forty-four

All eyes in the group seemed focused on what Peg called “the tools of the evil giant.”

Finally Alberta broke the silence. “Well, we’re all giant killers.” She put a hand on Tom’s sleeve and asked. “So what about the woods and wetlands? What did you find?”

“Did they do any other damage?” Peg still had her binoculars aimed at the construction equipment. “I don’t see anything from this side.”

Tom looked at Alberta and said, “Hold that thought.” Then he turned to Hutchinson. “That’s a good question. Did they do anything to the equipment?”

Hutchinson nodded. “Just paint. No real damage.”

Tom seemed to breathe a little easier. I didn’t think he would encourage vandalism, but he obviously liked these kids and their cause. He glanced at me but didn’t linger before turning to Alberta’s question. “It’s not the best time of year to assess the wetlands. A lot of plants have died back and aren’t immediately apparent, and the amphibians and reptiles, and some of the mammals, are holed up. And of course a lot of the birds that are here in summer are migratory. But Jordan,” he indicated the redhead, “is doing a count of migratory fowl.”

Jordan’s head bobbed wildly and he said, “I’ll be back at dawn. Best time to spot them.”

Tom went on. “We’ll check the survey maps. If the wetlands are being used by rare migratory birds, we may have a case. So, we have more work to do, but this is a good start. Let’s pull what we have together.” He hesitated. “And although I don’t encourage anyone to commit acts of vandalism, that,” he pointed at the fluorescent rock pile, “at least delays the planned destruction of the pond’s perimeter. We have an attorney working on a temporary restraining order against the so-called improvements.”

“Speaking of vandalism,” I said, “is there any news about the damage to Alberta’s house?”

“It was a golf ball that broke the window,” said Hutchinson. “They found it wedged into a bookcase. A Callaway. Top of their line.”

“My dad used to use those,” I said. I only knew that because I made doll furniture out of the empty boxes.

Several of the group members walked toward a beat-up car parked on the street. Tom and Jordan, the red-headed kid, were talking about whatever was in Jordan’s notebook. I wanted to ask Tom if we could meet later to talk, but I didn’t want to interrupt. Alberta tugged on my jacket and I turned toward her.

“Can we go take the cat photos now? I think it would be a good time to get pictures of most of them,” she said. She went into a convoluted explanation of the kinds of photos she wanted, as if I wouldn’t know how to get good pictures of felines, and finally wrapped up by saying, “Sally usually feeds them about now, so they come in for that.”

“Sure. Let me grab my camera, and give me a second.” I turned around, intending to ask Tom if we could grab a minute, but all I saw was the back end of his van as it accelerated away from me.

Focus on your work, whispered the voice that had helped me get past tough times before. I wasn’t sure it would get me through this, but having a job to do did keep me from dropping into a whimpering mess on the cold, wet grass. I got my camera from my own van, returned to Alberta, and said, “Okay, let’s do it.”

I could have walked to the cat feeding station in five minutes, but Alberta slowed me down. She had moved a lot faster with the adrenaline pumping through her when we were searching for Gypsy, but now she went at something between a toddle and a stroll. She was telling me about the current feeding and shelter situation for the cats, and what her little group of volunteers had in mind for the future.

“Right now we just have a few medium-size crates out there with the doors off and some straw inside. We’ve wedged them between bales of straw for the winter, for insulation.” She stopped and put her hand on her chest for a couple of breaths, then walked on. “If we get the permit, we’re going to put up a more permanent, insulated facility with access points so they can come and go as they please.”

“It sounds great,” I said. We were walking along the back of the clubhouse, and if I remembered correctly, the cat station was just a few yards farther past the corner of the building. “How will you keep wildlife out? I mean, it sounds like the perfect place for raccoons and possums and things, and they could cause a lot of problems, I would think.”

We rounded the corner and stopped short. Alberta let out a long moan, and I felt as if cold claws had sunk into my belly. Clearly wildlife were not the biggest danger for feral cats at The Rapids of Aspen Grove.

Alberta stopped moaning and began to swear. She was very good at it, and she had reason. The last time I had seen the shelter and feeding stations set up by Alberta and her network of volunteers, the place had been tidy and clean. It couldn’t be called an eye-sore because it lay in the right angle where a storage building met a row of juniper bushes and was invisible from the club house and road. For a stop-gap pending a better arrangement, it had looked pretty impressive.

Volunteers had built a frame of two-by-fours into which they had placed straw bales with plastic cat carriers tucked between them at staggered heights. At each end of the structure were feeding stations well-stocked with dry food and clean water, all checked and replenished at least twice a day. The top and three sides of the affair had been covered with heavy plastic sheeting, stretched and stapled, to fend off wind and rain.

Now it looked as if a tornado had hit the place. The wooden frame had been pulled over, and many of the boards broken. The binders had been ripped from the straw bales, and the November wind had scattered straw far out into the golf course. Someone had taken something heavy, perhaps a sledgehammer, to some of the plastic crates, smashing and cracking them to uselessness. Food and water bowls had been tossed here and there, and the padlock had been broken off the food-storage bin and cat food lay everywhere. There was no sign of a cat anywhere.