Cat Shining Bright

“The dome’s fine,” Ryan said. “I talked with John again, he said not a crack, nothing damaged, and their patients were all settling down.”

But when she stroked Joe, she felt his muscles tense. “You’re still wound tight. Go on down to the station. You’ll feel better when you look at the reports on the car thefts.” She envisioned Joe sitting in Max’s bookcase peering over his shoulder at his computer screen as officers logged in information on the stolen cars and on whatever property was missing from the remaining, damaged vehicles.

Thinking of the PD, of the homey atmosphere in Max Harper’s office, Joe gave her cheek a nudge, and trotted off. Leaping across the neighbors’ roofs, he paused a moment to watch the cordoned-off street below where Dallas and Officers Crowley and McFarland were at work. The owners of three cars had appeared. Two were quietly answering questions as the officers filled in their reports. The one woman, standing beside her black Audi, was making clear to Dallas how disgusting it was that the department had allowed this shocking spree of vandalism and thefts to happen yet again in their quiet village—and to her nice new Audi. “Just look at the damage they’ve done, the side window broken out, glass everywhere, my expensive camera and leather jacket gone.” Joe Grey smiled, watching Dallas’s blank expression as the detective controlled his temper. Joe could imagine what the Latino detective would like to say. There was always one critic among the victims, vitriolic and rude—it didn’t matter that the cops had been up most of the night, or that she shouldn’t have left her valuables in plain sight in the car. Heading for Molena Point PD, he wondered if the desk clerk, soft, blond Mabel Farthy, might have brought some homemade cookies to work this morning or maybe a snack of fried chicken. Galloping over the rooftops toward the station, Joe Grey had no notion he would be followed or, more accurately, that his point of destination had already been invaded by unwanted company.

7

Wilma Getz’s cottage was cold, the power still off, the morning light through the windows a depressing gray. Buffin and Striker were curled in an afghan near the fire, warm and half asleep. Dulcie and Courtney lay on Wilma’s lap as she read to them but soon Wilma was yawning. The boy kittens watched her. When her book slid to the carpet, when she fell asleep reading, Striker woke fully. He looked all around. There was no roar of wind now, no sound but the crackle of the fire, and the drip of water from the eaves—he watched Dulcie and Courtney drift into sleep. He lay thinking about the car thefts, what little their pa had told about them, then with a soft paw he nudged Buffin.

The two kittens watched their mother, watched their sister and Wilma. When no one stirred or looked up at them the two young cats smiled, slipped out from the folds of the afghan, and padded silently from the living room, through the dining room and kitchen, and into the laundry to the cat door.

Striker tried to slide the bolt, though he had tried many times before. This time, more determined, he made only tiny sounds as he worked metal against metal until at last the shiny lock gave way and the forbidden door swung free.

Slipping out, they stopped the plastic flap with careful paws, easing it quietly down, and they shot out into the garden. Around the house they sped, out of sight of the front windows. Scrambling up a bougainvillea vine to the neighbor’s roof, their pale coats blending with the tan shingles, they reared tall, looking down at the village, gray in the cloud-smothered morning. They had never been in the village, the crowd of cottages tangled among tall trees fascinated them.

“There,” Buffin said.

“The courthouse tower,” said Striker. “That’s where MPPD is, that’s where Pa goes when there’s been a crime.”

“If he catches us, he’ll kill us,” Buffin said.

“Maybe only bat us a little,” said Striker.

“And scold. I don’t like scolding.”

Intently they looked at each other. They could go to MPPD, stay hidden from their father—they hoped. Or they could go to where the crime scene had been, but they weren’t sure where that was among the tangle of village streets. The courthouse tower stood tall and clear and was easy to follow. Another conflicted look between them, their blue eyes wide, a twitch of ears, a lashing of tails, and they were off over the roofs heading for the cop shop.