"What did he smell like? Could you see his face?"

"I couldn't smell anything, the jasmine was too strong. And it was so dark in the bushes. Just a darkly dressed figure, a thin figure, standing in the shadows where the bush and the vine blocked the light."

A tremble shook her, and she snuggled closer. "I saw the killer leap at you and swing his wrench. Then you ran, and a police light caught me in the face, I couldn't see where you went. I heard the police radio. When they shone their lights in, the killer moved toward me away from the street and stood still, his face turned toward me.

"He was looking right at me, Joe. He saw me, but then he turned back and chased you." She pressed her face harder against him. "He knows about us. He knows we saw-and more. He knows that we can tell what we saw."

She stared at him in the darkness. "I think that man knows more about us than we know about ourselves." And she curled down tight against him in a hard little ball.

He licked her face and ears. In a little while, he said, "If the second man was a witness, why hasn't he gone to the police?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's afraid."

"Or maybe he has other plans," Joe said. Then, "Maybe he found the wrench. Maybe he came back and found the wrench, before the police ever discovered the body. Maybe he's keeping it for his own reasons."

"Blackmail?"

"Maybe." He pawed at an itch on his shoulder. "Then again, maybe he didn't find it."

"Could it still be in the alley, somewhere the police didn't look? But how could the police miss it?"

"I don't know that, either. But it's a place to start looking. If it is hidden there, we need to find it before someone else does."

Twelve-year-old Marvin Semple had nearly finished his evening paper route. He was headed home on his bike, wheeling beneath low branches along the dim and shadowed residential street, pedaling past a row of overhanging oak trees, when he heard a cat scream.

The cry came from somewhere ahead, up near the end of the block. A second scream cut the silence, and he pedaled faster. Maybe a dog had some poor cat. He didn't know anyone on this street who had cats, but it could be any village cat. He was gazing ahead into the thickening shadows when he saw movement in the Osborne yard. A man was standing near the house straddle-legged, flinging something at the ground.

Crouching over his handlebars he raced toward the man, not wanting to believe what he saw.

Yes, it was a cat. The man was flinging a cat at the concrete walk. For an instant he saw the animal clearly, its pale fur bright in the dark evening as the man swung it down. Its scream chilled him. "Stop it!" What was the guy doing! Again the man flung the cat at the ground. Marvin shouted again and doubled over his bike pumping as hard as he could.

He screeched to a stop and dropped his bike, scattering his remaining papers as the man pushed the cat under the bushes. The guy ran. Marvin raced to where the cat lay.

Crouching, he lifted it gently from beneath the bushes.

It looked dead.

Holding it carefully, he glanced up in the direction the man had disappeared. A black car was pulling away fast, skidding around the corner.

He carried the cat beneath the streetlight and stood cradling it, trying to see if it was breathing. He couldn't see any rise and fall of its chest, but when he put his face to its nose, he could feel a faint breath. Gently he cradled it, deciding the best thing to do. The evening was fast growing dark. He was fifteen blocks from home.

Soon his exploring fingers found a barely discernible heartbeat. He could see no blood. The cat was beautiful, cream-colored and mottled with orange streaks. Marvin held her as delicately as he could in one arm. With his other hand he picked up his bike and straightened the nearly empty paper bags across the rack.

He laid the cat inside one bag, on a bed of folded newspapers, then removed the belt from his pants and used it to bind shut the bag against her escape. He knew from reading every book he could find about animals, that an injured cat or dog, or any injured animal, might run blindly away, evading the very person who sought to help it. If a horse or dog were injured, you should always get a lead on them to hold them steady. The first aid book said always confine a hurt animal as gently as you could. He had wanted to feel more carefully for broken bones, but he was afraid he'd injure the little cat. He picked up the scattered papers to balance the weight of the cat, so the bag wouldn't slide.

He was sure there would be enough air inside the closed canvas bag-he had left an inch hole at the top, and the canvas was thin and cheap.

With the cat safely bedded down, he took a running start and headed for the upper perimeter of the village.

It was six blocks to Ocean, then up Ocean five more blocks, then over two. He didn't know any faster way to get help. If he called his dad, it would take a while to find a phone, and a while more for his dad to reach him. And they'd still have to lift the cat into the car, and drive the same route he was taking.

He was headed for one of two animal clinics in town, the one his family used for their assorted pets, for their dogs and their guinea pigs and rabbit, the one he took stray cats to several times a month.

The clinic would be closed, but Dr. Firreti lived next door. Dad had gotten Firreti out of bed when their terrier was hit by a truck, and Firreti had been real nice. He'd saved Scooter. It had taken him half the night to patch up the little dog. Now, with this cat, Dr. Firreti wouldn't mind having his supper interrupted. Pumping hard, swerving around cars, Marvin sped the seven blocks to the blue frame house next door to the clinic.

He propped his bike against the porch, undid the canvas bag, and lifted out the unresisting cat.

Holding her close, he banged on Dr. Firreti's front door. Bending over her, he could still feel her breath soft against his cheek.

From inside he heard Dr. Firreti's step coming toward the door. Heard the knob turn.

The door opened and he looked up into the veterinarian's round, sunburned face. Dr. Firreti was silent and still for a moment. "Evening, Marvin. Good, another cat. How come it's not still in the cage? I see, it's too far gone to fight you. My God, we don't need a sick one."

"She's not sick. A man beat her. He banged her against the ground, tried to kill her."

Firreti bent down to look closer, touching the cat lightly, feeling its pulse, lifting an eyelid.

Marvin held her securely, in case she should come awake and try to get away. How many cats had he brought to Dr. Firreti? Nine, he thought. Nine cats, and with each one he had stood beside by the metal table watching Dr. Firreti prepare the needle-the syringe. And the last two times, Dr. Firreti had let him watch the operation.

Now, he was ashamed of his sudden tears. He hadn't cried with the other cats.

But then, no one had beaten them. No one had tried to knock the life out of them. And his dad said it was no crime to cry, not for something hurt and smaller than you. Not the way he'd cried for Scooter. But he was ashamed anyway.

"We'd better get her over to the clinic," Dr. Firreti said. He shut the door behind him, put a hand on Marvin's shoulder, and together they headed next door to the white, cement block building.