Florie Mae said, "Why did Mrs. Duncan call you now? It's been ten days."
"Said she was just so upset, and her and Robert going out every day looking for Rebecca, you know how they've done. She knew the cat was frightened and frantic and she couldn't deal with that too, even if Rebecca did love that cat. It was just all too much, she just opened the door and let the cat go." Martha was crying, it didn't take much for tears of pity or frustration to flow.
"Well, then this morning Mrs. Duncan saw Frances Patterson in the Piggly Wiggly. Frances wasn't sure, but she thought she'd seen Rebecca's cat over near their place, up around the lake. That big round gold spot on her side? She's hard to miss, not another cat like her. Frances goes to church ladies' meeting at Mrs. Duncan's, she's seen Nugget dozens of times. So Mrs. Duncan called me, and I've been looking all day.
"I looked all around the lake, and called—and all up in the woods. I've tramped every garden-place and drove all around the chicken farms, walked around them, lookin'. Near ran out of gas, on the lake road. Let it coast some downhill, and gased up at the Fina. Not a sign of Nugget. But what can you see, if she's hiding? Rebecca raised that cat from a kitten. Makes me feel real bad, cat going all frantic-like."
Martha sipped her tea, then set the glass down. She glanced at Granny, where Granny was rocking little Robert, then looked back at Florie Mae. Looked at her for a long time.
"I have this feeling, Florie Mae. That if I can find Nugget, I'll find Rebecca."
Florie Mae shivered, despite the heat of the closed kitchen. She took Lacie June in her lap, where the little girl had come to lean against her.
"Maybe," Granny said, "if that tomcat's a-bothering the females, maybe Rebecca's cat run off from him."
"Rebecca lives clear across town," Florie Mae said. "That tomcat's been hanging out in our yard like his paws are stuck in tar."
Martha rose to stand at the window, looking out the back where the cat trap stood bungied open, with a dab of fresh food inside. She stood looking for some time, then stiffened suddenly, made a little gesture to Florie Mae.
Florie Mae rose carefully, without a sound, staying out of sight of the trap, slipping toward the window to the side of the curtain.
Night was falling, the storm gone, the concrete yard and shed all in twilight colors as soft as goose-down. Looking around the open curtain she saw him, a dark animal deep inside the cage, saw him eating of the bait in the open trap. She glanced at Martha. They watched him finish up the small amount of food, watched him pause to take a couple of paw-licks at his whiskers, insolent and confident, certain he was safe in there. He padded on out of the trap yawning, strolling slow and easy like that cage was no more threatening than someone's garbage can.
"Tomorrow," Martha whispered, grinning. "It's time. You can set the trap tomorrow night."
"If nothing else happens," Florie Mae breathed. "If nothing else bad happens." Because you couldn't go running off, once you'd set the trap. You had to stay and watch it. Had to make sure the cat had sprung it, then go right out and cover it. Else the cat would tear up his face, banging into the wire fighting to get out. Tear itself up so bad the vet would have to kill it. Martha never left her traps unattended, she'd always hide somewhere or sit in her truck. Run out the minute the trap was sprung and cover it with towels, leave just a little air space. That way, the cat wouldn't fight the cage. She never left water inside, or wet food. Martha had probably spent half her life sitting in lonely places watching cat-traps. Twenty Atlanta cats to her credit. And fifteen in Greeley that Dr. Mackay had "fixed," all of those for free. Fix 'em, turn 'em loose to live out their lives without making any more kittens. Florie Mae was about to step away from the window when a long shadow moved in darkness between the sheds. The tomcat leaped away at the subtle shift of shadows, vanished in the blackness as if it had never been there.
And the shadow vanished, too, melting away between the sheds. The shadow of a man. Spinning away from the window, Florie Mae snatched up the phone. Surely one sheriff's deputy had stayed behind, surely they hadn't all gone off searching for Susan Slattery. Dialing, she watched Granny unlock the gun closet. Quick as lightning the old lady had that shotgun loaded. Granny had her hand on the back door knob when Florie Mae put the phone down. "Wait. Wait, Granny." She stood seeing that quick glimpse, that shadow that might be an intruder, and might not. A hunched shadow? A thin, hunched figure?
Or was it all a trick of the night? She didn't want to call out a deputy if that was Lester out there.
But how could it be? Lester had gone with the men.
Martha moved away from the window, sliding into her leather jacket. "I'd best get home," she said uncertainly, staring toward the window and picking up her keys.
"Stay with us," Florie Mae said, and her plea was more than the common politeness that folk used to let you know you were welcome. "Don't go out there, Martha. Don't try to go home." She lifted the phone again, dialing the sheriff.
Within three minutes, Deputy McFarland was parking his unit by the side door. McFarland was fifty, brown hair with a military cut, pale green eyes, a skinny man with only the slightest hint of the typical sheriff's gut from too many meals at Elmer's Home Cooked Cafe. McFarland was a quarter Cherokee with a steady way of dealing with life, an easy grin that made everyone warm to him. Coming into the kitchen, he got the picture quickly; and he went on out the back.
From the window they watched him moving along between the storage sheds shining his powerful light into the shadows, checking the locks on the shed doors and on the gate on the nursery fence, a fence James had built to keep out deer and petty thieves. Some folk would steal anything, even tomato plants. McFarland circled the store, too, and looked all around inside then walked through the children's play yard. He went through the house upstairs, stepping quietly among the sleeping babies.
Back in the kitchen he glanced at Granny's shotgun with no more surprise than seeing the old woman sewing doll clothes. McFarland had knowed Granny forever and knowed she wasn't foolish. He told Martha he'd drive home behind her, but Martha took one look at Florie Mae's white face and said she'd stay the night. They weren't sure someone had been there; maybe what Florie Mae saw was only shadows. But they were sure enough to be scared.
By ten, Martha had called her mother, had helped Florie Mae change the sheets on the big double bed, and had gone 'round with her to kiss the sleeping children. Despite the heat, Florie Mae closed and locked the children's windows, that had been open all evening. Feeling foolish, she looked in the closets and under the beds, she was that nervous. Pulling the children's thin top covers off, to let them sleep just under the sheet, she stood looking down at her babies with a silent prayer that they were safe, and that they would remain safe.
Martha knew what she was thinking. "Might be, a man who hurts young women won't bother with children. But," she said, grinning, "I'm glad your granny loaded her shotgun. Wish I had me one."
Florie Mae went downstairs, checked the locks, and, again feeling foolish, she got the poker and tongs from the fireplace. Wiping off the soot, she went upstairs again to find a clean robe for Martha, and pajamas, and to get her a towel and washcloth. Granny had taken her shotgun to bed, propping a chair against her bedroom door so not to be surprised by a curious Bobbie Lee before she was properly awake in the morning. By eleven, Martha and Florie Mae were snuggled in bed the way they used to do when they were little girls.