Chapter 9 - The Search for the Guardian
By five o'clock in the afternoon, the sun had finally begun its long descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of orange and bruised purple. The air was still warm, but the lethal, suffocating heat of the afternoon had dissolved into a soft summer evening breeze.
I completed my preliminary paperwork at the precinct, handed the body-cam footage over to the shift commander, and signed the impound authorization for Amanda Miller's vehicle.
"Good work today, John," my sergeant said, slapping my shoulder as I cleared my desk. "CPS confirmed the child is stable and moving to a temporary foster placement tonight. Mother is being held on twenty-five thousand dollars bail."
"Thanks, Sarge," I said, grabbing my hat and my duty jacket.
"Where are you heading?" he asked. "Shift ended twenty minutes ago."
"I have one more stop to make," I said.
I drove my personal truck back down Elm Street. The strip mall parking lot was quiet now. The dark blue sedan was gone, leaving behind only a small patch of oil and a glittering pile of broken window glass that reflected the orange sunset like tiny embers.
I parked near the pharmacy awning and stepped out. The parking lot was empty except for a delivery truck unloading boxes near the sandwich shop.
I walked toward the dry cleaner’s wall, looking under the parked cars, behind the commercial dumpsters, and along the low wooden fence that separated the business lot from a residential neighborhood behind it.
"Here, kitty," I called out, feeling foolish again, holding a plastic container filled with fresh water and a small can of tuna I had purchased at the grocery store on my way over. "Here, buddy."
For ten minutes, there was no sound except the rustle of dry leaves blowing across the asphalt. I began to worry that the noise of the sirens and the commotion of the police cars had driven the animal away for good, sending it back into the maze of alleys and storm drains where it lived.
Then I heard a faint, gravelly sound behind me.
I turned around. The cat was standing on the brick wall near the pharmacy dumpster. Its gray-and-white fur was still dusted with road grit, its notched ear standing up straight against the evening breeze.
It jumped off the wall with a soft thud, landing lightly on its paws, and walked straight toward me without a moment's hesitation. It didn't crouch or hide. It walked up to my leather shoes, leaned its body against my ankle, and let out a quiet, raspy meow.
"Hey, pal," I said, dropping to one knee on the cool concrete.
I opened the can of tuna and set it on the ground beside the water container. The cat immediately dug in, eating with a fierce, starved intensity that showed just how long it had gone without a real meal.
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I reached out my hand slowly, letting it sniff my knuckles first. Then I laid my fingers against the top of its head, right between its ears, and stroked its fur. The coat was rough and dusty, but beneath it, I could feel the rhythmic, powerful hum of a loud, vibrating purr.
"You don't belong out here on the street anymore," I whispered, watching it eat.
