But maybe it had fooled someone. Turning out of the lot, Gramps had passed two young officers returning on foot to the station. Both had looked right at him. With the scarf tucked up around his beard, and his grisly long hair out of sight, Gramps looked like just another eccentric, another tourist. The rookies looked at him and kept walking, no change of expression, no glance at each other, no quickening of their walk to hurry into the station. Complacent, Joe Grey thought. Harper needed to talk to those guys, shake them up.
But the two cops weren't the only ones to miss something.
Though the two cats couldn't have seen her, and with Gramps's overripe scent they would never have smelled her, the kit passed within feet of them crouched on the floor of the Jaguar. They had no hint that she was huddled behind the driver in the escaping car, shivering with excitement and with fear.
The kit knew Joe and Dulcie were there. From deep in the garden she had watched the old man pull into the lot and had watched him climb to the kid's cell window, had watched the two older cats approach to listen. Downwind from them, she had listened, too, then had beat it for the Jaguar, leaping in while Gramps was still precariously descending the tree. And now she was being borne away who-knew-where, in a car racing way too fast and she couldn't jump out and she was getting pretty scared. Was regretting, not for the first time, what Wilma called her impetuous nature.
"Who from San Andreas?" Joe said, feeling defeated and cross. "Who else besides this Uncle Hurlie? Who was the old man talking about?"
"I don't… There's Ryan's pickup, just pulling in." As Ryan parked and swung out of the truck, the gray dog leaped out too, coming to heel. And Dallas stepped out of the station as if he had been waiting for them.
The detective looked the dog over. "You found this animal? How long was he running loose-five minutes?" The dog watched Dallas brightly, his yellow eyes alight as if he recognized a dog man, a kindred and understanding spirit. Only when Dallas put his arm around Ryan did the weimaraner growl.
Grinning, Dallas stepped away. "Looks like he's found his home." He looked down at Ryan. "You doing okay? You all right about what's ahead of you?"
"I guess. There's nothing I can do about it. Have you… You haven't been in touch with Harper?"
"He called, the murder's been on the San Francisco news. He and Charlie are coming back, canceling the cruise."
"Oh, damn! Because of me. Because of Rupert- and the bombing. Why does this have to spoil their honeymoon?"
Dallas squeezed her shoulder. "One of life's nasty tricks. One big, double calamity, sandwiched in with the good stuff." He knelt and beckoned the dog to him. Not until Ryan released him with a command, did Rock approach, sniffing Dallas's hand. The detective looked up at her. "You're going to keep him."
"I can't, Dallas. I don't…"
"He's pretty protective already, a little work and he could be useful."
"I don't need protection."
He just looked at her.
"Hanni-Hanni loaned me a gun."
"I don't need to know that. You could build a fence up that back hill for him, I'm sure Charlie wouldn't mind."
"Let's go in. I told Hanni I'd meet her up at the Landeau place in an hour, there's some kind of water problem. Leaky skylight, Hanni said."
"You've never installed a leaky skylight."
She tugged on his arm, heading for the station. "I'm losing my nerve. I'm not looking forward to this."
By the time they entered through the bulletproof glass doors, the cats were high in the oak outside the boy's window. Hidden among the leaves, they listened to the scritch of metal against metal as the cell door swung open.
No one spoke. They heard a sudden intake of breath and a doggy huff, then the scrabbling of claws on concrete. Warily they peered down through the bars.
Ryan sat alone on the end of the boy's cot. The boy stood rigid, his back to the wall, staring at her with rage as he held up an arm halfheartedly fending off the dog who, wild with joy, was leaping and pressing against him, his whine soft, his short tail madly wagging. Ignoring him, Curtis's cheek was touched with shine. Was the kid crying-or was that dog spit?
Ryan watched him evenly. "What's his real name, besides Rock?"
"How would I know? He's a stray. Why did you bring him here? What do you mean, his real name?"
"He rode down in the truck with you."
"So he got in the truck. What was I supposed to do, shove him out? And what difference? He don't belong to no one-he don't belong to you."
"He's a beautiful dog. I can see he's your buddy."
"Do I look like he's my buddy? What do you want?"
"He rode down with you, so I figure you're responsible for him. You want him running the streets, hit by a car on the highway? That would be ugly, Curtis."
"So take him home with you."
"I can't keep him. I live in a small apartment, I have no yard for a dog."
"Feed him, he'll stay around."
"I can't let him run loose. If I knew where he lived…"
Curtis just looked at her.
"I could take him back to San Andreas, to his owners, or to the people you were staying with."
No answer. The dog licked Curtis's face then looked past him through me bars, watching someone. In a moment there was a stirring at the cell door, and the air was filled with the smell of hamburgers and fries.
The blond, matronly dispatcher, glancing in at Ryan, handed a large paper bag through the bars. Boy and dog sniffed as one, eyeing the grease-stained bag.
Tearing open the bag, Ryan spread it out on the bunk, revealing four burgers, a box of fries, a large box of onion rings and a tall paper cup that, when the boy began to drink, left a smear of chocolate across his lip. Curtis didn't wait to be asked. Gulping most of the first burger, he slipped a few bites to the dog. Ryan said, "If you can't tell me where he lives, I'll have to take him to the pound."
Curtis glanced around the tiny cell as if thinking the dog could stay there.
"I work all day, Curtis. I can't keep him. Maybe the pound will find him a home before they have to gas him."
For the first time, the boy's defiance faltered. "You looked all over up there for his owner. There's no way you'd take him to the pound."
"I have no choice, unless I can find his owner. I'd drive him back up to San Andreas, to people who'd take care of him, if you'll tell me where. Otherwise it's a cage at the pound and maybe the gas chamber."
"You won't do that."
"Try me. I can't keep him, and I don't know anyone who can. I'd rather take him home. If I have to, I'll call the weimaraner breeder's association. They'd have the name of the registered owner."
The boy nearly flew at her. "You can't! They'll kill him."
"Who would kill him?"
The boy reverted to glaring. Beside him, the dog's brow wrinkled as he looked from one to the other, distressed by their angry voices.
"You want to fill me in, Curtis? Tell me where he belongs?"
"The dog's a stray. I meant-the place I was staying, they… they don't like dogs. They ran him off."
"Where were you staying, Curtis? Who were you staying with?"
Curtis turned his back, and said no more. The cats were nearly bursting, wanting to shout the name Hurlie, burning to tell Ryan about the uncle that the old man wanted so badly kept secret.
Ryan stayed with the boy for perhaps half an hour more, but nothing was forthcoming. She gave up at last and left the cell. The cats could hear her talking with Dallas, out near the dispatcher's cubicle, then their voices faded as if they had headed back to his office. "Maybe," Joe said, "Ryan's cell phone is in the truck, and we can fill them in about Hurlie?"