As the old lady descended on them he couldn't help the growl that escaped him, it rumbled out of his chest as uncontrolled as an after-the-hunt belch. A growl that made the old woman's eyes open wide and made Bonnie's blue eyes fix on him with surprise.

"Oh," Dillon said, "I squeezed him too hard…" She petted him furiously as the old woman settled weightily into the easy chair. "It's all right, Joe Cat, I didn't mean to hurt you." Dillon's face was so close to his that their noses touched. She snuggled her cheek against him, and gently scratched under his chin, whispering almost inaudibly.

"Just play along, Joe Cat. Please just play along?" And she petted him harder. "Just make nice," Dillon breathed. "I wish you could understand."

He was trying.

As Dillon approached the woman's chair, the old lady scowled deeper and pulled her maroon woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. "I don't want a cat. I don't like cats, take it away." The old girl looked like a hitter. Like someone who would happily pinch a little cat and pull its tail, particularly a stub tail.

But Dillon lifted him down to the old woman's lap and stroked him to make him be still, keeping a tight grip on his shoulder.

The woman glowered and moved her hands away from him as if he carried some unspeakable disease. She smelled of mildew. Her face was thick and lumpy. Her voice was as harsh as tires on gravel. "I want a dog, not a cat. I want one of those fluffy little dogs, but you gave them to everyone else."

Her angry stare fixed hard on Bonnie, as if all the ugliness in her life might be Bonnie's fault. "That fluffy little French dog, Eloise got it. She always gets the best. Gets the biggest piece of cake and the best cut of roast beef, too. Gets to choose the TV programs because no one will dare argue with her. No one asked me if I wanted a little dog." She flapped her hands at Joe as if she were shooing pigeons. "I want that French dog. Take the cat away." Joe crouched lower, determined not to move.

Bonnie told her, "The last time, Eula, when you held that little fluffy Bichon Frise, you pulled his tail and he snapped at you." She smoothed Eula's iron gray hair.

"Is that why you gave me a cat without a tail? So I won't pull its tail?" Eula laughed coarsely. "Is this supposed to be one of them fancy breeds, them Manx cats? Looks like an alley cat to me."

She stared past Bonnie, at Dillon. "Why would you bring a mean old alley cat?" She studied Dillon's faded jeans and T-shirt. "And why can't you wear a skirt to visit? That's all you girls wear, jeans and silly shirts. I see them all in the village when Teddy takes us shopping. Why would you bring this bony cat here? No one would want to pet this mean creature." She peered up harder at Dillon. "Do I know you, girl? You look familiar, like I know you."

Two spots of red flamed on Dillon's thin cheeks, but she knelt beside Eula, stroking Joe.

"The creature is going to scratch me. It's just laying to scratch me."

Joe raised innocent eyes to her, giving her his sweetest face, fighting the powerful urge to nail her with a pawful of sharp ones. He was at a crossroads here. He could show this old woman some teeth and claws and get booted out on his ear-in which case he'd be free to go home. Or he could make nice, stay curled up in her lap, and endure, thus effectively keeping his bargain with Dulcie.

The bargain weighed heavily.

With Dulcie's eyes on him, warily he settled down again. He hadn't called Harper yet to give the police captain the make on the blue Honda. So he could still back out, cut out of here.

"If I had a dog instead of this alley cat," Eula said, "I wouldn't let anyone else pet it, certainly not Frederick. Frederick can get his own dog. Where is Frederick? It's criminal for that Prior woman to move me right out of my own apartment and make me stay over here in a hospital room like a prisoner and give Frederick all the fun in that apartment alone just because I had a little blood pressure."

Bonnie said, "Frederick will be over pretty soon. Pet the cat gently, Eula. Maybe he'll purr for you; he has a lovely purr."

Joe sat up clamping his teeth against any hint of a purr. But Dulcie's look said, You promised. If you didn't mean to be nice, why did you promise? And, reluctantly, he curled down again, into a rigid, unwilling ball.

Dulcie was so sure that this gig was important, that a dose of feline therapy really would help these old folks- help them be happy, help them deal with thoughts of death.

Personally, he didn't agree. You get old, you get feeble. Pretty soon you check out. That's the program. That's how nature works, so why fight it. Let nature take its course, don't screw things up with some kind of newfangled therapy.

Thinking about getting old, he tried hard not to dwell on Barney's plight. After all, Barney was just a simple, lovable dog, he had no need for-and no way to acquire-some fancy philosophy, some comforting idea of an afterlife the way Dulcie believed.

Dulcie was convinced there was an afterlife for all creatures. So, fine. So who said the next life would be all sardines and cream? That realm could be anything, any number of terrors could await the unwary voyager.

He had, after the Jeannot murder, after weeks of thinking seriously about such matters-and growing incredibly nervous and irritable-decided that this starry-eyed dream of eternity was not for him. That he was not constitutionally equipped to maintain on a long-term, conscious level, Dulcie's idyllic and nebulous dreams.

He'd rather believe in nothing. Rather subscribe to plain uncomplicated termination, than keep wondering about a chancy unknown.

Soon Bonnie Dorriss left them, moving quickly across the room to attend to a pair of ladies who both wanted the yellow cat and were arguing loudly. The cat, smiling up from the lap of one of the participants, looked unaffected by their furor, lying limp and relaxed, enjoying every moment.

Dillon paid no attention to the battle; she stood scanning the room, intently scrutinizing each newcomer who appeared belatedly from down the hall. The kid was wired, so intense she made his whiskers itch.

"Stuck here all day alone," Eula said, "and Frederick over there in the apartment doing who knows what. Likely over there with some woman. Or reading some storybook. Always getting out of bed before it was decent to read a storybook. Sun not even up, but he's out there making coffee and reading, I could always smell the coffee. Hiding in the kitchen wasting his time." Her stomach shook violently against Joe.

Dillon glanced down at Eula, hardly listening. And Mae Rose and Dulcie seemed oblivious, engaged in some silent communication of their own. Mae Rose kept smiling and petting, and Dulcie had that beatific look on her face. Mae Rose's overburdened wheelchair was fascinating. The vehicle was hung all over with bags: cloth bags, flowered bags, red bags, blue ones hung from the arms of the chair and from the back, all of them full to bulging. He could see magazines sticking out, a copy of the Molena Point Gazette, the sleeve of a blue sweater, a box of tissues. A clear plastic bag contained little bits of bright cloth, and he could see the end of a Hershey bar, a single white glove, and the smooth porcelain face of a doll.

Dillon sat down on the arm of Eula's chair. She wiggled some, getting settled. She did not seem so much relaxed as determined.

"I bet," she said to Eula, "you have a lot of friends in here."

Eula looked at her, surprised.

"Did you live in Molena Point a long time before you moved to Casa Capri?"

Eula didn't answer. She stared hard at Dillon. "I know I've seen you somewhere."

"I guess," Dillon said, "if you go into the village much."

"No, not in the village. I remember a face, girl. Forget a name but remember a face.