Cat Playing Cupid (4 page)

Charlie shivered, trying to imagine the young cat's indecision and fear.

“But last night,” Willow said, “as they gathered around the tree to dig us out, with Stone Eye yowling orders, we leaped down on them, slashing and raking. In the dark, Cotton throttled Stone Eye before he could twist and grab him—and it was then, when Stone Eye screamed with pain, that Sage saw Stone Eye's weakness, and turned on him wildly.

“This so infuriated Stone Eye that he flipped over, threw Cotton off, grabbed Sage by the leg and shook and flung him.

“And then Coyote was there, fighting Stone Eye. I've never seen such a fight, Cotton and Coyote were crazy with rage at Stone Eye's brutality to young Sage, they killed him before his warriors could help him.

“When Stone Eye lay dead, Charlie Harper, the cats began to cheer. What a wild sound, that excited cheering breaking the still night. Now…” Willow's green eyes
burned at Charlie. “Now we are all free of him. Free of the slave master.” And for the first time that evening, Willow smiled, her pale ears sharply erect, her eyes glowing. “The tyrant is dead, Charlie Harper. Now, Cotton and Coyote will rule, now we will all live free again, and there will be no tyranny.”

But Charlie, slowing behind a creeping truck, only hoped they could keep their freedom. In the world of humans, it seemed to her, there was always another tyrant ready to destroy the meek and gentle, another dictator burning to enslave those weaker than himself.

Willow lifted a paw, watching her. “There is something more, Charlie Harper.”

Charlie passed the truck, then pulled quickly back into the single lane. The evening traffic was growing heavy in both directions on the darkening two-lane.

“We had another death,” Willow told her. “A week before we were attacked. An elderly member of our band. We buried her in the ruins.” Willow's small clowder had lived in the ruins of the old Pamillon Estate, among its fallen walls and crumbling cellars, ever since they'd left Stone Eye's domination.

“We dug deep to bury her, but we had to abandon the first grave we started. There was a human body there, we uncovered human bones. Old, earth-stained bones. A hand, an arm, part of a shoulder.”

Charlie thought they had found one of the Pamillon family graves, that they had been digging in the old family cemetery.

“We covered them over again, and moved to the soft earth of the old rose garden,” Willow said.

Charlie glanced at her. “But the rose garden
is
the cemetery. What…?”

Willow looked up at her. “Yes,” she said softly. “We buried our dead one beside the graves of the Pamillon family, buried her at the back of the garden where the tall old bushes bloom best.”

Charlie pulled over as a speeding driver passed, narrowly missing them. “But where was the human grave?” she said, cursing the hare-brained driver.

“It was in a little courtyard outside a bedchamber, a sheltered garden walled in on three sides by the house, and overgrown with bushes and vines. Through a glass door you can see into a chamber, see a toppled dresser and an old, carved bed with tattered hangings.”

Willow flicked her tail. “The strangest thing, Charlie Harper, is that the human skeleton wears a bracelet. The corpse wears a bracelet that bears the picture of a cat. What do you think that could mean?”

“Anyone might wear such jewelry. Millions of humans are fond of cats.”

“But that particular cat…There is another exactly like it, carved into the stone over the bedchamber door.” Willow licked her pale calico shoulder. “Exactly the same cat. Rearing up, with his mouth open and his paw thrust out.”

“Maybe the Pamillons kept cats,” Charlie said. “Maybe other cats lived there at one time, ordinary cats but so dearly loved that they became a kind of symbol—the way people put bumper stickers of dogs on their cars.” But she knew that was a weak explanation.

Beside her, Willow's eyes glowed with unease. “There
is more about cats,” Willow said, “there is a book about cats hidden at one side of the grotto. A book about cats like
us,
a book about speaking cats. Could the people who lived there have known about us, Charlie Harper? Did someone in that house know about speaking cats?”

Charlie's pulse had gone cold. Every stranger who knew the cats' secret was a potential threat to Willow's wild band, and to Joe and Dulcie and Kit.

They were nearly to their turn, the evening traffic now bumper to bumper; though she kept her distance, twice she had to brake abruptly, reaching to hold Sage and to try to calm him; he was very nervous, and he seemed almost panicked with pain. She was so anxious for him that she wanted to race ahead on the wrong side of the two-lane; the slow bumper-to-bumper traffic was maddening.

“Near the human grave,” Willow said, “is a fissure where the walls have caved into an old cellar; several weeks ago Coyote chased a squirrel down there and found a small wooden box tucked among the stones.

“We pulled the box out with our claws. I don't know what made me fight so hard to free it and get it open. Coyote would have left it, but I had a terrible, urgent feeling that we needed to see inside.

“What clever hands humans have. It took three of us fighting that lid to unhook it. Inside was a piece of folded leather wrapped around something heavy. Inside that was an old book wrapped in frail cloth, a book with a leather cover and gold lettering. We dragged it out of the box and opened it, and in the starlight we read the first pages.”

Charlie turned left on Ocean, headed for Firetti's
clinic. Beside her, Sage lay limp and still, his head down on the seat in a way that turned her cold.

Willow put her face to his face. “He sleeps,” she said softly. “He is breathing.” She was quiet a moment, then, “Some of the tales were the same ancient stories our clowder used to tell before Stone Eye forbade them—he called them the lies of humans, stories about our ancient beginnings. We remembered them from when we were kittens, gathered, of an evening, in the big clowder circle.

“But there were other stories, written by a human who knew about cats of our kind, who had seen them and spoken with them, in another country. Those stories frightened us. We shoved the book back in the box and hid the box again, deep in the crevice. If any cat loyal to Stone Eye had found it, they would have clawed it to shreds.”

“Why didn't you destroy it,” Charlie said, “when such a record is so dangerous?”

“I don't know,” Willow said worriedly. “In that book is our history, our story. It gives away our secret, and yet it is our treasure, too, so rich in our own history. How could we destroy it?

“I don't like that humans would have such a book,” the calico said thoughtfully. “But maybe some humans felt as I do. Maybe they meant to keep our secret, hiding the book carefully. As if they could not bring themselves to tear or burn it? It is a precious thing, that book, those words that tell about us.”

Charlie couldn't answer; the idea of the book both frightened and excited her, just as it did Willow. But right now…She pulled up to the clinic, praying for Sage, her hand on his limp little body.

F
IRETTI'S
V
ETERINARY
C
LINIC
occupied two small old cottages just behind the large automotive agency that included Clyde Damen's upscale auto repair shop. The original houses, one a small frame structure, the newer a one-bedroom cabin constructed of heavy beams and cement blocks, had long ago been joined together by a central kennel and turned into a pleasing professional complex. Dr. and Mrs. Firetti, Mary, lived in the cottage next door. Pulling up in front, Charlie turned to look at Willow. “Do you want to stay in the car, or come in with Sage?”

Willow rose as if to follow her, but then the pale calico, looking out warily at the big building, seemed to lose her nerve. Charlie couldn't fault her, the poor cat was about at the end of her strength. She'd fought two battles this long day, had run for her life from the first violent attack, then had escaped the warriors a second time and helped the wounded young tom to safety—despite her fear of the human world, she had entered the stable, surely terrified.
She seemed, in fact, not only at the end of her strength but of her resolve. Charlie touched her gently.

“Stay here, Willow. If Sage needs you, if he grows nervous again, I'll come and get you. You'll be safe here.” Willow looked at her uncertainly.

Charlie reached to the backseat for a soft lap robe to make a bed for her. “I'll be as quick as I can.” She opened the windows enough so Willow could escape if she chose, enough so she wouldn't feel trapped. Willow nosed at Sage, and licked the young cat's ear. She gave Charlie another long look, almost of contentment, as if glad of the chance to rest, and settled down on the blanket. Charlie picked up the stretcher and locked the car doors.

John Firetti met her at the front door of the clinic, his light brown hair ruffled, his bright blue eyes turning at once to Sage. Firetti's round face, which seemed perpetually sunburned, was filled with concern. Taking the makeshift stretcher, he led her through the empty waiting room and quickly past the door to the kennel, the large, airy central room that connected the two older buildings; this was a solarium-like structure with a high ceiling brightened by skylights. Its cement floor, which could be hosed down, was warmed by hot water pipes imbedded in the concrete. The dogs were barking so frantically that it was all Charlie could do to reassure Sage as they passed. The hospital itself and the cages for the cats were in smaller rooms, away from the noise.

The examining room to which John Firetti led her was warmer than the rest of the building, a small, cozy cubicle with a metal table and two soft, vinyl-covered easy chairs where clients could sit to talk with the doctor. Firetti spent
some time examining Sage, then took him back to be X-rayed, asking Charlie to help him.

“Very likely he won't hold still, Charlie. He's terrified. I'm sorry about the noise.” During the day, taped music played in the canine section and an attendant was there to soothe and quiet the patients. But this was after hours, and Firetti was alone. “Mary's off at our daughter's for the week. You'll have to hold him, try to calm him.”

“He'll hold still,” Charlie said.

“Did you say he's feral?” Firetti said uncertainly.

“He's a stray. I don't know whether he's feral—but ever since I found him hurt, he's been so still. I suppose he's in shock?”

Firetti didn't answer. At the X-ray table, Charlie put on a lead apron and lead gloves, and held Sage the way John Firetti showed her; under her gentle hands, even though they were encased in the thick gloves, Sage remained obediently quiet—but his little body was rigid as he stared up, terrified, at the X-ray machine. Firetti watched him with growing interest as he took the pictures, moving the injured cat into several positions. He had given Sage a shot to ease the pain, and soon, despite the cat's fear of the strange room and strange machinery, he began to relax.

When Firetti was finished with the X-rays, he said, “This will be a long surgery, and I'll need to do more tests before we begin. Natalie is on her way in, to help me.” Natalie had been his assistant for many years. He looked intently at Charlie. “I'll need blood.”

“Don't you keep a couple of kennel cats for that? The black cats I've seen in here?”

“Their blood won't do.”

Charlie frowned. “You mean cats have blood types, like humans? I didn't…”

Firetti was silent, watching her. “Cats do have blood types, Charlie. But what I need is not common cat blood.”

“What other kind is there? This cat isn't some exotic breed. What…?”

“I think you know what I mean. I will need special blood. I'll need a transfusion from Joe Grey, or from Dulcie or Kit. Maybe from all three. Will you try to round up the cats while I set up for surgery?”

“But…” Charlie stared at him feeling her own blood drain to her toes.

“We're wasting time,” Firetti said. “I hope they're not up in the hills hunting.”

She couldn't speak. She heard the outer door open, heard Natalie call out that she would be right in. Charlie didn't know what to say to Firetti.

“I know about them,” he said. “I've known about these amazing cats since I was a boy, since shortly after my father opened the clinic. I knew Dulcie's mother, I knew all about her—Genelle Yardley, with whom she lived, died keeping the cats' secret.”

Charlie looked at him for a long time. How could she tell Joe and Dulcie and Kit this? How could she tell the three cats that one more person shared their secret, even if John Firetti was their friend?

But did she have to tell them?

Couldn't she bring Willow in for the transfusion, and never mention this to Joe or Dulcie or Kit?

But Willow was so exhausted. When Charlie thought
how terrified she would be of the clinic, of the metal table, of a strange human handling her—of the needle plunging in—she knew she couldn't do that. Besides, such dishonesty showed only disrespect for the cats. Charlie wouldn't deceive them, that was not how she viewed friendship.

Firetti was saying, “I've never told Wilma or Clyde that I know; I didn't tell the Greenlaws when they took Kit to live with them.” He laughed. “It wasn't hard to know what the kit was, with her bright curiosity, the way she listened to every word. Of course I've never spoken of my knowledge to the cats themselves. They'll have to know now,” he said quietly.

“They'll understand,” Charlie said, hoping she was right. Wondering how the three cats
would
react.

She touched Sage lightly, nodded to John Firetti, and left the clinic, greeting Natalie on her way out, wondering for a moment if Natalie knew, too.

Oh, but Firetti would have told her, if that was the case. Surely he would have.

In the car she told Willow, “He's given him something for the pain, and to rest. He needs blood for transfusions so he can operate on the leg. As soon as I take you back, I'm going to fetch Joe and Dulcie and Kit.” She was going to tell Willow that Firetti knew about them, but she couldn't. Willow was already upset, and to Willow, every human who knew their secret represented an additional threat, a worry the feral band must carry with them no matter how far they traveled or how well they hid themselves among the wild, unpopulated slashes of land between the spreading towns and cities.

In the car, as they headed back up the hills, almost as
if Willow had read her thoughts, the calico said, “There's been a human prowling among the ruins. We've seen him—or her?—only from a distance, someone dressed in black—black pants and a long black coat. Always the same figure, we think. But driving different colored cars. Coming up that far little gravel lane, from the houses below.”

“Not the larger dirt road?”

“No, never. They drive the car into an old shed down at the end of the property, beyond the dying orchard, then come slipping through the ruins. Searching, always searching. Could they be looking for the book?” she said in a small, miserable voice.

“Where do they search?”

“Inside the house, and in the smaller buildings, too. Whenever we saw them, we stayed away, hid until they were gone. Then we went over their trail, but all we could smell was chemicals. Perfume or something like it, covering all other scents.”

They had reached the ranch; before Willow raced away into the hills, Charlie fetched from the house some leftover roast and a bowl of fresh water. Willow drank and ate quickly.

“Must you go back alone? It's nearly dark.”

“Our wounded aren't far away, Charlie Harper. And I'll be careful. I can smell danger, I can climb, and leap. And I have these,” she said, baring her formidable claws and giving Charlie a little cat smile—and she streaked away past the barn and into the dusky woods, her pale shape vanishing among the thickening shadows.

Worrying because Willow was traveling alone, and puzzling over the prowler at the ruins, Charlie headed
down the hills again.
Was
someone looking for the book? Or maybe for that hidden grave? Pulling into Clyde's crowded driveway behind Max's truck, she quickly grabbed her cooler and made for the front door, praying she could find Joe, and maybe Kit and Dulcie, could get them out without argument, and without anyone noticing.

Like the Firetti clinic, the Damen house had been remodeled from a small vacation cottage built during the early years of the last century, when Molena Point was a religion-based summer retreat. Only later had the artists and writers and musicians arrived, to change the persona of the small village from religious to more earthy pleasures. They, too, built cottages, enlarging the village, and now many of the old cottages housed restaurants and shops, or had been connected to become quaint motels. Designer Ryan Flannery had changed Clyde's dumpy little cottage into a handsome dwelling.

First she had transformed the weedy backyard into a beautiful private patio, then had added the second story to provide a new master suite and study, with a deck over the garage and carport. It was here that Charlie found Joe Grey sitting at the edge of the deck washing his paws, looking down at the street, checking out the arriving guests.

“Why the frown?” Joe said softly, turning to look at her. “What's wrong?”

“Why aren't you down in the middle of the party?” she whispered. “In the middle of the
food
?”

Joe gave her a long, cool look. “Since when have I ever been, as you put it, in the middle of the party food? Don't you think—”

“Joe,” Charlie said softly, “I need you to come with me quickly, there's been an accident.”

Joe's yellow eyes widened with fear.

“No, not Dulcie or Kit—it's a feral.” She knelt on the deck, facing him, speaking quietly. “Willow came to me tonight, in the barn. She brought a young, wounded tomcat—there was a battle up at the ruins. Stone Eye attacked them, and Cotton and Coyote killed him.”

Joe looked surprised, then smiled with satisfaction. “Good for them! One less tyrant in the world.”

“I took the hurt cat to Dr. Firetti.” But when she told him what Firetti knew, Joe Grey's yellow eyes narrowed warily, and his sleek body went rigid with apprehension.

“He's always known,” Charlie said. “He knew about Dulcie's mother.” She reached to touch Joe's muscled gray shoulder. “He's never told anyone. Never! I believe him, Joe.”

She couldn't read Joe's expression; it was a mix of cold feline suspicion and yet a flash of confidence, too, as if he wanted to trust John Firetti, as if he knew, deep down, that he could trust him.

“Firetti needs you, Joe. He needs blood for Sage's surgery—it has to be the blood of a talking cat, he told me your blood is different.”

Joe looked at Charlie for a long moment, and now his uncertainty had nothing to do with trusting what Firetti had said.
Blood? His
blood? His stomach had gone a bit queasy, and his paws began to sweat.

Joe Grey had never in his life shrunk from a fight. He could whip any tomcat that challenged him, and could send most dogs running. But the drawing out of his life
blood was another matter. He already felt violated. He envisioned Dr. Firetti shaving away his sleek gray fur to pale, naked skin, and sticking in a large and painful needle, and he didn't like the thought.

Seeing the fear in Joe's eyes, Charlie hid her amusement. “Firetti may need blood from all three of you,” she said diplomatically. “But I know you'll be the bravest. I guess we'd better fetch Dulcie and Kit, though.” She was guessing that the lady cats, like most women, would feel less stricken at donating a few drops of blood, but she couldn't tell Joe that.

“We're here” came a small voice from the roof above them. Looking up she saw two pairs of bright eyes fixed on her—green-eyed Dulcie, her dark tabby coat nearly invisible against the evening sky, and Kit's yellow eyes as round as twin moons, the tortoiseshell's darkly mottled fluff lost in the falling night.

“He
knows
?” Dulcie hissed at her.
“Firetti knows?”

“Blood?”
Kit said. “
Our
blood? Oh my…” But whether the tattercoat was frightened by the thought, or impressed with such an important mission, Charlie couldn't tell.

“If he needs us now,” Dulcie said sensibly, “let's get on with it.” And Charlie watched the two lady cats leave the roof, backing down the pine tree, their claws scratching away loose bark, watched them drop to the ground and race to her red Blazer, where they melted into the bushes, waiting for her to open the door.

Picking up Joe without ceremony, garnering an irritable growl, Charlie hurried down, taking the stairs two at a time, hoping she could get through the crowd without anyone stopping her—but from the living room, she heard Clyde's and Mike Flannery's voices.