He could see the telephone up on the soda fountain, near the door. He trotted on in and slipped behind the counter, stood concealed within the dim space. Glancing down its length, he could still see white-haired Sid back there, intent on his little bottles. He was filling them from big bottles, sending a stream of pills rattling through a funnel. The old man was short, thick-limbed, and Joe knew that his hearing wasn't keen. There were village jokes about Sid's fanciful translations of what he thought he had heard. The doctors of Molena Point never ordered a prescription by phone; always their messages were written, committed illegibly to little white slips of paper.
On a shelf beneath the counter, wedged between a box of bills and a pair of Sid's white oxfords, he found the telephone book. He clawed it out, broke its fall with his shoulder to dull the sound, and let it slide to the floor.
It took him a long time to fork the pages open to the D's, then to find the right page for Damen. He felt stupid because he didn't know the alphabet. But at last he found Clyde Damen, and, with the number firmly in mind, he jumped up onto the counter.
Gripping the cord in his teeth, he lifted the receiver off the hook and laid it silently on the pale marble surface. The phone's push buttons were a cinch, once he figured out how to squinch his paw real small. Crouching with his ear to the receiver he listened to the phone ring.
It rang a long time. This was Saturday, Clyde always slept late on Saturdays. Or maybe he was in the shower. Or maybe he had a sleepover date. When a woman spent the night, Clyde made Joe endure the indignity of sleeping in the kitchen.
On the twelfth ring, when Clyde answered, panic hit him. What was he going to say? He couldn't do this, this was insane. He didn't know what to say.
"Hello?" Clyde shouted again. "Who is this? Speak up!"
Joe couldn't speak, couldn't even croak, his throat was dry as feathers.
"Who is this?" Clyde yelled. "Say something or hang up, it's too early for games!"
"It's me," Joe said, swallowing. "It's Joe Grey."
He was certain that the minute he spoke, the pharmacist would hear him, but at the back of the store the old man didn't look up. He could hear Clyde breathing.
"It's me. It's Joe-it's really me. I thought I'd better tell you why I left, yesterday morning."
No response.
"I thought you'd want to know I'm all right. I thought maybe you'd be worried, looking for me."
Clyde shouted so loud that Joe hissed and backed up, his ear ringing. "What kind of sick joke is this! Who the hell is this? What the hell have you done to my cat!"
"I am your cat," Joe said softly. "It's me. It's Joe. The tomcat who put three permanent scars on Rube's nose and tore a patch of hair out of Barney's muzzle that grew in black instead of brown. It's me, Bedtime Buddy. Rakish Ruckster," he said, repeating Clyde's stupid pet names. "Favorite Feline."
Through the receiver, he heard Clyde swallow. This was a blast. "Listen," Joe said, "do you remember yesterday morning when I was wiggling around under the covers, then I got down and I was sort of mumbling to myself? Do you remember what you said?"
Clyde's breathing was clearly audible.
"You said, 'For Christ sake, Joe, stop it! It's too damned early to be horny!' Then you went back to sleep, and the window shades were getting light."
There was a very long silence. Joe watched the pharmacist. The old man had heard nothing. His gray hair caught the light as he bent over his work wiping up the counters. At the other end of the phone, Clyde seemed to revive himself. "How-how did you know… Who the hell is this! How did you…?" Then, after another very long silence Clyde said, "What-what is your favorite breakfast?"
"Cream and Wheaties with chopped liver," Joe said, grinning. "No one," he said, "no one could know that but me, buddy."
"Who was-who was my date two weeks ago Friday?"
"Eleanor Hoffman," Joe said. "Blond. Blue eyes. Little gold lace dress short enough to show her underpants, and a giggle like a steam train. I don't need to tell you, Clyde, I don't like that woman. She woke me up at three in the morning singing her insipid songs. It sickens me to watch you in the shower washing her back."
The silence threatened to stretch into Monday. Then Clyde said, "If it's really you, where the hell are you? I'll come get you."
Joe licked a bit of rat fur off his lip.
"Well, where? And why the hell did you leave! How come you can use the phone and you never told me? How come you can talk? How come you never told me you can talk?" There was another silence, then, "Christ. This can't be happening. And isn't this house good enough for you? Just because you can talk, you think you're some kind of celebrity?"
"I can't come home. Someone is following me."
"What? What do you mean, following you? Who would be following you? What's going on? Where the hell are you?"
"I-Trust me," Joe said. "When I get this sorted out, I'll be home."
He licked his paw. "I want to come home," he said in an uncharacteristic moment of sentimentality. "I guess I miss you."
A movement caught his eye. The pharmacist had started up the aisle beside the candy counter. "Gotta go," Joe hissed. "I'm okay-be in touch." He leaped from the counter leaving the receiver off the hook and fled through the open door. Old Sid saw him and shouted. "Scat! Scat! Get out of here!"
He sped across the street directly into the path of a pickup full of firewood. He managed to dodge it, feeling the heat of its wheels. He gained the curb, panting. Leaping across the sidewalk to the grass, he turned east, moving fast up the tree-shaded median.
Within minutes of talking with Clyde he was out of the village again, headed up into the hills, still tense with fear but grinning with amusement.
5
Dulcie raced along the top of the cliff nearly swept off by the wind, wind pushed and shoved at her pressing her toward the fifty-foot drop. Far below her the sea heaved and crashed; and the man running behind her drew closer, forcing her toward the edge. In another instant he'd reach her and kick her over, down the jagged rocks. She was blinded by flashes of sunlight and by the swift shadows of racing clouds. Along the cliff's ragged edge, she couldn't be sure where the land fell away beneath her flying paws. The man was nearly on her; suddenly he kicked out at her.
She dodged, twisting away, leaped over his foot, and dived into a tangle of heavy weeds.
Crouching within the frail shelter, she stared out between the brittle stems.
But as he lunged at her she spun away again, fleeing away through the grass forest, heading for the street. Heading back toward houses and sidewalks where there might be people, where she might find shelter. Leaping across the sidewalk into the street, she didn't see the car. Brakes screamed, a horn blared. She dodged into the path of a truck coming in the other direction, and felt its heat as she skinned to the far curb.
The man had careened away to dodge the truck. She flashed across a lawn toward a line of bushes beside a tall yellow house. Diving into the shrubbery, she felt her heart pounding like the heart of a terrified mouse when she caught it, fast, too fast.
And again the man was on her as she plunged into the bushes; he snatched her by the tail, jerking her painfully off her feet. She flipped over yowling and dug in her claws, raking and biting his arm.
He dropped her, swearing. She twisted away tasting his blood. Racing along the perimeter of the house beside a row of basement windows, she stopped and doubled back.
One window was ajar a few inches. She flung herself at the glass. The hinged pane gave. She leaped into black, empty space.
She dropped half a story, landing hard on a concrete floor. The fall jarred her legs and shoulders and bruised her tender paws. Crouching, she turned to stare up at the window.