The Cat Who Went Underground (20 page)

“My guess is… toward the center of the island.”

With another watery crash the cabin moved again.

“Oh, God!” Roger said with a whimper.

Qwilleran said, “If you’re praying, ask for suggestions.”

There was another crash, followed by another shudder, and then the shack stopped with a bump.

“What’s that?”

“We hit something!”

“I think we hit a tree!”

The waves pounded and roared, and the building quaked, but its journey stopped. It was wedged between the three trees of Three Tree Island.

“We’re stuck!” cried Bushy. “Now what?”

A wave pushed the door open, and water gushed into the shack.

“Get on the roof,” Qwilleran said. “We can’t sit here like trapped animals. The water can’t rise that high… Can it?” he asked when the other two were silent.

“How do we get up there? “

“Pile up the crates.”

“Wait until after a big wave, and then act quick before the next one.”

“Okay, here goes! Somebody give me a boost.”

Qwilleran was the tallest and heftiest. Standing in ice water up to his knees, he boosted Bushy and then Roger. They reached down and gave him a hand just as the next surge of cold water soaked him to the armpits. The three sprawled on the roof like drowning sailors cast upon a reef. The shack was fast between the three trees and had tilted, so the flat roof had a precarious slant.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Bushy said.

“It’s cold up here,” Roger whined.

“It’s colder down there. Flap your arms. Flex your knees, kid, but don’t rock the boat.”

The wind howled and whistled; the surf crashed. As time wore on, ominous clouds could be seen scudding toward the mainland.

“It smells better up here, if anyone cares,” Roger said.

“At least we can see what’s happening,” said Qwilleran. “The sensory deprivation in that dark shack was giving me the willies.” He had turned down the flaps of his hunting cap and was trying not to think about the cold. Compared to the frigid dunking he had suffered, the wind was not that chill, but he was soaked to the skin.

“Six o’clock. We’ve been marooned over an hour.”

“Feels like a week,” said Bushy. “I could use a shot of brandy.”

“I’d settle for a cup of coffee,” Qwilleran said. “Even one from the Dimsdale Diner.”

“If I hadn’t given up smoking, now is when I’d want a cigarette.”

They clung to the roof, passing the time with meaningless chatter and attempts at brave humor.

“Seven fifteen,” Roger announced.

“Am I numb from exposure, or is the wind subsiding?”

“It’s dropping a little, but it’s still cold.”

“It’s going to get colder before it gets warmer, so keep moving, fellas.”

Qwilleran pictured the Siamese clamoring for their supper. Or did they raise the roof only when they had an audience? What did they do when no one was around?… What else was happening on shore? Soon it would be dark. Bushy’s wife would notify the sheriff. Sharon would call her mother, and Mildred would call the sheriff, Mooseville police, and state troopers; she was a woman of driving action. Would it occur to her to drive to the cabin and feed the cats? She was thoughtful that way; she had even worried about Captain Phlogg’s unpopular dog. But how would she get into the cabin? There was an extra key, but it was hidden under the log rack on the porch. She might look under the doormat or over the door frame, but who would think of looking in a hollow log at the bottom of the log rack?… Qwilleran was getting hungry. He wished he’d had the deluxe half-pound cheeseburger with fries, instead of the quarter-pounder with salad.

At eight-thirty the surf was less menacing, but the island was still flooded. An unhealthy yellow light illumined the sky, and gray funnel clouds could be seen over the mainland.

Bushy said, “I should have paid some attention to my horoscope this morning. It told me to stay home and do chores that I’d been putting off.”

Roger said, “My horoscope said I’d take a trip, and this is one trip I’ll never forget – that is, if I live. Something tells me I’m a candidate for pneumonia.”

“Maybe I’d better start reading those things,” Qwilleran said grimly.

“When I was born,” Bushy said, “my parents had a neighbor who could write horoscopes, and she was supposed to be quite good. My parents had her do one for me, and she said I’d live a long life, so there’s nothing for you guys to worry about tonight.”

“That’s your horoscope, not mine,” said Roger. “I’m ready for an oxygen tent.”

“This astrologer also said I’d be a portrait-painter (that’s not too far off-base) and I’d marry a Capricorn (that’s Vicki’s sign) and my weak point would be my head. It sounded like I wouldn’t have all my marbles, but I turned out to have a pretty good IQ and no hair!”

Qwilleran asked, “How did you react to Mrs. Ascott’s session on Saturday night?”

“How about that?” Bushy said belligerently. “Did you get what she said about a material loss? She knew I was going to lose my boat, so why didn’t she tell me to stay on dry land? I don’t pretend to know how these things work, but all three of us were at that meeting and planning to embark on this damned trip. Why didn’t she receive some kind of vibrations and tip us off?”

Roger said, “The girls still think she’s wonderful, but I think she’s slowing down. She told Mildred emphatically to get a physical checkup, and Mildred had just had her annual physical last week – the whole works – and nothing was wrong except her weight. It makes you wonder about Mrs. Ascott’s other advice.”

“She was off-the-track about Clem Cottle’s whereabouts,” Qwilleran said, “but that message from Joy rocked me back on my heels. We used to be very close.”

“She said something about an excavation,” Roger said. “Do you suppose she meant old Mr. Klingenschoen’s buried treasure? Maybe she wants you to dig,”

“You dig, Roger, and I’ll split it with you.”

They had hours ahead of them, and they talked to keep their teeth from chattering. Roger talked about the crazy kids in his classes when he was teaching history. The photographer talked about his customers who wanted to look like cover girls when they really looked like prunes.

Qwilleran talked about the Siamese: how they had taken an inordinate liking to Mildred’s homemade cereal… how Koko shredded newspaper, but only the Something… and how he had an obsession with the trap door. “He got down into the crawl space once when the plumber was working on the water heater. I don’t know what he finds so engrossing down there.”

Roger said, “There could be mice or chipmunks. The chipmunks could tunnel under the foundation and come up in the crawl space and spend the winter there with a few bushels of acorns.”

“For all you know,” said Bushy, “you’ve got the Chipmunk Hilton under your floor… Say, I read your story about the woman who heard her cat scratching under the door after it was dead. How do you explain that?”

“I don’t try,” Qwilleran said, “and I’ll tell you something else I can’t explain. You know Russell Simms, who’s been renting the Dunfield cottage? She had an urge to visit my cabin yesterday, and she arrived just in time to rescue my cats. A bloody miracle! She also had bad vibrations about the Dunfield cottage.”

“Did you tell her about the murder?”

“Yes, but I should have kept my mouth shut. I had a phone call from Mildred this morning; Russell moved out of the cottage suddenly last night, forfeiting a whole summer’s rent.”

“Strange girl,” said Roger. “Did you ever notice her eyes?”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Bushy. “I’d hate to be marooned on this island with Russell Simms and Mrs. Ascott.”

Roger started to giggle and laughed until he was on the verge of hysteria.

“Cut it out,” Bushy ordered. “You’re shaking the shack.”

“Let him laugh,” Qwilleran said. “It’ll warm him up.”

“But the shack will cut loose from the trees and float away to Canada, and I don’t have my birth certificate!”

At nine-thirty dusk was beginning to fall, and the wind dropped to a stiff breeze.

“I could use a blanket,” Bushy said.

“I could use a sleeping bag and hot-water bottle,” Roger said.

Qwilleran said, “I could use the Komfort-Heet.”

On the corrugated metal roof of the shack they did pushups to keep warm and massaged their arms and legs. At ten-thirty they were still talking.

Bushy said, “I’ll tell you a true story that’s kind of spooky. It happened to my aunt during the Depression. Her husband got a job in a steel mill Down Below, and they were living in a one-room furnished apartment. That’s all they could afford. Her husband worked hard, came home tired, went to bed, and snored. He snored so loud and so non-stop that it drove her crazy. She couldn’t sleep. It was torture! Cotton in her ears didn’t help, it was so loud. She felt like killing him! One night she dreamed she beat him to death with a table lamp, and she woke up in a cold sweat. Her husband was dead in the bed beside her. He’d had a coronary thrombosis.”

In the thoughtful silence that followed Bushy’s story they heard the throb of the sheriffs helicopter and saw the searchlight. The pilot dropped a ladder and picked them off the roof. “Blankets there! Hot drinks in the jug!” he shouted above the noise as the craft veered toward the mainland. “Taking you to Pickax! Landing on the hospital roof!”

There was not a word from the passengers. Qwilleran felt he might never wish to talk again.

“Tornado hit the shore!” the pilot shouted. “Lots of damage! I’ll buzz the beach!”

They flew low over the dune, and the searchlight exposed the destruction: large trees uprooted and the condominium site reduced to splinters.

“Down there!” the pilot shouted. His passengers looked down. The roof of the Dunfield cottage had been blown off, leaving the interior a maelstrom of rubble.

Lucky girl, Qwilleran thought. She got out just in time.

The helicopter followed the shoreline until it reached Seagull Point and the Klingenschoen property. Nestled in the trees, the cabin was not easy to spot, but he could distinguish the brown roof, the huge chimney, the two porches – all as solid as a rock, as it had been for seventy-five years. But…

“Where’s the new addition?” Qwilleran yelled. “It’s gone!”

CHAPTER 15.

THE THREE MEN snatched from the flooded island were treated for exposure at Pickax Hospital, but Qwilleran refused even a thermometer until he had telephoned Mildred and arranged for her to pick up the key and feed the cats.

When he was released on Thursday it was Mildred who drove him home through the torrential rain that was the aftermath of the windstorm.

She said, “You and Bushy must be in excellent physical shape, or they wouldn’t have let you go home today. Roger has to stay in for further observation. What a horrible ordeal for you poor dears! Did you know it was in the out-of-town newspapers yesterday?”

“I didn’t see a paper or use the phone after Dr. Halifax gave me his knockout drop.” Qwilleran spoke in a voice more subdued than usual.

“The Morning Rampage had a story on page three, saying three boaters were missing, and in the afternoon the Daily Fluxion reported the rescue on page one: Former Flux Staffer Rescued from Lake.”

“I hope they didn’t say we were looking for the site of a UFO landing. How did they get the news? Moose County hasn’t made headlines since the 1913 mine disaster.”

Driving rain was beating against the windshield until the glass was virtually opaque, and Mildred pulled off the road to wait for some degree of visibility.

She said, “This is very unusual weather for July. Of course, we all know what’s causing it.”

“What’s causing it?” he asked in all innocence.

“Why, the visitors from out there, of course!”

“You’re not serious, Mildred.”

“You can’t expect aircraft to barge in from outer space without disturbing the atmosphere.”

Earnestly he said, “Mildred, a couple of weeks ago there was a bright light pulsating outside my window at two o’clock in the morning. Do you know anything about that? Was it a trick?”

Mildred was incensed. “What do you mean?”

“I thought it might be a practical joke.”

“You’re really awful, Qwill, to say a thing like that… Are you sure you feel all right?”

“I’m okay. A little weary, that’s all. The medication is sapping my energy.”

The rain showed signs of abating. Mildred started the car and pulled onto the highway. “I’m sorry about what happened to your new addition, Qwill.”

“Is it totally destroyed?”

“The foundation is intact, but the rest is rubble. Some of the boards have blown half a block away. And the Dunfield house is a wreck! What a blessing that the poor girl got out in time. I suppose we’ll never know who she was, or where she came from, or why she was here.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes, listening to the rain attack the car.

Then Qwilleran said, “I nailed some plywood over the opening between the cabin and the east wing. I hope it didn’t blow out.”

“It’s still in place. You’re a better carpenter than you think you are. The tornado didn’t even ruffle a shingle on the cabin. They’re crazy that way. A tornado will demolish a house without touching the lilac bush at the front door.”

“Imagine the cats having to live through that! They’d be terrified! They say a tornado sounds like a jet when it tears through one’s property.”

Mildred said, “They were still holed up in the bedroom when I went there yesterday morning, but they were like wild animals. I don’t know whether they were unnerved by the storm or just plain hungry. I took them some turkey, and last night they had meatloaf, and this morning some leftover salmon mousse. They liked it.”

“They’d been imprisoned in the guestroom for almost twenty-four hours,” Qwilleran said. “Luckily they had their commode and drinking water. Cats hate a closed door, you know, regardless of which side they’re on. If they’re out, they want to get in, and if they’re in, they want to get out.”

The K signpost came in view, and Mildred turned on her right-turn signal.

“My car’s at the FOO. Would you mind dropping me off there?” he said. “I left it in their parking lot when we took off for Three Tree Island.”