Alfreda’s dinner had consisted of a broiled chicken breast, a small salad, and for dessert a sliced pear with a square of white cheese. After dinner she allowed herself a cheerful gas fire in the fireplace, and curled up on the couch to read the latest in a series of gentle mysteries that wouldn’t keep her awake. She heard several cars pass on the street, saw their lights bleeding in arcs through her living room draperies. She was only vaguely aware of a car pulling into a drive four doors up, and then soon departing again; she knew it was at the Tudor house, by the heavy sound of the front door closing. She hadn’t met her new neighbor, not formally, but they waved to each other on the street. At nine-thirty Alfreda closed her book, turned off the gas logs, turned down the furnace thermostat, and switched off the lights. By ten o’clock she had washed her face, brushed her teeth, slipped on her flannel nightgown, and was in bed, already drifting off, willing her dreams to be happy. This time of year, she tried to fix her thoughts on the happy holidays of her childhood, not on those later on in her life. She woke again at ten-forty, rudely pulled from sleep by the door chimes ringing, accompanied by frantic pounding on the door itself, as if someone were in trouble.
UP THE HILL from Alfreda Meier’s house and Maudie’s, atop the Damens’ little cottage, Kit and Misto sat at the edge of the roof watching the street below. They had watched Maudie in her studio, had seen Jared arrive home and leave again, then later seen him return with Benny, the child stumbling into the house half asleep, leaning against Jared. Had seen the guest room light go on and shadows move about as if both Benny and Jared were getting ready for bed, and in a few minutes the light went off again. Soon Maudie’s light went out, too, the house was dark, and Kit imagined the three drifting off into sleep. Only the cats were wakeful, alert to every smallest sound, to that of a passing car along the surrounding streets, to the distant bark of a dog, to a door closing blocks away. To the tiny scratching from above as a flying squirrel landed on the rough bark of a nearby pine. He looked down at them with huge, dark eyes, and sailed away again into the night.
Kit had, with a thoughtfulness that surprised even Kit herself, used the cell phone to ease Lucinda’s and Pedric’s worries when she didn’t come home; they had gone to the party early and, wanting to see the pageant, had also left early. They were home now, and they did worry when she was out in the night. As Kit and Misto held their vigil, he told stories from ancient Wales that she had never heard, she had committed each to memory, making it forever a part of her hoard of mysterious tales.
Below, they heard a car park four or five blocks down, the reflection of its lights suddenly extinguished. Footsteps cut the night and then silence, as if perhaps the driver had gained his own front door, silently opened it and closed it, not wanting to wake those within; and again the neighborhood was still. Kit was reciting to herself one of Misto’s stories when they heard the faintest echo of a doorbell just down the street, and then loud, insistent banging—maybe half a block down? Kit scanned the houses below. The banging continued and the bell kept on ringing, and they could see a dark shadow on the porch of the cream-colored house four doors down from Maudie’s. As they watched, the porch light blazed on revealing a thin man pounding, his back to them. He wore a black jacket, dark jeans, a dark cap. The questioning voice from within, a woman’s voice, was as thin as a whisper. Was she peering out through the peephole? How much of him could she see of him?
“There’s been a wreck,” the man said tremulously, “I need help. Please …”
The cats looked at the empty, silent street, the silent neighborhood. They’d heard no wreck, there was no wreck. Alarmed, they dove among the oak leaves, pawed the phone out, and Kit punched in 911, trying not to shout. “Man pounding on a door, a lone woman lives there. He says there was a wreck, but there was no wreck, there’s no car on the street … Could it be another invasion?” She ended the call before June Alpine could ask any questions. The new dispatcher hadn’t been sufficiently indoctrinated yet, in how to respond to these particular snitches, she hadn’t learned not to ask, but to call the chief pronto. Kit hit the disconnect, and they fled down across the roofs, two small, silent shadows. Kit would have carried the phone but it was too clumsy and heavy. Even as they approached the pale house two patrol cars came slipping along the street without lights, their radios silent, one from downhill, one from uphill behind them. Each pulled to the curb several doors away from where the man stood talking through the door.
Two uniforms slipped out of each car, keeping to the dark edges of the yard beyond the glow of Alfreda’s lights. They watched silently the figure at the door with his back to them. He seemed unaware of anything but the little click as Alfreda turned the dead bolt from within, possibly leaving the security chain in place—not that a chain would do any good, Kit thought. The cats watched the front door cautiously open a few inches—and everything happened at once. The invader hit the door with all his weight, jerking the chain loose and ramming the door back. He grabbed Alfreda, hit her when she struggled. Two cops charged up the steps and grabbed him, breaking his grip on the victim. And three figures exploded from the bushes, streaking into the backyard, heading for the wooded greenbelt beyond; the other two officers were after them, crashing down the hill.
Officer Crowley held the invader jammed against the house, pressing his face into the wood siding. Crowley was half a foot taller, thin but big boned, his large hands jerking the invader’s arms behind him. As Crowley snapped on the cuffs, securing them through the guy’s belt, Officer Brennan pushed inside to clear the house, his overweight frame blocking the lamplight as he passed. And as Crowley marched the prisoner to the patrol car, the cats got their first good look at the man.
It was Arlie Risso, black beard, black hair. He stood straight and stiff beside the car, his expression affronted as Crowley snapped on leg irons. More than one officer leading a handcuffed prisoner whose legs were free had been unpleasantly surprised by a sudden attack and escape. Crowley didn’t mean to risk that embarrassment.
“I was trying to warn her,” Risso was arguing. “I was at the door to warn her, why are you arresting me? You’d better call your captain.”
Crowley just looked at him, his big hands gripping Risso’s shoulders, hands strong enough, Kit thought, to easily rip a bale of hay in two. His look said he’d like to do that to Risso. Risso said, “You’d better go after the thieves, Officer. You’d better arrest them. You’d better get your commander over here, pronto, to straighten this out.”
“We’ll just make you comfortable in the patrol car,” Crowley told Risso dryly, “until we can arrange an appointment with the chief.” Towering over Risso’s six feet, Crowley turned the handsome, bearded man around as easily as spinning a doll, so he faced the patrol car. Opening the back door, he enthusiastically pressed Risso’s head down, making sure he cleared the opening without a concussion and an ensuing lawsuit. Above on the neighboring house’s roof, Kit and Misto grinned and switched their tails, laughing.