Sleight of Paw (35 page)

“Owen, where are you?” He meowed from the back wall of the cellar. “You had to pick a spot over there,” I said as I made my way over the cold ground. “What are you doing? Did you find some way out of here?”

I kept talking because there were things I didn’t want to chance hearing, and as long as I was talking, I wasn’t screaming. And there was no way that could be bad.

I kept my eyes fixed on where I’d heard the cat’s meow. I didn’t look at any of the boxes or discarded piles of junk. If I didn’t look at it, it couldn’t scare me.

Owen was sitting on a discarded metal bedspring, probably from an old bunk bed. “This is what you wanted me to see? Why?” He pulled at one of the coiled metal springs with a paw. I could feel tendrils of panic creeping up the base of my skull.

I took a couple of deep breaths. “I’m going to have to drag this over to the stairs,” I said. “You think we need it, okay with me.”

The spring framework wasn’t as heavy as I’d thought. It wasn’t that difficult to pull it over to the bottom of the steps, where I felt more secure—relatively speaking.

I dropped onto the second step and wiped my hands on my snow pants. And then I saw it, above me in the cement-block wall: a small, grimy window almost completely boarded over. A window with just a small sliver of light showing. For a moment it felt like I had two Slinkys for knees.

I grabbed Owen and hugged him in relief, a tad too hard, and he squeaked his objection. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But there’s a window. We can get out of here.”

I scrambled up the steps and got the flashlight from where I’d left it and grabbed my jacket, too, because I was cold.

I shone the light on the window. The small bit of glass I could see was black with encrusted dirt. Weathered gray boards had been nailed over the top of the window into the frame.

When I stood on tiptoe I could get a grip on the top length of wood. I pulled with every bit of strength I had, but it didn’t so much as wiggle. I tried the board below it, but it was nailed tightly, as well. My right foot slid out from under me and I lost my balance and banged my leg against the steps.

I sank to the basement floor. Tears filled my eyes. I held on to my leg, rocking from side to side for comfort. Owen climbed onto my lap and licked away one tear that had gotten out and rolled down my face.

I stroked his fur with one hand. “We’re going to get out of here,” I told him. “All we have to do is find something to pull off those boards.”

I set him on the dirt, struggled to my feet and swiped away the tears. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”

Except there wasn’t.

We looked in discarded boxes that were full of moldy paperbacks and old issues of
National Geographic
. There was a broken toaster and a tangle of cutlery.

I don’t know when exactly I first smelled the smoke. It was faint, barely more than a hint, but as we got closer to the back corner of the basement the odor was stronger.

Justin had set the cabin on fire.

I jammed half my hand in my mouth so I wouldn’t scream, because I knew if I started I might not be able to stop. Owen went back to the stairs and I ran back, as well, trying to ignore how cold my feet were.

“We’ve got to get those boards off,” I told him. I pulled frantically at them, but nothing happened. I kept yanking, splinters slicing into my hands.

I beat on the wood in frustration, my eyes burning again with unshed tears. Then I couldn’t help it; I dropped to the dirt and let the tears run down my face. “I should’ve called Marcus,” I whispered. “I should’ve told Maggie or Lita or someone I was coming here.”

I kicked the bedsprings in anger and frustration. The frame slid across the dirt and one of the metal slats came loose from its spring, whipping into the air, the sound and movement sending me back against the stairs.

I looked at the window. I looked at the thin piece of metal. It was very flexible and very strong. Would it work? I had no other options.

I knelt on the cellar floor and grabbed the end of the slat. Twisting and pulling, I managed to get it free from the other spring. I took it over to the window. Stretching over my head, I eased the length of metal under the edge of the top board near where it was nailed and pulled up on the other end. The rough edge of the strip cut into my left hand.

This wasn’t going to work.

Breathing hard, I leaned my forehead against the cement block wall.
Think, think.
I remembered Roma saying chocolate or duct tape could fix just about anything.

Roma’s roll of duct tape was still in my jacket pocket. I pulled it out and tore off a long piece, winding it around the metal bar for a handgrip. Then I pulled with everything I had, Owen at my feet, seemingly cheering me on. The wood groaned. I ground my teeth together, braced one leg against the block wall and pulled. There was a splintering sound as the dry old wood gave way. I left it hanging by one nail and went to work on the second board.

“We are getting out of here,” I told Owen through clenched teeth. “And the next time I see Justin . . .”

I channeled my fury into pulling, the muscles in my arms shaking.

The smell of smoke was getting stronger. I coughed, shook my head and pushed in the edge of my makeshift pry bar just a little bit more.

It was enough. The wood cracked and I was able to pull it loose the rest of the way with my hands.

“Yes!” I shouted, nearly out of breath. I made a small shooing motion to Owen. “Get up there a little bit.” He moved up the stairs about halfway. I turned my head, put a forearm in front of my face and smashed the three small windowpanes with the metal bar, beating out the wooden dividers between the squares of glass.

There were needlelike slivers of glass everywhere. They cut into my feet through my heavy socks as I moved to the window. The icy air had never felt so good.

I used my sleeve to brush away the worst of the glass. Then I turned around and grabbed Owen. I reached through the window and set him in the snow outside, grateful that it had drifted away from the house on that side of the cabin.

“Go,” I said. I pointed toward the trees at the far end of the open yard. He crouched down and looked back through the window.

I coughed again. There was way more smoke coming down through the floorboards now. I put my face close to Owen’s. “Go. I’m right behind you, I swear. Please go.”

I think he heard the urgency in my voice. He started across the snow. I braced my palms on the window ledge and tried to pull myself up. Bits of glass cut into my hands and the gash in my left palm began to bleed. I didn’t have time to do anything about that. I had to get out while I could.

“Keep going,” I called to Owen, who looked back at me. “I’m coming.”

On the third try I got up on the window ledge. I stuck my head and shoulders out through the window. I could see Owen almost to the cleared parking area. At least he was safe. I stretched my arms out over the snow and try to move forward, but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t get through.

I clawed at the frozen snow, but I couldn’t get a grip on anything. I twisted and kicked my feet, but the window was just too narrow.

I pushed myself back in and dropped to the floor. I could see the smoke now, swirling in the basement. Panic warred with anger, and anger won.

“I am not going to die in this place,” I yelled.

I hauled off my coat and peeled away my snow pants, tearing the button at the waist. I folded the papers from Agatha’s envelope as small as I could and jammed them into my bra. Off came my sweater and my long underwear. I was down to tights, a T-shirt, underwear and my heavy socks.

I braced my hands on the windowsill and pushed myself up. I dug my hands into the frozen snow. My feet kicked. I blew out every last bit of air and sucked in my stomach, and I started to move.

I didn’t think about my hands or the cold. I pulled and I scrambled and I flailed, and in some miracle of physics my hips pulled loose from the window and I was free.

I half ran, half fell over the snow. The icy crust cut through my tights. I kept going, scrambling for purchase on the snow.

I was almost at the tree line when the propane tank blew up.

The impact propelled me into the brush. I wrapped my hands over my head as branches whipped my upper body. I landed flat on my back in a pile of snow, under a tree, cocooned in silence.

There was truly no sound, not so much as a rustle of pine needles. I pushed up on my elbows. Where was Owen? I couldn’t see him.

The cabin was a ball of fire and smoke. And then I caught sight of Owen coming toward me, bits of tree bark and snow crystals clinging to his fur, meowing his anger all the way. I lay there in the snow, trying to catch my breath. The cat climbed up onto my chest and licked my face.

I blinked away tears and grinned at him. “We did it,” I said. The cut on my hand was still bleeding. Looking at it made me dizzy. So I didn’t look. I could see blood soaking through both socks and there wasn’t anything I could do about that, either.

Shaking with cold, I got to my feet, holding Owen against me with my good hand.

“We have to stay in the trees,” I told him, “just in case Justin comes back.”

I might’ve been bruised and bloody and cold, but if Justin suddenly appeared I was pretty sure I would’ve beaten him into unconsciousness with just my good arm, assuming Owen didn’t get to him first.

Every part of my body shook and I couldn’t feel my feet. I looked around and decided which way the road likely was, and we started in that direction. It felt like someone was driving those slivers of glass into my feet with every step. But I took each one, anyway.

I talked to Owen, my face against his fur as I walked, although I did’t have a clue what I said. The snow was above my knees but I kept on walking, slowly and painfully breaking a trail to the road.

I have no idea how much time passed. When I heard my name called, I thought hypothermia had caught up with me. I thought I was hallucinating.

Then I heard it again. It wasn’t Justin.

“Here,” I called. Yelling made me almost double over with coughing.

“I’m here.”

“I’m coming,” a voice answered. “Stay there.”

In a moment I could see Marcus coming through the trees, his long legs breaking easily through the snow, his eyes locked on me. If I were hallucinating, he was the best damn hallucination I’d ever had.

“Kathleen, are you all right?” he asked as he got close to me. Was I imagining the slight catch in his voice?

I nodded, because all of a sudden I couldn’t speak. He unzipped his parka and put it around me, zipping it up with my arms tucked inside instead of in the sleeves. It smelled like Marcus and it was so, so warm it made me dizzy.

“What the hell happened?” He bent over and looked into my face.

“Justin . . . Justin killed Agatha,” I said through chattering teeth.

“I know.”

He knew? How did he know?

My hand was still bleeding. I eased the zipper down with my thumb because I wanted to stick my arm out and not get blood all over Marcus’s coat. I watched the blood run down my arm like a tiny river.

He was still talking, but I couldn’t hear him for some reason. It began to get dark from the edges in. Those big hands reached out for me. And that was the last thing I remembered.

I woke up on a stretcher in an ambulance down on the road. I was wrapped in blankets, a paramedic was sitting beside me and a very pissed-off Owen was perched on my stomach. Below the foot of the stretcher, another paramedic was cleaning several long gouges on the back of a police officer’s hand.

The paramedic beside me smiled. “Hi,” he said. He leaned sideways. “Detective Gordon.”

Marcus poked his head into the ambulance.

“Hi,” he said. I was ridiculously happy to see him smiling at me. What the heck had that paramedic given me?

“What did Owen do?” I croaked.

“Don’t worry about that.” He pointed at the police officer. “I told him not to touch the cat.”

The young officer and Owen glared at each other like a couple of grizzled gunfighters.

“Justin had the missing truck,” I said hoarsely.

Marcus nodded. “I know.”

Then I remembered the explosion.

“It’s gone, isn’t it?” I said.

“Yeah, it is, but we’ve got him, anyway.”

I struggled to get up, and the inside of the ambulance swirled like a kaleidoscope. The nice paramedic eased me down, careful to keep his hand away from Owen.

“You got him?”

“We got him.”

I let myself relax against the pillow and felt the papers inside my bra crinkle. Ruby was in the clear, and maybe Harry would find his daughter.

Marcus started telling me how stupid it had been for me to come out here without telling anyone where I was going, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from smiling every time he looked at me. I closed my eyes.

I didn’t even hear him.

T
hey kept me at the hospital overnight, against my objections. Roma came and coaxed Owen into a cat carrier, with some help from Maggie and two Fred the Funky Chickens. Maggie took Owen home and fed both cats. Since I was missing two cans of tuna and a fair amount of peanut butter, I could pretty much guess what they ate.

Everyone just assumed Owen had stowed away in the truck and I hadn’t wanted to leave him there in the cold, so I’d taken him to the cabin with me. Since it was pretty close to the truth I didn’t say anything.

The papers I’d taken from under Justin’s mattress, from Agatha’s envelope, were about the baby. Harry Senior and Junior had come to the hospital and I got to put the documents in the old man’s hands. He hugged me so tightly I squeaked, and he insisted I keep the truck.

It turned out that Marcus had been suspicious of Justin from the moment he’d found out about the half million dollars. It had seemed like too much of a coincidence that Agatha would leave Justin, whom she barely knew, so much money just when he needed it. It was enough to get Marcus to start digging. And he had taken what I’d told him about the other trucks seriously. He’d tracked down the junkyard owner that had sold Sam’s wreck to Justin.