"Would you testify for me, Curtis? This is a murder charge. I could be facing life in prison. Or worse." She reached through the bars, to touch his hand. "If Marianna killed my husband, she should be convicted. If she is, she'll be locked up for a long time where she can't get at you."
She looked at him deeply. "Would you tell a jury the truth? That you took my keys for Marianna? Things… might go easier for you, at your grampa's trial," she said softly. "No one could promise such a thing, but the judge or jury might look on you more kindly, if you've already told the court the truth about Marianna."
Curtis looked back at her. "Would you keep Rock? For good? For your own dog?"
"I promise I'll keep him for good. For my own dog."
"Could I visit him?"
"You could visit him," she said softly. "Or he could visit you."
Curtis nodded. "If you'll promise to keep him, I'll tell… testify."
"Please understand, Curtis. I want you only to tell the truth."
Curtis nodded. "If you'll keep him, I can do that."
And Joe Grey heard, from high above him, the faintest mewl echoing through the roof, the kind of murmur Dulcie or the kit made when they got emotional, a plaintive cry too soft for human ears. A tenderhearted mutter that made him frown with male superiority.
Licking his own salty whiskers, the tomcat did not consider that he was emotional. He was only wired, only congratulating himself that his timing had worked out for optimum results. Worked out in a manner that seemed to him to cap both cases-testimony to help hang Martie Holland, certainly. But in the process, perhaps a change of heart in Curtis Farger? A greater willingness to tell all he knew about the church bombing as well as about Martie Holland?
Perhaps, Joe Grey thought. He hoped so.
But in the case of young Curtis, the only proof would be time-and what Curtis decided to do with that time.
For a long moment, the uncertainty of a boy's life, heading either for good or for the sewer, left Joe a bit testy, as if he had a thorn in his paw.
And it was not until later that night that Joe began to look with equanimity upon the unanswered questions regarding Curtis Farger. When, as Clyde and Ryan sat in the expanded attic watching the stars through the newly cut windows, Joe began to unwind and take the longer view.
Dulcie and the kit lay on the rafters looking out at the sea, their paws and tails drooping over. But Joe prowled among the beams looking down on Clyde and Ryan where they sat on the floor leaning against the newly constructed wall, sipping coffee. Rock lay sprawled beside Ryan, deeply asleep, his coat silver in the faint light.
Moving restlessly along the heavy timbers, Joe tried to work off the tangle of thoughts and events that crowded inside his head, as irritating and insistent as buzzing bees. Maybe he needed some down time, needed to slaughter a few wharf rats, some uncomplicated bit of sport to get centered again, now that the human rats were locked up.
But when he glanced across to Dulcie, she too was restless, the tip of her tail twitching, then lashing. Joe, leaping from rafter to rafter, brushed against her and led her along the center beam and up into his small, private tower that rose above the new structure.
The cat-sized retreat was still only framed, its six sides standing open to the night. It would have glass windows that Joe could easily open. Its hexagonal roof was fitted with pie shapes of plywood, and shingles. There would be cushions later, and a shelf to hold a bowl for fresh water.
Sitting close together beneath the little roof, Joe and Dulcie watched the ocean gleaming beyond the dark oaks. They were mesmerized for a long moment by the endless rolling of the white breakers, by the sea's beating thunder. Nearer to them humped the village rooftops, the cats' own exclusive world, its angles and crannies and hiding places far removed from human problems and human evils-though Dulcie, as usual, could not divorce herself from human needs.
"Tomorrow," she said, "I'll go into the library early." She gave him a guilty look. "I've made myself too scarce." She was, after all, official library cat, and she had let her chosen work slide. "Tomorrow is story hour. I'll snuggle on the big window seat with the children, let them pummel and pet me." She smiled. "Too bad I can't read to them, Wilma says I have a lovely reading voice."
"The kids would love it. Probably triple attendance."
But then she shivered. "I keep thinking about the bombing. And about those drug labs that might have killed as many people as the bomb would have done."
"It's over, Dulcie. Everyone's safe. Those people are locked up."
"And I was thinking about Marianna-Martie Holland. About her cruelty to Rock, to that sweet silver hound." Dulcie turned to look at Joe, her green eyes wide and dark. "That woman cares for no living thing. She cares for nothing but her own destructive schemes- as if she's linked to all cruelty in the world. As if hate and cruelty are one massive force that she's part of, a force that can shape itself into a million faces."
Joe Grey licked his whiskers. "But there's more that's good in life, Dulcie. Clyde and Ryan down there, so right and comfortable with each other. Charlie and Max at home together, safe and happy. The ladies of senior survival tucked away in their new home. Wilma, and our good police and detectives." Thinking about their human friends, he grew almost mellow. He looked hard at her, the starlight catching a gleam across his pale whiskers and dark eyes. "What they have, Dulcie, is way more powerful than evil." And the tomcat looked, not predatory then or teasing as he so often looked, but only wise. "The force of goodness is stronger, Dulcie."
"Goodness," she said, "and the little droll things, the humorous turns of life."
"Such as?"
Dulcie laughed. "Silver tomcat and silver dog like mirror images."
Joe Grey smiled. He guessed, in this case, comparison to a dog wasn't an insult. He purred deeply. "Despite bombs and lethal drugs, despite all the evil, there's far more that's good. The humorous things," he said, smiling. "The positive things."
And it was true. At that particular moment, their own bit of the world was safe and right. They were all together in their small village, the three cats and their friends. Those who would harm them were otherwise occupied, and no matter what disasters might visit among them in future, they were there for each other. Nothing, Joe Grey thought, nothing even in death could separate their closeness, could change the fact that they were family.
SHIRLEY ROUSSEAU MURPHY has received seven national Cat Writers’ Association Awards for best novel of the year, two Cat Writers’ President’s Awards, the “World’s Best Cat Litter-ary Award” in 2006 for the Joe Grey Books, and five Council of Authors and Journalists Awards for previous books. She and her husband live in Carmel, California, where they serve as full-time household help for two demanding feline ladies.
www.joegrey.com
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