Cat Under Fire Read Free Page A

the hill, pushing through the tall grass.
    No point in trying to talk sense to her, she was going to do as she pleased. Grumbling, he trotted down beside her keeping pace, half-angry, half-amused.
    But halfway down the first slope, she said, “There’s a strange dog down there; I forgot. I don’t see it now, but it followed me earlier, a huge dog.”
    â€œI didn’t see any dog when I came up. Except the boxer and the golden, those two cream puffs.” Those dogs were no threat—they’d chase a cat for sport but were terrified of claws. If no other cats taught the village dogs proper manners, he and Dulcie did. They’d had some interesting chases over these hills. Though a smart cat never let snapping teeth get too close. Even a playful dog, when excited, could turn innocent play into a killing bite. One mouthful of cat, and a harmless canine could become a killer, tearing and rending before he knew what happened.
    â€œIt was a big brown mutt,” she said. “It stayed away from me, behind the bushes, but it watched and followed me. Well, it’s probably harmless. After Mrs. Trest testifies I’m going up to Janet’s burned studio again, and this time I mean to get inside even if it is boarded up.”
    â€œYou can’t be serious.”
    â€œWhy not? Who knows what I’ll find.”
    â€œCome on, Dulcie. You watched the police sort and sift and photograph. We’ve been up there enough, across that burn. That’s the last place I want to spend the day.” The burned hills were hell on the paws, andthe rank fumes stung their noses and eyes. And of course there was no game up there among the ashes; the creatures that didn’t die in the fire, that had escaped, would not return to that barren waste.
    The fire had cut a half-mile swath through the lush green hillside, and had burned seven homes to the ground, leaving only two houses untouched. Dead, black trees stood bare against the sky, and the stink of burning was everywhere. The thought of padding through a half mile of cinders, broken glass, and sharp, twisted metal, did not appeal.
    But the thought of Dulcie’s going up there alone was less acceptable. He glanced at her sideways. “Come by the house for me. But you’d better hope we find something to make it worth the trip.”
    She gave him a sweet smile, and they moved on down through the tangled gardens, between comfortable little cottages, down across winding, residential streets. They crossed the narrow park that ran above Highway One where the road burrowed through its eight-block tunnel, then turned south two blocks to the wide green strip that divided Ocean Avenue. The parklike median marked the center of the village, running tree-shaded and cool along between the village shops toward the beach. Trotting down the springy, soft turf, they rustled through fallen leaves, scattering them with quick paws.
    The shops weren’t open yet, but Joe and Dulcie could smell raw meat from the butcher’s, could smell fresh bread and cinnamon buns from the bakery. They basked in the aroma of fresh fish, where a truck was unloading cardboard boxes of halibut and salmon. The workmen saw them looking and hissed at them to chase them away. The cats hissed back and turned their tails. They didn’t pause until they reached Joe’s street.
    There they touched noses, and Dulcie rubbed her face against his. “I’ll come by later,” she said, her green eyes catching the light. He watched her trot away toward the jail and courthouse, moving lightly as a littledancer, her tail waving, her curving stripes flashing dark and rich against the pale walls of the galleries and shops.
    Glancing across at the bookstore, he could see the clock in its window. Seven-thirty. She’d go to the jail first, climb the big oak tree to the third-floor windowsill, and lie looking in at Rob Lake, maybe share his breakfast—he liked to feed her