"This terrible thing," Ramon said, setting the paper down beside her plate. "How can this be, that a man could do such a bloody deed? For why would a man do this?"

She did not look up at him. She thought she was going to be sick. She imagined far too vividly the poor dead cat hanging limp and twisted from a lamp pole, its throat constricted by a cord tied in a hangman's noose.

"That man should be hanged," Ramon said. "Muerto. Debe murir."

She looked up at him, and swallowed. Ramon wanted only to share with her his rage, share with another his own indignation.

For the last week, all over the city someone had been killing cats, hanging the poor beasts by a twisted noose, choking out their gentle, terrified lives. There had been nineteen incidents, in Haight, Nob Hill, Russian Hill, North Beach, the Presidio. Shoving her plate away, she felt her hands clench and stiffen with what she would like to do to the cat killer.

She did not want to read the accompanying article; she hated that Ramon had brought this ugly thing for her to see. She was about to toss the paper away when she saw the upper headline.

DEATH ROW ESCAPEES STILL AT LARGE

SACRAMENTO-Ronnie Cush, James Hartner and Lee Wark, the three death row inmates who broke out of San Quentin ten days ago, are still at large. None has been apprehended. This is the first escape from the maximum detention wing in the history of the prison.

The breakout occurred when prisoners overpowered a guard. All staff in that section have been replaced. Prison officials believe that Hartner may have sought family in Seattle. There is no clue to where Ronnie Cush might be headed. Lee Wark may have returned to San Francisco, where he had numerous contacts. Any witness to the escapees' whereabouts will be kept in strictest confidence by police and prison authorities.

Kate looked helplessly at her breakfast. She wanted to pitch the plate away. Ramon still stood watching her, so intent she wanted to scream. Why was he staring? As she looked up angrily, he turned quickly back to the kitchen.

But he couldn't understand how upset she would be, how the articles would terrify her. He could have no concept of how powerfully the cat story would hurt her. And no idea, of course, that the prison break was, for her, perhaps even more alarming.

She was ice cold inside. She felt absolutely certain that Lee Wark had returned-to the very city where she had come to hide from him.

Ramon returned with the coffeepot and stood beside her table, speaking softly.

"Dark the cat walks," Ramon said, watching her. She looked up at him, startled. "Dark the cat walks, his pacing shadow small." Ramon's Latin eyes gleamed. "Dark the cat walks. His shadow explodes tall. Fearsome wide and tall."

The shock of his words turned her rigid. Before she could speak, abruptly Ramon left her.

She sat very still, trying to collect her emotions. Her hands were shaking.

Why had he said that? What could he mean?

Dropping the paper on the floor, she threw down some money and hurried out to the street, wanted out of there, wanted out of the city.

What was Ramon telling me? Then, Wark can't know I'm here.

Can't he, Kate? Remember, before, how easily he discovered your secret?

If it is Wark who's killing cats, she thought, shivering, Ramon's right. He ought to be muerto. Debe murir.

Hurrying back to her apartment, she locked herself in, sliding the new dead bolt on the front door, checking the window locks. She made some cocoa and curled up with a book, a tame, quiet read that wouldn't upset her, couldn't stir any sense of threat-a soothing story that offered nothing to abrade her raw nerves.

She couldn't stop thinking about Wark.

Wasn't the Cat Museum the first place the cat killer would go?

Had he already been there, stalking the grounds? Did the museum staff not know? Or had museum cats been killed, and the museum had kept that out of the papers?

Had some of the poor, dead cats that were found around the city come in fact from the Cat Museum?

What kind of cats, Kate? What kind of cats is he killing?

Was Wark saving the Cat Museum for last? Last and best, in Wark's sick mind-before the cops got too close and he had to flee?

Was she imagining all this-the connection between Wark and this maniac?

She didn't think so. A sick, sadistic killer was loose in San Francisco. Lee Wark reveled in that brand of cruelty. Lee Wark had escaped from prison only thirty miles north of the city.

Coincidence? She had the terrible feeling that if she were to visit the Cat Museum, no matter when she went there, Lee Wark would be stalking those gardens.

AS CHARLIEGETZ turned her van up the quarter-mile lane that led to Max Harper's small ranch, the yellow light of the security lamps was mighty welcome. The dark roads were behind her, where perhaps a killer lurked, the hills pitch black, the sky black and starless.

Heading the van down the lighted fence line toward the white frame house and stable, she prayed for the safety of the Marners and Dillon as she'd been praying all night.

The idea of three riders missing was so bizarre-the implication of a child missing made bile come in her throat. Heading eagerly for the stable yard, she knew she was driving too fast.

Slowing the old van, she studied the dark pools of night beneath the overhanging oaks, looking for the mare. She could see, up on the hills behind the ranch, flashes of torchlight jiggling and careening, and could see lights higher up the foothills, disappearing into the pine forest. Parking before the house, she cut the engine and headlights and sat listening to the far, faint shouts of the searchers.

After the wash of light up the lane, the yard was too dark. Harper didn't like lights glaring in his windows; his yard lights were operable from remotes in his car and truck, and from inside the house and stable.

Now, in the tangle of black shapes around her, nothing shifted or moved.

She'd never been afraid at night, not in Molena Point, not when she'd lived in San Francisco. Tonight her fear made her weak.

Slipping out of the van, she switched on her torch and started across the yard toward the stable, swinging her beam wide, causing the shadows to run and dance-probably only tree trunks, maybe a wheelbarrow.

Then, beneath a far oak, a shadow shifted and turned.

She aimed her light toward it like a gun-wished it was a gun.

Her beam caught the whites of frightened eyes, the line of the mare's head and pricked ears. Redwing stood pressed against the fence, her eyes wide with fear.

Gently Charlie approached her, aiming her torch away. The mare stood stiffly, holding one leg up. The reins were broken, trailing in the dirt. Harper's nice Stubben saddle hung down Redwing's side, the stirrup dragging, the girth loose where a buckle had broken. When she reached for Redwing, the mare threw her head and snorted, rearing to wheel away. Charlie grabbed the broken rein, moving with her, letting her plunge, then easing into her. Laying her hand on the mare's neck, she felt Redwing trembling. At the same instant, loud barking erupted from the barn where the two big half-Dane dogs had been shut in their box stall for the night. The sound of their voices eased Charlie-as if their bellowing would drive away danger. And the furor seemed to calm Redwing, too. The mare knew the dogs, she played with them in the pasture; she seemed easier at their familiar presence.

Removing the saddle, placing it on the fence rail, she led the mare out to see if she could walk.