"I can't!" she whispered, shivering. Then she hurriedly crossed herself and moved away. She was getting as crazy as Hernando.

Returning to her bed, she listened to the cat picking kibble off the top of the little heap, and crunching it. In the other bed, Abuela snored with the harsh breathing of old age. When the calico cat finished eating it stared out at her again. She could see the shine of its eyes from the window where the night clouds reflected pale light. The cat looked and looked at her, then closed its eyes. As if, like Maria, it had no hope left. As if it could never expect anything different from this imprisonment.

But Willow had not lost hope. She was determined they would get out of there, she did not mean to die there. Despite her kittenish voice and her terrible fears, she was a stubborn cat, and in her own way, she was bold.

She only suspected what these men wanted: they talked about selling them for money, or putting them on television or in the movies. Then, they said, they would drive fancy cars. But they wanted, as well, to make sure that she and Cotton and Coyote did not tell other humans about the money they stole. And about the men they had killed.

But who would she and Coyote and Cotton tell? And why? All they wanted was their freedom.

They had discussed a dozen plans for getting out of the cage, had talked late at night, in whispers. But no plan seemed to be the right one. Cotton wanted to attack Luis the minute he opened the cage, leap on him, rake and bite him and streak past him to freedom. Coyote wanted to pretend to be sick, but she thought if they did that, Luis would indeed kill them.

Thinking fearful thoughts, for a long time she didn't sleep. She huddled into herself thinking of possible new ways to escape that would be less violent. She was not a brash warrior like the two males; she was the kind of hunter who liked to run her prey down and trip them, then make a quick and humane kill. She hunted because she had to eat, not because she enjoyed killing. Praying for sleep, she worried and planned until at last she dropped into exhausted dreams, into the only escape she knew.

10

The roof was so steep it was all Dulcie and Kit could do to keep from sliding down the shingles into the face of the cop below. Claws were no good at this angle. Bracing their paws as best they could, they watched Officer Brennan fasten a belly chain on a handcuffed Latino guy dressed in dark jeans, black T-shirt and black sneakers. He was maybe thirty, with a scruffy little beard and one earring, his expression a strange mix of anger, puzzlement and guilt. Brennan and his partner had chased him for blocks, as Dulcie and Kit raced along above them over the rooftops. The arrestee was small and light, and was a fast runner, zigzagging through back streets and alleys. Three times the cats had nearly lost him, as had Brennan. But then at the corner of Fifth and Dolores, where a low roof dropped nearer the sidewalk, Kit had skidded on a loose shingle, knocking it off right in the guy's face. Scared him so bad he spun back swearing in Spanish-into Brennan's hands.

Brennan was just as surprised as the perp. Nearly as surprised as the kit who, Dulcie told her later, had made her first arrest, or nearly so. "This," Dulcie said, licking the kit's ear, "should make you an honorary officer."

Kit, watching Brennan cuff the guy, had shivered with mirth and with smug triumph, though she was glad Brennan hadn't seen her. On the roof, they followed Brennan and his captive back to Brennan's squad car where he forced the belly-chained prisoner into the back seat, pushing his head down so he wouldn't crack his skull. No one wanted an inmate suing the department. Seemed like cuffs and belly chain were a lot, Dulcie thought, when the distance to the station was only a few blocks. But Brennan, with the extra weight he packed, sure wouldn't want to chase this one again. As Brennan headed for the station, Dulcie and Kit were still laughing; and as they dropped down from the roof to a little bench that stood in the shadows, they could see into the jewelry store where officers' lights flashed.

The exploding brilliance of strobes made them shutter their eyes as Detective Garza photographed the broken, empty display cases. Max Harper stood talking with two officers and with Garza, but soon he left the scene again, swinging into his pickup, driving off in the direction of the high school. Dulcie thought about the lovely chokers and bracelets the cases had held, and how often she had reared up to peer in through Marineau's windows, admiring those treasures-wondering how she would look in platinum or emeralds. Except that the idea of a confining collar gave her the shivers; even such a multimillion-dollar confection as a sapphire choker from Tiffany's would scare her if she couldn't claw it off and free herself.

Both cats felt sad looking in at the ruined shop, at the shattered glass cases, at the silk-covered walls now scarred with ugly gouges. An inner door had been torn off its hinges. The thick, creamy carpet had been ripped back as if the thieves were searching for a floor safe. Such destruction by humans sickened them.

If Dulcie had her way, the people who did this would be cooling their heels for a lifetime. And not in a cushy cell with free TV, three hot meals, laundry service, ample medical care, and unlimited phone privileges. In her view, the universal need for freedom ended when it was used to destroy the lives and livelihood of others.

"How much do you suppose they got?" Kit said.

"In value?" Dulcie said, surprised by Kit's uncharacteristically practical turn of mind. "Whatever they got, they didn't get what they deserved. Come on," she whispered, dropping down into deeper shadows beneath the bench as Detective Garza turned in their direction.

The Latino detective had finished photographing and was putting away his camera equipment. They waited, very still, until he turned away again and, with his back to them, began to dust showcase and door surfaces with black powder. As Garza lifted prints, two officers approached along the sidewalk, stopping before the window.

Wearing thin surgical gloves, the uniforms began collecting broken glass from the sidewalk and the little garden that ran along the front of the shop, sealing each piece in an individual evidence bag. And as the officers drew close, the cats backed away around the edge of the building, into a bed of begonias.

When Dulcie glanced up, Joe Grey stood on a rooftop across the street watching the scene, his white parts clearly visible, white chest, the long white triangle down his nose. His white paws were hidden in the roof gutter. He studied the scene, then leaped into an awning, dropped down onto a bench, and trotted across the street toward them, between half a dozen police units that were parked to block approaching traffic. Pushing in among the begonias, he gave Dulcie a whisker kiss. "What did I miss?"

"Tell us what happened at the high school," Dulcie said.

"I haven't the faintest, I wasn't up there. I was… watching someone."

"Watching who?"

Joe ignored her, teasing; so it had to be important. He glanced casually away in the direction of the PD. "Maybe Mabel Farthy's on duty. We'll hear something there, or maybe we can cadge a look at the report."

Dulcie held her tongue; she wasn't begging for answers; he'd tell her quicker if she didn't prod him; and she followed him across the roofs to the courthouse and down the oak tree to the door of Molena Point PD. Joe's expression was so smug it was all she could do not to belt him.

While the cats were waiting for the dispatcher to open the heavy glass door, Clyde arrived home from the vet's. He arrived alone, without old Rube. He was feeling very low. He wanted to talk with Joe, he wanted Joe's company, wanted to stroke Joe and hold him-though he would never tell the tomcat how much he needed him at that moment.