Using teeth and claws, he managed to slide the little plastic cards back into the tight leather compartments, leaving curious indentations for Prey to puzzle over, and coveting, not for the first time, the luxury of human thumb and fingers. He searched the dresser, easing the drawers open, trying his best to be quiet and not make scratching sounds, and glancing up frequently to be sure Prey hadn't awakened.
He needn't have worried; the guy slept like the dead, didn't make a wiggle. Maybe he'd OD'd on too many sugar doughnuts. Finding nothing in the drawers but a few pairs of jockey shorts and athletic socks, and nothing taped beneath the drawers against the rough undersides, he inspected beneath the dresser.
Nothing for his trouble but dust in his nose and whiskers. When he crawled beneath the bed, his inventory included five large dust balls, three gum wrappers, and a wadded-up paper bag, which, when he got it open, proved to be empty. He found nothing remotely resembling Catalina Ortega-Diaz's letters.
When he shouldered the closet door open, he found the interior bare except for a row of rusty wire hangers. Apparently Prey preferred the backs of chairs for keeping the wrinkles from his jacket and spare shirts. Not until Joe slipped stealthily up onto the bed itself and approached Prey by padding across the blankets did his search pay off.
Watching Prey, ready to leap free from grabbing hands, slipping to within inches of Prey's stubbled face and redolent night breath, Joe pushed an exploring paw beneath the pillow.
Under the pillow lay a gun, just beneath Prey's head. Joe could smell burnt gunpowder, as if the piece had been fired recently but not cleaned. The cold barrel lay against his paw; he touched along its length, careful to stay away from the trigger, then gingerly he pressed a paw against the back of the cylinder.
He could feel one shell casing, in the little exposed part of the cylinder that protruded out beyond the barrel. That could mean anything. A full load of five or six shots? A partial load? Only one bullet, in that particular chamber? Or even a spent shell. But surely no one would fire a gun and leave the empty shell casings in the cylinder.
He sure wasn't going to try to open the cylinder and eject the shells to find out, even if he could manage that. Not without some pistol training-which he didn't think was in his immediate future. And not while crouching on the bed with his face just inches from Augor Prey's face.
He had no way to know if this was the gun that shot Fern-but it sure did smell of burnt gunpowder. Slowly he backed away, watching the sleeping man, moving softly across the bed. When his heart stopped pounding, he leaped to the dresser again and sat for some time studying Prey.
The wound on Prey's forehead was still angry, and darkly scabbed over. Joe could see the rectangle of sticky lines where adhesive tape had been pulled off. When Prey stirred and moved his hand, Joe dropped down to the rug again as silently as he could, and headed for the bathroom.
Onto the counter, among the jumble of toiletries, one leap to the high windowsill, and he pushed out beneath the screen.
Dropping to the grass, he headed through the village, for the house just beyond Molena Point's tallest eucalyptus tree, where the kit had gone to look for Prey. There must, he thought, be another two dozen houses in the village with eucalyptus trees and pyracantha bushes; and who knew how many of those rented rooms. He and Dulcie, picking the three they knew best, had gotten lucky. Trotting along the sidewalk beside the deep flower gardens of a handsome Tudor cottage, he wondered if his anonymous report of the revolver would be enough for Harper to get a warrant, either for Prey's arrest or to search the premises. Ahead stood the hundred-foot eucalyptus, at the edge of the little sand park.
The park, running between the Bakery Restaurant and the beach, was a block-square oasis of low sand dunes, twisted cypress trees, and patches of hardy shore plants. The eucalyptus stood on the corner, its pale bark peeled off in long rolls like parchment, its white arms stretching against the night sky. Among its clumps of long silver leaves, he could see something dark, high up; something alive and clinging, wriggling nervously from the highest branch. He caught the gleam of frightened eyes.
"Wow," said the kit from that great distance.
"Come down," Joe said softly. "Come down, Kit."
"Can't," bawled the kit. She clung like a dark little owl, high and alone in the night sky.
"What do you mean, can't? Why did you go up there? You're not afraid?"
"Tomcat chased me up. I've never been this high."
"Where's the tomcat?"
"I slashed his nose. He went down again, and Dulcie chased him."
Joe looked around for Dulcie but didn't see her. He didn't hear any anguished cries from the neighboring yards. "What tomcat?"
"A spotted tomcat, in that house I looked in. Came right through the window at me! Mad! Really, really mad!"
Joe Grey sighed. "Come on down, Kit. Come down now!"
She turned on the branch, heading down headfirst.
"No! Don't do that! Turn around, and back down. You know how to back down a tree with your claws holding you." He was shouting, angry and terrified that she'd fall, and praying that no one was out walking this late. Or that some homeless soul had decided to sleep in the sand park and would wake highly entertained by their little drama. Why was it that a cat who knew better would lose all good sense when high up in a tree? Why would any sensible cat insist on starting down headfirst, knowing very well that she would be unable to stop herself?
"Turn around, Kit!"
She turned, wobbly with fear, clinging onto one small branch. She started to slip.
"Get your claws in the tree. Back down with your claws! Watch where the bark is loose, don't…"
She backed straight into the loose bark and slid fast, the bark curling down with her. Frantically she scrabbled and grabbed and nearly fell, then got her claws into a hard place. He could feel his own claws clutching, trying to help her. But at last she seemed to have a good hold. She backed down slowly, though he could still hear her claws ripping the bark. Where was Dulcie? Why had she run off chasing some worthless tomcat? The bark slid again, and he crouched to leap up after the kit, to break her fall.
A voice stopped him. "You'll only make things worse."
Dulcie pushed against him, her whiskers brushing his, both of them staring up at that small, scrambling creature. "She has to do it on her own. She has to know she can."
"If she doesn't break her silly neck."
They waited, not breathing, watching the kit fight her way down. She dropped the last six feet into the sand, crouched there panting, then slogged across the sand to them, her paws seeming heavy as lead, her head and ears down, her fluffy tail dragging.
They praised her for coming down so cleverly, then scolded her for going up so stupidly high. They licked and nuzzled her and praised her again until she began to smile. Then they headed for Jolly's alley, just to cheer her. They were all three stuffed from Clyde's costly deli plate, but nothing else would delight the kit as much as that little side trip. Trotting close together, soon they turned onto the brick walk, beneath the little potted trees. Light from the two decorative lamps reflected in the stained glass doors and mullioned shop windows. The jasmine vine that hid Jolly's garbage cans breathed its sweet scent onto the cool night breeze.
But the bowls that George Jolly had set out last evening had been licked clean, the other village cats had been at them. They sniffed with interest the lingering scents of vanished smoked salmon and seafood salad, a little nosegay of mouthwatering goodness where no scrap remained. Facing the empty bowls, the kit hunched down with disappointment.