Free Cat Bearing Gifts by Shirley Rousseau Murphy Page B

as hell she was going to find the money. Sammie’d told Birely, long ago, that she’d split the cash up, that she hadn’t hid it all in one place. Sammie must have wanted Birely to have it, to tell him that—maybe wanted him to know about it, but not know too much, in case he turned greedy before she passed on, and came looking, nosing around maybe egged on by some “friend” he’d met on the road, Vic thought with a smile. Birely never was one to see he was being used. If she’d wanted Birely to have the money, but not while she was still around, she must’ve meant him to have the house, too. But something made her change her mind, and she wrote that will to the Warren woman instead. It didn’t make sense, but people seldom made sense. He was just pulling off the street onto the dirt lane that led back through the woods to the stone building when the cell phone rang, the phone he’d taken off that old guy. It began to gong like a church bell. Birely sat up rigid, groaning with pain, staring around him like he thought he was about to receive the last rites. He came fully awake and grabbed up the phone.
    â€œDon’t answer it,” Vic snapped. “Don’t answer the damn thing.” But Birely, groping, must have hit the speaker button.
    â€œI didn’t answer it,” he said. “I just . . .” A man’s voice came on, soft and quiet. “Pedric? Pedric, is that you?”
    â€œI told you not to answer.”
    â€œI didn’t, I only picked it up. What . . . ?”
    â€œYou punched something. Hang up.” Vic grabbed the phone from him.
    â€œYou picked up!” the caller shouted. “Say something. Pedric ? Is this Pedric?”
    Vic stopped the car among the trees, couldn’t figure out how to turn the damn phone off.
    â€œWhere’s Pedric?” the voice shouted. “ Pedric, are you all right? If this isn’t Pedric, who are you? Where’s Lucinda?” Vic started punching buttons. The screen came to life rolling through all kinds of commands, but the voice kept on. “Who is this? Why do you have Pedric’s phone? Where’s Lucinda? Speak up or I call the cops, they’ll put a trace on you!”
    â€œSure it’s me,” Vic said. “Who did you expect?”
    There was a short silence. “ This isn’t Pedric. I want to talk to Pedric.”
    Holding the phone, he wondered if the cops could use it to trace their location. Maybe some departments had the equipment to do that, he didn’t know. But this little burg? Not likely. He tried to recall the soft, raspy voice of the man he had hit with the tire iron. Uptight-looking old guy, neatly dressed, tan sport coat, white hair in a short, military cut, white shirt and proper tie. Lowering his voice, he tried to use proper English, like the old guy would. “Of course this is Pedric, who else would have my phone? Could you tell me who is calling? We seem to have a bad connection.”
    There was a long silence at the other end. The caller said no more. Vic heard him click off.
    The encounter left him nervous as hell, made his stomach churn. An unidentified call, coming over a stolen phone like the damn thing had ghosts in it. Birely had curled into himself again, as if the pain were worse. His smashed nose was bleeding harder, his breath sour, breathing through his mouth. Where his face wasn’t smeared with blood, he was white as milk. Vic knew, even if he stashed the Lincoln out of sight, got some other wheels and hauled Birely to an emergency room, they’d start asking questions and who knew what Birely’d say? The little wimp wasn’t too swift, at best, and in the hospital, drugged up for the pain, he might tell the cops any damned thing.
    It had started out as a lark, when they’d first headed over to the coast to find that wad of money that Birely swore Sammie’d stashed away, a simple trip to