But yet he did feel sorry, a dark little cloud of mourning hovered over him, sentimental and totally without basis. He felt sick at the brutality of the premeditated killing.

The murder he had witnessed had been twisted and sick. It had nothing in common with the way a cat killed.

Cats killed for food or to keep their skills honed. Mother cats killed to teach their young to hunt. Cats did not kill with the cold deliberation he had just witnessed. That thin, tunnel-eyed man had killed as casually as if he were culminating a financial transaction-paying his lunch bill or buying a newspaper. And it was Joe's very analysis of the event that alarmed him.

He backed down from the tree and headed home thinking heavy thoughts; crossing the grassy median then padding along the dark sidewalk warily watching the shadows, his whole being was tainted with a philosophical distress belonging, rightfully, only to humans.

Perusal of the human mind was not a feline concern. Cats didn't think about human perversion. Cats felt human depravity. They knew that human lust and dark human hatred existed, and they accepted those aberrations. Cats did not analyze those warped human conditions. Cats left the philosophizing to men.

Yet all the time he had been fleeing from the killer, a part of him had been trying to analyze the man. Trying to guess at the man's motives. Trying to figure out his intentions not only at chasing him, but his purpose in killing Beckwhite. Trying to unravel the mystery that had transformed that thin human face into a killer's mask.

What did he care what drove the man to kill? He wasn't connected to this man's problem, and he didn't want to be. And inside him, alarms were going off. These thoughts were new and terrifying. A gut level signal was warning him that he was in the throes of mental and emotional change. A new facet of himself had awakened, new concerns were surfacing.

The transformation had been coming on him for some weeks, but it had not been stirred violently alive, not until tonight. Now, some foreign presence within him had come alert. And it was clawing to get out, to break free.

He ran the last two blocks caught in a distressing tangle of fears and wanting nothing more complicated than his warm, safe bed, wanted to curl up safe on the blanket next to Clyde, protected by his human housemate.

The gray cat woke suddenly from deep sleep, curled on his master's bed. Something had waked him, a noise foreign to the usual house noises. He twitched an ear, trying to come alert.

The violent screeching came again, jerking him up to full attention, propelling him to his feet, his claws digging into the blanket, his senses slapped into high gear by the splintering, wrenching sound. What the hell is going on? Ears flattened, his stub tail tucked low, he stared around the dim bedroom, a growl rumbling deep in his throat. The splintering cacophony had driven every hair along his spine straight up, stiff as the bristles on a hairbrush. Standing rigid on the double bed next to his human companion, he tried to get a fix on the sound.

Beside him, Clyde turned over, heat radiating from his body like a furnace. His snores rose a decibel, to effectively drown the next scraping of metal on wood.

That's what the sound was, metal on wood. As if a window were being pried open. Joe sniffed the chill air, trying to scent the intruder, but Clyde's breath was such a powerful decoction of red wine and raw onions that he couldn't have smelled a convention of sweaty joggers if they had crowded into the bedroom. He moved away from Clyde's warm shoulder, listening intently. He wasn't sure whether the noise had come from right there in the room or from another part of the house.

He felt outrage that a burglar would bother them. This was a small, peaceful village, and a quiet street. They had never had a break-in, not since they'd moved there. This wasn't, after all, the mean streets of south San Francisco. But at contemplation of an invader in the house, a cold fear held him, far more chilling than wariness of a normal burglar.

Shivering and puzzled, he studied the dim bedroom, the hulking shapes of dresser, of the TV, of Clyde's clothes flung over the chair limp as a used Halloween costume discarded after the big event. Clyde's shoes protruded from the shadow beneath the chair, and beside them one smelly sock.

Nothing seemed unfamiliar in the bedroom. Warily Joe crept across the covers and hunched over the side of the bed, staring under.

The shadows beneath the bedsprings were empty, nothing there but a few dust balls like the ghosts of long-deceased mice. He backed up onto the bed again and licked a paw, scanning the room's corners, its darkest reaches, staring into the open closet, at the dim tangle of Clyde's clothes.

No shadow seemed unaccounted for. On the dark bedroom walls, three pale rectangles shone, the mirror gleaming silver, the two window shades gathering artificial light from without, from the streetlamp up at the corner. And the dim glow of the shades was struck across with the shadows of twisted branches, from the oak tree that sheltered the bedroom. Suddenly, within the tree, a mockingbird began to babble, its tuneless gurgles blending with Clyde's snores.

He could hear nothing, now, but snores and the damned bird. What was it with mockingbirds? What went through their tiny minds? The creature was as tuneless as a baboon practicing the violin.

But the mockingbird wouldn't be sitting in that tree trying to sing, if someone were out there under the bedroom windows.

Maybe the scraping noise had come from the backyard. Or maybe from the front of the house; maybe up beyond the front porch a stranger hugged the perimeter of the house, trying to force his way in, to pry open a living room window, or the front door.

Joe leaped to the floor, the shock of his weight keening through his soft pads and up his legs, jolting the muscles of his shoulders.

He was a big cat, heavy, his silver-gray coat gleaming dense and short, sleek as gray velvet over hard muscle. Tense, flattening his ears and whiskers tight to his head, he prowled the room, listening through the walls. Moving through the dark room, his gray parts blended into the shadows so the white marks on his chest and paws and the white triangle on his nose seemed to move disconnected.

He was not a handsome cat. The strip of white down his nose made his yellow eyes seem too close together, gave him a permanent frown.

The splintering, wrenching noise did not come again. Could he have dreamed that sound, only imagined it?

Certainly he had imagined some strange things lately, so strange that he had begun to think some feline disease was slowly rotting his brain.

Maybe he'd had a nightmare caused by bad food. That had happened once when he got hold of a sick gopher; he'd had wild, impossible dreams.

He tried to remember what he had eaten yesterday. He'd had a hasty mouse after supper, but that shouldn't do it, he'd eaten it an hour after his usual cat food. If it was going to make him sick, it would have done so long before now. Anyway, the mouse had gone down delightfully. He'd killed a starling around noon yesterday, but he'd spit out the beak and feet. Starlings never made him sick. Preoccupied with his physical assessment, he didn't realize he was keening deep in his throat until Clyde woke, swearing.

"For Christ sake, Joe, stop it! It's too damned early to be horny! Go back to sleep!" Only then was Joe aware of his own harsh, rough-edged crying.

Silenced, he listened again for the dry, quick report of breaking wood. He really should check the house. The dogs couldn't do it, they were shut in the kitchen. The two old dogs had spent their nights in the kitchen ever since Barney started peeing on the front door. And both dogs slept like rocks, lifeless as the products of a taxidermist's art. Someone was breaking into the house and the damned dogs hadn't the presence of mind to wake up and bark. Both were big dogs, a scruffy golden and an overweight Lab, both could have routed a prowler with their barking alone if they'd made half an effort.