She flexed her claws, liking the feel of that, and she was amused to see Wark's blood on them. Casually she licked it off.
How sharp were the smells in the garden, the spicy geranium, the bitter scent of the lantana growing along the sidewalk. Her ears flicked forward, then back, catching each hint of sound. She could hear clearly the sharp, bright, tin whistle call of a wren several blocks away. She could hear the loud rustle of a lizard across the yard, one that had got itself trapped in a discarded candy wrapper.
Each sound was many-layered, not flat and muffled as it had come to her as a woman. Even the breeze had far more tones than she had ever imagined, as did the pounding waves on the distant shore.
For the first time in her life, her senses were totally alive, as if she had just awakened from some somnambulant half-life. As she rose to prowl the garden, her pads telegraphed every turn of earth, every degree of warmth or chill or dampness. Wandering, she stared over her shoulder at her lashing tail, and she liked the feel of that, too. Tail lashing seemed as sexy and liberating as dancing.
She should have been terror-stricken at her transformation, should be screaming with horror, trying to escape the thing she had become. Instead she felt only delight.
For the first time in her life she was free. This keen-sensed, sharp-clawed, soft-furred and perfect creature was an entity all to herself.
She didn't need Jimmie. She didn't need any human companionship. She didn't need money or clothes or even a roof. She could hunt for her supper, sleep where she chose. She had no doubt of her hunting powers, at the movement of each bird she could feel her blood surge, feel her body and claws tense.
She had no need, now, of anything human. She was absolutely perfect, and free.
11
Night closed quickly around the Molena Point Library. From within, the bare black glass reflected walls of books; and striking through the reflections, shone the branches of oak trees which stood guard outside the Spanish-style building, big twisted trees sheltering the patio and the street.
In the library's reference room, Wilma turned off the computer and began to collect the scattered machine copies which were strewn across the table. Beside her, Clyde tamped a stack of papers to align the edges. They had been at their research, through the computers and books, since midmorning. Clyde now knew more about cats than he had wanted to know. The new knowledge was sharply unsettling.
Early that morning when he arrived at Wilma's house, she had just come in from looking for Dulcie, from wandering the streets and walking the shore calling the little tabby cat. He had set out with her again, working their way through the village, searching for both cats. Not until they returned to Wilma's kitchen to brew a pot of coffee, did he tell her about Joe's phone call.
Of course he had expected her to accuse him of a bad joke. But he had to talk about it, get it out. He had to bounce that unnerving call off someone: the rasping voice, the mysterious and knowledgeable presence of a supposedly feline communicator. What he badly needed was a dose of Wilma's sympathy and understanding. Maybe a dose of her more liberal outlook.
From the time he was eight, her supporting slant on the world had helped sort out his often confused views. His parents had been good and steady; but Wilma had supplied that extra something, had offered slants that sometimes were beyond the realm of parental conservatism. Wilma was able to see life with a rough, commonsense humor.
This morning, sitting in her bright kitchen, fortified with coffee and a slice of her homemade lemon cake, he had told her about Joe Grey's call, expecting- waiting warily for-the wisecracks.
But she did not accuse him of a bad joke. In fact, her reaction had been remarkable.
Wilma had reminded him that cats were strange. "That," she said, grinning at him, "is the very nature of cats."
"Hey, this is beyond strange. This is impossible."
Wilma shrugged, pushed back a strand of hair that lay tangled over her shoulder. "Cats' strange habits and strange perceptions, that's part of their charm. Read any cat magazine, look at the letters they receive from readers. Cats are admired for their peculiar behavior, their sometimes almost-human behavior."
She had recounted a dozen stories about the strange deportment of individual cats. She told him about a cat who would lie beside the telephone recorder and punch the button to hear the little message his mistress had left. She told him about a cat who liked to unravel balls of yarn, and while doing so would weave the yarn around chair legs, back and forth into intricate and sophisticated patterns.
"That," Clyde said, "is not a normal cat."
"With cats, what's normal? You've read about cats who have wakened the family during a fire. And about the cats in San Francisco that alerted their households before the 1906 quake."
"But that's…"
"Of course a cat can feel the temblors long before people can. But, Clyde, it takes more than a dumb beast to want to alert his family. And what about the cat attack on a prowler? I read about that just a few months ago. Scratched the man so badly he ran out of the house, didn't steal a thing. And the cat that saved a baby from strangling by summoning the child's mother.
"They're all documented. As much as any report by a cat owner can be documented." She cut another slice of lemon cake for him, and filled his coffee cup.
"Look," he said, "this isn't just unusual behavior. Not like those examples. It's…"
"Impossible," she said, and shrugged. "What we need is more information. Before you think you've gone over the edge, let's see what we can find out."
He had not expected this reaction. He should have. Wilma was never one to let popular conceptions influence her. "And," she said, "if Joe Cat did phone you, if you aren't the butt of some joke-which of course is entirely possible-then maybe Joe's not alone."
"Not alone?"
"Why would he be the only cat with such talents?" "Are you thinking of Dulcie? But she…" "I don't know what I'm thinking. Let's go over to the library, see what we can learn. You're not going to find Joe until he wants to be found." "But Dulcie hasn't come home, either." "Let's go, Clyde. I worry about that cat too much. She's good at taking care of herself." She finished her coffee and cake, and rose.
Within ten minutes they were settled in the library reference room, and into the computer, pulling up references to cats in history, cats in folklore, cats in mythology. Within an hour they had begun to find unsettling references, tucked into more mundane material.
And then from the veterinary school at Davis they found several references to strange behavior in the feline.
Accessing the Internet, they printed out the pages. Wilma copied entries, as well, which were not strange in themselves but which might add to the overall picture. She was intrigued by articles on the building of the Panama Canal, when crates of alley cats had been imported by freighter to fight the overwhelming wharf rat population. She found similar references about the importation of stray cats to San Francisco during the gold rush, to control the rat infestation along the wharves. A local folklore of amazing cat stories had grown up, intertwined with gold rush tales.
Their research formed a disturbing fabric. Wilma was fascinated, as if their discoveries answered some urgent question of her own. He didn't realize the library was closing until the overhead lights began to go off, throwing the corners into darkness. "I thought they stayed open until nine."
"It is nine." She gave him an exhausted and satisfied smile, and began to collect their scattered copies. "I need a beer, I feel-shaky."
"I need three beers and a hamburger."
She brushed a fleck of computer paper from her sweatshirt. "Let's run by my place first. Just-to see if Dulcie's come home."