Cat Spitting Mad (3 page)

“D
illon! Dillon
Thurwell! Ruthie! Ruthie Marner!” The night hills rang with shouts, and swam with careening lights that faded and smeared where scarves of fog crept up the little valleys. “Dillon! Dillon Thurwell!” Max Harper's voice cut through the others, tense and imperative. “Dillon! Answer me! Dillon, sing out! Whistle!
Dillon!
”

And up the hills above the searchers, Joe Grey stood on a rock beside the bleeding bodies, wanting to shout, too, wanting to halt the cries and bring the searchers swarming to where the murdered women lay, wanting to shout,
Here! They're here! Ruthie and Helen are here. Here, below the broken pine!

Right.

He could do that.

Shout as loud as a cat
can
shout, bring the riders galloping to take one look at the murder scene and fan out again searching for the killer, their horses trashing every bit of the evidence in their urgent haste—to say nothing of trampling three fleeing cats.

He had to draw the searchers without alarming them into tearing up the surround.

Slipping behind the rock where he wouldn't be seen, rearing tall behind the boulder to nearly thirty inches of sleek gray fur, Joe Grey yowled.

Opened wide and let it out, yowled-howled-caterwauled-bellowed-ululated and belly-coughed like a banshee screaming its rage and venom into the black, cold night.

Every light swung up. Torchlight illuminated the cats' boulder as if its edges were on fire. Captain Harper pushed Bucky fast up the hill, the tall, thin officer pulling his rifle from the scabbard as the big buckskin ran sliding on the rocks. A rifle!

Joe knew that the men of Molena Point PD carried rifles in their squad cars, along with a short, handy shotgun and an array of far more amazing equipment. He'd never thought about an officer carrying a rifle on horseback. He guessed that in the wild mountains to which these foothills led, in the rugged coastal range, a rifle might come in handy—there had been times, up in these hills, when he'd wished a cat could use a firearm.

“There!” Harper shouted. “By the boulders—under the broken pine!”

Every beam centered on the rocks and on the angled tree behind them, and on the two bodies sprawled across the dust-pale bridle path. Lights scoured the boulder where the cats had been.

Crouching higher up the hill, they watched Harper's buckskin gelding top the rise at a gallop and, behind
Harper, riders flowing up like a stampede in a TV western, the pounding of their hooves shaking the earth. Crouched close together, the cats shivered with nervous excitement.

Harper held up a hand. The riders pulled up their horses in a ragged semicircle, some fifty feet below the bodies—a ring of mounted men and women, their flashlights and torches bathing the corpses in a brilliance as violent as if the light of final judgment shone down suddenly upon Helen and Ruthie Marner.

Around the grisly honor guard, the night was still.

A bit rattled. A horse snorted nervously, perhaps at the smell of blood.

Max Harper holstered his rifle and dismounted, swinging down from the saddle to approach the bodies alone. Leaving Bucky ground-tied, he stepped with care to avoid trampling any footprint or hoofprint. His long, thin face was white, the dry wrinkles deeply etched, his dark eyes flat and hard as he looked down on Helen and Ruthie, then looked away into the night, shining his light up into the forest.

When he did not see a third body among the rocks and trees, he clicked on his radio.

“Better have the ambulance up here. And the coroner.” He called in his two detectives from the squad cars below, then knelt to check for vital signs, though there could be none. Dulcie and Joe swallowed, knowing the pain with which Harper must be viewing the scene.

Before he rose, he examined the ground directly around the bodies; the cats knew he'd be committing
to memory every mark or disturbance, studying every footprint and hoofprint, every detail of the position of the bodies, memorizing the way the blood was pooled, seeing each tiniest fragment of evidence—though all such facts would be duly recorded by his detectives in extensive notes and photographs.

Joe didn't like leaving their prints at the scene—he could only hope they looked like the tracks of a squirrel or fox, though surely Harper knew the difference. Crouching, Harper studied the earth for a long time, then, rising, he looked away again into the night, shaking his head as if dismissing that wild cry that had summoned him. Maybe he thought it
had
come from some small, wild beast drawn there by the smell of blood, stopping to yowl a hunting cry, leaving its prints, fleeing at the approach of the searchers.

It was as good a scenario as any. They didn't need Harper to be unduly aware of cats at the scene; they knew that too painfully from past encounters.

Harper, shining his torch across the ground in ever-widening arcs, turned at last, singling out Officer Wendell.

“Call Murdoc Ranch, Wendell. See if the Marner horses have come home. See if they've seen Dillon—or if Dillon's mare is there.” And again he swung his torch up into the black forest, searching for a redheaded little girl whom Max Harper cared for just as he would love his own child. His light swam over the boulder beneath which the cats crouched. But if he saw them at all, they'd be no more than mottled brown leaves and rotted gray branches, their eyes tight closed,
Joe's white markings concealed behind the kit and Dulcie.

And soon, below them, the familiar routine began. Officers emerged from their squad cars on the narrow road a quarter mile below. Detective Ray and Detective Davis hurried up the hill, the two women loaded with cameras and equipment bags, Davis to shoot roll after roll of film of the victims and the surround while Ray made notes and drew a diagram of body positions. Borrowing Bucky, Davis took many pictures from horseback, to gain the higher angle. The cats thought the team would likely work all night, sifting the earth, bagging and labeling minute bits of evidence, making casts of footprints and hoofprints.

Kathleen Ray was young, maybe thirty-five, a small, slim woman with long dark hair and huge green eyes, a woman who looked more like a model for petite swimwear than a cop. Juana Davis was pushing fifty, a stocky, solid woman with short dark hair and brown Latin eyes. Harper stood watching them, going over the scene, the muscles of his jaw tight.

For the first time in many days, the cats felt safe from predators, with the entire Molena Point PD and half the village milling around the hills and forest.

Soon another squad car arrived and four officers double-timed up the hill to organize teams of searchers. Two smaller parties, of skilled climbers, headed up toward the steep mountains.

When Davis had finished photographing, Max Harper laid out for her what he knew of Dillon and the Marners' activities that afternoon. As the detective
taped Harper's flat, clipped voice, his words stirred a strange fear in Joe Grey.

“Helen and Ruthie met Dillon and me at my place about ten this morning; they rode over from the Murdoc Ranch, where they board their horses. We headed south along the lower trail toward Hellhag Hill. Rode on beyond Hellhag maybe five miles, turned back around eleven, and stopped at Café Mundo for lunch. Loosened the saddles, rubbed down our horses and watered them. Had a leisurely meal.”

Café Mundo was located just above Valley Road, adjacent to one of the many bridle trails that bisected the Molena Point hills. It was famous for its fine Mexican dishes. The proprietor, having horses himself, liked to cater to the local horsemen, advertising a water trough and plenty of hitching racks. Café Mundo was always first to help sponsor overnight trail rides, charity calf roping, and rodeos.

“If Dillon's not still on horseback,” Harper told Davis, “if she's fallen, Redwing will come home. I sent Charlie down to see, maybe half an hour ago. She knows the horses, knows how to put Redwing up. They were—Dillon was going to spend the night with Ruthie, going to stable Redwing with the Marner horses until morning. She…” Harper's voice missed a beat. “She's a strong, resourceful little girl.”

He cleared his throat. “When we finished lunch, Helen and Ruthie and Dillon left. That was about one-thirty. They headed up in this direction, were planning on another two hours, up into the foothills and back. Dillon and Ruthie are—were training for an endurance
competition.” Harper fidgeted nervously. “Where the hell is the coroner?”

Joe watched him with interest. Harper had only called for the coroner maybe fifteen minutes earlier. It would take Dr. Bern a little while to get up the hills. They'd never seen the captain wound so tight.

But he couldn't blame Harper. If the captain had remained with the riders, this wouldn't have happened. Besides Harper's intimidating presence, even on horseback he would have been armed, very likely carrying the Smith & Wesson .38 automatic in its shoulder holster—if for no other reason than against predators. No one said what kind of predators. Every cop had enemies.

It had been the habit of the foursome, lately, to take an all-day ride on Saturday, as the girls worked on their endurance skills. Charlie Getz had ridden with them until Crystal Ryder came on the scene. Crystal had been too much for Charlie. Too bubbly, too much flirting—too much all over Max Harper. With both Helen Marner and Crystal attempting to take over Harper as private property, the skirmishes had been more than Charlie could endure.

From what Harper had told Clyde, the women's ongoing battle didn't thrill him either. He put up with them, to have ample chaperones for Dillon.

Max Harper hadn't dated since his wife, Millie, died several years earlier. His friendship with Helen had caused some talk in the village. But when Crystal moved to Molena Point and began to pay attention to Harper, there'd been a lot more gossip. Crystal was far more glamorous than Helen, and her persistence was
amazing. She was, in Joe's opinion, pushy, wore too much makeup, and was always “onstage.” Not Harper's type of woman.

Joe was no prude. And maybe his view of these matters was different from that of the human male. But he considered sleazy women totally boring—as tiresome as a perfumed Persian decked out in pink claw polish and a rhinestone collar.

Joe enjoyed a roll in the hay as well as the next guy, but he preferred his ladies with sharper claws and more fire.

“Interesting,” Joe said, “that Crystal didn't ride with the group this afternoon—and that Harper didn't mention her.”

Dulcie looked at him, wide-eyed. “What are you thinking?”

“Not sure. Just strange.”

“Well, whatever's on your mind, we need to tell Harper which way that man chased Dillon. The kit said there, to the north.”

“This is one time, Dulcie, the secret snitch is not going to tip the chief. Not with every cop and half the village swarming, and no phones except in the squad cars.”

“But we have to! Dillon could be…You did it before. You called Harper from a squad car while the officers had their backs turned.”

“Not this time,” Joe said, his eyes blazing so fiercely that Dulcie drew back. “Anyway, there's no need.” They watched Harper swing into the saddle and head Bucky away to the north, shining his torch along the trail, following those racing hoofprints. And soon the
silhouette of horse and rider, backlit by the torch, melted into the night.

Dulcie stared after him, praying that Dillon had escaped, that she was out there on the dark hills hiding, and Harper would find her.

Glancing at Joe, she started to follow. But Joe, leaping away beside her, hit her with his shoulders and nipped at her until she slowed. “Don't, Dulcie. Leave him alone. What could you do? You couldn't keep up forever—alone in the night, you're cougar bait. If Dillon's out there, he'll find her.”

She sat down in the pine needles, looking at him forlornly.

“Is nothing safe?” she said. “Is no simplest thing people do beyond danger? It was such a harmless pleasure for Dillon, having a horse to ride.”

The two cats looked solemnly at each other, and padded back through the woods to join the sleeping kit; and to watch, below them, as Detective Davis began to lift plaster casts in their little frame boxes, where the creamy liquid had hardened into bootprints and hoofprints. As Davis worked, the mist blew thicker over the hills, veiling the moon, casting moon-shadows across the coroner's thin face, where he stood watching the forensics team, making Dr. Bern look paler than ever. Beside Dulcie, the dozing kit woke, yawning a wide pink gape. Joe, angry at the world, it seemed, didn't wait for her to wake fully; he fixed her with a steady yellow gleam that shocked her right up out of her dreams.

“What were you doing, Kit, all that time after he killed them and you saw him chasing Dillon? Didn't
you know something should be done? That Dillon needed help? Why didn't you race down to find us?”

“You weren't
there
to find. You were up here on the hills.”

“But you didn't
know
that,” Joe said impatiently. “What
were
you doing?”

“I ran after the man and the girl, I followed them, I didn't
know
what to do. Their scent led down the hills, and when I couldn't see the horses, I could hear them. I ran and ran. So many smells. I wanted to see if she got away, and then I couldn't smell her anymore and that was near the ruins so I thought she might hide there and I went in to look.”

“Well?”

Dulcie said more gently, “Did you smell Dillon there? In the ruins?”

“So many smells. Foxes and raccoons. A coyote. I could smell
him,
and I hurried away under the rubble where he couldn't come. I smelled all the night hunters. There is water in the cellars. The big hunters come there to drink.”

“We know that,” Joe said impatiently.

“Don't you remember,” Dulcie said, “we told you not to go there?
Did you smell Dillon?
”