Cat Shining Bright

“Just stay in the car and watch for Randall, we don’t know if he’s even here yet. How dumb can he get, breaking out of jail? What a stupid place to hide, right under the cops’ noses. Stay here and watch for street patrol. I’ll see if he’s in there.”

“When he sees the car, he’ll come out. What’s taking him so long? If someone sees you go in there, if you blow his cover, he’ll be mad as hell.”

“I told you, the way Randall’s treated me, I don’t give a damn. I don’t feel the same about him anymore, I hate his guts. It’s you who wanted to rescue him.”

“He’s my father—my stepfather! He didn’t always treat you this way. And he always treated me decent. Why were you so hot to come along, when you hate him?”

She leaned over, looked through the windshield at the upper story of the frame house, up at the attic window high in the peak. Did she see the faint movement there, a disappearing shadow beyond the dirty glass? She had her hand on the door handle.

“How you going to get in? If he has the key from under the back porch . . .”

“I have the front-door key—I think that’s what this is. Randall took it off his key ring, the morning after the murder. Took it off and hid it. What else could it be but Barbara Conley’s key? He wanted to get rid of it before the cops found it on him.”

“What else do you have in your purse? Is that Randall’s gun, wrapped in that handkerchief?”

“You’re a nosy bastard. Yes, it’s Randall’s gun. I know enough about you, Rick, that the cops don’t know, you’d better mind your own business.”

He raised his hand to slap her; he seemed to have no more love for his mother than she for him, had no compunction against hitting her. But then, what kind of mother was she? She had run off and left him there that night, a seven-year-old kid in the midst of a grisly murder. She had run away and never tried to help him.

Lena got out, slid the wrapped gun into her right pocket. The tomcat followed her among the tree shadows as she headed across the street. She stepped up on the narrow porch, tried the key, and unlocked the door. She stood in the open door listening, looking around the living room. In that instant Joe Grey was behind her and inside, slipping beyond a wicker chest. The house had that empty, musty, unoccupied smell.

“Randall?” she whispered softly and moved on in, leaving the door on the latch. Again, a louder whisper. “Randall?”

No answer.

She began to prowl the rooms, her footsteps echoing faintly, her hand in her pocket on the gun. Joe could see into the kitchen, and into the hall where there would be bedrooms. If she found Randall, what did she mean to do? Hadn’t they come to rescue him, to get him away from the cops? Then why the gun? Would she shoot a cop, would she put herself in that jeopardy to save a husband she’d grown to hate?

Having covered all the rooms, she opened the door of the hall closet. There wasn’t much there, a few coats thrown to the floor. She knelt, examined the floor, brushed at something that looked like dirt or sawdust, then looked up.

A string hung from the ceiling, with a metal washer knotted at the end. She used both hands to pull open the trapdoor, its mechanism lowering a folding wooden ladder.

“Randall?”

A moan echoed from the hollow attic. Quickly she climbed—as Joe Grey slipped into the closet behind the pile of coats.

“Randall? Come on, the car’s waiting.”

A long silence, then another moan. Joe heard her move across the attic, imagined her ducking under its beams. He could see enough of its low ceiling to wonder how much head room Randall had, up there. When he heard another groan, Joe abandoned common sense, scrambled up the ladder and crouched among the shadows. The long dim space was lighted only by a tiny window at each end.

Randall lay on the dusty wooden floor, his knees pulled up, his arms wrapped around himself, his face, even in shadow, pale and twisted. It was strange to see the heavy, muscled man huddled on the floor, helpless. Lena knelt beside him, her expression unreadable. “What is it? What’s wrong? Were you shot?” She leaned down, looking for blood, her expression half of concern and half of cold satisfaction.

“Not shot,” he mumbled. “The pain . . . Can you get me down the steps? Something’s bad wrong. I think I need a doctor . . . someone that won’t call the cops.”