But then, belting along through the woods, he began to think about Clyde. About how he missed Clyde.

He began to think about Clyde and the murder weapon.

Until that moment he had managed to ignore the possible connection of the killer's bright wrench to Clyde. But truth was, that weapon that killed Beckwhite had looked exactly like the new torque wrench Clyde had purchased only a month before.

The package had come to the house via UPS, had been waiting for Clyde when he got home from work. The wrench was handmade, by a craftsman in England. It might, Joe had thought, not be any more efficient than a plain, manufactured wrench, but to Clyde it was cast in gold.

And now, with the wrench stolen among an array of automotive tools, and undoubtedly with Clyde's fingerprints all over it, Joe could only wonder if the whole robbery had been for the express purpose of acquiring a suitably incriminating weapon; to wonder if Clyde was the patsy. If, when the missing weapon was found, Clyde might be taking his meals behind bars. Between the night of the murder, and the night when the killer tried to break into their house looking for a gray tomcat, the newspapers had been full of the murder. The weapon, 'Possibly a piece of metal, perhaps a length of pipe,' had not thus far been found.

None of it made any sense. But if he knew why the killer might want to frame Clyde, maybe he could piece together the scenario, maybe things would begin to add up.

One thing sure, if that was Clyde's wrench that killed Beckwhite, the cops mustn't find it.

He tried to remember if the killer had worn gloves to prevent smearing Clyde's prints, but he could not. He'd been too concerned with saving his own hide.

He broke out of the woods on the crest of the hill, stood staring down at the village. Somehow, he was going to find that wrench.

Studying the roofs half-hidden among the trees, he tried to find his own dark-roofed, white Cape Cod. To find a little glimpse of home. The time was midmorning, and it was Sunday. Clyde would be schlepping around the house unwashed and stubbly, probably still in his Jockey shorts, drinking coffee and reading the sports page. Barney and Rube and the three cats would be napping, either on their two-tiered bunk beds in the laundry or lounging in the sunny backyard.

He was scanning the village, trying to find home, when he glanced down and saw, among the low bushes, a caterpillar spinning its cocoon. Watching it, he was soon fascinated with how the wooly worm's body accordioned so the stiff hairs of its pelt shot left then right. Amazing how skillfully it spun its continuous thread from some wonderful machine in its innards. Excitement touched him, keen interest. He found himself observing the little worm in a disconcertingly unfeline manner.

He studied intently, details he had never before fixed on. Watching the little beast at work, he was caught in an unaccustomed fever of discovery.

Any normal cat would bat the furry worm and tease it, play with it, crush it, maybe taste it. Though caterpillars were incredibly bitter. But here he was, fascinated by the caterpillar's amazing skill. Its remarkable talent of spinning held him spellbound.

On and on it worked, spitting forth yards of silk, maybe miles of thin thread. The small animal humbled him.

And he realized, with one of those instant, earth-shaking revelations, that this amazing little creature was far too cleverly conceived to have come into the world by accident.

This creature had evolved by some logical and amazing plan. Joe was observing one small portion of some vast and intricate design.

Right before his eyes he was watching a miracle. Nothing less than a boundless and immoderate creativity could account for the complex and efficient little beast working away beneath his nose.

He hunched closer, absorbing every detail.

And this productive little being was only one minute individual in a huge and astonishing array of creatures. He couldn't even conceive of how many beasts there were in the world, each with its own unique skills and talents. He trembled at the wisdom that had made caterpillars and cats, made dogs, birds, and lizards, made the whole gigantic world. It had taken a huge and astonishing intellect to conceive this endless array, an intelligence steeped in some vast mystery.

And I am part of it, he thought. I may be strange and singular, but in some way I am part of the incredible puzzle. Then he smiled, amused by his own unaccustomed intellectual excitement.

Your normal cat would be bored silly with such philosophical conjecture. Your normal cat would stalk off in disgust. A normal cat did not study small creatures with the wonder of discovery, but with an eye to the kill and to a full stomach. A normal cat majored in battle techniques and killing, not philosophy. A normal cat was concerned with the destruction of his prey, not with its meaning and origin.

But face it, he wasn't normal.

Life had been simpler when he hadn't had such involving thoughts; but it hadn't been as much fun. He liked his new ability to link ideas together-the possibilities held him drunk with power.

Only after some time did he shake himself and pay attention to his growling stomach. His inner discourse had left him famished; the mental exercise seemed as enervating as a five-mile run. Studying the hillside for fresh meat, he fixed on a nearby squirrel dabbling among the dead grass.

The squirrel watched him sideways, beady-eyed, shaking its tail in an irresistible flirt. The beast was fat beneath its fur; it obviously spent most of its time gobbling acorns from the abundant oak trees that shaded the hillside. The little beast's swift, jerking movements spoke to every fiber of Joe's cat spirit, drawing him into a crouching stalk.

But at his charge the little monster ran up a tree, leaped to the next tree, and was gone, leaving him empty-pawed and embarrassed.

He ought to know better than to chase squirrels. They always pulled that trick; flirt and scuttle around, luring a cat close, and then poof, up a tree and gone. And if a cat was fool enough to climb after it, the squirrel simply jumped to another tree. Or it fled high into the thin tiny branches that would break beneath a cat's weight, leaving the cat mewling with frustration.

Abandoning all thought of squirrel, he watched the grass for low-darting birds. When he spotted a towhee scratching in the leaves, he crept toward it, silent and quick.

But then, in pursuit of the towhee, he crossed the fresh trail of a rabbit. At once he forgot the trusting orange-and-black bird and set off after the succulent beast, tracking it uphill.

He didn't get rabbit at home; the neighborhood was too civilized. His hunting at home ran to birds, bad-tempered moles, and house mice.

The rabbit's fresh scent led him through the tall grass to the edge of a ravine and down, into a stand of massed oak trees. Among the dark trunks lay a heap of branches and leaves where a gigantic old oak had fallen, a grandfather among trees, its prone limbs as big around as the crooked legs of elephants in some exotic TV special.

Silently he slipped down following the trail. Very likely the little beast had dug his den beneath the dense tangles of dead leaves and massed branches.

Yes, the scent led right on in. He pressed into the dark jungle of dead twigs and dry leaves, squinching his eyes nearly shut to avoid getting jabbed.

Something stirred ahead, in the blackness. He froze.

Something was there besides rabbit, something intently watching him. Something far bolder than a rabbit. And whatever it was didn't mean to back off.

As he strained to see, two eyes appeared, catching the light, blazing like green fire.

Joe held his ground, scenting deeply, his nose and whiskers twitching as he tried to identify the creature, but he could smell only the rotting oak limbs and dead leaves.