Belinda Contague is a tall, slim woman in her mid-twenties, as beautiful as you can imagine a woman to be. Her hair, as ever, was absolute black, with sheen. Her skin she’d whitened whiter than ivory, I hoped with makeup rather than arsenic. Her eyes were so blue I suspected cosmetic sorcery. Her lips were the color of arterial blood. She has serious emotional problems.

And all this before she put herself together for the evening.

“I had to be early. I heard there’ll be some unsavory characters showing up. Have you lost weight?”

“You noticed. You are a good man. Yes. A few pounds.”

Too many pounds, I thought. She was gaunt. Another indication of internal problems? She was in a positive mood. That’s always good. She said, “I need to get Keron and Arnot focused on their work. They shouldn’t bring personal problems with them.” She gave me a peck on the cheek. It was one of her specials. It told me she’d gladly put it somewhere else. “Then I’ll have the technical staff try to turn me into something presentable.”

“You’re a step or two beyond that already.”

“Hardly. Wait till you see. You won’t be able to resist.”

“Go. Do what you need to do. And don’t blame yourself if you find out that I’ve turned into an old man.”

“Why do you have a pail of kittens? Are they dead? I guess not. One just winked at me.”

“You know Dean. He took in a litter. I brought them because I had this crazy notion somebody might want one.” A mad idea, indeed. Most people looking for free cats are furriers, violin makers, or those guys who turn up at the edge of crowds, selling pigs in a blanket and other theoretically meat-based products of mysterious provenance.

Belinda shrugged, then set sail toward the two men trying to set up according to two different plans.

The squabbling ceased instantly, and was heard no more. The two clowns turned almost as pale as Belinda herself.

You could look her in the eye and know, absolutely, that you were nose to nose with swift, remorseless death. There would be no appeals, no continuances, no stays, no reprieves, no commutations, no mercy. This death no more cared for your soul or emotions than it did for those of a roach.

Chodo had had that knack, too. But he'd indulged in random acts of commutation. All of which had worked out in the long run. Where was the old man?

Melondie Kadare dropped onto my shoulder. “You’re a real bright candle, aren’t you?”

“What did I do now?”

“You shut the window after you let us in. We need to come and go. Unless you’re figuring on getting reports from the rat king through divine inspiration.”

“Oh. Yeah.” I hadn’t thought that part through. But I’m not used to deploying a special-needs entourage. “I’ll fix it. Have you seen an old man in a fancy wheelchair, looks like he might be dead?”

“No. The rats might have. They’re all over. Ask John Stretch.”

“I can take a hint.”

“Really? Amaze me.”

Is that a female thing? A youth thing? Or am I just a lightning rod for cynicism and sarcasm?

I cracked the same window a few inches, then roamed around trying to spot villainy before it happened. And looked for Chodo. I wanted to see what Belinda planned to roll out.

Melondie Kadare buzzed up behind my right ear. “When are you going to open that window, ace?”

“I just did, bug. You were there. You saw me.”

“Oh. Yeah. I did, didn’t I? Well, it ain’t open no more, stud. And Aliki Nadkarni wants in.”

She was right. Some moron had closed the window. I opened it, then headed for the kitchen.

I didn’t get there. Melondie brought her henchwoman’s report about what John Stretch had heard from his rats. Wouldn’t it be grand to leave out the middlepixies and middleratfolk? Where could I get a fast lesson in conversational rat?

The information was good, considering. It gave me a fair idea of the layout, including more than I wanted to know about odors in the basements and under the building where there were no basements.

I learned where Chodo was stashed. A dark pie pantry, halfway underground. Like an idiot cousin who had to be kept out of sight so he wouldn’t embarrass the family.

Nobody paid attention to anyone who was inside already. You must be all right. You’d been checked out. I could go anywhere I wanted.

Melondie Kadare caught up as I headed for Chodo’s hiding place. “That window is closed again, Big Boy. You want to do something about that? Like jamming it in its frame?”

I set my pail of cats down. “You guys wait here.” Like I thought they’d stay put. Just because their behavior had been exemplary. From the human point of view.

Hello, Garrett. The relationship between cats and people has just one dimension: the value to the cat, at a given moment, of a handy set of opposable thumbs. I opened the window, stood back, waited. Pixies zipped in and out. Rats slunk along the base of the wall. Or rattled around inside it. No one else noticed. One of the setup queens came by, spotted the window. “Darn it! Who keeps opening this thing?”

“I do. And I’m not in a charitable mood. Next time I find it closed I’ll throw somebody through it. You get the picture?”

The young man looked willing to fight. Briefly. “It’s too darned cold…” His belligerence faded. I’d been about to recommend a place he could go if he wanted to warm up. But the window suddenly wasn’t worth a fight.

A kitten mewed and started climbing my pants.

Even when they’re little their claws are sharp. “What’re you doing? Hell. I guess the honeymoon is over.”

My bucket had sprung a leak. Baby cats were everywhere. Thirty or forty of them, it looked like. I steeled myself for a blowup.

It didn’t come. Nobody seemed upset. They were weird cats. They never made anybody jump or stumble.

The skinny gink with the window fetish went back to his tables. Still without feuding with his partner.

I went back to hunting the man whose birthday was the excuse for the gathering.

I stole a candle, lit it, slipped into the pie pantry. There he was, slumped in a wheelchair, looking two decades older. “These aren’t the best circumstances,” I told him. There was barely room for all of us and the wheelchair. “But I promised Harvester Temisk that I’d do what I could. That guy is your best friend.” Near as I could tell. A few years in my racket will leave a saint cynical about the motives of nuns. Too many people don’t have a pimple of conscience to slow them down.

Chodo did not move, twitch, or demonstrate any awareness of my presence.

A kitten did meow nearby. I took that to be a good omen. But there was a scurry as a rat took an opposing view.

“I wish there was a way to tell if your mind is alive in there. But I can’t get you away someplace where we could work on it.” Speaking of out, there my candle went. I headed over where there was enough light to see while I relit the candle. Somebody hustled past, duck waddling with a huge pot. “Smells good,” I told him.

He clomped onward, dead silent. I don’t think he agreed.

There was a lot of new racket as the catering crew arrived. I wouldn’t have much more time with Chodo.

I ducked back into the pie pantry. “You didn’t sneak away when you had the chance.” Chodo hadn’t done anything but breathe. Which was good. Real good. Because, all of a sudden, I had an awful spooky feeling.

Something wasn’t right. And I didn’t know how to make sense of it. Or figure out what it was.

I dropped to my knees so I could look Chodo in the eyes. They were open. They blinked. But they weren’t seeing anything. They weren’t blinking out messages. I told him to blink once for yes and twice for no, then asked questions. He blinked yes at random.

Was his brain alive at all? Temisk thought so, but I saw no evidence here. If I had him stashed somewhere safe, I could study and experiment on him. Or I could take him home and put him in with the Dead Man. Old Bones would wake up someday.