"That brown shingle house," Dulcie said, "that tall one up on Haley with the cupola on top. Except for the courthouse tower, it's the highest point in the village."

"Right on."

"And today's Saturday, half the village will be digging up their yards."

They leaped from the desk and out through Dulcie's cat door, and as they headed up Dolores toward Sixth, she couldn't help purring. She loved this sneaky stuff. Spying was a hundred times more fun even than stalking rabbits.

But as they crossed Danner, the wind quickened, swirling along the sidewalk and ruffling their fur, and above them the clouds came rolling. Joe stared up at the rain-laden sky.

"If that cuts loose, no one will work in their yard. If it rains, that old woman will stay home in her bed."

"Maybe it will blow on out, dump itself in the sea."

Crossing Danner, trotting between morning traffic, they angled through a backyard to Haley, could see the brown house rising just ahead, its cupola thrusting up like a child's playhouse atop the wide roof, jutting up into swiftly gathering clouds. There was no tree by which they could reach the roof. As they circled the shingled walls and stared above for a likely windowsill or vine-covered downspout, the wind gusted sharply, pressing them against the bushes with strong thrusts. "Wind gets any stronger," Joe said, "it'll lift us right off the roof, send us flying like loose shingles."

7

The dark and ungainly old house had been built long before earthquake restrictions decreed that no building over two stories be constructed in Molena Point. With its extra height and poor condition, it was a sitting target for ground temblors. At the first 6.0 on the Richter it would likely topple in a heap of scrap lumber and rusty nails. The roof was ragged. The dark, shingled walls looked as if they were eaten with rot. The FOR SALE sign which had been pounded into the mangy front lawn led one to imagine not a new owner and fresh paint but a future with the wrecking crew.

The house stood just a block off Ocean and a block below the green park which spanned the Highway One tunnel. As the cats circled it, pressing through scraggly weeds, they found at the back a precarious rose trellis held together only by the thick thorny vines. Swarming up, climbing three stories, they gained the steep, slick roof, trotted up across it to the cupola. The old shingles beneath their paws were worn soft. Scrabbling up, gaining the high peak, they pushed into the little open cupola-onto a thick white frosting of bird lime that coated the cupola floor. The place stank of bird droppings, despite a fresh wind that swirled through the four arched openings, bringing the smell of rain.

The swift clouds were fast darkening, the colors of the village deepening, and beyond the village the sea lurched steel gray beneath the heavy, dense sky. The sun had gone; Molena Point's citizens would be indoors checking the TV Guide or curled up by the fire with a book. Joe and Dulcie could imagine the cat burglar, perhaps in one of Molena Point's hundreds of little motels, bundled up, ordering room service. The sounds of passing cars rose up to them, muffled by the whine of the wind.

Looking down the steep roof to the sidewalks along Ocean, watching people heading to work or toward some cozy restaurant for breakfast, they could smell pancakes and the sweet aroma of warming syrup. The shop windows reflected the dark, swift sky. Over on San Carlos old Mr. Jolly, swinging open the glass front door of the deli, carried out four pots of bright red flowers.

He arranged the pots two at either side of the door, then paused to look up at the sky, and stood considering.

Finally he knelt again, picked up the pots, and carried them back inside. The cats watched him disappear into the warmth of the deli, then fixed their gazes on the alley behind, licking their noses, thinking of imported salmon or a dollop of warm chowder.

Some of the village shopkeepers claimed that Jolly's gourmetic gifts drew mice. Indeed they might-and what could be nicer than a fat, warm mouse with a bit of seafood quiche or a slice of Camembert or Brie?

The cupola was chill with the sharp wind. Its four open arches looked squarely to the four points of the compass, affording maximum draft, but also fine views of the village streets. Both cats could see their own houses. To their left, beneath the spreading limbs of an oak, shone the shabby roof of Clyde's white Cape Cod. That dwelling was badly in need of professional attention, but what did Clyde care? Clyde tended his cars like newborn babes, alert to the tiniest complaint, but the house-not until the roof leaked or the floor fell in was Clyde going to make any architectural adjustments.

To their right, past the shops and galleries, they could see the back of Wilma's house, its steeply peaked roof and stone chimney just visible above the hill at the back-the front garden belonged to Wilma, but the back hill was Dulcie's, a private preserve, a forest of wild grass rich with game and admirably suited to the quick, spur-of-the-moment hunt. Those mice and birds were strictly off-limits to any other neighborhood cat, if he valued his hide.

Almost directly below them, just across Ocean, shone the red tile roofs of Beckwhite's Foreign Cars and of Clyde's automotive shop. And beyond Beckwhite's among a sprawl of cottages, was the white frame house which held Dr. Firetti's animal clinic, where Barney now lay. Joe was afraid to know how Barney was doing; something about the old dog this morning had left him coldly distressed-as if Barney had already given up.

And he worried not only about Barney but about Rube. If Barney died, Rube would be a basket case. Old Barney's illness made him think how short was life, how capricious and unpredictable.

Beyond the village to the east, above the rising hills, one patch of sky was still blue between the steely clouds, its clearer light striking down on the hills, picking out every bush, every tree and flower garden. The houses and streets, rising up, were displayed as clearly as a stage set. Between the scattered houses, the grassy fields gleamed golden. And despite the threat of rain, the shadowed, darkened yards, stretching across the hills were not deserted. Three children were playing catch up on Amber Street, and, as a very little boy crouched to dig in the gutter, half a dozen kids flew down the hill on their bikes.

They watched an old man cutting his steep hillside lawn with a hand mower, as if perhaps modern power equipment was not designed for such extremities of terrain. The wind grew colder. Shivering, Dulcie snuggled close to Joe. "Maybe the old burglar'll show up-who could miss that white Toyota?" She snorted. "Mud on its license plate-what a tired old trick."

"It's worked, though. So far. Mud so thick I couldn't even scratch it off."

"Don't you wonder if she noticed?"

He shrugged. "So she noticed. So if she's scared of cats, that ought to chill her."

"Or maybe she'll have some other car. If she can burgle a house, it should be no problem to 'borrow' someone's car for a few hours."

They watched intently each vehicle that moved across the rising hills, watched a station wagon wind back and forth making its rounds, picking up children for some Saturday event, watched a FedEx truck trundle up the hills on its appointed stops, the driver running to each door and leaving his package, racing back to the truck again as if his pay scale was structured on swift timing.

A small red sedan turned up from the Highway One tunnel and parked beneath some maple trees on a residential block, and a lone woman emerged, a dumpy creature; the cats watched her so intently she should have felt their gaze like a laser beam.