Trotting along the top of the fence to the maple tree that had become Dulcie's second home, Joe stuck his nose in among the leaves.

Dulcie, curled up atop the fence, was glued to the scene at the Greenlaw house like ticks to a hound's ear. The sporadic hammering he'd been hearing all afternoon came from a second-story dormer, where Dirken, perched on a tall ladder, was replacing some siding, nailing on the boards none too evenly. Joe nudged her. "You want to hunt? It's getting cool. The rabbits…"

She shook her head, watching Dirken. "He ripped the siding off and looked all around inside with a flashlight. There's a dead space in there, I think it goes under the attic. Those boards he took off, they're maybe a little bit soft, but not really rotted. I had a look-until he chased me away." Dulcie smiled. "I don't think Dirken likes cats.

"Anyway, that siding's no worse than the rest of the house."

She glanced at Joe, saw his expression, and her eyes widened. "Okay, so I'm hanging out here too much. So come on," she said softly. "Let's hunt. Whatever he's looking for, I guess he didn't find it." She gave him a sweet, green-eyed smile. "Come on, Joe. Let's go catch a rabbit." And she fled along the fence, dropped down into the next yard, and led Joe a chase through the village and up the tree-shaded median of Ocean, slowing at the cross streets, racing across the park above the Highway One tunnel and up into the hills.

There, among the tall, dense grasses, they killed and feasted, reveling in warm blood-for a few hours, indulging their wild, pure natures, forgetting the tedious intricacies of civilization and the trials of the human lives that touched them. Racing across the hills, madly, deliriously dodging and leaping, they came to ground at dusk in the ruins of an old barn and curled up together for a nap, daring any fox or raccoon to approach them.

But just before dawn they shrugged on again the cares of civilized life. Trotting home, they indulged in a detour up the roof of the Blankenship house and heard, through the open window, Mama talking to black-and-white Chappie, whom Dulcie had brought to her when he was a kitten. Chappie was grown now and handsome. Mama talked, but Chappie didn't reply; nor could he, except with soft, questioning mews. A good thing, Dulcie thought, that he's just an everyday cat. If he could talk, Mama wouldn't let him get in a word. Leaving the Blankenship house, they fled through the village to Jolly's alley-a lovely example of civilization, the brick paving regularly scrubbed, the stained-glass windows of the little shops all polished, the jasmine vine neatly trimmed and sweet-scented, and the gourmet offerings always fresh, set out for village cats.

There they breakfasted on Jolly's cold prime rib, leftover shrimp cocktail, and a dab of Beluga caviar; and it was not until the next night that Joe's opinion about dog training was vindicated, that Max Harper gave Clyde exactly the same advice, word for word, that Joe Grey had given him.

Joe was sauntering up the back steps to the dog door when he heard dog claws scrabbling inside, on the linoleum, and Harper's angry voice. "Get down! Stop that!" There was a yip, and puppy claws skidded across the kitchen floor.

Pushing inside to the heady smell of broiling hamburgers, Joe paused in the laundry, where old Rube and the three cats were taking refuge.

The kitchen was alive with the two gamboling pups rearing and bouncing like wild mustangs crazy on loco weed. Max Harper sat at the kitchen table, his long legs tucked out of the way, observing the enthusiastic youngsters in much the same way he might watch a gang of hophead street kids tearing up his jail.

Harper did not hate dogs. Harper loved dogs. When his wife, Millie, was alive they always had several German shepherds around their small ranch.

But Harper's dogs, like his horses, were well mannered, carefully and patiently trained. As Joe stepped into the kitchen, Harper was saying, "I don't mean to tell you your business, Damen. But these young dogs need a bit of work."

Joe turned away, hiding a grin.

"They're growing pretty fast," Harper said. "The bigger they get, the harder they're going to be, to-"

Clyde turned from the stove. His expression stopped Max.

"You don't want my opinion?"

Clyde said nothing.

"Well, of course you're right. They're your pups, you don't need to be told how to handle them." He gave Clyde a long, droll stare. "I'm sure you'll work it out- find homes for them before they tear down the walls."

"They're only puppies, Max. Don't be so critical. You sound just like-like Charlie" Clyde said hastily, glancing down at Joe. "Charlie says that stuff." He took a long swallow of beer. "They're just puppies. The vet says they're only four or five months old. Give them time, they'll settle down."

"You're saying they're too young to train."

"They're just babies!" Clyde repeated.

"And already as big as full-grown pointers. If you don't do something now, before they get any larger, they'll be completely out of hand. If you don't mind my saying, what you ought to do is…"

Clyde banged a plate of sliced onions onto the table, slammed down bottles of catsup and mustard, and dropped two split buns into the toaster.

Joe dared not make a sound. Laughter stuck in his throat like a giant hair ball. He watched Hestig rear up to smell the grilling hamburgers, watched Clyde drag the pups out to the backyard and shove the plywood barrier across the dog door. Clyde turned to look at Harper.

"Wilma says you were asking her some questions about Shamas Greenlaw's relatives. What are you working on?"

"Simple curiosity," Harper said shortly.

Clyde raised an eyebrow.

"For the last week or so, we've had a rash of shoplifting. Petty stuff."

"The past week," Clyde said.

"About the same length of time that Shamas's relatives have been camped up at the Moonwatch. I'm just a bit curious."

"Same kind of curiosity that took you sliding down Hellhag Canyon the other night."

"What's this, some kind of cross-examination?"

Clyde just looked at him.

"That trip down the canyon was well worth the trouble," Harper said.

Clyde said nothing.

"I got a phone tip. Okay?"

Clyde's gaze flickered.

The toaster popped the buns up. Clyde snatched them out and began busily to butter them.

Harper sipped his beer, watching Clyde. "Maybe I didn't give you all the details. The night I went down the canyon, I get down to the wreck, my torchlight picks out a couple of scrape marks in the earth, where my men hadn't stepped."

Clyde dished up the burgers and put them on the table. Harper reached for the mustard. "There were pawprints on top of the scrapes. Big pawprints. And a small set of prints, like maybe a… squirrel."

"You saw animal prints," Clyde said.

"On top the animal prints was the clear print of a jogging shoe."

"So someone went down the canyon. People go down there to hike. Naturally a hiker would be curious, seeing a wrecked car, particularly a vintage Corvette. Pity, to wreck a nice car like that."

"To say nothing of getting dead in the process," Harper said dryly.

"So you found a shoe print," Clyde said with less rancor. "And…?"

"Portions of the same print leading to the brake line, and two going away from it. Fragments, but enough to show a grid."

Clyde put down his hamburger and paid attention.

"Several of the prints had been stepped on by the diamond pattern of my men's boots-both those men wear the same brand of boots. Someone besides my men was down there," Harper said, "just after the wreck. First, some kind of animals came prowling, directly after the wreck. Then a man wearing jogging shoes-those sets of prints were laid down before my men arrived-and my men were on the scene not ten minutes after the accident."