I was alone with my cats again. Alone and worried about human children who needed help in a burning house. Plus I was a little frustrated. I understood why Tom couldn’t get me hooked up to the police station when he finished the job at one a.m., but I sure wished he’d been able to do so this morning. He probably felt entitled to sleep late after working into the wee hours. Just my luck.
I took a calming breath and then remembered the cameras. They weren’t connected to the alarm box. And unless this malicious person had smashed all my cameras, too, I might find something important on my computer. Yup. My cell phone feed was limited, but the computer kept the recordings of everything.
I hurried to my office. Merlot loped ahead and beat me there, with Chablis not far behind. Whatever had gone on apparently hadn’t upset them as much as last time, and I was thankful for that.
Both cats jumped on the double-stacked barrister-style bookcases to get a good view as I sat at my desk. It was set catty-corner to the case—and it needed to be catty-corner so the kitties would have a place to watch me. Otherwise they’d plant themselves on top of the hard-drive tower or the other tall bookshelf. But Merlot wasn’t happy sharing space and swatted poor Chablis on the nose. She jumped from the table onto the keyboard. I’d just started booting up, and her landing did strange things to the start-up screen.
I was forced to turn off the computer, put Chablis in my lap, start the whole procedure over and still try to stay composed enough to remember all the steps to bring up the camera feeds.
At first I couldn’t figure out how to get to the stored video rather than the live feed currently recording my empty living room. Chablis was ready to help, and I had to grab her playful paw right before she shut me down again. Then I remembered the file Tom had set up on my computer desktop. I clicked on the icon and chose the last hour’s worth of video, hoping I could discover exactly what went on when my poor control panel met the business side of a hammer.
And there it was. On feed number two. First the alarm shrieking, then the back door opening. But the stupid camera was positioned too low and too far to the left. I must have moved it inadvertently when I made coffee this morning—it was in a potted plant right by the coffee canister. Then I saw a dark-clad figure taking a mallet to the control panel. The time stamp read 10:37 a.m.
I’d been chatting with Belle while this—this miserable excuse for a person broke into my kitchen. Trouble was, all I could see was an arm and a gloved hand. Small hand. A woman? Why had I been thinking all along that the perp was a man?
But I was getting excited. Surely I hadn’t missed every shot of this person—not with all the cameras Tom had installed. I switched to the living room—feed number four. Merlot came into the small video square at full speed, and behind him raced the intruder complete with ski mask.
I watched the lamp crash to the floor when the person knocked it over with an elbow as he or she chased my cat. Then they came back into view running from the other direction, Merlot not even at full speed.
The scene reminded me of something Charlie Chaplin or Jackie Chan might have choreographed. I glanced over at my hero Merlot and gave him a thumbs-up.He closed his eyes, his expression saying, “I am a ninja warrior. My evasive actions are quite effective.”
Seeing the stranger in relation to Merlot, I decided the height as well as the stride was definitely male. But those small hands . . .
I rewound and looked at the intruder’s feet. Small feet, too. Feet very much like I’d seen yesterday.
I stood so abruptly that poor Chablis ended up hanging on to my thighs for dear life. I hardly felt the pain of her claws digging into my flesh.
I pried her loose, held her to my face and kissed her nose. “I have to see a man about a cat. Right now. A man who must have gotten greedy after he’d had time to think about two more beautiful cats living here.”
Minutes later, I was in the minivan on my way to Flake Wilkerson’s house. But after only a few seconds on the road, I thought twice about confronting him alone. He’d had the audacity to break into my house not once, but probably twice, and as was evidenced yesterday, he was a hateful man. Plus the police were definitely tied up and might be for a while.
But I wanted my cat back in the worst way, and I was sure I knew where to find Syrah.
I reached over and grabbed my phone. Tom Stewart answered on the second ring.
“Guess what,” I said.
“I know,” he answered. “You called the police and figured out you’re not connected yet. I’m sorry I didn’t get the hookup done. I planned to call you as soon as—”
“We can sort through that later. Meet me at Flake Wilkerson’s house right now. I’m certain he has my cat, and I need you to help me deal with this situation. I’d already thought about hiring you to find Syrah anyway and now it’s settled. We can talk about money later. Do you need directions to the Pink House?”
“I don’t, but—”
“This is important. Five minutes.”
“Can you give me a little more time than—”
“Five minutes.” I snapped the phone closed.
I took a deep breath and smiled, certain I was about to be reunited with Syrah. But the time it took to get to Wilkerson’s house seemed like forever. I was hoping Tom would beat me there, but his van wasn’t in the driveway when I arrived. I parked on the street close to the ditch, not willing to walk up to that front door alone.
My gorgeous Syrah came walking down the driveway away from the house, his distinctive meow—the one I hear when he gets himself stuck behind something or locked in a closet—loud and clear. He was calling for me.
Worried that I might spook him, I left my van as quietly and carefully as possible, crouched at the end of the driveway and whispered his name. He stopped and looked at me, all thirty-two muscles in his ears working. He cocked his head, meowed again. I know every single one of his special sounds, but I didn’t recognize this one. He sounded . . . well, demanding.
Then he turned and scurried back toward the house.
“Syrah. Come here, baby,” I called, running after him.
At the open back door, Syrah had stopped, back arched, his body pressed against the doorframe and his wonderful big ears twitching. I reached out with both arms, thinking he would jump into them like he always does, but instead he slipped inside the house.
I stood there, surprised. What the heck was going on?
The shiver of fear that ran up both arms almost stopped me, but rescuing my cat overrode common sense. I went up two concrete steps leading to the door, halted on the stoop and used one finger to open it wider.
“Mr. Wilkerson, your door is open,” I called.
I knelt and called Syrah’s name, hoping he’d come back. Then I could grab him and race to my van. But instead of seeing Syrah coming back to me, I saw a few tiny, rusty-colored pawprints on the kitchen tile in front of me.
Blood? Oh my God. Was Syrah injured?
Those sticky-looking pawprints drew me into the kitchen when Syrah did not come bounding back. Where the heck had he gone? He knew I’d help him if he was hurt.
The kitchen was gloomy gray, and the fear that had taken hold in my gut felt like a hand twisting my insides. Announcing my presence wasn’t exactly the most brilliant thing I’d done today. I looked back at the open back door. Where the heck was Tom? I needed him this instant.
Leaving might have been a wise choice, but I couldn’t. Not before I found Syrah. I wished I could call Candace, but she was definitely tied up. Besides, why would the police be interested in an injured cat whose feet bled a little on an eccentric old man’s kitchen floor?
