Cat Telling Tales (4 page)

“You'd take care of them?” she said, not believing him.

“Of course I would.”

“You'd keep them safe, and I can come for them when I find another place? I lost my job, I couldn't pay my rent, I have no place to keep them.”

How many abandoned strays, Joe wondered, was John Firetti already sheltering at the clinic? Actually, the woman looked worse off than the kittens, half starved, badly used by the world.

“What's your name?” John said. “How do you manage, living in your car?”

“I'm Emmylou Warren. I was renting a shack on the Zandler property, there along the river, one of the old workers' cabins. I lost my job bagging groceries. Well,” she said crossly, “my neighbor
could
have let me stay with her until I found a place, even if she
does
have only the one room.” Her anger made Joe uneasy, or maybe it was her mention of workers' cabins along the river, though he couldn't think why. Dropping to the ground, he caught Misto's eye, then glanced away toward her car; both cats were of one mind as they slipped away through the shadows of the darkening street to where the nose of the Chevy stuck out among the bushes.

The windows were open. The interior of the battered Chevy smelled of banana skins, crackers, damp clothes, and still smelled of the two young cats. When Joe leaped in through the back window, he sank alarmingly among a mass of bulging plastic bags and folded blankets. Misto followed, scrambling over the sill, descending carefully down among the clutter.

Beneath the bags and blankets were cardboard boxes of canned goods, paperback books, and pots and pans. Stretching up to peer out the back window, making sure Emmylou wasn't headed their way, Joe dropped down again among the detritus, sniffing at the tied plastic bags, pawing into the boxes. He didn't know what he was looking for. He wanted to know more about the woman, to know why she made him uneasy. “She's living in her car, all right. Her blankets could stand a good washing.” Pawing into a box among paper plates and kitchen utensils, he unearthed a padded brown envelope, the kind lined with bubble wrap. There was something hard inside, making it bulge. No address on the envelope, no writing at all. It wasn't sealed. He peered in, reached in with an inquisitive paw. At the same moment Misto hissed like a den of snakes and Emmylou's thin shadow came soundlessly along the side of the car, approaching the driver's door. The cats exploded through the opposite window, hit the sidewalk in a gray and yellow tangle, scorched into the bushes as Emmylou opened her door.

They listened to her start the engine, watched her pull away. She had no clue they'd been in the car—but what would she care, they were only cats. Behind her, another pair of headlights blazed on and the white van came down the street, moving slowly as John Firetti looked for them. When his lights flashed in their eyes he pulled to the curb, reached over and opened the passenger door.

“What was that about?” he said softly, having apparently watched them toss the car. The cats padded out of the bushes grinning with embarrassment, and Misto hopped up into the van. They both looked down at Joe.

“Headed home,” Joe said, not wanting to explain his nosiness.
Just curious,
he thought.
Just . . . something about Emmylou Warren,
he thought, puzzled. He watched them pull away down the street, the pale van melting into the darkening evening, its red taillights growing smaller as they ferried their two little captives home to a good meal, a flea bath, a session with the hair dryer, and a nice warm bed.

Then, scrambling up a pine and up the shingles of a steep roof, Joe galloped away across the rise and fall of the crowded peaks, across heavy old oak branches that embraced the village houses, racing for home himself, wondering if the soft staccato of his thudding paws startled the occupants below, made them think they had rats in the attic.

5

I
t was two days later, just at dawn, that Joe woke in his rooftop tower to a bright red sunrise flickering up against the clouds above.
Flickering?
He leaped up from his cushions, saw flames licking and dancing among the eastern hills. Fire, running wild just where the Harper land lay along the crest. He reared up, staring, praying it was down the hill below their pastures, not their barn or house afire. He bolted in through his cat door onto the rafter, dropped to the desk below shouting, “Fire! Fire!” then realized no one was there. Remembered hearing both the car and truck drive away before ever it was light. Clyde had headed up the coast to look at a client's 1920 Rolls-Royce that had inexplicably quit running, and Ryan left even earlier to trap one of the feral cats; the night before he had watched her tuck her cages and cat food into the pickup among her ladders and wheelbarrow.

Spinning around, he hit the phone's speaker and pawed in 911, his heart pounding.

Were the Harpers' horses trapped in their stalls, helpless? Had Max already left for work? Had Charlie seen the blaze or had she, too, left early, out with Ryan and Hanni, trapping strays? The day before, half a dozen more homeless cats had been called in, and already the three temporary shelters were full. He was still shouting at the night dispatcher when he heard a siren whoop. Quickly he broke the connection, raced into Ryan's studio, leaped on the daybed where he could see out the east windows, reared up slamming his sweating paws against the glass.

The sky was barely light, streaks of gray and silver, the hills still dark except for the lick of orange flames rising up mixed with smoke darker than the heavy dawn clouds. If the flames reached the Harper land, reached the Harper barn with the horses still inside . . . Even if they had already been turned out they'd be at danger, terrified by the fire, running blindly into the fences. A panicked horse could injure himself so badly that, sometimes, he had to be destroyed. Leaping for the phone on Ryan's desk, he punched in the Harpers' number, shivering with nerves.

When Charlie didn't answer he tried her cell phone. “Come on! Come on!” He was trying to calculate just how far the blaze might be from the Harpers' pasture fence when he heard the shriek of a police car following the fire trucks. He prayed it was the siren on the police chief's pickup, prayed Max was on the way.

C
harlie had left the ranch long before daylight, she was up above the village, kneeling in the side yard of a small clapboard cottage among a mass of scratchy holly bushes, setting a trap for an old black cat who had been hanging around the vacant house. She was about to put the bait in when a work crew pulled up in front, a truck laden with ladders, lawn mower, gardening equipment. Pretty early for a gardening crew to be coming to work.

The driver was a handsome Latino boy she didn't know, and there was no logo on the truck indicating any of the usual village gardening services. A car full of Mexican workers pulled up behind, parking at the curb. She watched the driver crimp the wheels in the wrong direction, assuring that if the brakes failed, the vehicle would careen backward down the hill clear to the bottom or until it crashed into a house or car. Five Hispanic men got out. They were dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, but something about them was off, they didn't look like garden workers, they were too focused on the house, too quick yet wary in their movements. Quietly she picked up the cat food, closed the cage door, and headed away. This stray wouldn't come around now anyway, until these men had left. It was only a few days since the department had raided a meth house just two blocks over, and maybe she was extra wary. Or not, she thought. The meth raid had been a nasty shock to every one of the few families still living in the small neighborhood. She was wondering if she should set the trap up the street, wondering how far this cat roamed, when her phone vibrated. Picking up, she spoke quietly.

Joe's voice came loud and clear, shouting with a mewling panic, “Fire! Fire below the ranch, below the north pasture. Fire trucks on the way.”

She grabbed the empty trap and rose, had hardly hung up when the phone vibrated again. “Fire below the ranch,” Max said. “Where are you? Can you help get the horses out?”

She ran, swung the cage into her SUV, and headed for home, punching in the single digit for Ryan's cell phone as she barreled down the hill. Ryan was out trapping, too; Charlie had talked with her once and she already had one young stray safe in her truck. Ryan answered in a whisper, “The cat's approaching, I'm in my truck. Can I call you back?”

“There's a fire below the ranch, I'm going to get the horses out. Come when you can.”

F
or an instant, Ryan hesitated. The cat was so close. A black-and-white shorthair, a tuxedo, very thin, his fur all awry. If she scared him off, it might take weeks to lure him back again. But the horses . . . She held her breath as the cat stuck his head in the trap, but then he paused. She'd give him a minute longer. He must be starving. He hesitated, sniffing the smell of freshly opened tuna, then something spooked him, he spun around and took off.

Half defeated, half relieved, she threw the cage in the backseat of her king cab and took off fast for home, pausing for tourists and for stop signs so the few blocks seemed to take forever. Skidding into the drive, she ran in hauling the one covered cage, and shut it in the guest room. The cat would be all right for an hour or two. Racing back out, she could hear Rock pawing indignantly at the back door. She left him in the yard, she didn't need an excited Weimaraner racing among the frightened horses. Maybe it was those old shacks below the pastures that were burning, those ancient workers' cottages from years ago when the river delta was farmed for artichokes. She thought they were rented now, though how much rent could you charge for an old wooden cabin that let the wind whistle through? The three places were tinder, that was sure, dry as a bone. She could see thick gray smoke ahead, rising over the lower hills, hiding the Harpers' pasture.

Turning up the hill beyond the village, speeding up the narrow two-lane, she watched the fire licking up below the north pasture. She had to slow to pass a dozen cars that were pulled over to the side, their drivers rubbernecking. Why did people do that, why did they feel compelled to get in the way, slow down the firefighters and police? She was nearly to the Harpers' turnoff when she heard Joe scramble up from the backseat, felt his paw on her shoulder. “Can't you drive faster? Those poor horses.”

“I can drive faster and get us both creamed,” she said, glaring at him. At home, when she'd settled the cat cage in the guest room, she'd called out for Joe but there was no answer, and that had been worrisome. Racing out to the truck, she'd prayed he hadn't gone galloping up into the hills alone headed for the fiery canyon, had told herself Joe had better sense, that he wouldn't do that. She turned, scowling at him. “Now that you've made your presence known, would it do any good to ask you to stay out of trouble?”

“Does anyone live down there?”

“An old woman, I think. I've heard she's a pretty heavy drinker, maybe she accidentally started the fire. And her grandson—Billy's a nice kid, he works for Max and Charlie sometimes, feeding, cleaning stalls. I guess Hesmerra's the only family he has.” She sped up when she'd passed the gawkers, turned left onto the Harpers' gravel road. No point scolding Joe for slipping into the truck, no point telling him he'd be in danger around the fire, it would only make him bolder. She parked on the shoulder where the lane was blocked, where Charlie had shut the gate to the yard. She got out and slipped through the gate, Joe Grey trotting beside her. Ahead, Charlie was leading her sorrel mare and a boarder across the yard at a trot, toward the south pasture. Already Ryan's eyes stung from the smoke as she went to halter two more horses.

C
harlie couldn't see the fire below the hill, could see only dark smoke rising up, as she moved the first two nervous horses through the north gate into the stable yard, her mare snorting and pulling back. She could see in her mind the three weathered field hands' shacks that stood below the hill huddled at the edge of the floodplain beside the river. Surely the old woman and Billy had gotten out, those places were so small, only a few steps to the door or a window. Hesmerra Young. Everyone called her Gran. Charlie thought of her and Billy waking to flames, the blaze licking at the walls and ceiling, and she felt her stomach lurch. But surely they were safe, the fire trucks were there now, and she tried to ease her worry. Billy Young was only twelve, a silent, shy boy, with gentle hands for a horse or dog; he worked for the Harpers at odd times when they needed extra help. Maybe, when the fire broke out, he was already gone, off on his bike to work at one of the other ranches. Often, as Max headed to work before daylight, he'd see Billy somewhere on the road on his bike, and give him a lift, throw the bike in the back of the pickup. The boy did odd jobs for many of the local horse people, cleaned stalls, fed, cleaned tack, lunged and exercised the horses. She guessed he went to school when he chose, maybe in the afternoon. She didn't know how he managed that, maybe he had a work permit like their young friend Lori Reed, who was learning carpentry as Ryan's part-time apprentice. Charlie liked that a kid wanted to learn a hands-on skill, in addition to getting a formal education. If Billy was gone when the fire started, if his gran was alone there sleeping off a hangover, had she gotten out, had she even smelled smoke? Redwing reared again, fighting the rope, but the boarder, a bay gelding, was calm and sensible. By leading them together, she got them across the yard and into the south pasture, as far from the flames as their land went. As she eased the mare through, her phone vibrated. Latching the gate, she picked up. “I'm moving the horses,” she told Max. She looked up as Ryan's truck pulled in.

“Shall I come up?” Max said.

“No, Ryan's here, we're fine. I'll call if we need help. Shall we hook up the trailers?”

“No, they have it under control, not a breath of wind down here,” he said curtly.

He sounded strange. She said, “Is everyone all right?”

“Everything under control,” he said shortly. “I have to go.” He hung up, startling her.

Something was wrong, he hadn't wanted to talk. She told herself they were busy, the place must be chaos, the men cleaning up, to keep the last of the blaze contained, not let it creep along and start in the surrounding fields. The bottomland along the river lay fallow now, gone to coarse grass and weeds, the owner waiting for an upturn in the market, for some developer to give him an inflated profit. She didn't like the thought of condos or tract houses down here, destroying the open land where she liked a nice gallop along the trail that ran beside the river. Max said no one would build houses on the flood bed, they'd have to be certifiably crazy. But all over California, people had done just that, built on cheap lowland, and then were surprised when, during heavy weather, their living rooms filled up with river mud.

She could hear the firefighters' shouts, could still hear the hiss of water hitting the buildings, the dull chunk, chunk of shovels as if the men were cutting back dry weeds or pitching rubble and loose boards away from the hot spots. Ryan joined her at the north gate. They haltered the other four horses and led them across the yard, Max's buckskin gelding snorting, strung with nerves. Probably the fire wouldn't climb the hill, with no wind, but the horses sure could smell it, and that was all they needed. At least the new green grass was rich with moisture, not tinder dry. But still, a sudden wind whipping up the cliffs from the sea, and who knew what the blaze would do? Well, the trailers stood ready if they were needed, the tires inflated, and all their horses would load easily. It was that, or tie the bunch of them head-to-tail and lead them all at once to safety, to one of the neighbors' pastures.

Slapping Bucky on the rump she sent him trotting away, the other three following him closely, as if Bucky might protect them. Ryan's short dark hair was atangle, the collar of her jacket turned under as if she'd pulled it on fast, leaving the house in a hurry. With the horses moved, Charlie let the two big mutts out of the barn and put them in the south pasture with the horses. They took both vehicles, heading for the blaze, Charlie following Ryan's truck. She could see Joe Grey sitting tall on the back of the seat. A right turn, and right again a quarter mile down the hill, and they bumped along the narrow dirt track that skirted the bottomland, heading into the smoke and the tangle of men and vehicles, the confusion of fire hoses spewing water, undulating like muscular pythons. They parked short of the burn, against the hill, and got out. Charlie smiled as Ryan threatened Joe Grey.

“You stay in the truck, Joe. I mean it.”

Joe sighed, put his head on his paws, his ears down, as if browbeaten. He couldn't say a word in front of the firefighters. How was that fair?

“Don't scold him,” Charlie said softly. “It was Joe who called in the report.” She reached in to stroke his head, and gave him a wink. “Ryan worries about you,” she said. He gave her a smile and a cranky sort of purr.

As the two women headed into the burn, a little smoky breeze whipped ashes in their faces. Most of the flames had been smothered, but where the blackened walls had fallen in, their remains burned cherry red. The smell of wet, burned wood was mixed with the odors of melted plastic, melted electrical wires, burned food, a stink that made them gag. Four men were raking refuse farther away from the smoldering boards, piling it against the hill beyond a tangle of old timbers, wooden barrels, and an old door with peeling veneer. Past the black, sodden remains of the shack, the white EMT van stood parked near the two fire trucks. The firemen and two medics stood there in a circle with Max. His thin face was streaked with soot, black smears stained his western shirt and jeans. He had turned away from Charlie and Ryan. That, and the look on the medics' faces, made Charlie go cold; turning, she took Ryan's hand.