Pawing Through The Past

"Is there a digital time frame on the photographs?"

Dennis answered Harry. "No. I'm using a Nikon that's thirty years old. Never found a camera I liked better."

"Oh." Harry returned to her dinner.

Miranda and Tracy ducked their heads in the open doors. Susan waved them in. Harry hadn't seen them.

"Miranda, you look stunning." Fair stood up to compliment her.

"Sit down, sit down. I'll spoil your dinner." She blushed.

"She's the belle of the ball." Tracy beamed. "Doesn't that emerald green dress set off her hair and her eyes?"

"Yes," they agreed.

"Mrs. Hogendobber, come down to the studio in that outfit. I'll take a picture-for free. I should have my camera with me but I forgot it."

"You've," Miranda paused, "been discombobulated."

"Mrs. Hogendobber, you should be a diplomat," Hank Bittner laughed. "And you do look lovely. If the women look as good as you do when we have our fiftieth reunion, I'll be a happy man."

"You men will turn my head." She blushed some more as Tracy winked at the men.

"Come on, beautiful. I don't trust these guys." Tracy gently put his hand in the small of her back, guiding her out of the room.

Susan, on her way for second helpings, swooped past Harry. "Are they getting serious or what? She really does look fabulous. That treadmill has worked wonders."

"Tracy has worked wonders." Fair smiled. "It's a magic that never fails." He turned to Harry and whispered, "You'll always be magic to me, Sweetheart."

Harry blushed and mumbled, "Thanks."

BoomBoom raised her glass. "Here's to the class of 1980!"

The group hesitated, then raised their glasses. "Hear. Hear."

"What's left of us." Dennis held up his glass for a second toast.

"Rablan, shut up." Bittner stood and held up his glass. "To the organizers for their hard work and their heart when things didn't turn out quite as they-or any of us-expected."

Everyone cheered.

"I don't remember Hank being so eloquent," Fair remarked.

"He learned somewhere along the way." Bonnie leaned over Dennis. "Brightwood Records wouldn't promote an unpolished stone. I'd kill to have his stock options."

"You'd have to," Dennis laughed.

"You haven't exactly made a fortune. In fact, you lost one," Bonnie replied.

"You're right." He shut up.

The cats and Tucker decided to walk under the tables. This was a stroll, not a search for crumbs. They'd eaten too much.

"Hee hee." Pewter nudged Mrs. Murphy as she watched a lady, heels off, run her foot over a man's calf. He wore charcoal pants.

Mrs. Murphy popped her head from under the tablecloth. "BoomBoom."

Pewter ducked out on the other side. "Bob Shoaf."

"Figures," Murphy said as she walked back under the table-cloth.

"He's married, isn't he?" Tucker could have told them it was BoomBoom since Tucker paid a lot of attention to shoes and smells.

"Yes. He left the Mrs. at home, though," Pewter said.

Bored with their stroll, the animals emerged by the food tables.

"I could probably eat one more piece of beef." Tucker gazed upward.

"Don't. You've stuffed yourself. If you eat too much you'll get sick on the way home," Mrs. Murphy counseled.

Their conversation didn't finish because an explosion from Bonnie Baltier sent them back to that table.

"What are you talking about?" She slammed her hand on the table, making the plates jump.

"I thought you knew." Dennis blinked.

Hank leaned over Bonnie. "None of the women knew, you asshole!"

Bonnie stood up, walked around Dennis to Harry. "Did you know about a gang rape on the day senior superlatives were voted?"

"No." Harry gasped as did Susan.

"Is it true?" Bonnie, very upset, turned on Dennis. "It must be true. Why would anyone make something like that up!"

Bob Shoaf stopped playing footsies with BoomBoom. His eyes narrowed, he pushed back his seat as he strode over to Dennis, towering above him. "Rablan, there's something wrong with you. I'd call you a worm but that would insult worms." He bent over, menacing, as Fair rose from his seat just in case. "I don't know why you're making up this story about Ron Brindell getting raped in the showers but I do know that you were the person who found Rex Harnett dead and no one else was in the men's room. Do you think we're that stupid!"

Dennis, shaking with rage, stood up, facing off with Bob. "I'm not making it up. I wish I'd done something at the time. I felt guilty then and I feel guilty now."

Bob reached for Dennis's neck but Fair grabbed Bob's arms. Bob Shoaf had been a great pro football player but Fair Haristeen was a six-foot-four working equine vet. He was strong and he had one advantage: his knees still worked.

"You aren't going to listen to him! He's guilty and the sheriff is waiting for him to make a mistake," Bob exploded.

"Why would I kill Charlie Ashcraft and Leo Burkey?" Dennis became oddly calm.

"You tell me," Shoaf taunted. "It's like your story about knowing who Charlie Ashcraft knocked up. You don't know anything. You say these things to make yourself important. You don't know shit."

"I do. You know I do."

By now Hank Bittner was on his feet. Everyone else was watching.

"Then who's the mother?" Bob stepped back, already dismissing Dennis.

"Olivia Ulrich," Dennis loudly said.

"I am not!" BoomBoom flew out of her chair. "You liar. I am not."

"Come on, Boom. You loved his ass," Dennis mocked.

Susan, now at Harry's side, said, "I don't recall Dennis being this snide."

"Me neither. Something's sure brought it out of him."

"Fear," Mrs. Murphy said.

"If he was afraid he should have stayed home." Pewter moved farther away from the humans in case another fight broke out.

"Maybe he's safer here than at home," Tucker sagely noted. "He has no family. All alone. The killer might not want to slit his throat but there are a few people here who wouldn't mind. If I were Dennis, I'd rent a motel room for a couple of nights."

"Or maybe he has to be here," Murphy shrewdly said.

BoomBoom, shaking, pointed her finger in Dennis's face. "Because I'd never go to bed with you-this is your revenge. You waited twenty years for this. My God, you're pathetic."

"But you did have an illegitimate child."

"I did not and you can't prove it."

"You know, I take class pictures for the schools in town. And I recall a beautiful girl who graduated three years ago who had your coloring but Charlie's looks. Western Albemarle. You gave that girl up for adoption."

"Never! I would never do that." BoomBoom was so furious she couldn't move. She had never before felt a paralyzing rage.

"Boom, don't try to pull the wool over our eyes. You don't care about the consequences. You never did. You steal people's husbands." Dennis looked at Harry when he said that. "You dump inconvenient children. Why, if Kelly Craycroft had known about the girl he'd have never married you. You wanted his money."

"I married Kelly Craycroft after I graduated from college. Do you think I was thinking about marrying money in high school? You're out of your mind."

"Think it's true?" Pewter asked Murphy.

"I don't know."

"And furthermore, I didn't steal anybody's husband. They aren't wallets. You can't just pick them up, you know." She put her hands on her hips. "As for the rest of you, I know what you think. The hell with you. I do as I please. Ladies, virtue is greatly over-rated!"

Harry whistled. "At long last, the real BoomBoom!"

BoomBoom stalked out of the room with Bob Shoaf following after her, reaching to slow her down.

Hank Bittner sat back down, calling over his shoulder, "Dennis, Rex may be physically dead, but buddy, you're dead socially."

Everyone started talking at once.

Mrs. Murphy watched Dennis sit down next to Hank. She hurried over to hear the conversation since there was so much noise.

"You're an even bigger coward than I am, Bittner. I just figured it out. Sheriff Shaw said something to me today. He said if these murders are revenge for Ron Brindell's rape then someone who loved Ron has to be committing them. He said what if Ron had a lover, another high-school boy that no one knew about. The boy stood back and didn't stop the rape. He didn't want anyone to know he was gay. He never lifted a finger to help Ron. And no one ever suspected. That was you."

Hank deliberately put down his fork, turned to Dennis, and said softly, "Dennis, if I were gay I would like to think I would have the courage to be what I am. I would like to think I would have fought for Ron. But I'm not gay. It wasn't me and I don't know what's wrong with you-unless that coward is you."

45

Sheriff Shaw had taken the precaution of having Dennis Rablan tailed to the reunion dinner. He also had a plainclothes officer watching Dennis's house in Bentivar, a subdivision up Route 29.

He'd pinned another flow chart to the long bulletin board in the hallway. The interior of the school was neatly drawn. Exits and entrances were outlined in red, as was each window.

Cynthia Cooper was to have attended the dinner but Rick changed his mind: he thought her presence might inhibit people. Little could have inhibited that group, though, and Coop hoped Harry and Susan would save the leftovers. She beseeched them to bring a lot of Ziploc bags and containers.

"You think the killer will crack?"

"It's his or her big night, isn't it? Whoever it is has waited twenty years."

"Are you expecting someone to be blown up in the parking lot?"

He shot her a sharp glance. "I wouldn't put it past our perp."

"I think he's enjoying the chaos-and the fear in the eyes of whoever is left on his list. I think he's sitting in that gym loving every second of it."

"Wish we knew more about Brindell. His parents have passed away. His cousin was no help and snotty, to boot. There's got to be somebody who can tell us who his boyfriend was-or girlfriend. One of the girls could have loved him even if he was gay. People don't have much control over love. Mim Sanburne is proof of that." He smiled because the Queen of Crozet had married beneath her, although everyone conceded that Jim Sanburne, in his youth, was one sexy man.

"This is what bothers me." Cynthia, suddenly intense, stubbed out her lit cigarette. "The killer knows we know this is the big weekend. He knows we're expecting another incident at the dinner or right after since they canceled the dance. He knows," she repeated for emphasis. "Is he going to risk it? He knocked off two this summer. He's killed this morning. He might just wait, enjoy the panic, then strike when it suits him. Whoever he or she is-this lover or best friend-he's fooled us."

"You don't buy that it's Dennis Rablan. He had access to everyone. Not much in the way of alibis but then we've both seen ironclad alibis suddenly get produced in the courtroom, along with the expensive lawyer." The sheriff rubbed his chin, opened his drawer, pulling out a cordless electric razor.

"Boss, do that in the car. Let's go over there."

"Jason's in the parking lot."

"Like a neon sign."

"What are we, then?"

"I don't know but I think we ought to-" The phone rang, interrupting her.

"Sheriff Shaw," Rick answered as the operator put the call through. "Well, stay with him." He hung the phone up. "Jason says Dennis Rablan ran out of the high school, fired up his van, and is pulling out of the parking lot."

"Jason can stay with Dennis. Let's go to Crozet High."

"I hope so."

46

"Jesus, what a mess." Harry watched as the reunion dinner fell apart. "We might as well clean up and go home."

"Yeah." Susan, also dejected, picked up the plates, depositing them in huge trash bags. "One good thing, they ate more than I thought they would. We'll have a lot to take home but at least people enjoyed the food."

Fair stayed behind, as did Hank Bittner, Bonnie Baltier, Market Shiflett, and Linda Osterhoudt. Within an hour and a half the place looked as though they'd never been in it. The huge senior superlative photographs easily came down. Market rolled them up, placing them in large tubes.

"You might as well throw those out," Fair told him.

"Maybe our thirtieth reunion will be better. Anyway, there's plenty of space in the attic of the store. Who knows, huh?"

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, tired from the rich food and the human fuss, sat down under the raised basketball backboard.

"Guess that's it." Harry put her hands on her hips, surveying the polished gym floor. "Too bad we couldn't have had the dance. Alvarez made serious tapes. He was always good at that kind of stuff."

"His wife sure tells him what to do," Hank Bittner laughed. "I thought he might sneak back to the dinner."

"She probably dragged him to Monticello. That's what all the out-of-towners want to see." Susan pressed her hand to the small of her back. All the bending over and lifting had made her ache a little. "I hate to see our reunion end this way."

"Yeah," the others agreed.

Harry asked Hank, "Do you believe the story about Bob, Rex, Charlie, and Leo attacking Ron?"

"Yes," Hank replied.

"Was Dennis there?" Harry continued her inquiry.

"I think he was. I think he stood by the door to watch out for Coach. I can't prove any of it but I believe it."

"How did you hear about it?" Fair asked.

"Ron told me," Hank said, looking truly sorrowful.

"Why didn't you go to the principal or Coach or somebody?" Harry blurted out. She didn't want to sound accusatory but she did.

"Because Ron said he would deny what happened. He didn't want anyone to know. He especially didn't want Deborah Kingsmill to know. He was taking her to the Christmas dance. He thought she'd break the date if she knew." Hank paused. "And if he'd told, who knows what they would have done to him. There was a kind of wisdom to his silence."

"If she really cared about him, she'd go anyway," Susan said.

"Not Deborah." Hank half-smiled. "She didn't care about anybody-which made the guys want her. And remember, she was a cheerleader and all that crap. Even then, her ambition made her cold. Ron felt like he was, I don't know, moving up, I guess, having a date with her."

"Did you know he was gay?" Harry wondered.

"Kinda." Hank shrugged. "What do you know at that age? I'm not sure even Ron knew. I do know that Leo, Charlie, Bob, and Rex spent the rest of the year teasing him but they weren't violent again."

"Maybe Dennis was his boyfriend?" Fair stooped over to pick up a carton loaded with food. He was going to start carrying food and drinks out to his truck, Harry's truck, and Susan's car.

"He's got two kids and one ex-wife," Susan said.

"That doesn't mean he's not gay." Hank also bent over to pick up a carton. "Hell, I've been married and divorced three times-to the same woman. That doesn't mean I'm nuts."

"Hank, I've been meaning to ask you about that." Fair smiled as the men walked out of the gym.

"I'm going home. Thanks for the food, Susan." Bonnie kissed Susan on the cheek.

"Drive safely." Susan kissed her back. "That ninety miles can get truly boring."

"Back to Washington." Linda Osterhoudt did her round of kisses. "Call me when you come up. The opera this year is worth the trip."

"We will," Susan and Harry said. "Hey, why don't you let the guys carry that out for you?"

"I'm not taking that much home." She lifted her small carton and left.

Market came back in for more tubes. Subdued, he waved and left.

Harry and Susan sighed simultaneously.

"It's a bitch," Harry exhaled.

"Yeah. I understand revenge. But why wreck the reunion for everyone else?"

"Guess your mind warps after a while. Hey, Boom let us all have it, didn't she? And you know, she's right. It's her body. A husband isn't a purse. You can't snatch him unless he wants to be snatched. I give her credit for fighting back."

"You're mellow."

Harry clapped her hands together for the animals. "Sick of it. Not mellow. I'm sick of being angry at her, angry at him, angry at me. Done is done. Took me a long enough time to get there, though. In a strange way this reunion has helped me."

"I'd like to know how?" Susan asked, genuinely interested.

"I've had ample proof of what carrying around anger, hate, and the desire for revenge can do to somebody-whoever that somebody is. So he's winning. Winning what? His life is reduced to this one issue, a very great pain, a terrible wound and it would seem an equally terrible act of cowardice. But life moves on. Our killer didn't. In my own little way, I don't want to be like that." She smiled as the three animals trotted toward her. "I've seen enough embittered women not to want to become one."

Susan hugged Harry fiercely. "I love you."

"I love you, too. I couldn't ask for a better friend."

The two women stood there with tears in their eyes.

"Maybe it wasn't such a bad reunion after all." Susan wiped away her tears and Harry's, too. "Shall we?"

They bent over to pick up two cartons and walked out the door. Harry paused for a moment to look back, then cut the lights. "Good-bye, class of 1980."

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter dashed ahead of the humans, turned a few very pretty kitty circles, and waited at the door. Tucker barked at the door; she'd barreled on ahead of them.

Harry put her carton down for a second. The faint sounds of fifties music wafted down the hall from the cafeteria. She wanted to stick her head in and watch but thought better of it. Hank came back in for another carton.

"Should we dance?" He nodded toward the music.

"No. It's their night."

"Well, I'm not flying back to New York until Monday. If you change your mind about dancing, call me." He winked, picked up Harry's carton, and headed for the door. Harry turned to follow but thought she heard a sound on the stairwell.

The lights were out in the stairwell. She walked up a step and went over to turn them on to double-check.

A black-gloved hand came down over hers.

A man's tenor, a familiar voice, snarled, "Don't, you idiot!"

Before she could respond he drew back the side of his hand and hit her hard in the windpipe. She staggered back, choking, falling off the one step. She saw briefly the back of a man, dressed in black, a black ski mask over his face as he jumped over her. Nimbly, he ran down the hall.

Tears of pain rolled down her face; she couldn't get up. She was fighting hard to breathe.

Mrs. Murphy noticed first. "Something's wrong!"

The three animals tore back down the hallway, their paws barely touching the ground. They were all going so fast that when they reached Harry they spun out of control.

Harry, on her hands and knees, gasped for air. Tucker licked her face.

"I'll catch him!" Pewter took off down the hall. Once the humans saw Harry, Murphy ran after Pewter.

"Harry? Harry!" Susan came running toward Harry, the sound of footsteps receding, fading into the fifties music.

Murphy left Harry, hit Mach One, sped past Pewter, sped past the running man, ducked into the cafeteria, pushed out a skateboard from behind the door, and pushed it so it would cross the man's path.

He never saw the skateboard. He hit it running flat out, fell down, and skidded on the polished floor. He struggled up and kept running, although his arm was crooked.

"Dennis Rablan! It's Dennis Rablan!" Murphy yelled, but only Pewter understood as she came alongside Murphy.

The two cats followed Dennis, running hard, his right arm hanging uselessly by his side. He turned, hit the doors with his left side, and escaped.

The double doors swung shut, keeping the cats inside.

"Damn!" Mrs. Murphy spit, the hair on her tail puffed, her eyes huge.

As Susan reached Harry, Tucker, hearing a second set of footsteps, bounded up the stairwell. Tucker, now on the second floor, heard footsteps thump down the far stairway. The corgi ran down the hall, reaching the top of the back stairwell as the human hit the bottom, turned right and, narrowly missing the cats, opened the doors and escaped. The cats escaped with him. He was in black sweats with a ski mask covering his face.

Within seconds Tucker was at the bottom of the stairs. With her greater bulk, she pushed a door open and followed the cats.

About a hundred yards ahead of them they heard footsteps drop over the bank; they followed as the figure ran toward the houses behind the school. He disappeared, they heard a car door slam and a car took off, heading west, no lights.

"Damnit!" Tucker cursed.

"It was Dennis Rablan," Murphy panted.

"But who was the guy upstairs?" Tucker kept sniffing the ground.

"Let's follow the tracks," Pewter wisely suggested. They followed two sets of tracks to the end of the schoolyard.

Looking down at the houses below, Murphy said, "I would never have thought Dennis capable of these murders. I can't believe it but I smelled him. It was him."

"Let's go back inside," Tucker said.

"We can't open the doors." Pewter sat in the cool grass.

"I can. Come on."

Once inside, they checked down the hall. Everyone was around Harry.

"Let's go upstairs and work backwards. There may be a scent up there that will help us." Pewter started up the back stairs.

The other two followed.

Tucker, nose to the ground, moved along the hall. Pewter, pupils wide in the dark, checked each room, as did Mrs. Murphy.

"English Leather." Tucker identified the cologne. "Enough to mask the scent of an entire regiment. Odd. So heavy a scent even humans can smell it. Why advertise your presence like that?"

"What's this?" Pewter stopped in the hall, patting at a thin, twisted piece of rope with a wooden dowel on each end.

"A garotte!" Mrs. Murphy exclaimed. "He was going to strangle someone."

"Think we can get Susan or another human up here?" Tucker said.

"No, they're worried about Mom and we should be, too," Pewter replied.

"We can't just leave it here." Murphy thought a moment. "Tucker, pick it up. Drop it at their feet. When things quiet down one of the humans will notice."

Without another word, Tucker picked up the garotte, and hurried down the stairs to Harry.

Rick Shaw and Cynthia attended to her. They had just arrived at the school. Hank, Fair, and Susan knelt down with Harry.

"It's not crushed, thank God." Cynthia gently felt Harry's windpipe.

Harry still couldn't speak but she was breathing better.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker quietly walked down the stairs.

Tucker dropped the garotte at Rick Shaw's feet. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, bent over, and picked it up. He whistled low.

Tucker eagerly looked up at him, then turned, walking toward the stairwell.

Harry whispered-her throat felt on fire-"They chased him."

"There were two of them!" Pewter, in frustration, yowled.

Rick followed Tucker up the stairs. The dog stopped where Pewter found the twisted rope. Although it was cool on the second floor-the heat was turned down for the weekend-Rick was sweating. He knew what a close call Harry had suffered. And he also knew because Jason called in on the squad car radio that he had lost Dennis Rablan at the intersection of Route 240 and Route 250. A big semi crossed the intersection and when Jason could finally turn, Dennis was out of sight. The officer drove down Beaver Dam Road, turned back on 250 to check that out, turned west on 250, and finally doubled back on 240. No trace.

Slowly he walked down the hallway, down the back stairwell, to the doors. He pushed open the doors, accompanied by Tucker, and walked to the edge of the hills.

He knelt down; the grass was flattened. He stood up and quickly walked back to the school. He and Cynthia had locked the doors at the top of each stairwell. He walked up the stairs. The door was open, a stopper under it so it wouldn't swing back and forth. The lock had been neatly picked. He walked the length of the hall to find the other door, also propped open. It had been opened from the inside. Then he came downstairs and checked on Harry again.

Harry, sitting with her back against the wall, was pushing away a glass of water Susan wanted her to drink. She was breathing evenly now.

Rick knelt down with her. "Can you talk?"

"A little," she whispered. She told him about hearing a sound, going up a step to turn on the lights, and hearing a man's voice say, "Don't, you idiot." Then he hit hard and she fell back.

"Did the voice sound familiar?" Rick put his hand on her knee.

"Yes, but . . . it was just a whisper. I didn't recognize it, and yet, there was something familiar. Eerie."

"Height?"

"Maybe five nine, ten, average, I guess."

"Build?"

"Average."

"And you couldn't see the face?"

"Ski mask." She reached for the water now. Susan handed it to her.

Rick stood back up, asked everyone where they were. In the parking lot, they all confirmed one another's presence, except for Susan, who waited at the doors for Harry.

"Listen to me," Rick commanded. "Say nothing of this. Harry, if you can't speak normally for the next few days, put out that you have laryngitis. Let's see if we can disturb our guy. He's going to want to know what you've seen."

"Okay."

"Next thing. Keep someone with you at all times."

"I wish they could listen. Dennis Rablan!" Murphy meowed, knowing it was hopeless.

"It's all right, Mrs. Murphy." Harry reached for the cat. Pewter came over, too.

"You're covered at work. Miranda is there," Rick said.

"I'll stay," Fair gladly volunteered.

"Z'at all right with you?" Cynthia, sensitive to the situation, asked Harry.

"Yes." Harry nodded.

"Do you think he was waiting in the stairwell for Harry?" Susan shuddered.

"I don't know," Rick grimly replied. "If he was up there throughout the dinner, he'd have seen who was leaving and who was staying. If he'd gone to the dinner and then come back, well, maybe he hoped his intended victim was still there." He turned to Harry and then Fair: "This is a highly intelligent and bold individual. Take nothing for granted." Rick was seething inside that he hadn't posted a man upstairs. He assumed locking the doors would do the job.

The three animals looked at one another. They knew they'd be on round-the-clock duty, too.

47

Like most stubborn people, Harry failed to realize how shock would affect her. She thought she was fine. She was happy to go home but surprised that when she walked through the kitchen door a wave of exhaustion washed over her, adding to the throb caused by the headache. She wanted to talk to Fair but couldn't keep her eyes open.

"Honey, you need to go to bed." He lifted her out of the chair into which she'd slumped.

"I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm so tired. Maybe I should take more painkiller."

"No. You've had enough."

Too wiped out to protest, she meekly let him walk her into the bedroom and fell into bed.

"I'll sleep by the kitchen door," Tucker declared.

"I'll take the front door." Mrs. Murphy chose her spot.

"Well, I'll sleep in the bedroom then. What if someone climbs through the window?" Pewter dashed to the bedroom before the others could protest.

Tracy came home at midnight, whistling as he opened the kitchen door. Fair, stretched out on the sofa, swung his long legs to the floor.

"Fair?"

"Had a good night?"

"Wonderful. I feel like a kid again. I even kissed Miranda on her doorstep." He smiled broadly, then considered Fair on the sofa. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"No." Fair walked into the kitchen, reached under the cupboard by the door, pulled out a bottle of Talisker scotch, and poured them each a nightcap. They moved to the cheerful, if threadbare, living room, where Fair told Tracy everything he could remember from the evening.

A long, long silence followed as Tracy stared into the pale gold liquid in his glass. "We were fiddling while Rome burned, I guess. That son of a bitch was over our heads the whole time."

"Harry could have been killed." Fair put his glass down on the coffee table, first sliding a coaster under it. "And whoever it is may fear she recognized him through his voice or way of going."

"Way of going?"

"Ah," Fair explained, "a horse has a special movement and I or any good horseman, really, can identify her by her gait. A way of going. For instance, you have an athlete's walk. I might be able to identify you even if you were in costume-or BoomBoom Craycroft, that sashay."

"The sheriff's command to act as though she has laryngitis is a good one for flushing him out but not so good for Harry. She knows she's bait?"

"Of course. Rick will have plainclothes men around the post office. He's got the house covered now. There's only one drive in and out."

"Somehow that's not very reassuring."

"No." Fair picked up his glass again, holding it between both hands.

"Do you have any ideas about who, what, why?"

"No, well, not exactly. I told you Rick Shaw's idea, that this is someone who was in love with Ron Brindell. Or at least is avenging him."

Tracy emptied his glass, then leaned toward Fair. "You know what, Buddy? I'm sixty-eight years old and I don't know a damn thing. Do people snap? Can anyone snap in a given situation? Are some weak and some strong? Are there really saints and sinners? Don't know but I do know once a person loses their fear of their own death, once they no longer care about belonging to other people, they'll do anything. Anything. My God, look at Rwanda. Sarajevo. Belfast. Kill children. Kill anything."

"Presumably those killings are politically motivated."

"Yeah, that's another load, too. Some people just want to kill. Give them a reason so they can cover up their murderous selves. The church can give them a reason, the state. I've seen enough to know there are no good reasons."

"I'm with you there."

"Whoever this is no longer cares. He's given up on people. He has nothing to lose. I also think he intended to finish off his list at the reunion and he's been thwarted. He's angry. And maybe, just maybe, he'll make a mistake."

Fair nodded in agreement. "The more I think about this reunion murderer, the more the finger points to Dennis Rablan."

"There are three left." Tracy held up three fingers.

"Two. Dennis Rablan and Bob Shoaf."

"Three. Hank Bittner."

"He said he wasn't in the locker room."

"He knows too much. Three. And there's a strong possibility one of the three is the killer."

"I'd hate to be one of those guys." Fair's deep voice dropped even lower.

Truer words were never spoken.

48

"Getting the flu?" Chris asked Harry sympathetically when she heard her voice on the phone that Sunday morning.

"Laryngitis," Harry replied.

"You do sound scratchy. I called to apologize. I chickened out. I could have at least said good-bye."

"You don't have to apologize to me. If I'd been in your shoes, I'd have melted my sneakers running-flat-out flying-out of there."

"You're not mad?"

"No."

"Anybody know anything? I mean, any clues?"

"Not that I know of but then Sheriff Shaw wouldn't tell me no matter what."

"Yes, I guess. He has to be careful. Well, I hope you feel better. I'll see you in the P.O. tomorrow."

"You bet." Harry hung up the tackroom phone.

She and Fair finished the barn chores and had decided to strip all the stalls to fill in the low spots and places where the horses had dug out.

"You need rubber mats or Equistall." Fair rolled in a wheelbarrow of black sand mixed with loam.

"Equistall costs me four hundred and fifty dollars a stall."

"It is expensive. Our alfalfa cube experiment was a big success."

"So far. I've been able to cut back on my feed bill but everyone's getting good nutrition. Maybe a little too much," she laughed, as she indicated Tomahawk in the paddock.

"If he were a man that'd be a beer belly." Fair shoveled the sand into the stall. "Tracy was up early this morning. At least their reunion is a smashing success. They're meeting for breakfast in the cafeteria."

"Chris sure wanted to know everything. Maybe I'm being suspicious. I guess it's natural since she and Denny have been pretty close. Right now I-" A car motor diverted her attention.

"Who goes!" Tucker barked, running out of the barn.

Pewter and Mrs. Murphy, sitting in the hayloft, saw BoomBoom's Beemer roll down the dusty drive.

"Wonder what she wants?" Mrs. Murphy said.

"Fair," Pewter sarcastically replied.

"We'll soon find out." The tiger cat tiptoed to the edge of the hayloft. She stayed still as she peered down into the center aisle.

Once BoomBoom parked her car and got out, Pewter joined her.

"Harry!" BoomBoom called out.

"In here," came the reply.

BoomBoom walked into the barn, saw Harry in the aisle, and then noticed Fair as he stepped out of the stall. Her expression changed slightly. "Oh, hello."

"Hi," he said.

"Has Bob Shoaf come by?"

"No. Why would he?" Harry said.

"I thought he might stop off to say good-bye before flying back up north. He always liked you."

"BoomBoom, I don't believe a word of this. What's wrong?" Harry leaned her rake against the stall door.

Her voice shot up half an octave. "I wanted to say good-bye myself, really."

"Why don't I go inside or why don't you two go inside? Maybe you can have this discussion without me." Fair tossed a shovelful of the sand mix into a stall.

"Uh . . . yes." BoomBoom backed out of the barn.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter climbed down backwards from the ladder to the hayloft. They followed the two women, who stopped at the BMW.

BoomBoom, voice lowered, said, "He left without saying anything. I thought if he was still around I'd find out what was the matter."

"He's a jock, Boom. He's used to being fawned over and getting what he wants. As long as he didn't leave money on your dresser, I wouldn't worry." Harry immediately guessed what really happened.

BoomBoom's face flushed. "Harry, you have the most off-putting way of speaking sometimes." She reached in her skirt pocket. "He left this, though." A heavy, expensive Rolex gold watch gleamed in her hand.

"That costs as much as my new truck."

"Yes, I think it does. I really ought to return the watch but I can't send it to his house, now, can I?"

"Ah. . . . ?" Harry had forgotten about Bob's perfect wife and two perfect children. She took the watch from BoomBoom's palm. Nine-fifteen. She checked the old Hamilton she wore, her father's watch. Nine-fifteen.

"One other thing, I ought to check the school. I know you and Susan cleaned up last night but I am the Chair, and I should double-check everything."

"Well, go on."

"I'm afraid."

"Great. Why come to me?"

"Because Susan is at church with Ned and the kids and because-you're not afraid of much."

Within ten minutes Harry, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Tucker, BoomBoom, and Fair reached Crozet High.

The front main entrance was open because of the class of 1950's breakfast, the last scheduled event. The first place they checked was the gym, which was locked. BoomBoom had a set of keys. She unlocked the door. They looked around quickly. Everything was fine.

"I'm going back upstairs," Tucker said. "Maybe I missed something in the dark."

"I can see in the dark. I didn't see anything," Pewter said.

"There was a lot going on." Tucker headed up the stairs.

Pewter followed. Mrs. Murphy stayed with Harry as the humans checked the hallways and garbage cans.

"You all cleaned up everything. I don't have anything to do," BoomBoom said gratefully.

"Murphy!" Pewter howled from the top of the stairs.

Murphy hurried up the stairs, met Pewter and raced with her as she flew over the polished floor to the classroom next to the back stairwell.

Tucker sat in the classroom. The window was open. The blinds, pulled all the way to the top, had the white cord, beige with age, hanging out the window. That wasn't all that was hanging out the window.

Mrs. Murphy jumped to the windowsill. Bob Shoaf, tongue almost touching his breastbone, hung at the end of the venetian blind cord.

"Should I get Mom?" Pewter asked.

"Not yet." Mrs. Murphy coolly surveyed the situation. "The humans will track up everything. Let's investigate first." She asked the dog, "Anything?"

"English Leather fading-and Dennis's scent."

Pewter jumped up next to Mrs. Murphy. "His face is-I can't describe the color."

"Don't worry about him." Murphy noted that the end classroom jutted out by the stairwell. The windows in a row could be seen from the road out front but the back window, set at a right angle to the others, was hidden from view. Bob probably wouldn't have been found until sometime Monday if they hadn't come upstairs. The frost preserved the body but even without a frost the humans wouldn't have smelled him for twenty-four to forty-eight hours, depending on the warmth of the day. She also noticed that rigor had set in. Nothing lay on the ground below.

The three animals prowled around the classroom. They walked the windowsills, checked under desks, sniffed and poked. Then they split up. Mrs. Murphy walked to the far stairwell. Tucker and Pewter checked the stairwell closest to the classroom.

They met in the downstairs hallway. No one had found anything unusual.

"Do you think the killer would have done this to Mom?" Tucker asked.

"No. But I think he would have killed her if she'd gotten too close. I know he would. But he wasn't hanging when she was attacked. Whoever did this in the wee hours of the morning hauled him back here. That's a lot of work." Mrs. Murphy spied the humans coming out of the cafeteria, each one eating a muffin from the class of 1950's breakfast.

"They'll wish they hadn't eaten," Pewter sighed.

"Well, let's get them upstairs." Tucker thought she'd pull on Fair's pants leg.

"BoomBoom is going to have a terrible time explaining that watch." Murphy headed toward the group.

49

All hell broke loose. The media from all over Virginia, Washington, and even Baltimore played up the murders. The attention was fueled by the fact that Rex and Bob had been killed on a weekend when news was especially slow and Bob had been a big sports celebrity.

Crozet, overrun by vans adorned with satellite dishes, pulled tight the shutters on the windows. Few chose to talk but among themselves the agreement was that the media was correct in dubbing these events the Reunion Murders.

The reporters waited outside the various churches, trying to nab the faithful as they emerged from late-morning services.

Public buildings were closed. The reporters were out of luck there but they hit up the convenience stores, including Market Shiflett's. The reporter from Channel 29, having done her homework, knew that Market was a member of the class under siege. Being quite pretty, she managed to extract a comment from him, which was played on the news relentlessly.

"The big cities have lots of nutcases. Guess it was Crozet's turn," Market said, looking into the camera from behind the cash register of the store.

Since few other quotes were available, Market made the airwaves up and down the Mid-Atlantic.

Mim Sanburne called a meeting at her house. Invited were those she considered the movers and shakers of the town. Harry and Miranda, part of the inner circle by virtue of birth and their jobs, sat with Herb Jones, Jim Sanburne, Larry Johnson, and Mim, discussing how to divert the bad publicity.

"That problem would be solved if we could apprehend the criminal," Harry, out of sorts, whispered, her voice still rough.

The older people quieted, each realizing that not being members of the class of 1980, they felt safe.

"You're quite right." Mim smoothed her hair.

50

Dennis Rablan was nowhere to be found. Rick Shaw scoured the photo shop and Rablan's house, called his parents and his friends. No one had seen or heard from him-at least, that's what they told Rick and Cynthia. He had stationed patrol cars at Dennis's home, his parents' home, and his ex-wife's home.

Standing next to the coroner, Rick hoped Dennis would open the doors to his business on Monday morning. He was sure Dennis knew something that he wasn't telling-assuming he was alive.

"This man died from a bullet to the brain. Apart from broken fingers, smashed knees, and both sides of his collarbone broken-the results of twelve years of pro football-this was a man in good health." The coroner shook his head. "I'd like to take every high-school football hero and show them what happens to people who continue to play this game throughout college and the pros. They get money and maybe fame but that's all they get."

"How long was he dead before he was found this morning?"

"I'd say the time of death occurred about four in the morning. You examined the site, of course."

"No sign of struggle." Rick hoped the embalmer at the fu-neral home would be able to get the dark color from Bob's face and he asked the coroner if that was possible.

"Usually. Once the blood drains out it will drain from the face, too, but I'm a coroner, not a funeral director." He smiled, perfectly at home with dead bodies. "If that doesn't work, I'd suggest a closed casket. There's the problem of the deep crease in the neck but if he staples the collar to the skin at the back of the neck it should stay up and not distress the family. I remember Bob's glory days at Crozet High." He peered over his half-moon glasses. "And beyond."

"Me, too." Cynthia finally spoke. Autopsies put her considerable composure to the test.

"Those days are over now," Rick simply stated. "Funny how an entire life reduces to that final moment. Bob probably thought he could get out of it, whatever or whoever. Self-confidence was never his problem."

"Same M.O.?" The coroner pulled the sheet up over Bob's discolored face.

"Yes. More than likely he wasn't shot at the school. His body was carried to the high school and up the steps. He's no feather either."

"One hundred and eighty-eight pounds, a good weight for a cornerback. Your killer will have sore legs unless he's a weight lifter."

When Rick and Cynthia drove away, Cynthia said, "Harry, Boom, and Fair certainly had a shock. They didn't know he'd been shot between the eyes until we hauled up the body. There's that moment when you see the corpse, the physical damage-it never leaves you."

"I was surprised that BoomBoom didn't swoon. She rarely misses an opportunity to give vent to her innermost feelings," Rick wryly commented.

"Remarkably restrained." Cynthia sighed. "Considering she'd slept with the man not six or seven hours before that."

"We've got her statement. She didn't waffle. I give her credit." Rick headed back toward the department, then turned toward Crozet.

"School?"

"No. BoomBoom's."

They pulled into the driveway of the beautiful white brick home. BoomBoom's deceased husband had made a lot of money in the gravel and concrete business, a business she still owned although she did not attend to day-to-day operations. Flakey as Boom could be, she could read an accounting report with the best of them, and she made a point of dropping in at the quarry once or twice a week. She intended to profit handsomely from the building boom in Albemarle County.

A Toyota Camry was parked next to her BMW.

If anything, BoomBoom seemed relieved to see them again. Her eyes, red from crying, were anxious.

Chris Sharpton and Bitsy Valenzuela rose when Rick and Cynthia walked into the lavish living room.

"Should we leave?"

"Not yet," Rick said.

Boom offered refreshments, which they declined.

"Ladies, what are you doing here?" the sheriff asked.

"I called them," Boom said.

"That's fine but I didn't ask you." Rick smiled, as he'd known Olivia Ulrich Craycroft since she was tiny, and no offense was taken on her part.

"Like she said, she called me, she was crying and I drove over," Chris said. "I'm afraid I haven't been much comfort. I told her to take a vacation. In fact, everyone from her class should take a vacation."

"She called me, too." Bitsy confirmed BoomBoom's statement. "I asked E.R. if I could come over. He's worried about all this but he relented since Chris and I were driving over to-gether."

"The victims are men." Cynthia leaned forward as Rick settled into his chair. "BoomBoom doesn't appear to be in danger."

"I'd hate to be the exception that proves the rule," BoomBoom said.

Rick waited, resting his head on his hand.

First she sat still, then she fidgeted. Finally she spoke. "I know you think I know something, sheriff, but I don't." Suddenly she got up and walked upstairs to her bedroom, returning with Bob's gold Rolex watch. She dropped it into Rick's upturned hand. "I didn't steal it. He left it here last night. Can you return it to his widow? I mean, you don't have to tell. Why should she know?"

"Fine." Rick slipped the heavy watch in his pocket.

"Were you two together in high school?" Cynthia asked.

"No. We just looked at one another at the supper and there it was. People told me these things happen at reunions but it wasn't a case of some old wish being fulfilled."

"Who did you date in high school? Any of the deceased?"

"Coop, I told you all this. No. My senior year I dated college guys mostly. The dances, let's see, I went with Bittner if my boyfriend at the time couldn't come."

"And where is this boyfriend?" Cynthia scribbled.

"A vice president at Coca-Cola in Atlanta. I think he'll be president someday. As you know, I married a hometown boy, although he was eight years older than I."

"Chris, sometimes outsiders can see more than insiders. What do you think?" Cynthia asked the blonde woman, who had been listening intently.

"That I'm glad I'm not part of this." She nervously glanced at BoomBoom. "Even if you are a woman and therefore probably safe, I'd be frightened."

"Did you notice anything unusual when you worked on the reunion?" Coop turned to Bitsy.

"Uh . . . well, they picked on one another. No one held much back." She smiled nervously. "But there wasn't enough hostility for murder."

"Did anyone ever discuss Charlie's illegitimate child from high school?"

Bitsy replied, "Not until Dennis lost his composure."

Chris looked Cynthia straight in the eye. "No. I didn't hear about that until later."

"You know that Dennis Rablan accused me of having Charlie's baby, but I didn't. I swear I didn't." BoomBoom frowned.

"But you know who did?" Rick quietly cornered her.

Boom's face turned red, then the color washed right out. "Oh God, I swore never to tell."

"You couldn't have foreseen this, and the information might have a bearing on the case." Rick remained calm and quiet.

Agitated, BoomBoom jumped from her chair. "No! I won't tell. She wouldn't have killed Charlie. She wouldn't. As for Leo and the others: Why? What could the motive possibly be? It makes no sense. I don't care what happened back then, if anything did happen. The murders make no sense."

"That's our job. To find out." Coop was now perched on the edge of her seat. "What may seem like no connection to you . . . well, there could be all kinds of reasons."

"But I thought these murders sprang from the supposed rape of Ron Brindell." Boom paced back and forth. "Isn't that what everyone's saying?"

"That's just it. No one admits to being there. Market Shiflett heard about it at school. Bittner says he wasn't there and the same for Dennis Rablan."

"What do you think?" BoomBoom asked Cynthia.

"It's not my job to point the finger until I have sufficient evidence. Right now what I think is immaterial."

"It's not immaterial to me." BoomBoom pouted, pacing faster. "You're asking me to betray a lifelong trust and I know in my heart that this woman has nothing to do with these awful murders." She sat down abruptly. "I know what you all think of me. You think I'm a dilettante. I have, as Mrs. Hogendobber so politely puts it, 'enthusiasms.' I sleep with men when I feel like it. That makes me a tramp, to some. I guess to most. You all think I take a new lover every night. I don't, of course. You think I'm overemotional, oversexed, and underpowered." She tapped her skull. "Think what you will, I still have honor. I refuse to tell."

"This could get you in a lot of trouble," Rick softly replied.

"Trouble on the outside, not trouble on the inside." She pointed to her heart.

51

Rick had been on the phone for fifteen minutes. On a hunch he had Cynthia call the San Francisco Police Department.

He decided he wanted to talk to the officers on the scene that night. Luckily, Tony Minton, now a captain, remembered the case.

"-you're sure the note was his handwriting?"

Captain Minton replied, "Yes. We searched his apartment after the suicide and the handwriting was his. Our graphologist confirmed."

"Enough is enough." Rick quoted Ron's suicide note.

"That was it."

"There were three reliable witnesses."

"And others who didn't stop. They reported a young man climbing on the Golden Gate Bridge, waving good-bye and leaping. We never found the body."

"And the witnesses could describe the victim?"

"Medium height. Thin build. Young. Dark hair."

"Yes." Rick covered his eyes with his palm for a moment. "Did he have a police record?"

"No."

"Captain Minton, thank you for going over this again. If you think of anything at all, please call me."

"I will."

Rick hung up the phone. He stood up, clapped his hat on his head, crooked his finger at Cynthia, who was again studying lab reports. "Let's go," he said.

Silently, she followed him. Within twenty minutes they were at Dede Rablan's front door.

She answered the door and allowed them to come inside. She then sent the two children, aged eight and ten, to their rooms and asked them not to interrupt them.

"I'm sorry to disturb you again, Mrs. Rablan."

"Sheriff, I want an answer to this as well as you do. Dennis wouldn't kill anyone. I know him."

"I hope you're right." Rick reassured her, by his tone of voice, that he felt the same way. "Has he called today?"

"No. He usually calls in the evening to check on the kids. He has them next weekend."

"You met just out of college?" Cynthia referred to her notes from an earlier questioning.

"Yes. I was working for a travel magazine. Just started. A researcher."

"Dede." Cynthia leaned toward her. She knew her socially, as they took dance classes together. "Did you ever get the feeling Dennis had a secret-even once?"

"I had hunches he was unfaithful to me." She lowered her eyes.

"Something darker?"

"Cynthia, no. I wish I could help but he's not a violent man. He's an undirected one. A spoiled one. If he had a dark secret, he kept it from me for twelve years. You have to be a pretty good actor to pull that off."

Rick cleared his throat. "Did you ever think that your husband might be a homosexual?"

Dede blinked rapidly, then laughed. "You've got to be kidding."

52

Monday proved to be even more chaotic than Sunday. Print reporters snagged people at work, and television vans rolled along Route 240 and the Whitehall Road as reporters looked for possible interviews.

Harry and Miranda refused to speak to any media person. Their patience was sorely tested when the TV cameras came inside anyway, the interviewer pouncing on people as they opened their mailboxes.

"Ask me," Pewter shouted. "I discovered the garotte."

"I discovered the body. I smelled it out!" Tucker tooted her own horn.

"You two better shut up. This is federal property and I don't think animals are supposed to work in post offices," Murphy grumbled. "They don't listen. They never listen. It's Dennis Rablan-dumbbells-Dennis and someone drenched in English Leather cologne."

"Bull! The government rents the building. As long as they don't own it we can do what we want." Pewter had learned that fact from Miranda, though she had neglected to confirm that the renter could do as they pleased. But then the federal government did whatever they wanted, pretending to have the welfare of citizens at heart. The fact that Americans believed this astonished the gray cat, who felt all governments were no better than self-serving thieves. Cats are by instinct and inclination anarchists.

"Pewter, if we appear on television, all it takes is one officious jerk to make life difficult," Murphy, calmer now, advised her.

"I'll fight! I'll fight all the way to the Supreme Court!" Pewter crowed.

"Animals don't have political rights or legal ones, either." Tucker sat under the table. "Humans think only of themselves."

"Be glad of it." Mrs. Murphy watched from the divider. "If humans decided to create laws for animals, where would it end? Would chickens have rights? Would we be allowed to hunt? Would the humans we live with have to buy hunting licenses for us? If we killed a bird would we go to jail? Remember, we're dealing with a species that denies its animal nature and wants to deny ours."

"Hadn't thought of that," Pewter mumbled, then threw back her head and sang out. "To hell with the Supreme Court! To hell with all human laws. Let's go back to the fang and the claw!"

"Someone has." Murphy jumped down as the TV camera swung her way.

Bitsy Valenzuela opened the door, saw the commotion and closed it. A few others did the same until the television people left.

"Damn, that makes me mad!" Harry cursed, her voice actu-ally huskier than the day before. Her throat hurt more, too.

"They hop around like grasshoppers." Mrs. Hogendobber walked to the front window to watch the van back out into traffic. The sky was overcast. "'But if any man hates his neighbor, and lies in wait for him, and attacks him, and wounds him mortally so that he dies, and the man flees into one of these cities, then the elders of his city shall send and fetch him from there, and hand him over to the avenger of blood, so that he may die.'" She quoted Deuteronomy, chapter nineteen, verses eleven and twelve.

"What made you think of that?"

"I don't know exactly." Miranda flipped up the hinged part of the divider and walked into the mailroom. "There's a pall of violence over the land, a miasma over America. We must be the most violent nation among the civilized nations of the earth."

"I think that depends on how you define civilized. You mean industrialized, I think."

"I suppose I do." Mrs. Hogendobber put her arm around Harry. "You could have been killed, child. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Tears welled up in their eyes and they hugged.

"The strange thing was, Mrs. H., that I wasn't scared until I got home. I was glad to have Fair there and Tracy, too."

"Tracy is very fond of you. He's . . ." She didn't finish her sentence. Bitsy slipped back in now that the television crew had left.

"Hi."

"Hi, Bitsy." Miranda greeted her.

"Just came for my mail."

Chris pushed open the door, said hello to everyone, then exhaled sharply. "It's like a circus out there. Do you think there'd be this many reporters if someone in town had won the Nobel Prize?"

"No. Goodness isn't as interesting as evil, it would seem," Harry said.

"Still under the weather?" Chris came up to the counter, followed by Bitsy.

"Laryngitis. Can't shake it."

"There's a dark red mark on your neck," Chris observed. "Girl, you'd better go to the doctor. That doesn't look like laryngitis to me. Come on, I'll run you over."

"No, no," Harry politely refused.

"If there's color on your neck, Harry, this could be something quite serious. You're being awfully nonchalant."

"Chris, don't tell me the seven warning signs of cancer," Harry rasped, then laughed.

"It's not funny!" Chris was deadly serious.

Miranda stepped up to the counter. "I'll take her at lunch. You're quite right to be concerned. Harry is bullheaded-and I'm being restrained in my description."

The animals watched as Chris and Bitsy left, each getting into separate cars.

"Do you think those present can keep from telling what really happened to Mom Saturday night?" Tucker worried.

"They'd better. Mom is in enough trouble as it is." Pewter sat by the animal door. She couldn't make up her mind whether to stay inside, where it was cozy, or whether to take a little walk. She was feeling antsy.

"But that's the deal. The killer will come into this post office. He'll know that Mom doesn't have laryngitis. If she pretends that is her problem, it could rattle his cage. I flat-out don't like it and I don't care what the humans say-this person will strike like a cobra. They think because there's a human with her at all times, that she's safe. Remember, this killer gets close to his victims. They aren't threatened. Then-pow!" Tucker was deeply worried. How could two cats and one dog save Harry?

Murphy, listening intently, hummed "The Old Gray Mare" under her breath.

53

Coop, alone in her squad car, rolled by the post office at five in the afternoon. She knocked, then came through the back door.

"More black clouds piling up by the mountains. The storm will blow the leaves off the trees by sundown." She bent down to scratch Tucker's ears. "I hate that. The color has been spectacular. One of the prettiest falls I remember."

"Storm's not here yet." Harry tossed debris into a dark green garbage bag with yellow drawstrings. She looked at the bag. "Silly, but I hate going out to that dumpster."

"Not so silly. Where's Miranda?"

"Next door. She ran over to get half-and-half for her coffee." Diet or no diet, Miranda would not give up her half-and-half.

"Weird."

"What?"

"It's so quiet. This is the last place I would expect it to be quiet."

"Wasn't this morning. Half the town dragged themselves in before ten o'clock but the media attention finally irritated them. What's so unusual is, there's no fear unless it's one of my classmates. Oh, people are upset, outraged, full of ideas, but not afraid."

"Are you?"

"Yes," Harry replied without hesitation. "I'd be a fool not to be. I scan each face that comes through that door and wonder, 'Is he the one?' I scan each face and wonder which one is scanning mine." She sighed. "At least we haven't gotten any more stupid mailings. That seems to be the signal."

"Any unusual conversations, I mean, did anyone call attention to your voice?"

"Every single person who came in. Chris Sharpton wanted to take me to Larry Johnson to have him examine my throat. She was the only one who wanted to get a medical opinion. Big Mim suggested a hot toddy after taking echinacea. Little Mim said pills, shots, nothing works. It has to run through my system. Most comments were of that nature. Although, I must say that I was impressed with BoomBoom. She hasn't spilled the beans-'course, I guess she has a lot on her mind."

"Indeed . . . but Boom has sense underneath all that fluff. She's not going to willingly jeopardize you."

"Fair calls every half hour. He's driven by four times. I'm sure his patients are thrilled."

Coop laughed. "Fortunately, they can't complain."

"No, but their owners can." Harry tied up the bag, setting it by the back door. "Any sign of Dennis Rablan?"

"Not a hair. We've checked plane departures, the train, the bus. His van hasn't turned up either."

"Coop, he could be dead."

"That thought has occurred to me." Cynthia sat down at the table, licked her forefinger, and picked up crumbs.

"You eat like a bird." Harry opened the small refrigerator, bringing out two buttermilk biscuits that were left. "Here. Miranda's concoction for today."

Just then Mrs. H. walked through the front door; the large brown bag in her arms testified to the fact that she had bought more than a container of half-and-half. "Cynthia, how are you?"

"Frustrated."

"And hungry. She's been picking the crumbs up off the table."

"I can take care of that." Miranda lifted a huge sandwich from the bag. "You girls can share. I got a salad for me, but if you prefer that, Cynthia, I can divide it." Cynthia said she'd like half of Harry's sandwich. Miranda cut the turkey, bacon, lettuce, and provolone on whole wheat in half.

"I'm glad you're here." Harry smiled at Cynthia. "You're saving me from making a pig of myself."

Chris Sharpton pulled up, stuck her head in the front door. "Did you go to the doctor?"

"Miranda took me," Harry lied.

"And?"

"Laryngitis. He said the red mark isn't anything to worry about. I bruised myself but I can't remember how."

"You take care." Chris waved to the others, shut the door, and drove off.

As Cynthia gratefully ate, Miranda put a steaming cup of coffee before her, half coffee, half cream, with a twist of tiny orange rind, a favorite drink.

"If you have any leftovers, I'd be glad to eat them." Tucker wagged her nonexistent tail.

"Pig," was all Mrs. Murphy said. Her worry soured her usually buoyant spirits.

Pewter had eaten two biscuits earlier. She was full as a tick. "Murphy, would it do us any good to walk up to the high school? Maybe we've missed something."

"The only thing we've missed is the boiler room and the janitor's been in there today. Besides, all the kids are back in school. No scent. I'm at a loss, Pewter. I have not one good plan of action. I don't even know where to start."

Tucker, hearing this dispiriting talk, said, "We can read Harry's yearbook tonight. Maybe that will guide us."

"I'll try anything." Murphy flopped down on her side, putting her head on her outstretched arm. She felt so bad it made her tired.

"Dennis?" was all Mrs. Hogendobber asked Cynthia.

"Vanished. I was telling Harry. His landlord opened the office and lab. We crawled all over it. We took a locksmith to his house. Nothing has been disturbed and he hasn't been back. Luckily, he doesn't have pets but his plants are wilting. His neighbors haven't seen him. The state police haven't seen him on the highway."

Cynthia sipped her coffee. "You think it was Dennis?"

"He's the only one left standing," Miranda replied.

"Hank Bittner," Harry reminded her. "Lucky him. He's back in New York."

"The killer had no opportunities to nail Hank," Cynthia said. "At least, I don't think he did."

Harry poured herself a cup of tea, putting a small orange rind in it, too. She couldn't drink coffee. Made her too jumpy. "Maybe he did and maybe he didn't. Rex Harnett was killed in the bathroom. He wasn't dragged there. I wasn't keeping track of when the men went to the loo but our killer was probably in there or saw Rex in there and followed him. He worked fast. How he got out without anyone seeing him makes me think he crawled through the window. After all, the bathroom is on the first floor. And he was prepared for any opportunity. It's frightening how clever and fearless he is."

"You're right about him crawling through the bathroom window." Cynthia confirmed Harry's thesis.

"You could have told us." Mrs. Murphy was miffed.

As if in reply to the cat, Cynthia said, "We can't tell you everything. Well, Boss worries more than I do. I know neither of you did it. Anyway, yes, he dropped on the other side, maybe a six-foot drop. The grass wasn't torn up, no clear prints, obviously, but the ground was slightly indented. He dropped over, brushed himself off, hid the gun somewhere, and strolled back into the gym."

"Wish we knew if he came back in before or after Dennis found Rex."

"Harry, Dennis could have done it, walked around, gone into the bathroom, and discovered the body. It would throw people off." Miranda tapped the end of her knife on the table, a counterpoint to her words.

"Why didn't you arrest him?" Harry asked Cynthia.

"Not enough proof. But Harry, go back to Hank Bittner. You said the killer didn't have an opportunity to kill Hank if he was an intended victim."

"Remember when Hank asked you if he could go to the bathroom?"

"Yes. I made him wait."

"And he did. If the killer hadn't been in the gym with us, if he'd been upstairs, or outside or in the basement, he might have known Hank was alone. Well, probably not in the basement. But from upstairs he could have listened to the sounds coming up from the hall." She held up her hand. "A long shot. Still, he might have known. If he was in the gym with us, he couldn't follow anyone anywhere. You had us all pinned down. You had secured the bathroom where Rex was killed. Your men were out in the parking lot. You'd checked out the building and the grounds while we were penned up, right? I mean, that's why you wouldn't let Hank go to the bathroom. Not until your guys were done."

"You know, Harry, you're smart. Sometimes, I forget that."

"The killer knew what was going on while we sat there. And he's smarter than we are. Now it's possible he could have run away after killing Rex and come back later. But I don't think so. You would have known. You had that school covered."

"Yes, we did."

"All right. Later we had our dinner. Dennis makes a perfect ass of himself and leaves. You knew that, too. And I'm thinking Dennis's behavior was part of a plan."

"You're right. We had a man on the roof of the grade school across the street and we had a man in the parking lot in Tracy Raz's car. We had another officer tail him, although he lost him."

"So he could have come back. He could have snuck up behind the school."

"It's possible," she agreed. "But your cats and dog ran out the back of the school. The dog barked and that alerted our man in Tracy's car. Unfortunately, he didn't put two and two together fast enough, but then he doesn't really know your animals as I do. By the time he roused himself, all he knew was that someone had run across the lawn."

"Dennis could have come back." Miranda stuck to her guns.

"It is possible but when we sent cars out to look for his van, it was nowhere to be found on any of the roads around here."

"He could have pulled off on a dirt road," Miranda said, "or he could have used someone else's car or a closed garage."

"Yes." Cynthia put down her cup.

"When I started up the stairwell, he was waiting. I think he was waiting for Hank. He knew Dennis had left-that is, if it wasn't Dennis. He wanted the reunion to be his killing field-he set us up with Charlie and Leo. They were the overture. The reunion was going to be the big show. I swear it! And I got in the way."

"But the class of 1950 was in the cafeteria, that's what galls me." Miranda smacked her hand on the table. "Right there. He was over our heads and we never heard him. Nor did we see him come in and we may be old but we aren't blind."

"He never left," Harry said. "He may have gotten in his car when everyone drove away but he just circled around and hid his car. He'd been up there for hours. I can't prove it but it makes sense. You had the building covered. And even if you'd walked the halls, there are plenty of places to hide: broom closets, bathrooms. He could have stood on the john. You wouldn't have seen him. I tell you, he was there all the time."

"And you believe that he was going to kill Hank Bittner." Cynthia started to rise but Miranda jumped up and refilled her cup, handing her the half-and-half.

"If the stories are true then there are two witnesses or . . . participants alive from that rape." Harry thought out loud. "If Hank Bittner had been killed and Dennis lived, I guess we'd have our answer." She stopped abruptly. "Dennis has a car phone. Has he used it?"

"No. We checked that, too."

"And you've called Hank Bittner, of course," Miranda pressed.

"We did. He left on the six forty-five A.M. flight for New York and showed up for work. We called again this afternoon to see if anyone from the class had called him. Nobody had. He didn't seem frightened but that could be a bluff."

"What if you bring him back to flush the game?"

"No go. He's not coming back to Crozet until we find the killer."

"Doesn't mean the killer won't go to him." Harry folded her arms across her chest. "Another thing. The gun that killed Rex and Bob. A different gun than Marcy Wiggins'?"

"Yes."

"With a silencer?"

"Exactly."

"They're illegal," Miranda exclaimed.

"So is murder," Harry said, and then they burst out laughing, relieving some of the tension.

54

That evening, Tracy Raz and Fair took turns staying awake while Harry slept. Pewter again stayed in the bedroom with Harry while Tucker rested by the kitchen door and Mrs. Murphy curled up at the front door.

At one in the morning Mrs. Murphy opened one eye. She heard the crunch of tires about a half mile away. Had she been wide awake she would have heard it earlier. With lightning speed she skidded down the hallway, turned through the living room, and soared through the kitchen, leaping over Tucker's head. The corgi, eyes now opened wide, shot through the animal door after Mrs. Murphy. The two best friends ran under the three-board fence, down over the sloping meadow, jumped a ditch and culvert, zigzagged through the protective fringe of woods by the front entrance, and came out on the paved road in time to see the taillights of a late-model car recede in the darkness.

"Damn!" Tucker shook herself.

"Make that a double damn. Even a minute earlier, we might have identified the car. You can bet it wasn't someone lost and turning around. No, that was our killer all right. Coming down the driveway. Saw Tracy's car and Fair's truck."

They turned, trotting over the light silvery frost covering the ground. The storm clouds still gathered at the mountaintops. The weather in the mountains varies from minute to minute. Although it appeared in the afternoon that a storm would hit by early evening, it waited. When the winds changed, those inky masses would roll down into the valley. Deer, raccoons, fox, and rabbits scampered about, each hoping to fill their bellies before the storm pinned them down.

As the cat and dog broke into the open meadow, a low swoosh flattened them to the ground. Mrs. Murphy twisted her head to look upward. A pair of huge talons, wide open, reached for her.

"Ha! Ha!" Flatface called as she brushed the edge of Mrs. Murphy's fur. Then she rose again in the dark air.

"She's got a sick sense of humor," Tucker, rattled, growled.

"Flatface. Flatface. Come back," Mrs. Murphy called out to the enormous owl.

Huge shadowy wings dipped, the owl banked, then silently settled before them. Rarely were the ground animals this close to the owl, easily three times taller than they were, with a massive chest and fearsome golden eyes. When they spoke to her or were reprimanded by her, she was usually in her perch in the cupola in the barn.

Speechless for a moment, Tucker swallowed. "You scared us."

"Groundlings," came the imperious reply.

"Did you see the car that drove partways down the drive?" Mrs. Murphy refused to back up even though Flatface took a step toward her, turning her head upside down for effect.

"Wasn't a car. It was a van. It flashed the lights on when it turned into the driveway, then cut them off. Drove down the road with no lights. Fool."

"Did you see who was driving it?" Murphy asked.

"No."

"We think whoever is driving that van, most likely Dennis Rablan, will try to kill Mom," Tucker, ears forward, said.

"Humans don't concern me."

"She's different." Murphy puffed out her fur a bit.

Flatface swiveled her head around; a field mouse moved under the dried hay leavings. Full, she let the tiny creature pass. "If you were a kitten I'd eat you for supper." She let out a low chortle, then stretched her wings out wide, a sight that would have frozen the blood even of the forty-pound bobcat who prowled this territory. To further emphasize her power she stepped forward, towering over the cat and dog.

Mrs. Murphy laughed. "Have to catch me first. Maybe I'd put pepper on my tail."

Flatface folded her wings next to her body. She admired the sleek tiger cat's nerve. "As I said, I don't care about humans but I like the barn. New people might change the routine. One never knows. Then again, Harry seems less human than most of them. I shouldn't like to see her killed."

"If you see anything or if that van returns, fly down and see who is driving it. We think it's Dennis Rablan." Tucker finally spoke up.

"All right."

The wind shifted. Mrs. Murphy beheld the first inky octopus leg of the storm slide down the mountain. "Have you had any luck catching any of the barn mice?"

The owl blinked. "No-and they sing the most awful songs."

"Ah, it isn't just me then." Murphy smiled.

Flatface hooted, opened her wings, and lifted off over their heads, a rush of air from her large wings flowing over their faces as the wind from the west picked up.

By the time they reached the screened-in porch, the first tiny ratshot of sleet slashed out of the sky. It hit the tin roof of the barn like machine-gun fire. Within seconds the rat-tat-tat increased to a steady roar.

"Will be a hard night of it." Murphy shook herself, as did Tucker.

"Wonder where he hides that van?" Tucker shook the sleet off her fur.

"Right under our noses."

"Do you believe Pewter slept through everything?" Tucker was appalled.

"Tracy's wide awake." Murphy watched as the older man pored over Harry's high-school yearbook.

"If this is Dennis, he knows that Tracy is our lodger. He doesn't take him seriously. I think it was Fair's truck that backed him off."

"Maybe he was checking us out for later."

55

The sleet turned to ice bits which turned to snow by mid-morning. The first snow of the season arrived punctually, right on November first.

Harry felt prepared, having driven her four-wheel drive F350 dually to work.

It was also the day of Bob Shoaf's funeral in Buffalo, New York, and Rex Harnett's in Columbia, South Carolina, where his mother was living. No one had organized memorial services in Crozet. When shopping in Market Shiflett's store, Ted Smith, a fellow in his seventies, displayed a little gallows humor when he said, "Funeral. You guys need a bulldozer to dig mass graves." Market didn't find that funny.

Nor did he find it funny when he asked Chris Sharpton to the movies and she allowed as to how he was a good man but she wasn't going out with anyone from his high-school class ever again, and if she ever saw Dennis Rablan again she'd tell him a thing or two.

In a fit of loneliness he asked Bitsy Valenzuela, later that morning, if she had any unmarried girlfriends from her hometown. He'd travel for a weekend date. She very kindly said she couldn't think of anyone off the top of her head, but if she did she'd let him know.

Morose, he waved but didn't smile when Harry threw a snowball at his window. She entered the post office as Miranda hung up the phone.

"They found Dennis's van!"

"Where?"

"Yancy's Body Shop." Yancy's also specialized in painting automobiles.

"No one noticed?" Harry was incredulous.

"Yancy's on vacation, hunting in Canada. The shop's been locked since the weekend. Cynthia said they've cordoned off the place and are dusting for prints, searching for any other evidence."

"Locked, but is there anyone in town who doesn't know where the key is? Over the doorjamb. It's been there since we were kids." She unwound her scarf. "Hey, it's something, I guess."

Tracy came in, bringing them a pepper plant. "Needed something cheerful on the first snowy day."

"Tracy, I appreciate you keeping watch, but really, I have the animals."

The three furry creatures smiled.

"Yes, but now you have me, too. And while it's on my mind-"

"Honey, they've found Dennis Rablan's van!" Miranda interrupted him, then told him everything she'd just heard.

Harry called Susan, who called Bonnie Baltier in Richmond. One by one the remaining senior superlatives heard the news, including Mike Alvarez in Los Angeles. BoomBoom called Hank Bittner in New York. More worried than he cared to admit, he thanked her for her thoughtfulness.

"Dennis has to be hiding somewhere close by." Pewter felt drowsy. Low-pressure systems did that to her.

"Underground." Tucker used the old term from the underground railroad days.

In a manner of speaking, he was.

56

The following day, clear in the morning, clouded up by noon. The bite in the air meant snow, big snow. Snowstorms usually did not hit central Virginia until after Christmas and then continued up to early April. Then spring would magically appear. One day it is a gray, beige, black, and white world and the next, pink, yellow, white, and purple cover the hills.

The earliest snowstorm within Harry's memory was an October snow, when the leaves were still on the branches, and the weight of the snow with the leaves brought down huge limbs throughout the region. She remembered doing her homework that night to the sound of branches being torn down, screaming since the sap was still in them.

Market dashed in to get his mail. "No more toilet paper. Miranda, I put a six-pack inside your back door. People are crazy. You'd think the storm of the century was approaching." He paused. "The barometer sure is dropping, though. Ought to be a couple of days' worth or one big punch."

"I've got my snow shovel at the ready." Miranda winked.

"And Tracy to shovel it." Harry tossed a pile of fourth-class mail into the canvas cart.

"He'll do yours, too. He is a charitable soul."

"Bet the supermarket is running low on canned goods. I should have ordered more last week. But you know, I watch the weather and you'd think it was one volcano eruption, tornado, or hurricane after another. It's not weather anymore-it's melo-drama. So I don't much listen."

"I go by my shinbone." Miranda reached down on the other side of the mailboxes. "Hey, almost forgot, Market, here's a package from European Coffees." She handed it over the counter, worn smooth and pale from use.

"Thanks. Oops, looks like Bitsy at the store. Better head back."

As he left, Harry waved. They'd discussed the finding of the van yesterday. There wasn't much more to say. Market didn't like being in the store alone but he had to make a living. He said he didn't think he was in danger. He wasn't part of the Ashcraft-Burkey-Shoaf "in" group but things were so crazy, how could one be sure?

"I'm going to walk about before the snow gets here. Anyone want to come along?"

"Murphy, it's twenty-seven degrees Fahrenheit out there," Pewter protested.

"I'll go," Tucker volunteered.

"You two are always showing off about how tough you are." Pewter hopped in an empty mail cart, curling up with her tail draped over her nose.

"See ya!" Both animals pushed through the dog door in the back. It hit the wall with a magnetic thwap.

Harry looked up in time to see the gray door flop back. She figured they had to empty their bladders.

Mrs. Murphy lifted her head, inhaling the sharp cold air. She and Tucker moved along, since they stayed warmer that way. They headed toward Yancy's Body Shop, a block beyond the railroad track underpass. Both animals stayed well off the road, having seen enough squashed critters to know never to trust a human behind the wheel.

They reached the closed-up shop within ten minutes.

Rick Shaw had removed the yellow cordon tape but a few pieces of it had stuck to the big double doors of the garage. They circled the concrete structure. At the back a black plastic accordion-style drainpipe protruded from the corner. A cinder block was loose next to it, the mortar having crumbled away years ago.

"Can't you push it out? You're stronger than I am."

"I can try." Tucker leaned her shoulder against the cold block. Little by little it gave way.

"Good!" Murphy wriggled in and turned around. "Can you make it?"

"If I can push out the second block, I can." Tucker wedged the cinder block sideways just enough so she could flatten and claw her way under.

The light darkened with each minute as the clouds grew gunmetal gray outside. Mrs. Murphy squinted because the old odor of grease, oil, and gasoline hurt her eyes. Both animals walked over to where the van had been parked. It was easy to discern the spot since every other inch of space was crammed with vehicles in various states of distress or undress.

"I give them credit," Tucker, nose to the ground, said. "Usually they muck up the scent but it smells like only two people were here."

"Tucker, I can't smell a thing. The gasoline masks everything. Makes me nauseous."

"Funny, doesn't bother humans much." Tucker lifted her black moist nose, then stuck it to the ground again. "Dennis was here all right. There's a hint of the darkroom plus his cologne. Cold scent. I think the only reason there's scent left is the closed van kept it safe and the moisture coming up through the concrete floor held some of it, too." She sighed. "I have good powers but if we had a bloodhound, well, we'd know a lot more. There's also that English Leather smell-the same smell I picked up in Crozet High, upstairs."

"Great," Mrs. Murphy sarcastically said, for she was hoping that scent wouldn't be found. Guarding against two humans is harder than guarding against one.

Tucker looked at Mrs. Murphy, her deep brown eyes full of concern. "Two. Two for sure."

Murphy wanted to sit down a moment but the greasy floor dissuaded her. "Tucker, let's get back to the post office."

They ran back to the post office. Cynthia Cooper's squad car was parked in the front.

As they pushed through the animal door, Pewter bounded to greet them. "Dennis Rablan called! He threatened Mother."

"What?" Tucker and Murphy shouted.

"Yes, he called about five minutes after you left and he said, 'Butt out, Butthead.' Then he said, 'Ron Brindell lives!' Mom called the sheriff, and Cynthia, who was around the corner, got here in less than two minutes, I can tell you. No one knows where he called from but Mom said he sounded like he was right next door."

Miranda kept her eye on the door. If someone came in she would go directly to the counter and help if they needed her. Cynthia and Harry sat at the table.

"He's not far, Coop. And he wasn't on a cell phone. The reception was too clear." Harry, surprisingly calm, spoke. "But Ron being alive? I don't believe it."

"I called 360° Communications just in case, got E.R. Valenzuela. He's checking every call within the last ten minutes."

"Can they do that?"

"Yes. The technology is amazing and evolving by the minute. They'll work backwards, from your number. Harry, go over the conversation again. In case something occurs to you, an inflection of voice, a background sound, anything at all."

Harry folded her hands on the table. "The phone rang. I picked it up. I recognized Dennis's voice immediately. His voice was clear and firm, I guess is how I'd describe it. He didn't shout or anything. He just said, 'Butt out, Butthead' and 'Ron Brindell lives' and hung up." She furrowed her brow. "Wait, he breathed out hard and I heard a clink. A metal sound but I can't tell you what really. Just something like metal touching metal."

"He knows you saw him, obviously." Coop ran her fingers across her forehead, then squeezed the back of her neck. She felt a whopper of a tension headache coming on.

"But we know Dennis is alive."

"Yes, that makes it easier. Now we have to find him. Do you think his saying 'Ron Brindell lives' is meant as literal truth or is it part of the revenge scenario?"

"I don't know. People saw Ron jump from the bridge. How could he live?"

Miranda walked back to them. "There have been a few survivors since the Golden Gate Bridge was built, but Dennis doesn't want to hurt you, Harry. I truly believe he's warning you. What 'Ron Brindell lives' means, who knows?"

Murphy yowled. "The Old Gray Mare! I get it. Ain't what she used to be."

"Hush, sweetie." Harry picked her up to pet her.

"Don't let your guard down!" Murphy put her paws on the table.

"Guess Dennis was Ron Brindell's boyfriend. Bittner was right."

"Oh, that's another thing." Coop spoke to Harry, then glanced up at Miranda. "Dennis called Bittner, too. Told Bittner he was next."

The Reverend Herb Jones stomped his feet, bent over to pick something up, then opened the door. "Three beautiful ladies. I've come to the right place." He turned over the soggy white envelope that he'd found on the ground outside. "Addressed to Mrs. George Hogendobber. Now Miranda, this has to be someone younger than we are. They should know that you address a widow differently. It should be Mrs. Miranda Hogendobber. The old ways let you know the important things, right off. No wonder the young waste so much time. They're slipping and sliding trying to find out the essentials." He laughed. "Listen to me! I'm getting old!"

"Not you." Miranda took the envelope.

"Must have slipped out of the door. It's been stepped on." Herb leaned over the counter as Miranda opened the note.

She read, "His power to punish is real. He is God's servant and carries out God's punishment on those who do evil." She thought a moment. "Romans, Chapter thirteen, Verse four."

"You know the Bible better than I do!" Herb complimented her.

She read the note again. "Cynthia, I think you might want to look at this. It could be a crank or it could be Dennis trying to justify himself."

"Dennis?" Herb's eyebrows raised in puzzlement.

"He's alive." Harry then told him what had just happened.

As she was filling in the good Reverend, the phone rang.

Miranda picked it up. "Cynthia, E.R. Valenzuela for you."

Cynthia listened, then hung up the phone. "Wasn't a cell phone."

"He's here," Harry said with resolution.

"There are two and one of them you can't see, I mean, none of us can see. We take him for granted!" Murphy howled.

"Here it comes." Herb called attention to the big snowflakes falling from the glowering sky.

57

"Don't drive to New York. We'll be stranded in the storm." Dennis, right hand chained to the passenger door, pleaded. His left hand was chained to his belt. His wrists were raw from the handcuffs he'd been wearing since Saturday.

Ron Brindell started the car. "You might be right about that. I'm bored, though. Hey, I'll get Harry."

"She hasn't done a thing to you."

"She saw you," Ron said. "You know. I don't care. I just feel like killing someone else from the bad old days."

"I had a ski mask on," Dennis said wearily. "Look, just kill me and get it over with. You don't care if she saw me or not. I called her and Hank. Want me to call BoomBoom and Baltier, too?" he asked. "Just kill me. You're saving me for last, anyway." Dennis held no illusions that Ron had a scrap of sanity left but he tried to reason with him.

"Why, Dennis, what a courageous thing to say," Ron replied sarcastically.

"All right then, let's drive to New York."

"I will get Bittner. Maybe not tonight but I'll get him."

"He didn't do anything." Dennis, haggard from his ordeal, stared at the closed garage doors.

"Exactly. He opened the door, saw what was going on, and closed it. Did precisely nothing."

"In shock, probably."

"He could have gotten the coach."

"We were all kids. Kids make bad decisions. He was probably as scared in his way as I was in my way. He's a father now. Have you no pity?"

"No." Ron turned his cold eyes on Dennis. "Why should I? I was pinned down, raped-and they laughed. Called me a faggot. I was a faggot. Do you know where the word 'faggot' comes from, Dennis? From the Middle Ages, when people burned witches. The woman was tied to the stake and surrounding her were homosexual men who were set on fire first. Instead of bundles of kindling, we were the kindling. I have no pity."

Ron checked his watch. "Lie down. I don't want your head to show." As Dennis squinched down, Ron reached over and stuck a rag in the poor man's mouth. "You should have stood up for me, you know. You just stood there. Oh, you told them to stop. I believe you said it once. If it had been you I'd have fought. I'd have given my life for you. Now you can give yours for me. Lie down, damnit!"

Dennis didn't even look at him as he slid down as far as he could. Since Ron had threatened to kill Dennis's two children, Dennis would do anything Ron said. Meanwhile, his brain overheated, trying to find a way out. If there was no way out, then he was determined to take out Ron. But how?

Ron hit the electronic button to raise the garage door, then pulled out into the snowy darkness.

"Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work I go," he sang as he headed through town. Everyone was snug inside, their lights shining through the falling snow.

58

Harry and Tracy buzzed around the kitchen making pea soup, a favorite winter treat. Fair called to say he'd be late. A horse at Mountain Stables had badly cut his hind leg and needed stitching up. He didn't think he'd be back for another hour and a half because he needed to swing by the office and fill his truck with supplies. He had a hunch he'd be on plenty of calls the next couple of days as people kept their horses in stalls, feeding them too much grain. Colic often followed heavy snows. Since Tracy was there he felt Harry was okay.

Tucker jerked up her head. "Someone's coming. On foot!"

"Tucker, chill." Harry heard nothing.

Both cats ran to the kitchen door. A towel was stretched across the bottom of it to keep out the draft.

A knock on the door surprised the humans.

"Chris, what on earth are you doing here in this weather?" Harry opened the door.

"I was coming back from Waynesboro. I did a big shop at Harris Teeter in preparation for the storm and my car died. Absolutely dead. No lights. No nothing. Do you think you could run me home in your truck? I could throw everything in the back."

"Sure."

"I'll do it." Tracy plucked his coat off the peg.

"Thank you so much." Chris smiled. "I'm sorry to bother you on such a cold night. I saw Fair's truck parked at Mountain Stables when I came down the mountain. He never gets a break, does he?"

"No." Harry smiled. "Comes with the territory."

Tracy, his hand on the doorknob, said, "Call Fair, will you?" What he really meant was, call Rick Shaw and tell him you're alone, but he didn't want to say that in front of Chris since the sheriff had told them to keep it quiet.

"I will." She waved as the two walked out the door.

Harry picked up the phone, dialing the sheriff's number. "Hi," she said, but before she could finish her sentence Chris was back in the kitchen, a gun in her hand, leveled at Harry.

"Hang up. Come outside."

Tucker grabbed Chris's ankle but she leaned over and clunked the faithful creature on her head. Tucker dropped where she was hit.

"Tucker!" Mrs. Murphy screamed.

Pewter, thinking fast, shot out the kitchen door and through the screened-in porch door, which was easy to open. Much as Mrs. Murphy wanted to lick her fallen friend's face, she knew she had to follow.

The two cats ran into the barn. Nearly six inches of snow were already on the ground and the snow was so thick you couldn't see your hand in front of your face.

Tracy Raz lay in the snow facedown, blood oozing from the back of his head.

Again the cats couldn't stop to help him. They raced into the barn, climbing up into the loft. Once there, Mrs. Murphy stood on her hind legs, pushing up the latch. They wedged their paws at the side and pushed the door open.

"If she'll come this way we can jump down on her. The height will give us force."

"And if she doesn't?" Pewter breathed hard.

"We follow and do what we can."

Simon waddled over and saw Tracy. "Uh oh."

"Simon, help us push a bale of hay over to the opening," Murphy commanded.

The three small animals tried but they couldn't do it. Pewter kept running back and forth from the hay bale to the loft door opening.

"Here they come!"

Chris walked behind Harry. At least she let Harry pull on a jacket. On seeing Tracy lying in front of the barn, Harry rushed over.

"Forget him!"

"But he's . . ."

"Forget him."

"I take it you're not really Chris Sharpton." Harry kept talking as she knelt down and felt Tracy's pulse, which, thanks-be-to-God, was strong.

"No. Come on."

"Where's Dennis?"

"You'll see soon enough."

Murphy wriggled her rear end, then launched herself from the loft opening. She soared through the snowflakes with Pewter right behind her.

"Ooph!" Chris fell backwards as Mrs. Murphy hit her on the chest. A split second later Pewter hit her square in the face. Chris slipped in the snow, falling on her back.

Harry jumped on her.

The gun discharged.

The cats clawed and bit but couldn't do much damage through the winter clothes. Also, the humans were rolling in the snow. Harry, strong, wasn't as strong as Chris. Harry bit Chris's gun hand but Chris wouldn't drop the gun. The cats leapt off when the humans rolled back on the ground. They'd get up, slip and fall, but Harry never let go of Chris's gun hand no matter how hard Chris hit or kicked her.

"We've got to get the gun!" Pewter hollered.

Harry hung on as Chris flung her around, her feet off the ground. Harry dragged Chris down again but they struggled up. The cats kept circling the humans while Simon watched in horror, not knowing what to do.

Finally, Chris pushed Harry away far enough to hit her hard on the jaw with a left hook. The blow stunned Harry enough that she relaxed her grip. Chris hit her again. Harry let go of the gun hand as she slid back into the snow, the blood running from her mouth. The cats again climbed up Chris's legs but she barely noticed them.

She aimed her gun at Harry, who neither begged for life nor flinched. Chris fired, missing her, because Flatface had suddenly flown low overhead and scared her for an instant.

Murphy climbed up Chris's leg, her back, and reached up to claw deep into her face. Chris struggled to rise and throw off the cat. Pewter climbed up and hung on to Chris's gun hand, sinking her fangs into the fleshy part of the palm. Chris tried again to throw off the cats, slipped in the snow, and fell down, cats shredding her face and hand.

Harry scrambled and grabbed the gun as Chris flailed, screaming, struggling to her knees. Harry had gotten up and smashed the butt of the gun into her skull. Chris dropped face first into the snow. Harry kicked her in the ribs, then kicked her again, rolling her over. Chris was out cold. Harry wanted to kill her. But some voice inside reminding her "Thou shalt not kill" prevented her from her own rage and act of revenge.

She looked into the falling snow, the flakes sticking to her eyelashes. Half-dazed herself, she sank to the ground.

Mrs. Murphy, on her hind paws, licked Harry's face. "Come on, Mom. You've got to tie her up before she comes to-come on."

Pewter licked the other side of her face.

Harry blinked and shook her head, then stood up, swayed a little but walked into the barn, grabbed a rope lead shank, and made quick work of tying Chris's hands behind her back and tying her feet up behind her, the rope also around her neck. If Chris kicked her feet she'd choke herself.

She hurried over to Tracy, who was slowly awakening. She rubbed snow on his face. He opened his eyes.

"Tracy, can you get up?"

She put his arm around her shoulder and they both slipped and slid into the kitchen, where a groggy, sore corgi wobbled to her feet.

59

Harry, Miranda, Tracy, Fair, Susan, and Cynthia sat before Harry's roaring fire in the living-room fireplace. It was past midnight but the friends had gathered together as the snow piled up outside.

Fair treated Tucker's knot on the head by holding her in his lap, applying an ice pack periodically.

"You were saved by the grace of God," Miranda, still terribly upset, said. "He sent his furry angels of deliverance." She started to cry again.

Tracy sat next to her on the sofa, putting his arm around her. "There, there, Cuddles. You're right, our guardian angels worked overtime." A bandage was wrapped around his head and one eye was swollen shut.

"Mrs. Murphy and Pewter are heroes." Harry sat cross-legged before the fire, her cats in her lap. "You know, I would never have figured this out. So much for my deductive powers."

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't think I would have figured it out either," Cynthia consoled her. "We waited for a mistake and he finally made one. Had it not been for Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, you all would be dead and Ron would be heading for New York to get Hank Bittner."

"Has he confessed?" Fair, both hands on Tucker, asked.

"Yes. He didn't expect to live. His plan was to kill Dennis and then himself after killing Bittner. He felt no particular animosity toward Harry, but toward the end, the power went to his head. He chained Dennis in his basement, forcing him to cooperate. He told Dennis if he didn't help him he'd kill Dennis's children as well as others from the class of 1980. If Dennis would help-with a gun in his ribs-he'd confine himself to the locker room boys. He broke his promise, of course."

"What about the two footprints at the dumpster?" Harry asked. "Remember, an L.L. Bean chain print and a high heel. You told us about that after we pestered you."

"He had his boots on. The heel was someone else. That was the thing. He could still pass as a man, an effeminate one, if he again dressed in men's clothes. He swears he nailed Leo Burkey in the Outback parking lot. Says he came back around and got Leo in the car. As to Charlie, Ron came down the back stairs, dressed as a man, walked into the locker room and shot him. He always identified himself first. He said Charlie laughed and Leo turned white as a sheet."

"What an elaborate ritual of revenge." Tracy's head throbbed. "To fake his own death. He knew whoever jumped off that bridge would be swept to sea. They hardly ever retrieve the bodies of the people who jump or fall from the Golden Gate Bridge."

"It was a despondent man he met in a bar," Cynthia said. "They made a suicide pact, the other fellow jumped and Ron didn't. Ron wrote the note 'Enough is enough.' People were so shocked at seeing a man standing on the edge of the bridge they didn't notice another man creeping away."

"But the yearbook!" Harry stood up, brushing off her rear end. She was sore from the struggle and her left jaw, turning dark red, would soon turn black-and-blue.

"He rummaged around used-bookstores. Found yearbooks, leafing through them. He said he looked through hundreds until he found a picture of a tall, lanky dark-haired girl that would work. People don't study yearbook pictures. He knew you wouldn't scrutinize. He said he decided to live life a blonde, which would make you laugh. He somewhat resembled Chris Sharpton. He understood people in a cunning fashion. He especially understood the code of politeness. He knew people around here wouldn't pry."

"Is Chris Sharpton alive?"

"Yes. She's married for the second time and lives in Fort Wayne, Indiana. She married her high-school boyfriend, divorced him, and in a fit sold off everything they'd had together, including her high-school yearbook. The book found its way to a San Francisco used-bookshop. Sometimes those dealers buy in lots from other dealers. At least he didn't kill Chris Sharpton," Cynthia said. "Rick had our guys calling and checking everything the minute he started talking."

"Did he fake Marcy Wiggins' suicide?" Susan felt terrible for the dead woman.

"No, she really was despondent and was on antidepression medication for months. She kept her gun in the glove compartment of her car. He'd steal it, then put it back. Brazen. If she'd caught him, he'd have made up a story."

"When did he become a woman?" Miranda wanted to know.

"After college. He worked for a large pharmaceutical com-pany, learned as much as he could about the process, saved his money, moved to San Francisco, and underwent the sex-change process there, which is time-consuming and costly. It didn't make him any happier, though. All those years he was transforming, his one motivation was to return and punish his tormentors."

"Time stopped for him." Fair removed the cold pack from Tucker's head for a moment, to the relief of the dog.

"He'll get the chair," Susan bluntly stated.

"He wants to die. His only regret is that he couldn't kill Hank Bittner and Dennis."

"What will happen to Dennis?" Harry wondered out loud. "Was he in on it from the beginning?"

"No. Dennis drove to Chris's after losing our tail. He put his van in Chris's garage-at her suggestion. Or should I say, his? He was upset from the reunion supper and wanted to talk. She lured him into sex games. He went to bed with her and that's how Chris-or Ron-got the cuffs on him without a struggle. After that Ron was always near him with a gun on him. He was up in the stairwell when Dennis hit you, Harry. They were waiting for Hank."

Cynthia shrugged. "Dennis was a coward in not fighting Leo, Charlie, Rex, and Bob in the locker room but then four against one isn't good odds. Two against four if Ron had fought back isn't good odds either, but Dennis was afraid to be discovered. He was in a sexual relationship with Ron. At least up until the rape. But you know, Dennis wasn't a coward once Chris revealed who she really was. He said he was prepared to die in order to save his children. Ron confirms that, too."

"Is Dennis gay?" Fair asked.

"I don't know. Ron was crazy about him and Dennis said at that time in his life getting laid was the most important thing in the world."

"In a way, I'm surprised more gay people don't lose it, become violent." Fair had never really thought about it.

"Statistically, they are one of the most nonviolent groups we have in America," Cynthia replied. "Yet they are still utterly despised by a lot of people. It was worse in Ron's youth. That doesn't justify what he's done. And the press will make a big hoo-ha over it. Every gay leader in the country will have something to say and every reactionary will point to this as proof positive that gays are the Devil's spawn, ignoring the fact that most violent crimes are committed by heterosexual males between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five. The truth is irrelevant."

"It always has been," Susan agreed. "My husband can tell you that."

Ned Tucker, being a lawyer, had seen enough lying, cheating, and getting-away-with-it to fill three lifetimes.

"No wonder we couldn't figure out what was happening," Harry said thoughtfully. "A man consumed by revenge, turns into a woman. One life is deformed, if you can stand that word, and four men die for it twenty years later. I would have never figured out that Chris Sharpton was Ron Brindell. I'm just glad to be alive-even if I am a little dumb."

"None of us would have figured it out." Susan, too, knew she wouldn't have put the pieces together.

"Then what was all that business about the mother of Charlie Ashcraft's illegitimate child?" Fair asked. "A couple of the victims mentioned that-and, well, there was a lot of loose talk."

"That was a red herring," Cynthia replied. "But at that stage no one except the victims knew this was connected to Ron Brindell. They thought Charlie's murder might have something to do with his past lovers or his illegitimate child."

"Does anyone know who that woman is?" Harry asked Cynthia.

"It has no bearing on the case," Cynthia quickly said.

"I'd like to know." Harry shrugged. "Curiosity."

"Forget about it." Susan sighed. "It will come out in time. All of Crozet's secrets eventually see the light of day."

"I can't believe all the times I was in Chris's company and I never thought anything. Although I thought she had awfully big feet," Harry exclaimed.

Cynthia said, "He was brilliant in his way."

"Well, I owe thanks to one brave dog and two kitties who flew through the air with the greatest of ease." Harry kissed Mrs. Murphy and Pewter.

Tracy said, "And I thank them, too. Ron hit me hard on the back of the head. If he'd shot me the noise would have warned you. He would have finished me off after he killed you."

"Tracy, you came all the way back from Hawaii for your reunion. I'm sorry it was spoiled," Harry said.

"Brought me home. I'm thankful for that. I might stay awhile." He squeezed Miranda to him.

"I don't think I would have figured out that Chris was Ron." Mrs. Murphy rubbed against Harry's side as she was again seated on the floor.

"She was as nice as she could be and she didn't seem masculine or anything-except she had this little Adam's apple. I never thought a thing about it," Pewter said.

"I should have known." Tucker sat up on Fair's lap. "Too much perfume. She masked her scent or rather lack of it. You can change forms but you can't really change scent but so much. That's probably why he doused his black sweats and black shirt with English Leather. It smells manly."

"Well, we'd better go check on Simon." Mrs. Murphy left the room followed by Pewter and Tucker, too.

"Are you guys going potsie?" Harry asked.

"God, I wish she wouldn't say that. It sounds so stupid. I love her, I'm thrilled she's alive, but is there any way to get her to drop 'potsie' from her vocabulary?" Tucker laid her ears back.

"Just say yes, you are, and come on," Pewter advised.

Outside, the cold bracing air felt clean as they breathed. The snow was now nearly eight to ten inches deep. Tucker ran to the barn, snow flying up behind her. Pewter and Mrs. Murphy, hopping from spot to spot since the snow was almost over their heads, soon followed.

Simon peered over the loft edge. The horses offered thanks to all. They'd been in their stalls and couldn't do anything to help.

"Thank you, Simon," Murphy meowed.

"Flatface," Pewter called up.

"Who's there?" said the enormous bird, who knew exactly who was there as she looked down from her high nest.

"Thank you," they said in unison. "Thank you for helping to save Harry."

"Inept groundlings!" came the Olympian reply.

Dear Reader,

Perfect revenge. I must tell. Today the thermometer soared to 105.4°F. Granted, that's hateful to man or beast but I needed a constitutional. My human thinks she knows what's best for me. The gall. I don't pretend to know what's best for her even when I do. Anyway, she wouldn't let me outside. Of course, I'm not going to befoul the rug. I used my dirt box like a civilized animal. Still, it bothered me that I couldn't do what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it. I'm sure you understand.

Later, she got all dolled up. That in itself is worthy of comment. Oh, the whole symphony of loveliness-hair curled, lipstick, mascara, a summer blouse and skirt along with sheer hose. Why do women wear nylons? To entice us, I suppose.

I hid behind the chair and when she walked by on her way to the front door, I attacked, snagged the hose, and she had a run that ruined them. The fussing and cursing did my heart good. Naturally, she was late for her date. Too bad. That will teach her to pay attention to my needs/demands.

Before I forget it. My website iswww.ritamaebrown.com. We've simplified the address. Don't worry. You don't have to waste time with her stuff. You can go right to my pages and I hope you do. You can reach me at P. O. Box 696, Crozet, VA 22932.

I'd be thrilled if you'd tell me your acts of revenge-just in case.

Pewter, by the way, is on a diet. This is not improving her personality. Even the dog doesn't want to be around her but I must admit she is looking good. She got so fat there for a while that the floor shook when she waddled on it.

Hope all is well with you.

Sneaky Pie

Books by Rita Mae Brown with Sneaky Pie Brown

WISH YOU WERE HERE

REST IN PIECES

MURDER AT MONTICELLO

PAY DIRT

MURDER, SHE MEOWED

MURDER ON THE PROWL

CAT ON THE SCENT

SNEAKY PIE'S COOKBOOK FOR MYSTERY LOVERS

PAWING THROUGH THE PAST

CLAWS AND EFFECT

CATCH AS CAT CAN

THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF

WHISKER OF EVIL

Books by Rita Mae Brown

THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCK

SONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN

THE PLAIN BROWN RAPPER

RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE

IN HER DAY

SIX OF ONE

SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT

SUDDEN DEATH

HIGH HEARTS

STARTING FROM SCRATCH:

A DIFFERENT KIND OF WRITERS' MANUAL

BINGO

VENUS ENVY

DOLLEY: A NOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND WAR

RIDING SHOTGUN

RITA WILL: MEMOIR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER

LOOSE LIPS

OUTFOXED

HOTSPUR

FULL CRY

Don't miss the new mystery from

RITA MAE BROWN

and

SNEAKY PIE BROWN

Whisker of Evil

Now available in hardcover

from Bantam Books

Please read on for a preview . . .

Whisker of Evil

on sale now

Barry Monteith was still breathing when Harry found him. His throat had been ripped out.

Tee Tucker, a corgi, racing ahead of Mary Minor Haristeen as well as the two cats, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, found him first.

Barry was on his back, eyes open, gasping and gurgling, life ebbing with each spasm. He did not recognize Tucker nor Harry when they reached him.

"Barry, Barry." Harry tried to comfort him, hoping he could hear her. "It will be all right," she said, knowing perfectly well he was dying.

The tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, watched the blood jet upward.

"Jugular," fat, gray Pewter succinctly commented.

Gently, Harry took the young man's hand and prayed, "Dear Lord, receive into thy bosom the soul of Barry Monteith, a good man." Tears welled in her eyes.

Barry jerked, then his suffering ended.

Death, often so shocking to city dwellers, was part of life here in the country. A hawk would swoop down to carry away the chick while the biddy screamed useless defiance. A bull would break his hip and need to be put down. And one day an old farmer would slowly walk to his tractor only to discover he couldn't climb into the seat. The Angel of Death placed his hand on the stooping shoulder.

It appeared the Angel had offered little peaceful deliverance to Barry Monteith, thirty-four, fit, handsome with brown curly hair, and fun-loving. Barry had started his own business, breeding thoroughbreds, a year ago, with a business partner, Sugar Thierry.

"Sweet Jesus." Harry wiped away the tears.

That Saturday morning, crisp, clear, and beautiful, had held the alluring promise of a perfect May 29. The promise had just curdled.

Harry had finished her early-morning chores and, despite a list of projects, decided to take a walk for an hour. She followed Potlicker Creek to see if the beavers had built any new dams. Barry was sprawled at the creek's edge on a dirt road two miles from her farm that wound up over the mountains into adjoining Augusta County. It edged the vast land holdings of Tally Urquhart, who, well into her nineties and spry, loathed traffic. Three cars constituted traffic in her mind. The only time the road saw much use was during deer-hunting season in the fall.

"Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter, stay. I'm going to run to Tally's and phone the sheriff."

If Harry hit a steady lope, crossed the fields and one set of woods, she figured she could reach the phone in Tally's stable within fifteen minutes, though the pitch and roll of the land including one steep ravine would cost time.

As she left her animals, they inspected Barry.

"What could rip his throat like that? A bear swipe?" Pewter's pupils widened.

"Perhaps." Mrs. Murphy, noncommittal, sniffed the gaping wound, as did Tucker.

The cat curled her upper lip to waft more scent into her nostrils. The dog, whose nose was much longer and nostrils larger, simply inhaled.

"I don't smell bear," Tucker declared. "That's an overpowering scent, and on a morning like this it would stick."

Pewter, who cherished luxury and beauty, found that Barry's corpse disturbed her equilibrium. "Let's be grateful we found him today and not three days from now."

"Stop jabbering, Pewter, and look around, will you? Look for tracks."

Grumbling, the gray cat daintily stepped down the dirt road. "You mean like car tracks?"

"Yes, or animal tracks," Mrs. Murphy directed, then returned her attention to Tucker. "Even though coyote scent isn't as strong as bear, we'd still smell a whiff. Bobcat? I don't smell anything like that. Or dog. There are wild dogs and wild pigs back in the mountains. The humans don't even realize they're there."

Tucker cocked her perfectly shaped head. "No dirt around the wound. No saliva, either."

"I don't see anything. Not even a birdie foot," Pewter, irritated, called out from a hundred yards down the road.

"Well, go across the creek then and look over there." Mrs. Murphy's patience wore thin.

"And get my paws wet?" Pewter's voice rose.

"It's a ford. Hop from rock to rock. Go on, Pewt, stop being a chicken."

Angrily, Pewter puffed up, tearing past them to launch herself over the ford. She almost made it, but a splash indicated she'd gotten her hind paws wet.

If circumstances had been different, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker would have laughed. Instead, they returned to Barry.

"I can't identify the animal that tore him up." The tiger shook her head.

"Well, the wound is jagged but clean. Like I said, no dirt." Tucker studied the folds of flesh laid back.

"He was killed lying down," the cat sagely noted. "If he was standing up, don't you think blood would be everywhere?"

"Not necessarily," the dog replied, thinking how strong heartbeats sent blood straight out from the jugular. Tucker was puzzled by the odd calmness of the scene.

"Pewter, have you found anything on that side?"

"Deer tracks. Big deer tracks."

"Keep looking," Mrs. Murphy requested.

"I hate it when you're bossy." Nonetheless, Pewter moved down the dirt road heading west.

"Barry was such a nice man." Tucker mournfully looked at the square-jawed face, wide-open eyes staring at heaven.

Mrs. Murphy circled the body. "Tucker, I'm climbing up that sycamore. If I look down maybe I'll see something."

Her claws, razor sharp, dug into the thin surface of the tree, strips of darker outer bark peeling, exposing the whitish underbark. The odor of fresh water, of the tufted titmouse above her, all informed her. She scanned around for broken limbs, bent bushes, anything indicating Barry-or other humans or large animals-had traveled to this spot avoiding the dirt road.

"Pewter?"

"Big fat nothing." The gray kitty noted that her hind paws were wet. She was getting little clods of dirt stuck between her toes. This bothered her more than Barry did. After all, he was dead. Nothing she could do for him. But the hardening brown earth between her toes, that was discomfiting.

"Well, come on back. We'll wait for Mom." Mrs. Murphy dropped her hind legs over the limb where she was sitting. Her hind paws reached for the trunk, the claws dug in, and she released her grip, swinging her front paws to the trunk. She backed down.

Tucker touched noses with Pewter, who had recrossed the creek more successfully this time.

Mrs. Murphy came up and sat beside them.

"Hope his face doesn't change colors while we're waiting for the humans. I hate that. They get all mottled." Pewter wrinkled her nose.

"I wouldn't worry." Tucker sighed.

In the distance they heard sirens.

"Bet they won't know what to make of this, either," Tucker said.

"It's peculiar." Mrs. Murphy turned her head in the direction of the sirens.

"Weird and creepy." Pewter pronounced judgment as she picked at her hind toes, and she was right.