Cat Shining Bright

Out on the roofs Dulcie ran, she did flying leaps, she dodged loose wires and broken trees; the village below was dark, not a light burned anywhere. Racing across the tops of the neighbors’ houses between thin, rising paths of wood smoke, she watched the dawn come flaming and then fading to peach, the color of her ears and nose. She ran until she was winded, until the last twitches of constricted nerves had eased, until her heart pounded with freedom instead of frustration—until, in her wildness, the world was hers again. She passed a man below walking the neighborhood looking at the damage, the fallen trees, the rubble-strewn gardens, at a lawn chair in the middle of the street—a tall young man, thin face, thin, long nose, wearing a tan golf cap and tan Windbreaker. At last, eased and purring and feeling whole again, she sat down and licked loose bark and wet leaves from her paws. Life was good. Joe Grey was dear and loving to have taken over the kittens after a hard night himself, to offer her a little freedom. Refreshed, she galloped home longing to snuggle down with her big gray tomcat and their youngsters, hoping that Joe had played hard with them and had settled the last of their wildness—for the moment.

Yes, Joe had quieted them. Dulcie arrived home to find the kittens sleepy and docile, willing to stay in the cage as she and Joe played gently with them. Joe gave her a brief picture of last night’s thefts, the tree falling, its leafy branches breaking his tower windows and sticking through into the main house, the smashed, stolen Jeep; the thief’s escape; their windy race to find Pan. “Ryan and Scotty will be taking down the tree. Will they break my windows even more, cutting the branches out? Can Ryan fix it, can she make it right again?”

“Of course she can fix it. She built the tower!” Dulcie lashed her tail. “It will be as good as new.” Seeing how restless he was, that he was beginning to fidget, “Go,” she said, “go hit the PD, you’ll feel better when you can see some reports, find out what they have.”

Joe gave her a whisker kiss, nuzzled the kittens, and was gone, out through the cat door.

He was back in less than a minute. He flew into the kitchen, leaped to the table then to the sink to peer out the window.

Wilma was up now, she came into the kitchen, clipping back her pale hair. In the dawn light it shone silver against her blue T-shirt. “What?” she said, frowning at Joe and stepping to the side of the window, out of sight.

“There’s a man walking the street,” Joe said, “stopping here and there in the shadows. He keeps looking this way as if he’s casing the house. He was there when I got here, but then he was just strolling along.”

“I saw him, too,” Dulcie said. “Walking casually, looking at the rubble, at the broken trees and damage . . .”

“He isn’t casual now,” Joe said.

Wilma, hidden by the blue curtain, frowned as she stood looking. Just as Dulcie leaped up beside her, the man backed deeper between the neighbors’ houses, but still looking at their windows. Only when light from the rising sun hit his face did he move deeper into the shadows—but not before Wilma got a good look.

Startled, she stepped back farther beyond the curtain. A tall, slim young man, thin but with strangely broad shoulders slightly hunched forward. A thin face but with wide cheekbones, a straight, thin nose and narrow chin. Light brown hair sticking out from beneath his cap. Wilma was very still, her hands gripping the edge of the sink so hard her knuckles were white. Behind them Courtney leaped to the counter, pressing against her.

Wilma stroked the calico idly, her attention on the man. “I saw him near the market yesterday, I got just a glimpse. For an instant I thought I knew him—as if he had stepped right out of time, stepped into this time from some twenty years ago.”

Courtney’s eyes, when Wilma mentioned stepping out of time, blazed with interest. The boy kittens leaped up, too, cocking their heads, intrigued.

Wilma said, “He’s a dead ringer for one of my old parolees. Calvin Alderson.” She studied the man, his face, his stance. “I had his case for over a year, until the PD picked him up for murder. He was indicted, went to trial, was convicted—some twenty years ago, but this man’s a dead ringer for young Calvin just as he looked then.”

“And at the market,” Dulcie said, jumping up beside Wilma and Courtney, “he was watching you?”

“He seemed to be. Passing a row of shelves twice, glancing in at me, standing in the shadows as I left, turning away when I went to load my car.”

Dulcie had never before seen her housemate afraid. Wilma Getz was no shrinking violet, she had been well-trained in her profession.