They were headed deeper in, toward the area over Clyde's shop, when Dulcie stopped and turned back, and began pawing at something.

In a minute, she hissed, "Here! Come and look."

She stood looking down between two acoustical tiles, where a sliver of light squeezed through no thicker than a thread.

Digging, she tried to force her paw through. They dug together, and soon widened the crack until they could see, below them, rows of metal pipes. The air smelled of cleaning solvent and steam. The pipes were loaded with hanging clothes, all sheathed in plastic bags. They were pawing again, trying to get through, when they heard voices from below, from an unseen part of the room. A woman's voice approached. She said something about tags and numbers, then laughed. They backed away into the dark.

"There's another crack," Dulcie said, "near the men's room."

"Its too close. He'll be up here in a minute."

But all sounds from Wark had ceased. They dug at the new crack until a tile shifted. A two-inch space revealed an office below. A battered desk and chair stood directly below them, and, to the left, two metal file cabinets. Next to those was a whole wall full of cubbyhole shelves, crammed with papers. As they fought to dislodge the tile, their faces pressed close together, they heard the men's room door open, and heard a sharp clang of metal.

"What's he doing?" Dulcie breathed.

"Whatever he's doing, you can bet your fur booties he'll up here in a minute. Dig harder."

But then a rhythmic noise began, a sharp metallic Click click click rising up. "Extension ladder," Joe hissed.

They fled again, but their scrabbling feet knocked the tile loose behind them; they heard it fall down into the office. Dulcie paused, turning back. "We've time to get through, come on." But Wark was already up through the hole, his lit face pushing up. They sped away crashing into metal struts and through cobwebs, dragging cobwebs with them. Joe didn't like to think about being trapped up there with no way to get out.

But if the attic continued over the drive and over the showroom, maybe there would be a way out. They raced on, slowed by the struts, swerving and dodging as if in some fun house obstacle coarse-a fun house as seen in nightmare.

They had scrambled around a corner, they were halfway around the U-shaped building, over the repair shop, when a perpendicular wall stopped them. They slid to a halt. The attic ended.

They crept along the wall nosing and pawing at its base. It was solid, not a hole or a crack. And suddenly light burst across the attic from behind them.

The swinging beam of a flashlight sought them, burning a path through the dark. They crouched behind a beam, out of its range. On it came, picking out beams and struts above them, frosting the curtains of hanging cobwebs. It glanced over the top of the beam where they crouched, and went on, as frantically and uselessly they dug at the floor. And Wark crawled nearer, swinging his light back and forth, searching.

This floor wasn't soft under their claws, not like acoustical tiles; this ceiling over the shop was hard and unyielding. And again Wark's light swung close.

"He has a gun," Dulcie whispered, "I saw it earlier."

Joe glanced at her "I didn't…" But from below in the shop came muffled voices and the clang of tools.

"Clyde's down there, I can hear him. They've started work. If I shout…"

"No! It'll bring his light." She dug harder, clawing at the dense Sheetrock. Below they heard an engine start. But even over that sound, Wark would hear them digging. He had drawn closer, and his angle of vision was steeper now. He could see partially behind the last beam. Dulcie had managed a shallow indentation in the Sheetrock when Wark's light found them, blinding them. They were trapped in light. A shot cracked through the attic, exploding with ragged flame as Joe lunged against her, knocking her away. And a second shot thundered.

Ten minutes after Kate Osborne left the courthouse tucking her shirt more securely into her jeans, the cream-colored cat entered the Osborne backyard.

She scanned the neighbors' windows, and when she thought she was unobserved, she leaped to the back porch. There she rubbed against the porch rail, surveying again the adjoining dwellings.

She would just slip in, change back to the Kate who was Jimmie's wife, grab the bankbooks, throw her clothes in the car, and get out.

When she was sure she was alone she clawed the door open, wondering, as she kicked at the molding, if she was leaving claw marks.

Inside, she prowled the house, wary and skittish. Though Jimmie's car wasn't in the drive, she couldn't shake the feeling that he'd appear and grab her-that he would handle her as viciously as Wark had done, bruising and injuring her; that Jimmie was fully capable of killing her, no matter what form she took.

Gentle Jimmie Osborne, the quintessential wimp. Maybe wimps, when they turned mean, were the most vicious of all.

When she was satisfied that the house was empty, she paused in the hall. She was starting to say the Welsh words that would change her when she heard his car in the drive.

She ran into the living room and leaped to the back of Jimmie's chair, digging in her claws. Peering out through the curtains, she was struck by sunlight careening off the hood of the silver Bugatti. The car glistened in sleek silver curves.

She hated that car. The damned machine had to be worth many times what Jimmie had admitted paying for it. She hated that he lied to her. The Bugatti seemed all of a sudden the symbol of everything ugly about Jimmie. When she saw Sheril getting out, a growl of rage rumbled and shook her.

They came up the steps snuggling and pawing each other. Jimmie had his hand under Sheril's blouse, but why bother? Everything Sheril had was right there in plain sight. That lace hid nothing; she might as well be wearing a plastic bag.

She didn't know whether to change to Kate and confront them, or to hide until they left. Hide, then get the bankbooks for Max Harper, and clear out.

Hiding seemed so cowardly.

But if she telegraphed her punches, if she confronted Jimmie, he might snatch the bankbooks and take off. She might be physically strong enough to keep him from taking them, and she might not.

As they opened the door she fled for the bedroom and under the bed, into her shoddy little hiding place.

Crouching on the carpet just beneath the box springs, she heard them coming down the hall. Their voices sounded flat and tired. Had they been partying in Sheril's bed the whole night?

Their shoes hushed on the carpet. Sheril's nasal voice rose flat and piercing. Jimmie laughed, and Sheril started to giggle. It was ten o'clock in the morning. Why wasn't Jimmie at work?

Sheril said, "Your house is so-domestic, lover. Just like your little housewife."

Jimmie chuckled. "What if the little housewife comes home?"

"She walked out on you, lover."

"You like doing it in her bed, don't you, baby? Like a bitch wetting on another's territory."

Her claws knifed into the carpet. Her tail struck so hard at the springs she thought they'd hear her. They came into the bedroom yawning. Sheril kicked off her sandals and sat down on the bed, then her feet disappeared upward and the springs creaked.

Jimmie kicked off his loafers, dropped his pants and hung them over the chair. His shorts came next. So much for preliminaries. She could hear Sheril wriggling around, undressing. Jimmie moved to the bed; the springs creaked heavily as he lay down. This is disgusting. She fought a powerful desire to leap on the bed and claw them.