He cleared his throat, as a test. If she woke up he'd ask how she was feeling, if she needed anything. The same test he used before sneaking into the library and locking himself in so that he could play with the knives, read Schwann's big green book and the others, look through the stuff in the closet. Nothing. She was out. Another throat-clear. Out cold.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the Tuna Treet, and showed it to the cat.

The blues eyes narrowed, then widened. Interested, you little fucker?

The cat moved forward, then sank back on the satin bed. Lazy and fat, like her. It got everything it needed, wouldn't surprise him if she jacked it off-no, she couldn't, no balls. It probably couldn't get a hard-on. He waved the Tuna Treet.

The cat stared at it, then him, then back at the fish-shaped cracker, water-eyes all greedy. It licked its lips and got all tight, like it was ready to spring. C'mere, sweetie. TOOONA! It didn't. It knew something was up. He touched the Treet to his lips, smiled at the cat. Lick lick, look what I've got that you don't. The cat moved forward again, froze. He put the Tuna Treet back in his pocket. The cat's ears perked.

Come-a-here, come-a-here. Pu-ss… The cat was still frozen, smelling the cracker but not knowing what to do, dumb dickhead.

He took a step backward, as if he didn't give a flying fuck. The cat watched him.

Out came the Treet again. Another lick, a big smile. Like it was the best thing he'd ever eaten in his life.

The cat took a couple of cautious steps, rocking the bed.

Lick.

Yum yum.

He waved the Tuna Treet, put it between his teeth, and started to leave the room.

The cat jumped off the bed and landed silently on the white carpet, stepping on her to do it, using her grossed-out belly as a diving board. She was so out of it she didn't even feel it.

He kept walking toward the door, real casual.

C'mere, sweetie.

A piece of the Treet broke off in his mouth-actually it didn't taste that bad.

Maybe I'll eat it myself, you furry little piece of shit.

The cat was following him from a distance as he backed out of the room, smiling and licking the Tuna Treet.

They were out on the landing now. He closed the door to the ice palace.

The cat meowed, making like it was his friend.

Beg, dickhead.

He kept walking backward, nibbling on the Tuna Treet. Not bad, actually. Kind of like fried fish.

The cat followed him.

Here, kitty, stupid, fucking kitty.

Walk, follow, walk, follow.

A look-down to see what the maids were doing.

Still blabbing and vacuming. The coast was clear.

Into his room, licking, waving.

In came the cat.

Close the door, lock it, grab the furry fucker by the neck and throw it hard against the wall.

Thud. It cried out and slid down the wall and landed on his bed, alive but something was broken. It just lay there looking funny.

He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out the hypodermic needle that he'd prepared. Lidocaine from one of the little rubber-topped bottles Doctor kept in the library closet, along with boxes of disposable needles, packages of gloves, bandages, and the empty doctor's bag-a Gladstone bag. it was called-which made this fantastic thunk when you opened and closed it. A couple of times he'd taken stuff, put it in the bag, and brought it up to his room.

Big smile: Hi. I'm Dr. Terrific. What seems to be the problem?

He'd used lidocaine on bugs and worms and the mouse that he'd found half-dead in the trap in the cellar. Mostly it killed them right away, so he figured it was too strong. But bugs were no fun anyway-so small, just sticking them with the needle fucked them totally up. And the mouse had been all crushed, almost dead when he found it.

A cat, now that was a different story-a step forward, real science.

In school, he was flunking science because it wasn't real science-the teacher was a lame-o, all words, no reality.

The cat tried to crawl off the bed, stopped, just lay there.

This was real. He'd been real scientific, taken the time to plan everything. There was a pediatrics book in the library-he read it for hours before finding a drug dosage chart for newborn infants, then used it to dilute the lidocaine, then added even more water, mixing all of it together in a juice glass, hoping he hadn't ruined the lidocaine.

Only one way to find out.

The cat was trying to get off the bed, again. Its eyes were all cloudy and its back legs were dragging.

Fuck you, dickhead, messing things up like that!

He picked it up by the scruff, stuck the needle in its chest, and shot in the lidocaine. Did it a bunch more times, the way it said in the book, trying to get pinpoint anesthesia.

The cat made squeaky sounds, struggled for a while, then shuddered and then went all stiff.

He placed it on his desk, belly-up, on top of the layers of newspaper he'd spread all over.

It wasn't moving-shit! No fair!

No, wait… Yeah, there it was, the chest going up and down. Fucker was still breathing, weak, you could barely see it, but still breathing!

All right!

He opened the bottom drawer again, took out the two knives that he'd chosen from the box in the library: the biggest scalpel and a curved bistoury. He held them in his hands, watching the cat breathe, knowing this was real science, not any bugs or half-dead mouses.

Hi, I'm Dr. Terrific.

What seems to be the problem, Mr. Cat, Mr. Snowball? Mr. Little Dickhead who almost ruined my life?

The cat just lay there.

Big problems for you. Things got all red in front of his eyes. The roar in his head got louder.

He took a deep breath. A bunch of them, until things got clear again.

Hello, Mr. Cat. Time for surgery.

Friday. Daoud's nights keeping Roselli under surveillance had been as productive as tilling concrete.

For the past week, the monk had remained within the walls of Saint Saviour's, taking only one brief walk Wednesday night, shortly after midnight. Not even a walk, really. Fifty steps before turning on his heel-abruptly, as if he'd experienced anxiety, a sudden change of heart about venturing out-and heading back quickly for the refuge of the monastery. Daoud had just begun to trail him, walking maybe ten meters behind, disguised as a Franciscan, the hood pulled down. After Roselli changed direction, Daoud kept on going and, as they passed each other, retracted his head into the brown folds of his robe and stared downward, as if lost in contemplation.