“He ran right up behind me,” Sam was saying. “Tekla wasn’t here, she—”
“I’d left him for just a few minutes,” Tekla snapped, “left him here in what I thought was a safe place while I ran into the bakery. Does a person have to be on guard every minute in this village? Isn’t there a street patrol? I would think . . .”
Max stared at her with that dry, patient look. The same look as when he was about to strong-arm a drunk.
Joe looked up when Kathleen arrived. Stepping out of her car, she stood a moment taking in the situation; then she adjusted her camera and began to shoot the scene and the surround. Kneeling, the tall, slim detective photographed marks on the sidewalk the wheelchair had gone over, and close-ups of the area of broken flowers in the narrow strip of garden. She took time to lift latent fingerprints from the wheelchair, then photographed Sam and the chair at different angles; she included in her camera range several shots of Tekla’s pant legs. She was fast but careful and precise, covering the area thoroughly.
When Tekla started berating the chief again, Max asked her to step on over with Officer Ray. “She’s nearly finished photographing,” Max said. “She’ll want to interview you. You can wait on that other bench, back along the walk there.”
Tekla looked as if she’d refuse. Scowling, she moved closer to Sam as if to remain protective of him—as if Max or one of the officers might do him bodily harm. Max looked over at Kathleen and nodded.
Turning, Kathleen headed for her car, locked the big camera safely in the trunk. She hung the smaller camera over her shoulder, took Tekla by the arm, and gently ushered the shorter woman back along the walk to the bench. She sat Tekla down with just enough force to prevent her from striking out as she seemed inclined to do. Quickly Joe moved to the back of the cypress tree out of sight and scrambled up. Hidden in the heavy foliage, he slipped out along a branch that arched over the sidewalk nearer to Tekla and Kathleen, where he could listen.
And where, within seconds, Kit came slipping along behind him as if out of nowhere. Feeling the sway of the branch, he glanced back; she peered out at him half hidden, her mottled black-and-brown coat blending into the shaggy cypress. With a flick of her ears, she looked over.
Max was kneeling beside the wheelchair where he could look Sam in the face. “I know you’re shaken, Sam, but can you tell me what happened? Just take your time,” he said gently.
“He hit me so hard. I was sprawled on the ground before I knew what happened,” Sam’s voice was unsteady. “Like Tekla said, she’d gone on a quick errand, left me parked right here in the lane, said she’d only be gone a minute to the bakery. I was looking in the window at those fancy western boots, in plain sight of the busy street, when I was struck so hard from behind I thought a truck hit me.” Sam rubbed at the bandage on his forehead.
“I went sprawling, my wheelchair slid away, I heard someone running. I saw a dark figure running, but I was so dizzy . . .” He looked pitifully at Max, pale and shaken—but anger burned, too, deep in Sam’s eyes, and that shocked Joe. Sam Bleak, so mild and docile, suddenly burned with a cold rage that the tomcat had not seen before.
Max studied Sam with interest. “Did you hear anything before he hit your wheelchair?”
Sam shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing at all, the street was quiet. Then that terrible blow and I went over, I had no way to stop, no way to catch myself.”
“Can you describe the person? Do you remember his clothes? His height? Some idea of age? Was it a man, a boy?”
“A boy,” Sam said, looking directly at Harper. “Tan Windbreaker, I remember that. Old, worn jeans and scuffed leather boots. Running away, running from me so I didn’t see his face but . . . but I know him,” Sam said.
Sam Bleak was silent, looking at Harper. His next words shocked Joe and Kit right down to their paws, made Joe want to leap down and claw Sam’s lying face.
“The boy . . .” Sam said, “the boy . . . was Billy Young.”
Max stood up, narrowly watching Sam. “Are you sure of that?”
“He looked exactly like Billy, and dressed the same. I swear it was Billy Young.”
Max was silent, his look cold and hard. Joe wanted to shout, That’s a lie! What the hell are you up to?
“The boy who flipped me over,” Sam said, “it was Billy Young. That boy who works for Ryan Flannery—that boy who’s too young to be working in a construction crew. Who thinks he’s so smart because he has a grown-up job.”
Joe and Kit looked at each other, fear for Billy sparking between them, fear of what they didn’t understand. Max stood rigid and withdrawn. Maybe only the cats and his fellow cops saw that twitch at the side of his mouth, that quick inner fire that some humans wouldn’t notice. To the cats, even Max’s scent changed, had gone sharp with fury.
Sam felt tenderly at his bandaged forehead. “Same jacket, same clothes,” he repeated. “Running away. I shouted at him to stop, shouted his name.”
Again he was quiet, fingering his bandaged arm. Then, “Why would that boy do such a thing? What did he want? It was then, as I fell, that Tekla came around the corner, saw me tipped over.Tekla saw him, too, Captain Harper.” Sam’s fists clenched in anger. “Tekla knew him. He raced away—up the brick alley and into the next street. Tekla started to pick me up, to pick up the wheelchair, but I told her to go on, try to catch him.
“But he was gone,” Sam said shakily. “Just like those other attacks.” He put his head down on his hands as if he felt dizzy or was still very frightened.
Max glanced at his watch. “And then what happened?”
“I told Tekla to leave me be, in case anything was broken, and she called 911.” He did look pale. But, in truth, this was no more than a hoax, no more than a vicious lie.
“The siren came right away,” Sam said, “the medics’ van. Then more cops while the medics were looking me over, poking and prodding, and one of the cops—that tall one, the first one here, he started taking pictures. The medics kept arguing with me to let them put me in the van, but I didn’t want to go to a hospital, I’ve had enough of that. And then,” Sam said, “you got here, your pickup pulled in to the curb.”
“You’re sure it was Billy Young,” Max said coldly.
“Looked exactly like him. I only glimpsed the side of his face—high, thin cheekbones, brown hair, tan Windbreaker. Same clothes he usually wears,” Sam said, “same Windbreaker, same old, battered boots.”
“I’d like you to come into the station, you’ll need to fill out a report.”
Sam’s frown turned uncertain. He glanced across to where Tekla was deep in conversation with Kathleen Ray, as the detective recorded Tekla’s version on her phone, so the two interviews could be compared.
“If you file a complaint,” Max told Sam, “if you can identify him clearly, you can bring charges. If the boy has attacked others, it’s your responsibility to tell us what you can.”
Above in the cypress tree, Joe and Kit smiled at how cool Max was. The Bleaks had to know that Billy was the chief’s ward, or at least that he lived with the Harpers. So why would they set Billy up? For what possible reason? Simply because Tekla didn’t like Ryan, to get at Ryan through Billy, make them both look bad to Harper?
That didn’t make any sense. And now, as Max pushed Sam with questions, was Sam indeed getting nervous?
Could this all be Tekla’s setup? Had she forced Sam along with it, and now he was losing his resolve?
But then, what was Sam’s anger about? Was that all fake, too?