From the police station she drove directly to the Molena Point bank and drew a cashier's check for the forty thousand in their joint savings account. She took that across the street to the Bank of California.

In the cool, high-ceilinged lobby, with its skylights and potted ficus trees, she sat opposite a bank officer at his desk filling out the required cards and forms for an account in her name alone. And, because everyone in Molena Point knew everyone else, she told the young man that she and Jimmie were making some adjustments for tax purposes.

Leaving the bank, she drove north through the village. The sun was pushing up toward noon through a clear blue sky. It was going to be warm, one of those clear sunny innocuous days that, to Californians, sometimes grew tedious by their very bland repetition. Though according to village custom, this kind of grousing was sure to bring on atypical floods, high winds, or earthquake.

She realized she hadn't had breakfast, that she was famished again though she'd stuffed herself so late last night on Clyde's spaghetti and garlic bread. There was a new little restaurant up on Highway One that was supposed to serve light French pancakes, and she headed up Ocean. She'd have breakfast, then drive on up into the hills and sit quietly until time to meet Harper. Take time for a last look at the view she loved; once she was out of town, it might be a long time before she could enjoy the hills again. The morning, despite the sun's brilliance, was still nice and cool. The heat wouldn't descend until afternoon. She drove slowly with her windows down, tasting the salt wind. Going up Ocean she saw patrol cars clustered around the shop, and a shock of coldness hit in her. She pulled over, looking.

The police had blocked off the entry to the shop with two squad cars and some sawhorses, and they had blocked off Haley Street with a patrol car angled across it. An officer stood before the door of the agency showroom, as if to let no one inside. She parked, locked her car, and walked over.

The cats crept behind a beam, cringing down as Wark's light swept the attic above them; it returned low, just missed them, flashing over along the top of the heavy timber where they hid.

And suddenly he fired again, into the dark beyond the beam but too close, they heard it ping into the ceiling not three feet from them; it was a wild shot. His light careened on along the base of the slanted roof, searching.

When he failed to find them he fired twice more, wild and uselessly. But he was crawling in their direction, hunching along a narrow joist straight toward them. "Split up," Dulcie whispered. "We can jump him from behind."

"And get blown to confetti."

"Have to make him drop his gun, hit him, and leap away. If he drops it down among those wires, that will give us time while he tries to fish it out."

"I don't think…" He had started to say it was a crazy idea, when, from below in the street, sirens screamed.

Nothing, nothing had ever sounded so good.

Immediately Wark's light went out and they heard him scuttle away, back toward the hole in the ceiling. That earsplitting squad car wail was the finest sound Joe had ever imagined.

Two more sirens screamed from the front of the building, then another from the side street. He could just picture the police units careening up Ocean, converging on the agency-fierce and predatory, all muscle.

They sat up and stretched, and slowly their pounding hearts eased into a gentler rhythm. They heard, below, the big metal gates roll open, and then voices. And, nearer, they heard a thud as if Wark had dropped down, perhaps onto the desk in the office.

"Is he gone?" Dulcie breathed.

"He'd better be. This is no way to spend the rest of your life."

"Short lives," she said shakily.

In a moment they heard the smaller gate to the restaurant rattle, then thuds and voices in a confusion of sound, and a shout. Then the whish of the men's room door opening.

When footsteps rang on the tile, they rose and headed for the hole in the ceiling and for civilized company. A click stopped them, a click from the blackness as Wark cocked his revolver. They dropped and crept away; he was still with them.

The ladder rattled, someone was climbing, likely a cop was climbing up. In another second the guy would stick his head up like a target in a shooting gallery. "Look out!" Joe shouted. "He'll shoot! Keep down!"

Joe didn't think about what he was doing. He had no choice. At his shout, Wark burst out of the blackness half-running, half-crawling. Avoiding the hole into the men's room, he dived for the opening over the office. He was a blur plunging down. They heard him hit the desk, a huge thud, hit the floor, heard him running, and heard a door bang.

They approached the opening and looked over.

The office was empty.

Behind them the ladder clinked again, the rattling of footsteps on the metal rungs.

Joe knew he'd blown it, that the fuzz would be very interested in where that voice came from. Well, so the cops had heard a shout. So there was no human up here. So, what cop was going to believe that was a cat shouting?

Another clink, and another. And Clyde's head appeared rising up through the lit hole.

Joe gaped. He leaped, piling into Clyde, licking his face, purring so hard he choked.

"What the hell? What are you doing up here? What are you so excited about? That was you who shouted! I heard the guy run, heard him jump down." Clyde held him away. "Are you hurt? I don't see any blood. Where's Dulcie?" They heard running and shouting from the laundry, and two more shots were fired somewhere below.

"What the hell's going on, Joe?"

Joe swallowed.

He'd sworn he could never talk face-to-face with Clyde. He stared at Clyde, frozen. He stared until they heard officers' voices ring out from below in the restaurant.

They heard the gate slam again, and a car door slam. Then from behind Joe, a soft voice said, "When are we going to get out of here? I'm tired of this crawl hole. I'm tired of cobwebs on my ears, and I'm tired of being shot at." And Dulcie strolled into the light.

She gave Clyde a green-eyed gaze, and leaped past his face, down through the hole, hitting the ladder twice with quick paws.

Max Harper moved fast into the men's room, and stopped. He studied Clyde, standing on the ladder with his head stuck through the ceiling.

Clyde looked down. "No one up here. Did you get Wark?"

"Picked him up outside the laundry." Harper motioned Clyde down. "Move on out. Who's up there?"

"Not a soul. Just my cat."

"Has to be. I heard someone talking-two voices." He switched off the overhead light, slipped his flashlight from his belt, and started up the ladder.

"There's no one, Max. I was talking to the cats." Clyde backed down the ladder carrying Joe, and glanced across at Dulcie, where she sat demurely out of the way, in the corner. "I don't know how they got in the attic, but they were pretty scared."

"That gray cat's yours? The one I see around the house? I didn't know you brought him to work with you." He scowled at Dulcie. "I don't remember the other one."

Clyde shrugged. "That one belongs to Wilma, I'm cat-sitting." He grinned. "I guess I'm getting old; I talk to them a lot."

From Clyde's shoulder, Joe looked innocently back at Max Harper. He'd spent many a night lying under the kitchen table while Harper and Clyde played poker. Then, Harper usually smelled of horses, but not now, when he was in uniform.

Harper scowled at him, lifted his paw, and looked closely at his claws. Joe looked, too, and saw a trace of blood. Harper said, "Wark's face was torn up pretty bad. Long bloody scratches." He patted Joe, climbed on up the ladder, and shone his light into the darkness, He stood looking for a minute, then climbed up. They could hear him crawling toward the far end.