Chronicles Of The Keeper - The Long Hot Summoning Part 14

"Pretty!"

"Don't touch that!"

"Come on, Brandon." A woman's feet came out from behind a ma.s.sive stroller. Large hands tucked themselves into the child's armpits and hoisted him out of sight while ducky sandals kicked futilely in protest. "Let's get you home while you're still in a good mood."

Austin inched carefully forward until he could get a good look at young Brandon's destination. The stroller not only had plenty of room for hitchhikers but a large flat canopy. When the back rack was full of bags, which it was, the adult pushing couldn't actually see the seat. He waited while the seat belts were secured, waited while the woman went around to the handle, then, just as the stroller was about to move, he leaped.

"Kitty!"

"No kitties this trip, big fella," the woman corrected, adding with some pique, "and next time we'll stay away from the pet store."

He hadn't been seen and Brandon already had a cover story in place. "Way to go, kid," he murmured into a chubby ear. "Hey! Arm does not go around kitty's neck."

"Kitty soft."

"Yeah? Well, baby smelly." Tucking legs and tail close to his body in an attempt to look as much like a stuffed toy as possible, Austin settled back to enjoy the ride. If they turn left once they've crossed the food court, I'll have to bail.

The stroller turned right.

What are the chances, they'll head for the upper level . . . ?

The stroller's front wheels b.u.mped against the escalator.

"You okay in there, Brandon?"

"Okay!" The stroller tipped back and began to rise. "Kitty?"

"I'm good. And do not put that in your mouth, it's attached!"

At Sunshine Records, his luck ran out.

"Just going to make a quick stop, kiddo, then we'll head for the parking lot."

With the stroller stopped, someone in the record store would be sure to do that "make faces at the baby" thing that adults found so impossible to resist. After a lifetime of similar faces looming over him, Austin had a strong suspicion the babies weren't as thrilled by it. As they began to turn, he murmured a quick good-bye and jumped clear, racing for a planter and the cover of a plastic shrub.

No hue and cry.

Now to find out exactly where he was.

It looked good. Ten meters of main concourse, then the short side hall to the doors where they'd left Dean. A little exposed until he got to the side hall, but if he remembered correctly, which, of course, he did, once there, he'd have plenty to hide behind.

Play the skulking music, boys.

Checking that no one was looking his way, he jumped down and began moving along the clear Lucite barrier that kept the careless, the stupid, and the carelessly stupid from falling through a hexagonal opening to the lower level.

Clear Lucite barrier?

"Hey!" The shout came from across the concourse. "There's a cat over there! Let's get it!"

Oh, c.r.a.p.

Wondering how much longer he was going to wait, Dean tried to find a comfortable position on the metal bench and picked up his last remaining section of the Sat.u.r.day paper. He'd read the comics, the sports pages, the wheels section, which was pretty much the newsprint version of infomercials but about cars so that was okay. He'd read life, and entertainment, and even the report on business. There was nothing left but the actual news.

The front page shared s.p.a.ce about equally between a doom-and-gloom prediction of an economic slowdown caused by consumer inability to realize the need for more electronic c.r.a.p and the continuing disappearance of Kingston's street kids. "Look, the day you can keep track of three hundred and ten cases and not lose a few of the mobile ones, you let me know. Until then, get off my f.u.c.king back!" a social worker was quoted as saying. Dean couldn't decide which impressed him more, the social worker for saying it or the paper for actually printing it.

The Children's Aid Society requested that anyone with news contact them at any time, day or night, where any time actually meant between eight and four Monday to Thursday, and eight to noon Fridays because of government cutbacks.

"Okay, now I'm depressed." Folding the section neatly, he piled it with the rest. Claire'd told him that they'd be inside for a couple of days; maybe it was time he went . . .

Paws drumming on gla.s.s.

Paws?

Leaping to his feet, he ran for the doors.

Up on his hind legs, his stomach fur a brilliant streak of white, Austin pounded to be let out. As Dean yanked the door open, he fell forward, hit the concrete running, and disappeared into the parking lot before Dean could get a question out.

The trio of teenage boys in hot pursuit made at least one of the questions moot. They rocked to a halt at the edge of the asphalt, stopped as much by the heat as the sudden disappearance of their prey.

"Lose something?" He had four or five years on them and a couple of inches as well as a lot of muscle on the biggest. If it came down to it, Austin was in no real danger.

"You let the cat out, man. We were trying to catch it!"

"Why?"

"Why?" The speaker exchanged a clear but silent "Dude's an idiot" with the other two. "'Cause there's not supposed to be cats in the mall."

Dean glanced pointedly out at the parking lot.

"It's not in the mall now 'cause we chased it out of the mall." Eyes narrowed. "It's not your cat."

"I know." Austin considered Dean one of his ambulatory can openers, but that was beside the point.

"If it's anyone's cat, it's our cat. We saw it first."

"I don't want the d.a.m.ned cat, man." One of the other boys hauled up the shorts falling off skinny hips and looked longingly back toward the air-conditioning. "Come on, it's hot out here."

Under the shadow of a scruffy teenage mustache, the first boy's lip curled. "So we just let the cat win?"

The third boy sighed and scratched at the growing damp spot under his arm. "Cats always win. One way or another."

"Oh, yeah, hiding under a parked . . ." Narrowed eyes widened. ". . . minivan." He shifted his gaze across the nearly uniform rows of family vehicles until it returned, eyes wide, to Dean. "You find the cat, man, you can have it. We don't want it." Hands shoved deep into his pockets, he turned on one heel. "Come on."

Does everybody know about the minivans? Dean wondered as the three boys slouched back inside the mall. He waited until he heard the doors close, then he waited a few minutes more, just in case. Picking the folded newspaper up off the bench, he walked out to his truck.

As he stepped off the concrete pad and out of the building's shadow, the heat hit him like a warm, wet sponge. By the time he had the driver's door open, his T-shirt was clinging damply to his back.

"Took you long enough," Austin panted, crawling out from under the truck bed.