Cat Found Page 7

  So did the chapel bell.

  That was a long time ago. The town grew and grew, and pretty soon the preacher’s old house was just another house on Haven Street. Over the years it passed from owner to owner. They tossed trash down the coal chute — rusty engine parts, leftover garden brick, even the seat of an old Ford sedan. The last owner threw some boards over the hole and built a veranda on top.

  Now Conga ran under the deck and crawled between the rotten boards. She skittered down the chute and dropped her kitten into the foam spilling from the car seat. Then she whirled around and headed back to fetch the other two. By the time she left the chapel yard with her third kitten, she was getting tired. She lost her footing and bounced off the fence. Looking for an easier jump, she crossed under the mulberry tree by the old plant pot.

  The smell of death waited there.

  Conga stopped with her young one in her mouth. She sneered at the blood stuck to the edge of the pottery. When she crouched, she could see the still body of the white cat inside the dark interior. She could sense the tiny shape huddled close.

  It was dying.

  Conga jumped the fence surely. She took her third kitten to the coal cellar and tucked it between the others. As soon as it was safely stowed, she headed up the chute and streaked back across the yard.

  There was no time to lose.

  She was a mother.

  And there was one more baby out there.

  TWENTY

  Luke found Snowflake in a pool of blood. By the time Billy arrived, he was holding the white cat in his arms.

  “Shot dead,” Luke said. “Her little ones never saw the light of day.”

  Billy looked down at the quiet cat tucked into Luke’s arms. He swung his eyes up to the door in the chapel loft. It was wide open.

  “Conga!” he cried. He clambered up to the stable roof. One of the old rafters split under the pounding and the raw edge clawed his leg, but he pulled himself free and up to the balcony. The loft was empty and so was the rest of the church. Billy ran back out to the landing. “Luke, she’s gone! Conga’s gone. And the kittens, too.”

  The two boys stood there staring at each other across the quiet churchyard.

  The sun shone brightly. Waves of heat shimmered in the August air. The gray tom crawled out of a crate and lumbered up to the top of his castle. The other cats slipped from their nests. Scat sat up in the manger. As soon as the tom started yowling, every cat joined the chorus. They lifted their clear eyes and their wild hearts to the blue sky and the shiny sun. They cried, too.

  It made a woeful noise.

  “I’ll get a shovel,” said Luke. “And bury this one. You go look for your cat.”

  Billy ran down every alleyway along Main Street. “Conga,” he pleaded. “Here, girl, where are you?” He looked for a flash of white behind the trash cans, or a twist of bronze and black among the weeds. “Conga!” he cried. Wherever he went, cats spilled out of shrubs and sheds. They dropped from branches and sills. But Conga wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere. Down the alley next to the Lebanese restaurant, Billy climbed through the gap in the boards onto Haven Street. He checked the yards of the houses along the fence line, and zigzagged through the parking lot of the supermarket. He even peered under the veranda of the house behind the chapel. “Conga!” he called. “Conga, are you there?”

  Deep in the earth, Conga nudged her kittens close. She pricked up her ears. She thought she heard a familiar voice on the wind. But the old coal chute turned around the sound.

  And the cellar was full of the smell of coal.

  By the time Billy got to the apartment, his dad was slumped over a plate of dinner. “It’s about time you got home,” his dad said. He shoved the food back and forth. “Your mother went to the library in a huff. It doesn’t take much to set her off these days. At least that fool course is over this week.” He scratched his head.

  There was leftover steak-and-kidney pie on the table. The look of it made Billy feel sick.

  Maybe his father felt the same way. He pushed his plate away. “Roundup of the strays starts the day after tomorrow,” he went on. “I aim to trap that gray tom. You can help me. Maybe I’ll finally get a decent night’s sleep.”

  Billy opened his mouth. “I’m not killing any cats!” he yelled.

  Too bad he yelled the words inside his head. His father never heard a sound.

  When his mom came home, his dad went out to the pub. Billy waited until his mom shut her bedroom door. Then he snuck down the back stairs and ran to the chapel yard.

  Luke was waiting. “No sign of your cat,” he said to Billy. “I put food up there on the balcony.” He gave his friend a shrug. “No sense in fretting. Conga’s a smart one. She’ll be all right. I say she’s just holing out till she’s sure her kittens are safe. We can look again in the morning, first light. We’ll find her.”

  Billy swallowed hard.

  On the way home, Billy saw his dad. He was outside the pub having a talk with some of his friends. Billy stuck to the shadows and crossed the street. He pressed his ear alongside the brick wall of the pub alley and listened.

  “I tell you this, boys,” his dad was saying. “Some people in the town don’t like the cat roundup. Most of them live in the new homes on the north side. They don’t have to listen to caterwauling night after night around the trash cans and the back fences. The cats don’t do their business in their yards. Now you and I know that the fancy folk don’t like the strays any more than we do. But they want the problem to go away nicey, nicey. They don’t want their conscience giving them back talk. That being the case, it’s best not to talk about the roundup too much. Once the cats are gone, everyone will see the benefits.”

  “Walter Reddick,” one of the men laughed, “you oughta run for councillor. You’ve got a head for politics.”

  “Don’t know why there’ll be any fuss,” complained someone else. “Cats are only good to kick or throw down the stairs.”

  Another man piped up. “I say we shoot the things ourselves. Do it quick. The money saved can go to the homeless shelter. That should shut up the wimpy folk. And the streets will be rid of them pests. You know,” he paused, “all this talk’s given me an idea. I’ve a mind to do a little cat hunting tomorrow before the roundup starts. Take my boy and a BB gun. The chapel alley is a good place to start. Them devils got no right to be haunting a church’s backyard.”

  Billy sucked in his breath. He pressed closer to the pub wall.

  “Good idea,” somebody else said. “I might do the same.”

  “Best keep on the right side of the law,” Billy’s dad warned. “That said, we’re not out of the woods yet. The cat lovers are putting pressure on the mayor. He might cave before the roundup begins. No telling if he’ll call it off. We’ll see how it goes.” He started off down the street. “You boys have a good night.”

  Billy missed the last part. He had already scooted across the street ahead of his dad. Once he was home, he sat in his room in the dark with his air rifle in his lap. As soon as his dad went to bed, he went down the back stairs again. The rifle went, too.

  At the chapel yard, Billy put his birthday present in the manger. He threw some leaves over it. “Scat,” he said when the pint-sized fur ball hissed at him. “You take care of that rifle for me.”

  Billy headed out.

  No one was going to shoot Conga.

  Maybe his dad was right. Maybe a man needed a gun to protect what was his.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Billy climbed the fire escape behind the hardware store and banged on the window.

  Luke came out to the landing. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “I saw your light,” Billy said. “Let me in.”

  Luke opened the window to let Billy inside. Billy didn’t take notice of the room — the old glass jars and tin figures, the giant wooden barometer and the stacks of worn books. But the church plonked in the middle of the floor got his attention. The church was a miniature replica of the real
Main Street Chapel. The tiny double doors were pinned open. A hand bell hung from the tower. And a stained-glass window decorated the gable.

  The whole thing hardly came up to his waist. “What’s that?” Billy said.

  “It’s my project,” Luke replied.

  Billy bent down to take a closer look. Some of the glass pieces were pink.

  “Cool,” Billy said. He straightened up. “But you’ve got to listen, Luke. There’s other stuff to talk about — stuff we have to take care of right now. My dad’s friends want to shoot the cats in the chapel yard tomorrow night. And the roundup is scheduled for the day after. I’m going to put a stop to all of it. Conga’s still out there. You’ve got to help me.” He ran over to the window and peered out.

  “There’s nothing there,” Luke said. “You think Conga is on my fire escape?”

  “I’m looking for Salome,” Billy said. “The hardware store under you is right beside her grandmother’s garden. And the fire escape goes on up to the shop roof. I bet Salome climbs right past your window every night. Matter of fact” — he flung the door open — “she’s here right now! “

  The light caught Salome red-handed on a rung of the ladder.

  “About time you showed up!” Billy declared.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Salome muttered, “will you please stop opening doors like that!” She leaned against the railing and glanced past Billy. Her eyes settled on Luke.

  He stared back.

  “What are you two gaping at?” said Billy. “You already know each other.”

  Luke threw up his hands. “Might as well come in,” he grumbled to Salome. “The kid’s gone crazy.”

  “Hurry up,” Billy declared, shutting the door behind her. “Snowflake is dead. Conga and her kittens are gone. We’ve got to stop the roundup — the three of us. We have to do it tonight. I’ve got an idea. Listen!”

  Billy Reddick must have learned a thing or two from his dad. Luke and Salome paid attention. When Billy finished talking, they both nodded. His plan made sense.

  “There’s a copier at the back of the hardware store,” Luke said. “It’s full of paper. And I’ve got a key.”

  Salome patted her bag. “I’ve got my pencils. I guess they’ll plug those guns, all right.” She winked. “And the windows in the City Hall dome are pure invitation.”

  The light in Luke Malone’s rooms stayed on all night. At four in the morning, three dark figures stole down Main Street. Two of them paused at each shop window. The third one hotfooted around the back of City Hall and climbed toward the windows of the dome.

  By six o’clock in the morning, the posters taped to the Main Street shops had already attracted attention. A small crowd gathered around City Hall. People pointed up at the window of the mayor’s office. Some of them laughed. Others shook their fists.

  A phone call got the mayor out of bed. “You’d better get downtown,” one of the councillors insisted. “There’s a big sign plastered against the inside glass of your office window. No one can get at it. The caretaker’s key is gone from the hook. And you’ve got the only other one.”

  The mayor grabbed his trousers and threw on yesterday’s shirt. He drove over to City Hall in a fury. Local reporters were already at the scene. A news van from the big city pulled up in front of the main doors as the mayor arrived. Someone snapped his picture.

  The mayor looked up to his second-floor office. He glared at the banner plastered in his window. It was a pointed piece of work. Dead cats were pinned by the neck to a laundry line. A five-dollar price tag hung from each tail. The mayor, decked out in his official robes, was drawn at the front of the line. He had a paper bag over his head. Two kittens cowered in the cage at his feet.

  There were words scrawled across the top of the banner in bold letters:

  Clydesdale’s Shame!

  The mayor fumbled in his pocket for his office key and shoved it at the morning cleaner. “Luke! Get up there, would you, and open my office! Peel that thing off my window before we have the whole town down here taking pictures. Who got in last night anyway? Don’t we lock the front doors?”

  Luke shrugged. “Night caretaker checked them all, same as usual. The only way to get inside would be through one of the windows in the dome. They don’t lock anymore. But who’d be up there in the middle of the night?”

  Officer Jean was part of the gathering crowd. Luke’s comment set off an alarm bell in her brain. She shook her head. She was being silly. Life was full of coincidences. Salome had checked in that morning, same as every other day. The girl was clearly over her roving ways.

  One of the reporters shoved a mike up to the mayor’s mouth. “Does Your Honor intend to react to this protest? Or will the council let the roundup stand?”

  The mayor opened his mouth before he saw the trap. No matter what he said, half of the crowd would object. He was looking at the makings of a mutiny.

  So he stood there with his mouth half open.

  “What’sa matter?” said the bag lady with the filthy sweaters and the flip-flops. She pushed past with a battered shopping cart. “Cat got yer tongue?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Walter Reddick was on the roof of the house behind the chapel by six thirty that morning. The owners needed a layer of new shingles. It was an all-day job, and Billy’s dad wanted an early start.

  The morning breathed as gently as a baby. Reddick angled shingles over the flashing and tacked them securely. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky — not unless you counted the lavender shadow suspended beyond the old chapel bell tower.

  His wife had sent him to work with a packed lunch. Reddick had been surprised when Mae had slapped the tin lunch box on the counter. She didn’t make sandwiches for him much anymore.

  “My exam’s today,” she’d said. “It’s just as well. I’m all studied out. And the math hasn’t gotten one bit easier.”

  Reddick spat out a tack and hammered it into the roof. It had been a tough summer on the home front. He and Mae didn’t talk together much anymore, not unless one of them sparked an argument. Not so long ago, they could swap stories all night, and he missed it — the talking, that is. It was his fault, if you got right down to it. He’d given Mae a hard time about her schooling all summer. And Billy had gotten caught in the middle.

  You had to hand it to Mae, Reddick thought grudgingly. She stuck to things. If she found a good job because of it, the extra money would benefit the whole family. He hiked up the roof a mite. “Guess I could back off,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t hurt none.” He eyed the box of sandwiches and frowned. He hadn’t thanked Mae for the work. He’d do that when he got home.

  Reddick whacked another tack and mulled some more. He and Billy hadn’t been getting on, either. The rifle lessons hadn’t helped them connect. Billy could hit a target now, no doubt about it. But whenever there was talk of hunting, the boy shut down. Reddick wiped the sweat from his forehead. The boy was a lot like his mother. Both of them were too soft for their own good. Why, guns built the country! A man without a gun was no more able to protect his family than a newborn babe.

  Man needs respect, he thought. He remembered Mae’s words then, words spoken during one of his rants: “You have to respect my ideas, too.”

  Maybe she was right, Reddick decided. And maybe that went for Billy as well.

  “What do you think of all the folderol?” he said out loud to the wandering cloud.

  The shadow in the sky drifted closer. By the time it stopped moving, it was nigh over Reddick’s head. Purple bruised the edges. Reddick undid a button or two and leaned back against the old antenna fastened to the roof. The shade was welcome. A few more shingles and he would climb down the ladder for Mae’s sandwich.

  His glance slid over to the lunch box on the patio table.

  A cat sat studying it.

  Reddick squinted at the cat. It didn’t look like your typical stray. It was more like a small leopard, all black and golden. “Give it a go, you fool critter,” he jeered from his
perch on the roof. “That lunch box’s made of tin. You bring a can opener?” He raised his arm and aimed his thumb. He pretended to shoot.

  The cat ignored the taunts. She just sat there studying the box. Reddick rested back against the metal tower and shut his eyes. Too bad he didn’t pay attention to the cloud overhead. Too bad he didn’t notice it was filling up with dark rain.

  “Yowl!” the cat cried out.

  Reddick opened one eye a fraction. “What’s the matter, cat? There’s some reason you need my attention?” He watched her studying the box. Then he leaned into the antenna and went back to dozing.

  “Yowl!” the cat cried again.

  “Tarnation,” Reddick complained. “I can’t even grab a catnap with all the distraction.” He opened both eyes.

  The cat was sniffing the sides of the lunch box. Slowly she began to circle, nosing one side of the tin. She looked up to make sure the man on the roof was watching. Then one bronze paw gave the box a poke.

  Reddick tensed. “I’d be out hunting for a new town if I were you,” he yelled, “instead of trying to nab my lunch! This time tomorrow, you’ll be behind bars.”

  His threat fell on deaf ears. The cat had focused on her prey. She nudged the box against a crooked slat in the table. As soon as it caught, she shoved the latch sideways with her paw. Presto! The lunch box swung open.

  “Blast it!” Reddick swore. He scrambled to his knees away from the antenna — away from the metal rails. He let go.

  So did the cloud. It had stretched as much as it could. Now it cracked apart.

  Maybe it was the heat bouncing off the peak of the roof. Or maybe Reddick’s rage ignited the cloud. Whatever the reason, a thread of lightning cut a crooked path through the hot air and zeroed in on the antenna. It struck with enough voltage to snap the metal in two. White-hot flames blazed up.