When he was around the first bend, he switched on the headlights. Driving slowly across the hills, his thoughts were filled with the inhaler that he seemed to see clearly now, sitting on that contractor’s worktable among the hammers and screwdrivers. Driving the dark and winding residential road toward the freeway, he turned right at the top of the hill, crossed over the freeway, and headed for the empty remodel.

This time, he parked right in front of the place, right beside the dirt pile. He’d be there only a minute. The houses below were all dark, not one light; he’d just pick the lock, get the inhaler, and he’d be out again and gone.

Letting himself in, he searched the table, then the dirty floor under the table. The inhaler wasn’t there. He stood at the edge of the pit shining the flashlight’s beam back and forth across the raw earth, but he picked out only the black drainpipe and the boot prints. He turned to search the rest of the garage, along the wall where he’d sat on the floor, everywhere he’d been; once in a while he glanced up at the broken window, thinking about that cat, hoping he’d killed it.

The window remained empty, the cold air scudding in. He didn’t find the inhaler. The cat didn’t appear again. At last, trying to figure out where he could have left it, he locked up again and headed for the RV, taking a moment to circle the yard to see if he might somehow have dropped it there. Cupping his hand around the flashlight, directing only a thin beam onto the ground, he approached the broken window. Across the lumber and on the earth around it, shards of broken glass blazed up at him, scattered among deep paw prints. For an instant, he lifted his beam to the window.

As his light hit the sharp teeth of glass, the pale cat exploded out of the blackness straight into his face, its eyes ablaze, its pale fur standing out like licks of white flame. It landed in his face, raking and biting him. He stumbled backward and fell, and a second cat was on him, cats all over him in a tangle clawing him, so many cats their weight held him down. They screamed and raked him and the pale cat was right in his face. The dark cat with a white stripe down its nose was at him, too, so fierce he was terrified they’d blind him. Blood ran into his eyes. Wild with terror, he drove them off enough to stagger up and run, cats clinging to his back and shoulders and throat. As he knocked them away, he could swear he heard a voice say, “Leave him, let him go.” He spun around to see who was there, saw no one in the blackness. He’d dropped the flashlight, its beam shining uselessly along the ground picking out shards of glass. The cats had drawn back but they crouched on the lumber pile as if to leap again. He ran and stumbled and nearly fell again as he made for the RV. Flinging open the door, he bolted in, slammed and locked it, leaned against it, shaking.

Someone was out there, someone had spoken, but he’d seen no one. Fearing a witness, he started the engine and took off with a squeal of tires, heading for the highway.

32

THE TRUCK HAD backed up to the garage of the remodel, ready to dump its gravel. Joe, Dulcie, and Kit, watching from the tall grass on the hill above, shifted from paw to paw, and every few minutes Joe Grey reared up, scanning the road below. Still there was no sign of Ryan.

The pickup belonging to the two Latino laborers was parked beside Scotty’s pickup, the two men sat in the cab smoking cigarettes, waiting to haul gravel and spread it evenly across the pit. Only Ryan could stop the work, she was the only person the cats could tell, her uncle Scott didn’t know the cats’ secret. Though Joe thought that with his heritage, with that mysterious turn of mind the Scots-Irish seemed to have, the truth might not come as such a shock. But they didn’t need anyone else to know, too many people already shared their secret.

Watching for Ryan, fidgeting nervously, Joe knew he should have gone home, should have woken her before dawn and told her to stop the deliveries, told her what the gravel and cement would be burying.

None of the three cats had been home. After they attacked the killer, they and the feral band had spent the few remaining hours until dawn licking bruises and hurt places on their bodies, licking blood from their cut paws and carefully pulling out small shards of glass with their teeth. Glass that they’d dropped into a little hole and covered over, as they would cover anything vile. As the first light of dawn grayed the sky, most of the ferals had headed home smiling with pleasure at their night’s adventure; Sage’s retribution had been sweet. Only Sage and Tansy had remained with the village cats, Sage wanting to see what would happen next. He and Tansy rested higher up the hill, well hidden among the weeds and grass.

One thing for sure, Joe thought, glancing up at them, that man won’t mess with a cat again. If he didn’t fear cats before, he fears us now.

Down in the yard, Scotty stood in front of the garage talking on his cell phone. With the wind blowing and the big truck’s engine running, the cats couldn’t hear much. It seemed to be a one-sided conversation, as if he was leaving a message, most likely that they were going ahead with the work. It would cost a bundle to keep the gravel truck waiting, and would cost probably far more to delay the cement truck. In the few months Clyde and Ryan had been married, Joe had learned quite a lot about the construction business. These delivery folks charged by the hour, and they charged a lot. Where was Ryan? She’d known the deliveries would be early, she’d said she hoped to be finished by noon.

Joe watched Scotty close his phone, scratch his red beard as if perplexed, and then turn to speak to the driver, a skinny man, and stooped. He had rounded shoulders that made his khaki shirt hang in folds across his chest, and big, protruding ears beneath a striped cap. They watched him step to the cab, and in a moment the truck bed began to tilt up from the front. As it lifted to its maximum height, the gravel slid out with a grating thunder into a pile before the open garage. At once the two Latino laborers began to shovel it into the wheelbarrows to be hauled into the garage and dumped into the pit, further covering the buried victim. The tomcat watched the road impatiently.

Ryan was never late to a job. Soon Joe was not only impatient but getting worried about her, thinking about wrecks and illness, fussing as nervously as his housemates fussed when he didn’t show up at bedtime.

“We could stand in the pit, stand over the grave,” Kit said. “They wouldn’t pour gravel on us.”

Joe snorted. “And Scotty wouldn’t pick us up and throw us out of the garage? And you don’t think that little protest would make him wonder?”

Dulcie glanced back up the hill, watching the tall grass ripple where Tansy and Sage crouched. She was interested to see that Sage, after last night’s fine vindication, still wanted to hang around and see that the body was found. She wondered if he really cared, or if he was, after all, simply too hurt to go home. That worried her, but the good thing was that Ryan would be here soon. If he was badly hurt, she could get him to the vet despite his reluctance.

They could hear the older laborer, Fernando, in the garage, dumping his wheelbarrow load into the pit. He was the shorter of the two, with grizzled gray hair. The two worked one at either side of the gravel pile, so they didn’t get in each other’s way. A mist of gravel dust filled the air around them like thin smoke.

“They’ll have to dig it all out again,” Dulcie said.

“Let’s hope Ryan’s willing,” Joe said. “Sage is the only one who saw him bury the body.”

“She won’t refuse! Ryan knows Sage wouldn’t lie.”