark, and he headed back to Joe Grey's house, to the most welcoming home he knew while his own two humans were absent. Maybe Joe was there now and would claw away his uncertain feelings, make him laugh again, and to hell with getting old.

Padding morosely over the roofs, the way seemed long tonight and the sea wind was unkind. He was deeply chilled by the time he reached Joe Grey's tower. Bellying in through one of the six windows, he found Joe's heap of cushions empty. Pushing on in through the cat door, leaving it flapping behind him, he crouched on the nearest rafter, looking over, down into the upstairs suite.

The big double bed had been slept in but was now empty, the covers thrown back in a heap. A fleece robe lay crumpled on the floor, a silk nightie flung over a chair. The doors to the walk-in closet stood open, a shirt dropped on the floor inside. Where had they gone, in such a hurry in the middle of the night? He looked down at Clyde's little office, his desk hidden by piles of papers, and through the open doors into Ryan's studio. The house smelled empty and sounded hollow, he had no sense of anyone there among the unseen rooms, not even Rock. The big silver dog, the minute he heard the cat door, would have been right there huffing at him, making a fuss. Rock was not in the house, the only living soul present was little Snowball, curled up on the love seat, so deeply asleep that even the flapping cat door hadn't woken her. The sleep of an aging cat, her sweet spirit floating deep, deep down among her hoard of dreams.

But what had gone down, here? Why had Ryan and Clyde risen in the middle of the night and left the house? Some emergency, someone hurt? Feeling a cold chill suddenly for his own humans, who would be traveling now on their way home, he dropped down from the rafter onto the desk, jolting his poor bones, and set about searching for a note or phone number jotted hastily, for some clue to where they had gone and, most important, for any hurried notation about John and Mary Firetti. Perhaps for some note from the veterinarian who was temporarily minding the practice and feeding John's feral band of shore cats.

He found nothing. Slipping down to the floor, he looked for some bit of paper that might have fallen. Again, nothing. He padded into Ryan's studio beneath its high rafters and tall, bare windows. Trotting beneath the big drawing board, circling the solid oak desk and blueprint cabinet, he looked out the west window, down at the drive where he had not thought to look before while he was still on the roof.

The king cab was gone, only Clyde's antique roadster was there, parked to one side and shrouded in its canvas cover. He circled the studio again, then prowled the bedroom, tracking Rock's scent back and forth as he'd followed close behind Ryan and Clyde from bed to bath to closet, back again to the stairs, and down. But then he thought, not only his own family was headed home. So were the Greenlaws and Kit. Could something have happened to them, on the road or before they left the city? He leaped onto the desk again, eyeing the answering machine.

He'd never used one of these. He nosed uncertainly at the flashing red light. Warily he punched the play button, hoping he wouldn't erase whatever was there.

Nothing happened. He punched again. There was a long, annoying buzz and the red light flashed and then died. The green light blinked twice and died, too. No lights now and only silence. He hissed at the uncooperative lump of plastic, hoped he hadn't erased anything, and turned away. His medieval life—what he remembered of it—might have been harsh, but one didn't have to deal with machines. And the machines of young Sammie's time had been simple ones, even cars had been slower and more predictable. Leaping from the desk to the file cabinet and across to the love seat, he climbed into Snowball's crumpled blanket close to her, and curled up. She woke only a little, looking at him vaguely. He spoke nonsense to her, as much to comfort himself as to comfort her. He washed her face and licked her ears, talking to her as Clyde and Ryan or Joe would do, telling her what a fine cat she was.

But soon she began to grow restless, to glance toward the stairs and toward the kitchen below. Leaping down, he led her down the stairs to her kibble bowl, which of course had been licked clean. He hopped from a chair to the counter, pawed open the cupboards until he found her box of kibble. With considerable maneuvering, and spilling quite a lot, he managed to tip the box on its side and send a cascade of little, aromatic pellets raining down over the side, some of it into the bowl. He sat atop the counter looking over, watching her gobble up the dry little morsels, watching her drink her fill at the water dish, her curved tongue carrying water into her pink mouth like a little spoon. She didn't offer to jump up on the counter, her arthritis was worse than his. Snowball's face was getting long, her belly dragging with age.

But she still handled the stairs all right, and when they headed back up, she settled into the exact same spot on her blanket again. When, purring, Misto stretched out near her, she looked at him expectantly. He looked back, puzzled—it was frustrating that his feline cousins couldn't talk to him, that, despite a vast repertoire of body language, they couldn't communicate their desires exactly, as a speaking cat could.

But he could see she wanted him to talk again, wanted to hear his voice. Snowball, too, was lonely, she wanted to hold on to the rambling cadences of a speaking voice. Clyde and Ryan often read to this little cat, the same way the Greenlaws read to Kit, or as Wilma Getz read to Dulcie, in bed at night. Just as Mary and John Firetti read to Misto himself, though John's reading too often involved veterinary journals that put him right to sleep. The difference was that the speaking cats understood all of the tale, while, for Snowball, the excitement and drama of the story lay in the tone of voice, in the emotion that one could impart.

Now, tonight, Snowball needed a story. To please her, and to distract himself from his own worries, too, he told her about his kittenhood in that long-ago Georgia time, about the steamy summers, playing in the grassy yard with small Sammie behind the white picket fence, playing with a little rubber ball she threw for him, or climbing together up the twisting oak tree that shaded the little front lawn. He left out the bad parts that happened later; and he left out the way he himself had died. He gave Snowball a happy tale, nothing angry in his voice to spoil her dreams, no dark shadow of Brad Falon stalking Sammie and her mother. Where was Sammie, now that she was gone from this world? Did humans, like cats, return to experience more than one life on this earth? Or did human spirits go on somewhere else altogether, wandering farther than Misto himself could ever imagine?

And what about a cat, once his nine lives were finished? Did he move on, too, as a human might? Did a cat at last rejoin his human companions? So many questions, and not even the wisest cat or human could know the true answer. All Misto knew was, there were more adventures to come than one could see from the confines of a single life. And that, from the other side, looking back, one saw many more patterns to the tangles of mortal life than were apparent while you were still there.

But, speaking his thoughts to Snowball and telling his tale, half his mind still worried uneasily at what had taken Clyde and Ryan out in the small hours. He didn't like the absence of the other cats, either, when usually one or another would come wandering in through Joe's tower, or he'd see someone silhouetted out on the rooftops, someone to race away with and laugh with. Thankful for Snowball's presence, he pushed closer still to the white cat and closed his eyes, and tried mightily to purr, to lull himself into a soothing sleep, too.