Driven away in her car, or in the other one? For a moment, she banked all hope on the quick reactions of one small cat, praying Dulcie had seen the car, that she had reported her car stolen or seen the license number of the other car and called the station.
But that was too bizarre, a far too timely solution to a messy situation. Too much wishful thinking. Still, if Dulcie had made the car, there were police patrols all over the village, and the station was just blocks away. One of Harper’s units might have been able to find and follow Cage.
Awash in panic because, very likely, no one knew where she was, and no one was going to know, she ceased her awkward search for a knife and uselessly fought her bonds again, jerking and struggling as she listened to the footsteps overhead, soft shoes or slippers padding around on a hard floor. She looked for a place to hide, certain that every time she moved the chair, whoever was there would hear the awkward thumping.
The windows were growing dark; when night fell, the woods and yard and inside the cabin would be black as sin; there would be no moonlight to seep in among the masses of tall, dense pines. If whoever was there came downstairs in the pitch-black dark, when she couldn’t see them…
Bending awkwardly to fight open the lowest drawer behind her, conscious of every small scrape and thump as she tilted and rummaged trying not to lose her balance, she searched with increased panic for a weapon to free herself.
Indeed, in the low attic room above Wilma someone heard her struggles and visualized what she might be doing down there, someone who moved softly about the dim room, someone filled with questions, with fear, and perhaps with a cold, hidden rage.
And from outside the house, others, too, watched Wilma, observing her through the window as she fought for her freedom: Three small, wild beings looked down from the stickery branches of a pine tree and in through the dusty window, watching the captive woman struggle.
The pale calico looked at her companions. “I know her. That’s Wilma, that’s Dulcie’s Wilma.” Amazed and puzzled, Willow slipped around the pine’s dry trunk to its far side where the tall, gray-haired woman wouldn’t glimpse her, wouldn’t see in the gathering night, her pale calico coat gleaming. Both she and white Cotton would stand out now, easy to observe. Only Coyote with his dark brown-striped coat would blend into the night’s shadows.
But Coyote was saying, “You never saw Dulcie’s Wilma,” and the big, dark cat lashed his tail with disgust, his long, tufted ears flicking with annoyance.
“I know her from how Kit described her,” Willow said. “You heard her, Cotton heard her.” She looked at white Cotton, but that tom remained silent.
“No one can know a human from a description,” Coyote said. “There could be hundreds like that.”
“There are not hundreds like her! I do know her,” Willow hissed. “You think humans are all alike? She’s tall and slim, she has long silver hair. Look at her, her hair tied back with a silver clip. Jeans and a red sweatshirt. All exactly the way Dulcie said.” She glared at the dark long-haired tom whose black face stripes and tall ears made him resemble a small coyote. “I’m not stupid!” Willow snapped. “I know Dulcie’s Wilma.”
Coyote looked back at her uncertainly. Maybe she did know, who was he to say? He knew little enough about human creatures.
But it was Cotton who crept closer along the branch and looked in at Wilma for the longest time, saying nothing. And then, with a flick of his tail and a twitch of his ears he leaped away into the undergrowth; when Willow called softly after him, he said over his shouder, “Hunting. I’m going to hunt.”
“But-”
“What do I care for humans and their senseless problems?” And with that, Cotton was gone. Willow looked after him, hurt and disappointed.
But again, Willow peered around through the branches at Wilma, her bleached calico coat ghostly against the dark trunk. “Those men not only tied her to a chair, they blindfolded her. Well, but she’s gotten that off! Good for her! But what do they want with her?” She looked hard at Coyote. “How rude Cotton was! We have to help her, we have to free her.”
“I don’t-”
“Just like Kit freed us!” Willow hissed. “It’s payback time, Coyote. Couldn’t Cotton see that? We have to free her before they hurt her!”
Coyote stared at her, his ears back stubbornly. And Willow, swallowing, knew she had spoken too directly. It hadn’t taken much to send Cotton off. If she got Coyote’s back up, he’d leave, too, and she’d have no help at all.
Coyote was a good cat. So was Cotton. They just didn’t find any value in humans. Neither tom trusted humans, and with good reason.
Most of their band felt no connection to humans. They had all grown up feral, wild and wary, keeping to themselves. Well, maybe she was glad Cotton had gone. The white cat was so bossy, always wanted to do everything his way. At least Coyote was gentler; and Coyote had a deep social feeling for their own kind, a love of their own wild rituals. Maybe she could play on that. Maybe she could manipulate Coyote into helping-if only she knew what to do, knew how to help.
But there wasn’t much time. Those men might soon be back. If they’re coming back, she thought. She was all nerves, watching Wilma struggle. With that chair tied to her, the tall lady could hardly turn. Willow could see the knives that Wilma hadn’t found, she wanted to tell her where, to leap in and touch her hand with a soft paw and guide her.
But she could not; she could not bring herself to try the things Dulcie and Kit took for granted; she dare not try to open that window, or go voluntarily into a human’s house. Instead, she turned a limpid gaze on Coyote. “We were in that cage two weeks, captive, just like she’s captive now. I thought we’d never get out. Her friends helped get us free.
“I was so scared, locked in there,” she said, trembling. “We all three were. Now she’s trapped like we were, and she doesn’t even have anything to eat, like we did. Or any water until she managed to turn on the faucet.” She looked hard at the dark, striped tom. “She’s brave, Coyote. She’s a fighter-as strong and brave as a cat herself.”
Coyote watched her narrowly. “So? What can we do?”
“It was her friends who saved us,” Willow repeated. “It was her friend, Joe’s Grey’s human, who cut off the lock for us. We can’t leave Dulcie’s Wilma. How could we? But, how can we help her?”
Finding the blade of a long butcher knife, Wilma cut her finger. Swearing under her breath, she felt for the handle, then, bending and twisting, nearly dislocating her spine, she pulled it to her and hauled it out.
With the big knife securely in hand, she was twisting it around with the blade toward her bound wrists when she heard the overhead floor creaking, louder, then footsteps approached, echoing hollowly, as if coming down hidden wooden steps.
It sounded like the stairs might be behind the stone wall where the woodstove crouched. Frantically she cut at her bonds-and of course cut herself again, she could feel the slick blood. Angry at her clumsiness, and shaky with her effort to sever the rope, she was looking directly at the stone wall when a figure emerged from behind it.
A small figure, stepping hesitantly. A woman, young and pale and as insubstantial appearing as a ghost. A frail and displaced-looking creature, stick thin, dressed in an oversized man’s shirt and a long, faded skirt from which her white ankles protruded like two bones. White feet shod in worn leather sandals. She stood looking at Wilma, then slowly approached; and even in the gathering shadows, Wilma could see her fear, her eyes wide in the fading light. She said no word; she watched Wilma warily, then focused on the knife Wilma clutched behind her; she reached gently out to Wilma, as if meaning to cut her bonds-and jerked the knife away. Snatched it roughly from her hands and backed away fiercely clutching it, her eyes hard now.