Free Cat Pay the Devil by Shirley Rousseau Murphy Page B

complacent.
    But there was one thing in her favor. To her knowledge, Cage Jones had never been a killer. Thief, burglar, robber, manipulator. If he’d ever killed, there was no hint of it in his record.
    Well, but she hadn’t dealt with Cage in ten years. Ten years in Terminal Island among the vicious prison gangs—a ten-year hitch for which she and Bennett were largely responsible—could make a big difference in the attitudes of a felon. She felt a shaft of late-afternoon sun strike her face and knew for sure they were moving west; she welcomed for that brief moment the warmth and light through the blindfold.
    When she’d left the last store, heading for her car, the low sun had shone sharply in her eyes. Now, as they traveled west, it would be shining in Cage’s eyes. Too low forthe visor to block the glare? Was he wearing dark glasses? If not, and the sun was half blinding him, could she do something to make him swerve and crash? But the odds of doing that weren’t good. Tied up in her own car, she’d be unable to escape such a wreck.
    Certainly no one was looking for her, not yet. No one in Molena Point would expect her at any given time—except Dulcie, she thought, feeling sad, and yet knowing hope, too. When she didn’t come home, when she hadn’t pulled into the garage by dark, her friends, if they called, would simply think she was delayed, as any woman shopping might be, or that she was in heavy traffic. But Dulcie would be pacing, the little cat would be growing frantic. Knowing Dulcie, it wouldn’t be long until she started raising some hell. She’d call Clyde, then Charlie. One way or another, she’d alert Max Harper. Max would go by the house and, when she didn’t appear long after dark and they couldn’t rouse her on her cell phone, he’d have every cop in northern California looking for her.
    She wasn’t carrying her purse, only a fanny pack; her purse was locked in the trunk, and her phone locked in the glove compartment with her gun. Maybe Cage hadn’t used her key, yet, to gain access, to find her weapon and her phone, and play back her messages. And what was the difference? So someone was worried about her? That would be of little interest to Cage. Let them worry.
    Did anyone else know Cage had escaped? Had it been in the papers, or on the news? In fact, had the jailers themselves done a head count and realized he was gone? Or had he pulled off something so slick that he hadn’t yet come up missing? Slipups could escalate; jails were overcrowded and shorthanded; men traded identities, bought their way out with help from friends. Knowing Cage, that’s what he wouldhave tried. But whatever had come down, or would, right now, Wilma put most of her hope in one lonely and worried little tabby; thoughts of Dulcie stirring up some action helped considerably to soothe her.
    Cage’s window was down, and the hot air grew cooler, the light through the blindfold dimming as evening drew down. When the car took a right off the freeway, she eased up to listen; she could hear less traffic now. Soon they made another turn, and their speed decreased as they climbed up a bumpy road. Sniffing the air, she caught the scent of dry grass, then later of pine and eucalyptus trees, so they had to be heading up into the coastal hills. There was a lot of empty land up there along the higher ridges, above the small horse farms and ranches. Was Cage making for some sparsely populated region where a body could be dumped and maybe never found?
    Oh , Dulcie. If they don’t find me, you mustn’t grieve. I love you. Please , go live with Joe and Clyde , or with Kit and the Greenlaws. Take care of yourself. Please , do what’s best for you. The pine scent was sharper now, carried on a welcome cool breeze that hushed, high above her, through tall trees. There was no longer any light through the blindfold; she rode in darkness, bumping along