Cat Spitting Mad

8

A HUNDRED MILES north, in San Francisco, the morning after the Marners' murder, Sunday morning, Kate headed again for the Cat Museum, feeling upbeat and determined.

If she had known about the grisly deaths of Ruthie and Helen Marner, she might not have left her secure apartment.

She hadn't read the paper or turned on the TV or radio since last Saturday, when the headlines so upset her. She didn't care to know any more about Lee Wark or about the local rash of cat killings-but it was silly to put off doing something she wanted badly to do.

She was, after all, only two hours from home, from Molena Point and safety. She could run down there anytime. Ha

Anyway, Lee Wark was probably hundreds of miles from San Francisco. Why would he hide in the city, so close to San Quentin? Why would he stay in California at all, with every police department in the state looking for him? Wark had spent plenty of time in Latin America, likely that was where he'd gone. She had, for no sensible reason, let the newspaper's sensational muckraking terrify her.

Heading up Stockton, walking fast in the fog-eating wind, resisting any smallest urge to turn back, she had gone five blocks and was begi

When she slowed, he slowed.

When she moved faster, he swung along just as quickly, his reflection leaping in the store windows.

He did not resemble Lee Wark; he was very straight rather than slouched, and broader of shoulder than Wark. His black topcoat looked of good quality, over the dark suit, his neatly clipped black beard and expensive hat implying a man of some substance. The very opposite of Wark. A man simply walking to church or to an early appointment, or to work in some business that was open on Sunday, maybe one of the shops near Fisherman's Wharf.

She turned up Russian Hill, disgusted with herself, angry because her heart was tripping too fast; she was letting fear eat at her. Behind her, the man continued on up Stockton, never looking her way. She felt really stupid.

Yet something about him, despite the broad shoulders and beard and nice clothes, left her sick with fear.

Had she caught a glimpse of his eyes beneath the dark brim? Lee Wark's cold gray eyes? She couldn't help it, she was overwhelmed again with that terrible panic.

Maybe she should drive down to the village with Ha

"So we take a week off," Ha

Kate had known Ha

Strange-if Ha

It was Ha

"We have to move somewhere, we're about ready to go into escrow. Twenty million for that Russian Hill property-and the taxes are skyrocketing. And so much pressure from the city-from some friend of the city, you can bet, who wants to build on that land."

Ha

"Did you say McCabe?"

"Yes. You've read about him? He-"

"I… suppose I have. The name's familiar."

Only since she'd moved back to San Francisco had she tried to trace her family, from information the adoption agency was finally willing to release. Her grandfather's name had been McCabe. The agency said he'd been a newspaper columnist and an architect; they said he had not used a first name.

"If we don't find a place soon," Ha

"But I don't need to go there to tell you what I already know."

"You need a vacation."

Ha

Striding up Russian Hill, she saw no more "suspicious" men. The morning was bright, the blowing clouds sending ru

It would be so embarrassing to go back. She hadn't been home since the afternoon she threw her clothes in the car and took off up 101, escaping Lee Wark. And escaping her own husband. It was Jimmie who had paid Wark to kill her. That came out in the trial.

Everyone in the village knew her husband had gone to prison for counterfeiting, for transporting stolen cars, and as accessory to the murder for which Wark had been convicted-and for conspiracy to kill his own wife.

How had San Quentin let those killers escape? How could a maximum security prison be so lax? The three had overpowered a guard, taken him hostage, using prison-made weapons. A garrote made with sharpened silverware from the kitchen and strips of blanket. That must have embarrassed prison authorities. The guard was not expected to live. They had dumped him in a ditch in Sausalito, where authorities thought the men had split up. Two had apparently stolen cars, and may have taken clothes from the charity Dumpster of a local church.

Had Lee Wark come across the Golden Gate bridge into the city? He could have walked across.

Well, he wouldn't go to Molena Point, wouldn't show his face in the village while Max Harper was chief of police. Harper had come down on Wark with a vengeance, had seen that the prosecuting attorney was aware of every dirty detail, every smallest piece of evidence.

I could go back for a few days. So safe at home. And none of my real friends care that Jimmie's in prison-not Wilma, certainly not Clyde.