A White Cat For Christmas Read online

  I only needed a few minutes. If I could keep the kitten from scrambling back under the foundation, I might have a chance to scoop it up.

  I carry a little trenching shovel in the trunk of the car on the off chance I might have to dig my vehicle out of a snowbank. It's not very big, but I hoped to use it to break down enough of the snow alongside the garage for a flat place to set up the camp stool. I needed a place to sit that was above the snow.

  Another use for the shovel would be to block off the entrance to the hidey hole once the kitty was rescued. It would keep other animals out from under the old thing for a little while. Once packed snow freezes solidly, it's hard to dig through.

  Daylight was just lighting the top of the mountains when I reached the corner lot. I parked my car out on the street, got out and checked to make sure I wasn't too far out into the lane. It seemed I had pulled far enough off the actual road to allow other vehicles to pass safely. A ticket for obstruction of traffic wouldn't help.

  I opened the rear driver's side door and pulled a fresh can of food out the box. Walking along the edge of the road is always a potentially dangerous slog in winter. Snow berms make it difficult to walk, and the possibility of being hit by other drivers is all too real. At least in daylight, they might spot a pedestrian, and not knock them into kingdom come.

  On reaching the drive, I turned into it with a sigh of relief. I approached the garage as quietly as possible and started around to the other side of the old building. I had to kick the snow aside with my boots to widen the trail. Now I could see where I was going. Everything is easier in daylight.

  Half of the food I left beside the hole last night was gone. But the rest froze solidly in the can. That was okay. I planned to put the tin on the floorboard of the car right up under the heater. Once the food defrosted, the kitty could eat it later.

  I'm good at imitating cat speech. With the trenching shovel in one hand, in case I got lucky, I tried to lure the kitten out by making kitty noises. I can't chirp well, but I can make that, "here I am and I'm a friendly kitty," noise.

  When that didn't work, I knew I was in for a long haul. I trudged back over to the car. After taking the little camp stool out of the trunk, I grabbed the box with the thermos inside and headed back to the garage.

  Downwind of the hole, I patiently waited for a chance at the kitten. The sun warmed the side of the garage when a dirty, little white head peeked out. One paw eased out, and the kitten sniffed the air.

  Poised to slam the shovel down across the opening as soon as the little thing got all the way out, a man yelled at me and the coffee went flying.

  "Lady! What the hell are you doing on my place?"

  The older model car parked out on the side of the road next to my driveway caught my attention as soon as I turned the corner toward home. Foot on the brake, I slowed down, and immediately went into stalk mode.

  I'm a bounty hunter, skip tracer, and investigator. It doesn't do for my kind to be careless. The ones that are, don't survive long in this business. I've been shot at, bashed over the head, threatened by a little woman with a big knife, and had an old lady drive me off her property with a scatter gun.

  After parking the truck on the side of the road, I reached for the binoculars in the bag behind the seat. The first thing I checked was the license plate. Full of caked snow, the letters and numbers were partially obscured.

  Where was the driver? I surveyed the area around the old garage and spotted a figure sitting on something close to the side of the building. Further investigation was required.

  "Well, now," I muttered. A quick check of the rear-view mirror revealed no cars were in the lane behind me. I backed into a driveway and turned around. There is another way to my place. Off the side street, I have an entrance to the back yard and my secure storage.

  The side street cuts into this road about a mile from where I had parked. It loops around and comes back to the main road several miles behind me. If I drove in as I usually do from the main road at the front of the house to the attached garage, I would be exposed to my uninvited visitor.

  Not happening. Instead, my quickly hatched plan was to use the side street. I went back to the first turn and drove the loop back to my place.

  I wanted the license plate number, and I intended to get it without being seen. I knew it could be done, but a little subterfuge would be required.

  My place sits on an acre and is on the corner. The lot is deeper than it is wide. I never cleared the fringe of trees and brush along the side street that feeds into the road.

  It might make it easier for someone to take a shot at me, but it makes it more difficult for people to see the house. Everything in life is a tradeoff.

  I drove past the side entrance to the house and storage yard and parked on the side street. Quietly leaving the truck, I walked around on the edge of the main road to a point closer to the vehicle. The binoculars gave me a good look at the front of the car, and the person on the other side of the building couldn't see me.

  The snow encrustation wasn't as thick on the front bumper. I took my cell phone out and entered the license plate number into a note. With the plate number I wanted, I turned around and walked back around the corner to my vehicle. After backing the truck up past the side entrance opening, I went in through the back way.

  Lots of other guys, some kids, and some who wish they were still kids, put exhausts on their vehicles designed to make a lot of noise. They think it makes the vehicle bad-assed because you can hear them coming miles down the road. My truck is as quiet as I can make it. In my line of work, broadcasting your presence is asking to get hurt.

  I've got a hook up in the back yard where the storage shed is for just such contingencies as this one. I can plug my truck in back there if necessary, or a vehicle I'm holding in secure storage. This truck has to be ready at a moment's notice. I can't plug it in and wait around if I get a call out.

  With the Taurus Ultra lite out of the shoulder holster, I cautiously approached the back door to the house. All the lights on the enclosed panel beside the back entrance to the garage were a go. Once inside, I checked the security box. Everything still looked good.

  Whatever the person sitting next to the garage was up to, they hadn't tried to gain access to the house. First things first. Exactly who owned the car? I wanted the name of the registered owner.

  I unzipped the parka the rest of the way and tossed it on the couch. There wasn't time to put it away. I wanted an answer and went directly to the office. While the computer booted up, I took a bottle of water out of the small fridge under the counter against the back wall. It's amazing how dry you can get in the middle of winter.

  It took longer for the computer to boot up than it did to run the plate, her plate. Angelina Jo Brown owned the car or, at least, was listed as the owner. The tags were current. Next question, does Ms. Brown live around here?

  I got the answer to my query in about the same time as it took to look up the plate. I'm good at this stuff. It's like hunting; only you're hunting for information.

  The saying that people are creatures of habit is correct. Even those trying to hide tend to get into ruts that eventually give them away to anyone patient enough to wait for the mistake. They will make a mistake that's a given. I'm patient, and willing to keep making the rounds, checking every so often to see when the varmint's little head will pop up out of the hole.

  Fifteen minutes later I know where Ms. Brown lives. How long she has owned the place, she lives in, and where it's located. She has two kids. The fishing license database gave me the information that both children are young adults.

  The only court records I could find on Angelina were for speeding tickets. A couple of them caused my eyebrows to raise. The little lady liked to drive the old clunker fast. I doubted I would need the pistol, but had no intention of being blindsided.

  After shrugging back into the parka, I went out the front door and walked toward the end of the drive. It was
time to find out exactly what Ms. Brown was doing on my property. I was curious as hell. In the back of my mind, I doubted she had a vendetta against me. So, what on earth was the woman doing down there?

  A short time later as I walked away from the garage and the confrontation with Ms. Brown, I shook my head and chuckled as I went back to the house. She was trying to catch a feral cat. I wondered if she knew how futile that might turn out to be.

  But the woman had guts. I'm not exactly a small man, and I did try a little intimidation on her. Ms. Brown didn't back down one inch in defense of her mission to save the animal.

  Inside the house, while trying to decide what to eat, I thought about Ms. Brown. She had a plan. She also had very expressive hazel eyes and a full mouth. A poker face, not so much.

  Thank you was the least of what she wanted to throw at me in the way of epithets. For the sake of the little kitten, she swallowed her pride and said it.

  Ms. Brown called the old building an eyesore, and she was correct on that count. Eyesore is the right term. I had to admit it. The old shed outlived its usefulness about a decade previously. Nothing had been done about its sorry state because I didn't have time. This business devours my time and running it on my own is a 24/7 proposition.

  When not in the field, I'm cooped up in the office, searching for people on the computer. Not having a life is getting to be a real pain. It had come to the point where my friends were meddling in my affairs. The last date I went on was a set up by a friend of mine, and an unqualified disaster.

  As I turned away from the kitchen window, I hauled sandwich makings from the fridge. I had a guy to try to run down. After concocting a ham and cheese sandwich, I went back into the office for a round of research. No rest for the self-employed.

  Miserable, loudmouthed man! Immediately, the kitten retreated into the hole when everything went flying.

  "Damn! See what you did. Now the poor little thing is scared silly and -."

  He stepped fully around the corner of the garage and glared at me. "This is my property. What are you talking about?"

  Even allowing for the bulk of the parka, I could tell this was a big man. The hood was down on the jacket, and he had on a watch cap. His eyes were dark and his mouth a thin line as he stood, hands on hips, in the classic male domination pose.

  "I'm trying to catch the kitten you just scared the life out of. I want to get it out from under there before it dies. I'm not doing one blessed thing to your fantastic property. And if this eyesore is any indication of how you take care of things, you do a piss-poor job." Intimidation tactics be damned.

  "Kitten? Where?" The enraged home owner's voice slipped into 'what the hell'. "I don't see any cat."

  "Of course not. After bellowing like a bull moose after a cow in heat, you scared the poor thing back under this piece of garbage you need to get rid of."

  I couldn't help myself. Out of sheer frustration, I stamped one foot into the snow, hard. Accidentally swinging my boot forward, I caused a small squirt of snow to fly upward toward his mid-section. The blob splatted against his parka.

  "Shit!" I mumbled. "Sorry! But, I'm scared the kitten will freeze if the temperature goes any lower. I'm trying to help the poor thing."

  With one gloved hand, he brushed the snow off his coat. "That a can of cat food?" he inquired, as he looked down at the hole.

  "Yes. It's too young to hunt. I don't know how the little thing survived until now. I think it's alone. There doesn't seem to be more than one animal using the hole."

  "Exactly how are you going to catch a feral cat?"

  "Kitten, it's just a baby. If I can catch it, I'll take it home and get it straightened out."

  "You still haven't told me how you intend to capture the thing. Were you going to throw that over it?" his gloved hand motioned toward the box.

  "No." I picked up the trenching shovel and waved it at him. "I planned to use this to block the hole. The box was a last resort kind of thing. If it tried hard enough, it might get through the cardboard, but not through the shovel blade."

  I pulled the leather gloves out of my pocket and waved them at him. "These would have kept it from scratching me."

  "Yeah, probably so. The shovel is a good idea. I guess you did think this through well enough."

  Damn, but the man had an insulting way about him. Everything he said put my back up like an angry cat. I decided I wasn't sorry to get junk on his parka by accident.

  "If you want to continue trying to catch it, you have my permission."

  Lord, did I ever want to tell him what he could do with his wonderful 'permission', but for a change, I shut my mouth. Instead, I folded my arms across my chest.

  Silently, those dark eyes gave me a once over. Then he chuckled. "Cat got your tongue? How about a 'thank you'?"

  I had a feeling he knew what I wanted to tell him and thank you sure as hell wasn't it. The glare changed to a twisted grin.

  The man was a pain in the ass. "Thank you." I got the words out as much as it chapped my behind to say them.

  The grin widened. "Well, good luck with the hunt."

  "I'm probably done for the day. I doubt the kitten will come back out again for a while. I'll leave the food and try again tomorrow. Will you tell your family I have permission to catch the kitty? I wouldn't want to be run off with a shotgun."

  He didn't respond to my request. Instead, he eyed me quizzically. "Tomorrow is the day before Christmas Eve. Don't you have things to get ready? People to be with?"

  With a shake of my head, I dismissed his question. "Not now, the kids are both Outside."

  "'Kay. And don't worry about anyone getting in your way again. It's just me up at the house. No problem." He turned away and took a step around the corner then leaned back again. "And the shotgun isn't loaded. Later."

  As I sat back down on the camp stool, I thought I might as well finish what little was left of the coffee before heading home. I was here, and the sun was shining on the wall. Kitty might decide to come out and lie in the warmth.

  It felt like the temperature had come up a bit. I guessed it was somewhere around zero. Even in the brisk air, the rays of the sun felt good. This kind of day can be deceptive in Alaska. It can entice you into doing more than you should outside.

  I knew better than to get overheated. Sweat soaked clothing can result in hypothermia. You don't have to be under-dressed to get into trouble. Taking it easy, I enjoyed the day while sipping the last of the coffee.

  The owner of the property insinuated himself into my thoughts. I really do not care for the me-man, you-woman, alpha male crap.

  However, there is a cadre of that kind here. The 'Last Frontier' mentality is alive and well in Alaska. I've read my share of he-man romances that tend to depict men as men and women as stupid little twits. I try to avoid those kinds of stories as much as possible.

  Any woman who chooses this life is not a shrinking violet. Two women have come in first in the Iditarod dog race. For a while, there was a T-shirt circulating that said: "Alaska, where men are men and women win the Iditarod". Those ladies were tough as they come, and not a one was less female for having run that race and won.

  I raised two kids on my own in this country. The man who decided he wanted to be a big tough Alaskan, became a shriveled, whiney brat after the first winter. He left, I stayed.

  It wasn't easy paying off the property by myself, but I got it done. All these years spent living in a cabin with two kids wasn't exactly a walk in the park either. But we had fun.

  That caused a smile to come to my lips. We surely did have a good time. Our entertainment came from camping trips, fishing trips and road trips when we couldn't think of anything else to do.

  I didn't bother to mention to Mr. Irate Homeowner that one kid was off on a grand tour of Europe. Yes, in the middle of winter no less, all by her lonely. The last I heard from her, Lisa was heading down to the Costa Brava in Spain.

  A little chuckle escaped me when I thought
about people staring at my beautiful baby, all five feet of her, running around in shirt sleeves while everyone else froze.

  Her last letter had me laughing so hard; I was crying. I would have loved to see her in a bikini in Brighton, England, when everyone else was wrapped up in blankets.

  Niky, the baby of the family, her younger brother was doing just fine in basic training. He thought he might be able to be in Seattle for St. Patrick's Day. We were all going to try to meet there.

  He would go on to where ever the military told him to go, and Lisa and I would come back here. She was scheduled to begin graduate work in the fall out of the University of Alaska, Fairbanks.

  It never ceases to amaze me how the land-locked UA, Fairbanks can manage the oceanographic program. That has always boggled my mind. Lisa was headed there to work in the program.

  Suddenly, movement caught my eye. The kitten's little pink nose poked out of the hole. One white paw crept out, and just when I thought I might get another chance, a miserable raven squawked from the top of a nearby tree.

  The little thing darted back under the garage. I tossed down the last of the coffee and got ready to go. It was not happening today.

  Black wings flashing in the sun, the raven moved closer to the possibility of an easy meal. It wanted the cat food. There wasn't any way I could keep the bird from getting it short of building a cage around the can.

  Ravens have strong beaks. I have seen one peck a hole in the top of one of the thick plastic garbage cans to get to a tempting morsel. On one occasion, on our way back from Homer, they smelled some seaweed I was bringing home for fertilizer for the garden.

  The horrid things pecked holes in the garbage bags as we ate lunch at a fast-food joint in Soldotna. I had to chase the birds off with a towel from the back of the old crew-cab pickup.

  The kids thought the whole thing was funny as hell. Mom was screaming at the lousy ravens, the birds were squawking in protest because I was evidently holding out on them. In the end, we had to get in the truck and drive away to out run the things.