Мерфи Ширли Руссо

Tomcat

Tomcat

Shirley Rousseau Murphy

The disappearance of Rebecca Duncan, the week before her wedding, shook the town of Greeley like a tornado shakes a Georgia cabin, right down to its pinnings. Long before the Greeley paper was on the street, everyone knew that Rebecca had never come home from work on Thursday night, the word traveling door-to-door, phone-to-phone, and by the simple osmosis known only to the residents of a small and clannish community. A few old women passed along the word with a laugh and a wink, implying that Rebecca had run off on a lark before settling down to married life, the old gossips clucking and scowling fit to be tied. Well, Rebecca did have plenty of beaux before she got engaged to Tommie Glenn. But Rebecca's friends knew she wasn't out on some wild fling, not Rebecca Duncan, who went to church of a Sunday and was kind to old folks and babies and always ready to help a person; she wouldn't just up and walk away, not when her and Tommie was so happy. Tommie'd already rented a little house, and Rebecca'd bought the goods for her wedding dress, that her aunt Belle was a-making up.

Rebecca was only twenty-three, same age as Florie Mae Harkin, too young for bad things to happen. Rebecca and Florie Mae, and Martha Bliss, had all went through school together. Rebecca disappeared the same week that Florie Mae and Martha was trying to trap that big ole tomcat up around Harkin's Feed and Garden. That animal was so big it looked like a bobcat, except it had a long, lashing tail. It was mean as a bobcat, but it weren't no wild animal, weren't a bit afraid of people. If it came in your yard it would glare at you and go right on stealing your baby chicks, pay you no mind at all until you taken a rock to it.

The last two people to see Rebecca the evening she disappeared—the last, so far as anyone knew— was the attorney she worked for, Daryl Spalding, and the client who was sitting in Daryl's waiting room that evening when Rebecca left work. Her ma was expecting her home early to help with her little niece's seventh birthday party, Rebecca was to pick up the cake, and she sure wouldn't miss little Patsy's party. A foolish waste of money, a store-bought cake, but Patsy's best friend had got one for her birthday, and Patsy was real set on the notion.

According to Daryl Spalding, when he stepped out of his inner office to take the client on back, Rebecca was picking up her purse to leave. He said goodnight to her and stood for a minute talking with the client in the waiting room, there by Rebecca's desk, idly watching through the front window as she cut across Main Street to her car. That was at 5:00 p.m. Her mother said Rebecca had planned to pick up the cake at the Corner Bakery before they closed at 5:30 and then go straight on home. Daryl said he saw her get in her car and drive off. He told the sheriff that he saw no one else in her car, and saw no other car pull out behind her as if to follow her white Grand Am. He'd gone on back to his office with Jimmie Shakes, who was having a heated property-line dispute with his neighbor, and that was the last, Spalding said, that he saw of Rebecca.

Her car was found three hours later in front of the Corner Bakery with the cake box inside, the icing melting down through the folds in the box onto the upholstery, the evening was that hot, a scorcher even for June. Her car wasn't locked. Rebecca's mother had waited at home for her, distracted from the party, which was in full swing around her as she grew increasingly worried. Sometime after seven, she called Rebecca's fiancé. He hadn't seen or talked with Rebecca. She'd called the Corner Bakery, but it was already closed. She called the bakery's owner at home, but there was no answer.

Tommie answered her second call from his car, where he was already driving around town looking for Rebecca. It was Tommie who found her car. He called the sheriff at once, then called Mrs. Duncan. They could hardly hear each other, for the shouting children that filled her house. Rebecca's car, its location, and the melting birthday cake were the only evidence the sheriff was able to procure that evening. Nothing in her car, or in her desk at work, or in her room at home, gave any indication of some destination or activity she might have wanted to keep secret. "Well," some wag said, "maybe she's went off trappin' cats with Martha Bliss—trappin' cats all night with the cat lady. Haw haw haw."

Most everyone in Greeley, one time or another, called Martha Bliss the cat lady, even if she was young and pretty, not the old hag that "cat lady" seemed to imply. With her long black hair and big blue eyes, Martha Bliss could melt a young buck right down to his boot tops. The studs around Greeley played up to Martha just like they did to Rebecca, but they laughed at Martha behind her back, her and her big city notions about caring for a bunch of cats.

Generally, folks in Greeley considered cats about as low on the scale as the crows that steal seeds from your corn rows, gobbling up the kernels right behind a fellow as he walks along the rows planting. Crows slipping out of the sky silent as death to eat up your garden plot afore it gets started. Well, the stray cats was just as pesky, to most folks' way of thinking—except the cats did do their share of mousing, you had to give 'em that.

Most of Greeley's cats wandered the rutted Main Street and home-places half wild, living in the bushes and fields or in the barn rafters, breeding mangy kittens all spring and summer. The chicken growers around Greeley valued them cats, though, to patrol their hundred-foot-long chicken houses. Be overrun with rats otherwise, rats killing and eating the young broilers; cats ate the rats, and the growers were glad to have 'em, cats as wild as coons or foxes. Only a few folk in Greeley, like Martha Bliss and Rebecca Duncan, and a few lonely old ladies, kept a cat indoors, right inside the house. But Martha's foolishness over cats went a sight farther.

Martha's big city talk about what she called controlling feral cats, and neutering them, she got those fancy notions the year she spent away from Greeley down in Atlanta with her Aunt Hazel—come home as full of citified ideas as a pig full of slop. Imagine castrating all the tomcats in Greeley Enough to make a donkey laugh. Martha wasn't that old, neither, to have growed so peculiar in her ways, her being the same age as Rebecca, and as Florie Mae her ownself. Them three girls graduated high school just two year before Grady Coulter, Grady with his red hair and those flirty green eyes; all the girls had a crush on Grady in school and a lot of them still did, of which Grady was well enough aware.

The Coulters was one of the first Irish families ever to settle in Greeley back before the War Between the States—called themselves Northern Irish. Most folks in Greeley was of Scotch descent, and some Cherokee blood mixed in. But you could bet your best hound pup that since that first Coulter arrived, back when Greeley was just a few log shacks and garden patches, ever' generation since, there'd been at least one redheaded Coulter eyeing the ladies, and more than eyeing them.

There was always redheaded children in Greeley, though in mixed company folk didn't talk much about where that red hair come from. Grady Coulter and his daddy and his granddaddy before him and on back—the young ladies, and some not so young, flocked 'round the Coulter boys thick as flies 'round the sorghum pot. There's stories a feller could tell, and more stories, about them Coulter boys. Granny Harkins knew all them tales. Granny likened Grady to a tomcat his ownself, the way he went a-ruttin' after the women. Though maybe even Grady wasn't as randy as that tomcat that agonized folk that spring, a hollerin' and wailin' up around Harkins' Feed and Garden. You could hear that tom caterwallin' all over Greeley as loud as a pack of coon-hounds. Cat was near as big as a coon-hound. Big, and mean enough to whip one of Luke Haber's fighting pit bulls that got loose, sent that bulldog home just whimperin' and bleedin'. That cat was so mean that when the neighborhood dogs around Harkins' Store saw it coming they'd run the other way.

Florie Mae Harkins, when she got up at night to nurse the baby, would hear that cat yowling outside the window, a-wallerin' after her two girl cats that was locked up in the main part of the feed store. James said if that cat didn't shut up he'd have to shoot it, and Granny said the same, glancing toward the closet where she kept her old shotgun. But much as Florie Mae disliked the big brindled beast and feared for her girl-cats, she didn't want James or Granny to kill it.

She wasn't sure why that was so.

Florie Mae got up a couple times ever' night with the baby, but not only to suckle little Robert. No matter how tired she was, with helping James take care of the nursery, and with their three little ones, she hadn't been sleeping real well. She'd been fidgety as a chigger-bit young'un; and the true cause of her wakefulness fretted and shamed her.

Florie Mae knew well enough that her James was the best of husbands. He'd built the Feed and Garden from nothing, for her and the big family they wanted around them, and he was set to lay-by all he could for them. Worked from before sunup till long after cockcrow and never looked at another woman ...

Trouble was, he seldom looked at her, neither, no more, in just that way he onc't had. Except it was time to make a baby. In between, James's thoughts ran to the bookkeeping and the government forms he had to fill in and the nursery orders and feed orders, how many bales of straw and bags of fertilizer they'd be wanting to tide them to the next delivery. His mind was on the business he was building for her and the young'uns—as it should be. But Florie Mae was only twenty-three. And sometimes her needs was powerful.

It wasn't like she'd growed ugly and let herself go. She didn't stay fat between the babies. She washed her hair and brushed it shiny, and mended and starched her clothes and tried to keep herself dainty. But most times James hardly saw her.

She'd wake at night, in the dark when he was sleeping, and lay a hand on his shoulder and whisper to him, maybe even nuzzle his neck a little, but James most never stirred.

So she'd take up the hunger-crying baby, and she'd sit in the window nursing him, looking out at the feed sheds and at the greenhouses that was her province during the day. And always, her night-thoughts were on another, and that did shame her.

Florie Mae and James and the three children and Granny lived above the big store; their four bedrooms and James's office were up there. But their big old kitchen with its couch and easy chairs and TV and pantry and nice big wood stove, that was downstairs where it opened right into the store. They could see from the kitchen windows into the back part of the property, the big open space that was all concrete, where customers could drive on back behind the store to load up from the storage sheds that ran on two sides, or from the fenced nursery on the third side where they kept the bedding plants and vegetable sets and herbs.

From upstairs, from their front bedroom windows, Florie Mae could see down Maple Street three blocks to the little shack beside the mercantile. Sometimes Grady Coulter's light would be on, there, and she'd watch it, and she'd wonder if he was in there alone. She'd see his face in her mind, his laughing green eyes, his hair as red as the first turn of sourwood leaves in the fall. Red curly hair, such ruddy cheeks, and those knowing green eyes. She'd see his face, close-like, and could smell the clean, male scent of him, and she'd turn away from the thoughts that filled her, and pull the wrap closer 'round herself and the baby, huddle down with the baby, her face burning.

Then on those summer nights, caught in her shameful dreams, she'd hear that big ole tomcat start in a-wallerin' out back, and all her heat would turn to disgust—Granny was right when she likened Grady Coulter to a tomcat. Florie Mae, roaming the upstairs, staring out at the grassy side yard where the children played, she'd see that tomcat slinking through the shadows under the old jungle-gym and around the play-toys, moving low and sneaky, his shredded ears held low, his eyes glinting hard and hungry in the night, wanting her girl-cats. And his mean male lust would jerk her right back to good sense.

Pacing the upstairs rooms carrying little Robert sweet and warm against her, looking out to the back lot where the hired boy Lester had left some kerosene cans stacked against the fence, she'd see that big ole tomcat creeping along there staring toward the closed back door of the store, hungering to get inside. Wanting at her own cats and at their little kittens. He'd kill the kittens if she didn't keep the little families locked inside the feed store, kill them to make the lady cats come in season again. Granny Lee threatened ever' day to shoot him, Granny loved the sweet girl-cats and their endless litters of kittens near as much as Florie Mae did, though the old woman would never let on. She never liked James to see her pet the kittens, but now they were getting bigger and playful and trying to climb out of the box, Granny was out there ever' chance she got, a-pettin' on them kittens.

It was some after this second litter of the season came along, that tomcat got even louder and more troublesome, trying to sneak into the store in the daytime when no one was tending the counter, slip in and kill the kittens. That was when Florie Mae and Martha decided to trap him.

Martha knew how to trap a cat, she'd done a lot of trapping with a group of folks who done nothing else, down in Atlanta, trapped 'em, did what they called neutered 'em, and turned 'em loose again. Martha said if they could trap that tom and take him to Dr. Mackay to get him "fixed," that would be the end of the trouble, that cat would stick to hunting rats and wouldn't bother with nothing else. So Florie Mae had picked up a "humane" trap from Martha's garage, taken it home in their stake-sided truck, and put it out by the sheds. It was the biggest cage-trap Martha had, with a trigger on the floor at the back that would make the door spring shut when the cat went inside to get the food-bait.

She set it up just the way Martha'd showed her, tying the door open with bungee cords to begin with, putting a little bit of food way at the back, past the spring trigger, to get the cat used to it. When the tomcat started to take the food regular, then she'd set the trap for real, take the bungee cord off and set the door to fly closed. It was the first evening she set out that trap with a bit of fried chicken for bait, sometime after supper, that the sheriff stopped by. She came back inside to find him sitting at the kitchen table talking with James, both of them looking as glum as a pair of beestung bears. Two tall, lean men, brown and muscled. Sheriff Waller was a big man who'd once had a big belly, too, bulging tight over his uniform pants. Now, since he'd went to dieting, he was as slim as James himself. He'd lost his beer belly, but his jowls hung sort of loose where his face'd got thinner.

"You been outside." James said, looking at her yard boots. "Out in the back?" His brown hair was all mussed, standin' up the way it did when he was botherin', but his green eyes was clear on her, and caring.

She nodded. "Out by the sheds."

"You stay inside now, Florie Mae. Something's happened. You're not to go out again for anything. Not after dark."

When she heard about Rebecca, she'd gone all shaky. She had gathered her two little ones close to her, sat holding them warm and safe against her, and the baby in his cradle right next to her, there in the hot kitchen, and she feelin' scared even inside her own home. Even with James and the sheriff right there with them. Granny sat across by the stove, her face all hard lines and her mouth pinched. Granny had thought a heap of Rebecca Duncan, Granny always said Rebecca looked just like a hothouse daisy, with her pale gold hair and white skin. Rebecca still had a rag doll that Granny had made for her, a tiny doll with a daisy-print dress that Granny had give Rebecca when she was a tiny girl. Now, growed up, Rebecca kept that doll sitting on the dashboard of her car, kept it right where she could see it for good luck. Granny claimed that foreigners could say what they liked about the town of Greeley being small and backwoods compared to Birmingham or Atlanta, but folk had to behold that Greeley's young women were lookers, and most of 'em as sweet as the day is long.

Granny made those claims when she was in a good mood. When she was in a rantin' mood she'd rail on about how young people had went to hell, disrespectin' their elders, sneaking away to the fields up to no good, instead of church on a Sunday, and generally behaving in ways Granny would never, as a girl, have thought of—though Florie Mae had heard different about Granny, from her own great aunts and uncles.

The evening light was soft in the big kitchen. Florie Mae rose once, pushing the young ones away, to fill the sheriff's coffee cup. Sheriff Waller said Rebecca hadn't come home from work, told them about the birthday party, that Rebecca's mother had called him, and that Tommie had found her car.

Rebecca'd sometimes been on the wild side, when they were young girls, flirting up the boys. But now she was engaged to Tommie, she wouldn't go playing around. Rebecca had dated Grady Coulter when they was younger, Grady and a couple of his wild friends. But she wouldn't go with any of them now, no more'n she'd go away with dark-haired, wild-dancing Albern Haber or one of Albern's drinking buddies. Rebecca never drank none when they was young, and she hadn't put up with no nonsense from those that was drinking, no matter what the gossips said.

No, Rebecca had her wedding dress all picked out, her Ma had reserved the church and ordered the invitations, and Tommie'd made the down payment to rent that little house at the edge of town. No, Rebecca sure wouldn't run off, she and Tommie were as happy as pigs in slop.

By morning the news was all over Greeley that Rebecca was gone. By the next night when she hadn't come home, everyone was certain that someone had done her harm. Sheriff Waller thought so, he was quiet and sour. The police chief thought so, too, he told James she was likely dead—but how would he know? Greeley's police chief didn't know squat. Sheriff did most of the work, made most all the arrests, and ran the County Jail. Sheriff Waller said after he talked with Rebecca's folks and with her little sister and with Tommie, that he was buck-certain something bad had happened to her. Hearing it straight from the sheriff, Florie Mae was sick, thinking what might have happened to Rebecca.

Ever since they were girls, she and Rebecca and Martha had run together, spent the night together, gone to the movies and skating, riding their bikes up to Cody Creek and Goose Lake, lying in the sun on Carver's dock—McPherson's dock now, since Idola married Rick McPherson and her mama left them the house. Idola was some younger, but summers they'd all run in the same crowd.

This night, after the sheriff left, Granny looked hard at Florie Mae. "If someone's out to harm young girls, missy, you'll stay inside and take care."

"I'm not a young girl, Granny. I'm a woman. With three babies and one on the way."

"All the more reason. And if you're such a growed woman, what you doing out there in the night playing at being a little girl, you and Martha Bliss, setting that fool cat-trap, like two children." Granny looked at her so hard she made Florie Mae blush. "You'll not go out there in the yard in the dark of night, Missy. Not until Sheriff catches whoever done this terrible thing to Rebecca."

"You don't know what's happened to her, Granny. You don't know ..."

But they did know, everyone in Greeley knew Rebecca wouldn't just up and leave. And Tommie near going out of his mind with worry, searching the fields and hills over and over the same ground, his pickup all muddy from driving the back roads, and Tommie harassing the sheriff every day for word of her.

Every evening before dark when Florie Mae went to set the trap, it was the same, Granny scolding, "You won't be going out in the yard after dark, missy. If Martha has any sense she won't, neither. Sometimes I think Martha Bliss don't have the sense God gave a chicken. Traipsing around setting them cat-traps. What makes you think that tomcat's dumb enough to get hisself caught in some big ole wire cage?"

Florie Mae didn't say anything. Maybe more to keep her mind off Rebecca more than anything, she was hard set to catch that tomcat and get him "fixed." It hurt her bad to see her two mouser cats have kittens and more kittens all spring and summer and most of them ended up with James drowning them. Those two Mama cats were fine mousers and ratters, but the poor cats spent half the year nursing kittens, and for what good? Their babies hadn't no future. Not like a human child. Not like her and James's young'uns, that would be fetched up strong and wise and ready to go into the world. Them two cats hardly had time to teach their babies to hunt afore they were taken away, and the mamas coming into season again with the tomcats prowling around. And her sweet cats was some scared of that big brindle tom, except when they was right in heat. Even then, when he got them in the family way he left them wounded and bleeding across the shoulders from his rough riding of them, biting them all blood-hungry pulling the fur and skin right off.

But even given the matter was important to Florie Mae, she took a lot of hassling over that cat trap. When Herald Fremkis came into the store to buy gunnysacks and bailing wire and he saw the big wire trap-cage out back, he near laughed his head off. He shuffled back into the store from the back door carrying his gunnysacks and just a snickerin'. "You plan on catching a bear, Florie Mae?"

Herald was forty, with a big gut, balding hair, and red veins in his face from all the beer he drank. But still he had an eye for the ladies, an eye that made Florie Mae keep her distance. Martha called him a dirty old man. When they were girls and they'd gone up to the lake, sometimes he'd be in a boat fishing and hang around leering at them, hang around the dock looking at them in their bathing suits. Herald's wife kept a tight rein on him. Eldora made him clean up ever' Sunday and go to church proper; but she marched him right home again afterward, not a minute to set on the benches outside the church and visit. And Eldora never would stop for Sunday dinner at the Greeley Steak House where everyone went after church, for fear some woman would lay her hands on Herald or smile the wrong way at him.

The idea of laying a hand on Herald Fremkis made Florie Mae feel unclean. But she had to laugh at Eldora. Because if Eldora wouldn't let Herald take her to the steak house, of a Sunday, she had to go home and cook Sunday dinner her ownself.

Now, as Herald set his gunnysacks on the counter, laughing about Florie Mae's "bear cage," Florie Mae watched him with anger. But she didn't snap back at his bad manners. Herald was, after all, a customer. Though if he made one rude remark about her carrying another baby—even if she really didn't show yet—she thought she'd slam the cash register down on his head.

But Herald took one look at her face, and didn't push his rudeness. "How long James going to be able to get them gunnysacks, Florie Mae? Right proud to be able to buy 'em, ain't been no gunnysacks in these parts since my dad were a boy. Nothing as good for hauling out a deer or carrying a few renegade chickens—or drowning a passel of kittens," he said glancing across at the big cardboard box where Florie Mae's little cat family was all tucked up nice and cozy. She'd used a washing machine box from Luke's Appliance, to make a nice big house for the two mothers and their thirteen kits.

"We'll be gettin' those gunnysacks," Florie Mae told him shortly, "as long as Mrs. Hern in Gilmer County can get the burlap and keeps a sewin' 'em."

Herald grinned and reached over the counter, tousling Florie Mae's head as if she was still a child. "What you going to do with thet trap out back, missy? Your Granny says you aim to trap thet tomcat? Haw haw. What you goin' do with him? You got enough cats right here already to mouse all of Greeley." He poked a toe at the cardboard box where Goldie and Blackie were nursing their kittens, all fifteen cats curled together. Both mother cats glared up at him with eyes like coal fires. If Herald reached a hand in, Florie Mae hoped they'd slash him. If they didn't, she would. She'd heard stories about Herald when he was younger tying a stray dog to the back of a pickup so it was drug to death—well, he wasn't touching her cats.

Her two mother cats were so close that Florie Mae didn't think either mother knew her own kits. They always dropped their litters the same night, and each cat nursed whichever kits crawled up to her. One would nurse all the kittens while the other went to hunt. Dragging a field mouse out from behind the feed bags or nail bins, either hunter would share her supper—though Florie Mae fed them good, too, from big bags of dry food specially made for mother cats, that James pulled out of stock for her. The whole time Herald was in the store he didn't mention Rebecca, though that was most all anyone in Greeley was talking about. And Herald had sure made eyes at Rebecca, ever' chance he got.

"What you plan to do with them cats this time, Missy? You can't give away kittens. You gone put 'em in a gunnysack and drop 'em in Carter's Pond?" Herald smirked, and stood watching her. "Hope you not turning yourself into another cat lady. You too pretty a little thing to go mental. One daffy female's more'n enough for Greeley."

Florie Mae just looked at him. Herald and his beer-drinking no-good friends laughed at most anything that wasn't just like the way they lived.

Keeps them cats right in the house, they'd say of Martha. Feeds 'em from them little fancy cans. Store-bought food for cats, I've seen her in the A&P loading up on them little cans. And totes ever one of them cats to the town square ever spring fer them free rabies shots. Shuts them cats in a cardboard box and carries 'em over there, as prissy as if she was toting a dish to church supper.

That amused Granny, too, that Martha and a few older women would carry their cats to where the veterinary set up his tent every spring in the square, just about dogwood time, for his free rabies clinic. Granny said maybe it was all right to take your coon-hounds there for a rabies shot. "But a cat? That veterinary ain't doing nothin' but lining his own pockets," the old woman would say darkly.

The Greeley vet made his living on sick cows and horses, but he tried ever year to get folk to pay for fancy shots for their dogs and cats. Tried to get folk to "neuter" them, too. "He draws folk in to get them free rabies shots," Granny said, "then tries to sell 'em all them other fancy shots—and that neutering. What a joke. Tomcats do what tomcats do, it's God's way You can't change God's way.

" 'Course, if a tomcat gets into the chickens, or makes too much noise," Granny said, glancing toward the cupboard, "well then you shoot it." And as for "fixing" the females like the veterinary said, Granny said females were meant to have little ones, that such "fixing" went against God's law.

Florie Mae loved James's Granny, but there were times she had to hold her tongue. It hurt her to see her poor cats carrying two, three litters a year. Hurt her to see the cats' bellies dragging, then them nursing all those kittens, then the poor little kittens give away or dead and the tomcat was on the mamas again. Florie Mae didn't tell anyone, for sure she didn't tell James nor Granny, that she thought cats ought to be loved and happy. She didn't tell anyone she thought cats ought to be happy.

But she knew how it felt to be dragging around heavy with child all the time, and the little ones hanging on her, Lacie June's arms around her leg and the child just a chattering away. Or Bobbie Lee tormenting his little sister so she had to set him down and have a talk with him, the kind of talk where he knew his Mama wouldn't stand no foolishness. She loved her babies fierce, but she was right tired, having 'em all so close together. Never a minute to her ownself, it seemed like.

Well, for sure she did set a store by her young'uns, they was her own flesh and blood, hers and James's. Soon enough they'd be growed big, working in the store a bit and starting to carve out their own lives. And even now, as tired as she was, the minute she was away from them she felt lost.

It was only sometimes that she thought there ought to be more to her own life than making of herself a brood cow. She'd thought some about going on to school in the nighttime, maybe to the trade school for two years, but there was never time for that, with the children.

And oh, James did love his young'uns. Her James was real proud to be starting a fine big family. Working out in the sheds stacking heavy bags of feed or loading customer's trucks, she'd see him glance toward the house where he could hear the children's voices and hear them laughing, and he'd smile.

Well she didn't need to go out to night school to be happy, she did just fine working in the feed store, with Granny there in the back room helping with the babies. Those young'uns was more'n a handful for the spry old woman, playing with their blocks back there in the big kitchen and running their little trucks around, and Lacie June already playing house with the soft dolls Granny made. In between customers Florie Mae could step back into the kitchen and hug Bobbie Lee and Lacie June and wipe their sticky hands and sit down for a minute, with the two hanging on her, and nurse the baby. She could help them with their color books and help Bobbie Lee learn his numbers and his letters. And Granny Lee was there to make the noon dinner and all, to fry up some pork and make beans and cornbread, or fry up a chicken, and always plenty left over for supper, with fresh tomatoes and greens from the garden.

Life would be just about perfect, Florie Mae thought, if Grady Coulter didn't always come nosing 'round the store. If she hadn't to be shut in the store so near Grady ever couple days. Grady knew he did that to her, he saw her blushes and confusion. Grady stopping in to buy a little of this or that, one hank of baling wire, a couple of tomato plants for his ma, he said, and then he'd stand watching her.

Not that Grady did anything, exactly.

And not that he didn't, neither, the way he looked at her.

You want to come in the back, Florie Mae? Show me where them bags of cracked corn are stacked?

No, Grady. You know as well as I do where that corn is stacked.

You want to show me, in the back there, which of them termater plants'll make the best crop, Florie Mae?

No, Grady. You know more about growing tomatoes than I do—or you can ask your ma. She knows all about such matters.

Well, Florie Mae, maybe tonight you'll step out in the back yard there around the sheds, and we can have us a little kiss.

Go on, Grady, get along home. I'm a growed woman with three children and I don't have time for your foolishness.

All right, Florie Mae, he'd say, stepping out the door and looking back at her. All right, but maybe tonight, round after supper time, I'll be out there, waitin'.

Of course he never was, nor did she expect him to be.

But she set the cat-trap early, way before dark fell.

And ever' time after Grady left the store, she had to wrestle with that hot feeling that left her addle-headed and annoyed with herself—and ashamed.

And then if she got busy with the little ones and had to wait until after dark to set the trap, had to sneak out when Granny was upstairs, she'd carry the heavy meat-pounder in her pocket that, if she'd ever hit anyone with it, would leave a waffle grid on their skull. Hurrying out in the dark with her little packet of table scraps for bait, she'd search the shadows for the tomcat. But she'd be lookin' for Grady, too. Or for anyone else who might be hanging around.

She was spooked, all right, thinking about Rebecca. Out in the dark yard she'd slide that food into the cage real quick and hurry back across the open concrete, hurry back into the steamy warm kitchen. Pour herself a glass of tea from the jar in the refrigerator and sit at the table, feeling sick with fear, fear for herself and her babies. Sick, wondering what had happened to Rebecca. She'd get to thinking about the fellows Rebecca'd dated before Tommie, about Grady, and Albern Haber, and a dozen others. Albern was taller than James or Grady, well over six feet, with eyes so dark they looked black, and straight black hair hanging below his collar. Albern liked to dance, he was a dancin' fool: if you dated Albern Haber, you better wear dancin' shoes and you better be able to hold your beer. She'd get to thinking about Albern, with his sometimes rude ways, and about the older men who always looked sideways at Rebecca, watching and watching her. She'd get to wondering too much about what could have happened, let her imagination get to wandering, remembering stories on the TV news about mass murders. How maybe the first murder was an accident but it got the killer all worked up. Set him off on a rampage of killing. Just like that tomcat would get set off killing baby kittens, work up a regular hunger for killing.

And then Florie Mae got scared maybe she'd brought bad luck, her thinking like that. Because, not two weeks later, the middle of June, a second girl come up missing. Over in Simms, the other end of Farley County.

She told herself a person didn't bring bad luck, that was foolish talk. Well, everyone knew something terrible had happened. Two pretty girls couldn't go missing, the same summer, without there was foul play. Middle of June and it was tornado weather for sure, the sky heavy-dark with clouds and rumbling like a cornered bear, the night Susan Slattery was reported missing. Simms was just twenty miles from Greeley. Florie Mae would remember the time because the tomato plants were all but sold out, just the half-dead leggy ones left, when their hired boy, Lester, brought her the Greeley paper. She didn't know Susan very well, but sometimes Susan worked in Greeley, helping out in the office at the trade school. And she dated several Greeley fellows though Florie Mae didn't know that she was serious about any of them.

The day Susan disappeared, there still had been no sign of Rebecca and no lead to help the sheriff. Tommie was still crisscrossing the county looking in all the back country and around old abandoned homeplaces for some sign to her. Florie Mae imagined him searching every patch of tangled woods, and every old dry well and shallow draw, dreading to find Rebecca's grave but unable to rest until he did find it or found Rebecca herself miraculously alive. That evening that Susan vanished, it was hot as sin in the Feed and Garden, and the storm just a-rumbling. It was near to closing time, Florie Mae was toting up the day's receipts at the front desk—she was getting real good at keeping the books, as good as James, he'd said—when Lester came stumbling in the front door carrying the Greeley paper from the Cash-and-Carry. He just shoved the paper at her, front page up. He couldn't talk right, he was so upset, was stuttering the way he always did when he got aggrieved.

Well, no wonder. Lester had growed up in Simms and had went all through school to tenth grade just two years behind Susan, Lester's family'd lived right next door to the Slattery home-place, its five houses all occupied by Slattery's, so Lester had played all his life with Susan's two little brothers and her cousins. Florie Mae suspected that Lester'd had a boy-sized crush on Susan, the way he was acting, so naturally he'd be upset, with the headlines blabbing,

SECOND WOMAN DISAPPEARS, SHERIFF SUSPECTS FOUL PLAY

Florie Mae read quickly, watching Lester. Susan Slattery hadn't come home from work at the new Wal-Mart out on the highway. Her parents said she never had liked working late, but she was saving money to go to the two-year college. And she had been helping them make house payments. They were all tore up that she'd gone out working late and someone, some son-of-a-bitch, her father said, had gotten to her. He saw no other explanation. The paper was real sympathetic but it did criticize the Farley County sheriff for letting this kind of thing happen twice in just a few weeks.

Standing beside the counter not looking at her, looking down at his shoes as he usually did, Lester was silently crying, a quiet little gulping that made her want to comfort him. She reached out to him, but then she drew her hand back. She was uncertain why. And she stepped back from the counter.

Lester was thin and tall, with round shoulders. You could tell a mile away he was a Slattery. Same light brown eyes and brown hair as all the Slatterys, and with the same weak chin. Same way of looking down at the floor most of the time, like he didn't know where else to look. But Lester was strong, and James was proud to have him. He could hike the straw bales and the heavy creosote fence posts right up to the top of the shed just as good as James could, could toss up the heavy rolls of wire fencing to James. The sight of the two of them working so easy together always warmed her.

Florie Mae did most of the watering and took care of the nursery plants, feeding them and repotting them when they needed it, but James and Lester did the heavy work. They'd be hard put to do without Lester.

But this evening, Lester just stood there in the center of the store, staring at his toes, his knuckles in his mouth, silently bawling. Florie Mae tried to think if Lester had ever taken Susan out. But that couldn't be, Lester might look grown up but he was hardly more than a child.

Folding the paper she laid it on the counter and looked at Lester. At the top of his head. "Lester, go out back and unload the truck, get those bags stored away in the shed. Then get on over to the sheriff's office, see if you can help look for Susan. Sheriff's bound to be sending out posses." Florie Mae didn't know if that was true, but it would give Lester something to think about. Same as Bobbie Lee and Lacy June when they got to bawling. Granny or Florie Mae would start walking them around looking at the new pots of bright flowers or pointing out the birds nesting under the tin roof, and pretty soon they'd forget what they were bellyaching about.

But Lester was harder to deal with than her little children. When he looked up at her, the tears were just running down.

"It's better for you to be doing something, Lester, than moping around the store. Go on now, get a wiggle on."

Lester went, scuffing along. Granny said that boy watched his feet so much it was a wonder he knew what part of town he was in.

The paper said Susan had left her cashier's job at Wal-Mart at 9 in the evening. None of the clerks had seen her once she walked out the door, didn't know if she'd got in her own car, or what. But her green Plymouth was gone, no sign of it.

Moving to the back door, looking through the half-glass, out where Lester was working on the bags of feed, Florie Mae felt cold clear down to her toes. Felt so off-kilter that when the door to the kitchen slammed she jumped near out of her skin.

But it was only the children, come out into the store because it was near about closing time. Granny'd had them over to the park, just down the street, and they were sweaty-hot and tired. The June weather was hot as boiled sorghum.

But it didn't take Bobbie Lee long to recharge. Within seconds he was running hunched over pushing his racecar full speed the length of the store, it rattling and whirring on the smooth pine boards. The mother cats in their carton paid him hardly any mind, they were used to Bobbie Lee. The kittens were spooked by the noise, but not for long before they began to play again, and to try to climb out of the big carton. Lacie June ran over, laughing, and stood on her toes to look in at them. She was dressed in shorts and sweatshirt and sandals, her knees grubby and scratched from play. Hanging over the side of the carton, she reached down with a gentle finger. Even at three years old, she knew to watch the mother cats. When Goldie half-rose to stand over her kittens glaring at Lacie June, the little girl backed obediently away.

Lacie June was carrying the new cloth doll Granny had made for her. Trotting over to the shelf where they kept local produce—bags of stone-milled flour and honey in pint fruit jars—she began dusting the doll's face with wheat flour, scooping it up with her fingers from around the bags where it had spilled. Florie Mae was standing at the counter reading the paper all over again about Susan Slattery, as if she might discover some fact gone undetected, when the faintest stir—a different sound than the running toy car or Lacie June's childish talking to herself—made her look up at the door.

Grady Coulter stood in the doorway. Watching her. He paid no attention to the children, just stood looking at her, his green eyes in shadow, the dropping sun behind his back turning his red hair as bright as a hearth fire.

Usually he would ask for some little item, or find it hisself and bring it to the counter, then, reaching into his tight jeans looking for change, he'd start in baiting her. But this evening he just came right on up to the counter. Didn't say anything. She didn't like the look in his eyes. She felt the children cross the room and draw in close behind her. She knew they were staring up at Grady over the counter.

She put her hand back, touching Bobbie Lee's silky hair. "What you want, Grady?" She glanced down at Lacie June and saw, behind the child, that both mama cats had raised up out of their box. They, too, were staring at Grady

But her cats were like that. They'd be out in the back with her among the nursery plants, and if someone strange came across the yard between the sheds, they'd slip close around her ankles and stare at the stranger, their backs humped up, and spitting.

"James home?" Grady said.

"Yes he is, Grady."

"He out back?" Grady started around the counter—whether heading for the back door, or for her, she couldn't tell. "What you want, Grady?"

He looked surprised. A little grin touched his face. "Sheriff's gettin' up a volunteer posse. For that Slatter girl," he said, gesturing toward the newspaper. "Someone saw a car—that's not in the paper. A white Lincoln, ten-, twelve-year-old, pull up just as she left the Wal-Mart. Sheriff wants all the help he can, while the trail's fresh. We're meeting here. Thought James might like to ride along, and maybe Lester. Maybe we'll find her," Grady said, looking at her, "maybe we'll find Rebecca."

Florie Mae envisioned a bunch of beer-drinking rifle-toting males doing nothing but getting in the sheriff's way—except James would see they behaved. Privately she hoped James wouldn't go. This second disappearance had left her as tight as a tick, with fear.

"James is out in the feed shed, Grady. Go on back."

As Grady moved on past her, she reached behind her to pull the children closer. When she looked up, Albern Haber and Herald Fremkis were pulling up out front. Albern ducked out of his brown pickup, his long dark hair blowing across his shoulders. Both men slammed their truck doors, and together headed around the building to the back. Behind them the dark clouds were lifting away. The rumbling of the sky had stopped. The wind was quieting, and the gentler shadows of a calm evening had begun to draw around the store, soft shadows to settle in along the street, softening the lines of the newspaper office and beauty parlor and Dot's Cafe. She heard them knock at the kitchen door.

Quickly Florie Mae and the children locked up and went on into the kitchen. The three men sat at the table drinking coffee while James washed up at the sink then took a bite of supper standing at the stove beside Granny. When Bobbie Lee realized his daddy was fixin' to leave, he set up a howl wanting to go with them. Exasperated, Florie Mae peeled his shirt off him and pulled Lacie June's dress off and sent them out to the side yard to play in the hose. There was no more rumble of thunder, the storm had passed and there was still some daylight, soft and silky as spring water. The evening was hot, the katydids singing up a storm. She listened to their talk, male talk about where they'd look and what might could have happened to Susan. Talk that didn't help the way she felt inside, talk she wouldn't want the children to hear.

Grady thought Susan might have got involved with someone at the Wal-Mart, and gone off with them. Lester was silent, still pale and real upset. Albern Haber thought if Susan had got into a car with someone, then she knew him. Said she wouldn't get in a car with a stranger she'd just met. They spent some time trying to recall who, anywhere in Farley County, drove a ten-year-old white Lincoln. Albern said it didn't have to be Farley County, could have been from anywhere, Georgia or even Tennessee. Albern was taller than James or Grady, well over six feet. Seemed like that long black hair hanging down 'round his collar made him look even taller. Albern'd had a hurt, sad look about him ever since Rebecca disappeared. Tonight, once he'd had his say, he was quiet, looking to James for direction.

Florie Mae rose ever' little while to watch her babies, out in the side yard, though she could hear their voices, hear Lacie June's high little giggle when Bobbie Lee sprayed her with the hose. Listening to the talk about Susan, she had a fierce longing to run outside and play in the hose with her children, and forget about grown-up pain.

Another half hour, and the men were gone, James with them carrying the sandwiches Granny had made and two big torches, his handgun holstered at his belt. James hugged her tight before he left, and stopped in the grassy side yard to hug his babies even if they were sopping wet. Then he was gone, riding in Albern's truck. Lester rode with Herald. Grady drove his own truck, with no company. They'd be meeting five more men at the sheriff's office.

When she and Granny were alone they checked the locks on the doors, and locked the downstairs windows, though the kitchen was hot as sin. Granny settled the children at the table and put their supper on, while Florie Mae nursed little Robert. It was well after supper and the dishes done up, and they'd put all three children to bed. Gran was sitting at the table working at her dolls, and Florie Mae was helping her, sewing up a little dress, when they heard a car pull up by the side yard. Quicker than spit, Granny unlocked the cupboard to her shotgun.

But Florie Mae shook her head. She knew the sound of that car. In another minute Martha came knocking their special knock.

Martha Bliss was some taller than Florie Mae, with long glossy black hair, and blue eyes and ivory skin, her beauty far more colorful than Florie Mae's brown hair and tan cheeks. Florie Mae could never tolerate a sun hat the way Granny thought she should. Tonight Martha had her dark hair pinned back under a pale baseball cap, and in spite of the heat she wore jeans and boots and a leather jacket, her cell phone making a lump in the pocket. "I've been lookin' for Rebecca's cat." She dropped her keys on the table, sitting down and accepting the glass of tea Granny offered. She looked up at Florie Mae, her blue eyes wide.

"Rebecca's mother called, all upset. But hopeful, Florie Mae! She said the night Rebecca disappeared and all the next day, Rebecca's cat Nugget was frantic-like, prowling the house. All nervous, looking and looking for Rebecca."

Nugget, Goldie's kitten from three years back, was just as possessive of Rebecca as Goldie was of Florie Mae. Goldie would rise up at anything that threatened Florie Mae, and Nugget was just the same.

"That night," Martha said, "when Rebecca didn't come home, Nugget wanted out real bad. Rebecca would never have let her out at night, and Ms. Duncan wouldn't neither. She said Nugget was so riled that she shut her in Rebecca's room, said the cat cried all night. Next, morning, Mrs. Duncan—she hadn't slept, of course, with phone calls and talking with the sheriff and worrying, and trying to think where Rebecca could be. Calling everyone, all night long. And the cat howling all night. Next morning the cat was near crazy, and Mrs. Duncan felt the same. Said she flung open Rebecca's bedroom door and the front door, tired of hearing the cat. Said Nugget took off through the woods just a-running."

Florie Mae said, "Why did Mrs. Duncan call you now? It's been ten days."

"Said she was just so upset, and her and Robert going out every day looking for Rebecca, you know how they've done. She knew the cat was frightened and frantic and she couldn't deal with that too, even if Rebecca did love that cat. It was just all too much, she just opened the door and let the cat go." Martha was crying, it didn't take much for tears of pity or frustration to flow.

"Well, then this morning Mrs. Duncan saw Frances Patterson in the Piggly Wiggly. Frances wasn't sure, but she thought she'd seen Rebecca's cat over near their place, up around the lake. That big round gold spot on her side? She's hard to miss, not another cat like her. Frances goes to church ladies' meeting at Mrs. Duncan's, she's seen Nugget dozens of times. So Mrs. Duncan called me, and I've been looking all day.

"I looked all around the lake, and called—and all up in the woods. I've tramped every garden-place and drove all around the chicken farms, walked around them, lookin'. Near ran out of gas, on the lake road. Let it coast some downhill, and gased up at the Fina. Not a sign of Nugget. But what can you see, if she's hiding? Rebecca raised that cat from a kitten. Makes me feel real bad, cat going all frantic-like."

Martha sipped her tea, then set the glass down. She glanced at Granny, where Granny was rocking little Robert, then looked back at Florie Mae. Looked at her for a long time.

"I have this feeling, Florie Mae. That if I can find Nugget, I'll find Rebecca."

Florie Mae shivered, despite the heat of the closed kitchen. She took Lacie June in her lap, where the little girl had come to lean against her.

"Maybe," Granny said, "if that tomcat's a-bothering the females, maybe Rebecca's cat run off from him."

"Rebecca lives clear across town," Florie Mae said. "That tomcat's been hanging out in our yard like his paws are stuck in tar."

Martha rose to stand at the window, looking out the back where the cat trap stood bungied open, with a dab of fresh food inside. She stood looking for some time, then stiffened suddenly, made a little gesture to Florie Mae.

Florie Mae rose carefully, without a sound, staying out of sight of the trap, slipping toward the window to the side of the curtain.

Night was falling, the storm gone, the concrete yard and shed all in twilight colors as soft as goose-down. Looking around the open curtain she saw him, a dark animal deep inside the cage, saw him eating of the bait in the open trap. She glanced at Martha. They watched him finish up the small amount of food, watched him pause to take a couple of paw-licks at his whiskers, insolent and confident, certain he was safe in there. He padded on out of the trap yawning, strolling slow and easy like that cage was no more threatening than someone's garbage can.

"Tomorrow," Martha whispered, grinning. "It's time. You can set the trap tomorrow night."

"If nothing else happens," Florie Mae breathed. "If nothing else bad happens." Because you couldn't go running off, once you'd set the trap. You had to stay and watch it. Had to make sure the cat had sprung it, then go right out and cover it. Else the cat would tear up his face, banging into the wire fighting to get out. Tear itself up so bad the vet would have to kill it. Martha never left her traps unattended, she'd always hide somewhere or sit in her truck. Run out the minute the trap was sprung and cover it with towels, leave just a little air space. That way, the cat wouldn't fight the cage. She never left water inside, or wet food. Martha had probably spent half her life sitting in lonely places watching cat-traps. Twenty Atlanta cats to her credit. And fifteen in Greeley that Dr. Mackay had "fixed," all of those for free. Fix 'em, turn 'em loose to live out their lives without making any more kittens. Florie Mae was about to step away from the window when a long shadow moved in darkness between the sheds. The tomcat leaped away at the subtle shift of shadows, vanished in the blackness as if it had never been there.

And the shadow vanished, too, melting away between the sheds. The shadow of a man. Spinning away from the window, Florie Mae snatched up the phone. Surely one sheriff's deputy had stayed behind, surely they hadn't all gone off searching for Susan Slattery. Dialing, she watched Granny unlock the gun closet. Quick as lightning the old lady had that shotgun loaded. Granny had her hand on the back door knob when Florie Mae put the phone down. "Wait. Wait, Granny." She stood seeing that quick glimpse, that shadow that might be an intruder, and might not. A hunched shadow? A thin, hunched figure?

Or was it all a trick of the night? She didn't want to call out a deputy if that was Lester out there.

But how could it be? Lester had gone with the men.

Martha moved away from the window, sliding into her leather jacket. "I'd best get home," she said uncertainly, staring toward the window and picking up her keys.

"Stay with us," Florie Mae said, and her plea was more than the common politeness that folk used to let you know you were welcome. "Don't go out there, Martha. Don't try to go home." She lifted the phone again, dialing the sheriff.

Within three minutes, Deputy McFarland was parking his unit by the side door. McFarland was fifty, brown hair with a military cut, pale green eyes, a skinny man with only the slightest hint of the typical sheriff's gut from too many meals at Elmer's Home Cooked Cafe. McFarland was a quarter Cherokee with a steady way of dealing with life, an easy grin that made everyone warm to him. Coming into the kitchen, he got the picture quickly; and he went on out the back.

From the window they watched him moving along between the storage sheds shining his powerful light into the shadows, checking the locks on the shed doors and on the gate on the nursery fence, a fence James had built to keep out deer and petty thieves. Some folk would steal anything, even tomato plants. McFarland circled the store, too, and looked all around inside then walked through the children's play yard. He went through the house upstairs, stepping quietly among the sleeping babies.

Back in the kitchen he glanced at Granny's shotgun with no more surprise than seeing the old woman sewing doll clothes. McFarland had knowed Granny forever and knowed she wasn't foolish. He told Martha he'd drive home behind her, but Martha took one look at Florie Mae's white face and said she'd stay the night. They weren't sure someone had been there; maybe what Florie Mae saw was only shadows. But they were sure enough to be scared.

By ten, Martha had called her mother, had helped Florie Mae change the sheets on the big double bed, and had gone 'round with her to kiss the sleeping children. Despite the heat, Florie Mae closed and locked the children's windows, that had been open all evening. Feeling foolish, she looked in the closets and under the beds, she was that nervous. Pulling the children's thin top covers off, to let them sleep just under the sheet, she stood looking down at her babies with a silent prayer that they were safe, and that they would remain safe.

Martha knew what she was thinking. "Might be, a man who hurts young women won't bother with children. But," she said, grinning, "I'm glad your granny loaded her shotgun. Wish I had me one."

Florie Mae went downstairs, checked the locks, and, again feeling foolish, she got the poker and tongs from the fireplace. Wiping off the soot, she went upstairs again to find a clean robe for Martha, and pajamas, and to get her a towel and washcloth. Granny had taken her shotgun to bed, propping a chair against her bedroom door so not to be surprised by a curious Bobbie Lee before she was properly awake in the morning. By eleven, Martha and Florie Mae were snuggled in bed the way they used to do when they were little girls.

Only tonight instead of giggling, they listened— to the settling sounds the old house made, and for the faintest stealthy and unusual stirring, for noises that did not belong to the old house. They talked in whispers about Rebecca, remembering when she'd overturned Bailey's canoe and the cooler with their lunch in it sank fifty feet to the bottom of the lake. "With Granny's lemon cake in it," Florie Mae said, "and warm sausage biscuits."

"Remember when we all learned to drive in your grampa's old truck, how stubborn he was that we had to learn to drive with a gearshift?" Martha said.

"And Rebecca went through Richardson's pasture fence. Flattened it right down to the nibbled dandelions and let Ms. Richardson's cows out."

"The old crook-horn cow run all over Greeley afore we caught her."

They lay in the dark listening to the night sounds, remembering how the boys would flock around Rebecca, as if Florie Mae and Martha wasn't anywhere near. Rebecca had always had boyfriends, long before her mama allowed her to date. A dozen guys in high school, more afterward. But all of it respectable enough. "Respectable most times," Florie Mae said, giggling. A few older men hanging around, too, but Florie Mae didn't think Rebecca had gone out with them. Surely not with Herald Fremkis. She'd dated those her age, Grady and the boys he ran with. And she got real serious with Albern Haber.

They'd wondered some about Daryl Spalding, when Rebecca went to work for him. Daryl wasn't long out of law school. He was younger than his wife, and a site better looking. But Rebecca'd told Martha, she liked her job too much to date Daryl and spoil a good thing.

"She didn't run off," Florie Mae said. "You've seen her and Tommie together."

Martha wiggled deeper under the light cover. The upstairs windows were open but no breeze came in, the night was as still and close as a cook oven. "Might be those old gossips are right, that she's having a last fling with someone, just gone off for a few days?"

Florie Mae rose up and looked at her. "It's nearly two weeks. She wouldn't hurt Tommie like that."

"Albern Haber was plenty mad when she and Tommie got engaged," Martha said. That was when Albern started hanging out at the Blue Saddle. Got arrested three times that month for DUI. But after three overnight stays in the Greeley jail, folks thought Albern would mend his ways. The Greeley jail was over a hundred years old, with damp stone walls, no heat, and plumbing so bad that all the cells stunk.

"Well she can't be with Albern. He's been right here in town the whole time, since she disappeared. He's out with the men tonight, was in the store three times last week."

"Maybe she's staying somewhere else, and he..."

"He commutes?" Florie Mae said, laughing. "He commutes to a secret love nest?" She sat up in the darkness, looking at Martha. "I only wish," she said sadly. Then, "Who would hurt her?" she said softly. "Who could hurt Rebecca?"

"Maybe she had a last fling with Grady or Lee Nolton or Eric Farlon," Martha said, "and Tommie caught her."

"Tommie wouldn't hurt her. He might kill whoever she was with, but he wouldn't hurt Rebecca." Florie Mae shook her head, a soft rusting in the darkness. "Tommie'd just go away his ownself, he'd be real crushed if that happened."

"Who else would be so jealous? Who else couldn't stand for Rebecca to belong to another?"

"Every male in Greeley," Florie Mae said, smiling. "Take Grady—Grady Coulter thinks he should have the pick of the crop.

"Herald Fremkis was always hanging around. And that Tom Sayers, works in the courthouse."

Martha snorted with laughter. But then she turned on her pillow, looking at Florie Mae. "Herald tortures dogs." She shivered.

"He does more than that. Granny says there are two children she knows of, in town, knows for a fact they aren't their father's babies, that they're Herald's."

Martha giggled. "How could she know that?"

Florie Mae shrugged. "How does Granny know anything? Lived all her life in Greeley. Granny goes back to Noah and the flood."

"But who could ... what woman could stand to be with old Harold Fremkis?"

"Someone hard up, I guess. Someone whose own husband is... who doesn't have enough love at home," Florie Mae said. And she went quiet. Someone whose husband is just too tired, she thought, ashamed of her own needs, whose husband works all day till after dark hauling and stacking heavy bales and tending to the hundred things needed in the store—who does all that for us, for me and Granny and the children, so he's just wore out at night. And Florie Mae turned her thoughts away, didn't want to follow the path their talk was taking.

She thought instead about Lester. He was only a boy, just seventeen. But she thought how flustered he'd been with the news about Susan Slattery. Lester, dragging in the newspaper, dropping it on the counter unable to talk or look at her. Same as he'd been, exactly the same, when Rebecca disappeared.

But Lester was like that, always had been, he wouldn't hurt a flea. His embarrassed ways was no more than shyness, Lester had watched Rebecca no different than Grady or Albern Haber and their friends, no different than Herald Fremkis with his beer gut and roving eye, or than any other male in Greeley—but now with Susan Slattery missing, with two young women missing, the horror of what could have happened to Rebecca seemed a thousand times more real; and, thinking about Rebecca lying somewhere dead, she put her face in the pillow and shook with silent, convulsive weeping, shook, hugging her pillow, until she dropped into grieving sleep.

They were deep asleep when the raucous noise began. The screams jerked Florie Mae awake, jerked them out of bed: cat screams. The shrill, enraged and terrified cries of cats fighting in the store below. The screams of the mother cats defending their young. Florie Mae and Martha near fell over each other racing down the stairs, Martha snatching up the red plaid robe like a weapon. Behind them Granny emerged from her room with her shotgun. The baby began to howl. Bursting through the kitchen and into the store, Florie Mae flipped on the lights.

The on-off flicker of the fluorescent tubes flashed pulsing reflections from a pair of glaring eyes. Then the light stayed on, illuminating the enraged glare of the tomcat. He was backed against the shelves of trowels and garden gloves, a dead kitten dangling from his teeth, a tiny white kitten.

The two females were at him, pausing for only an instant, their ears flat to their heads, their tails lashing.

They hit the tomcat together, tore into him, their screams filled with blood-lust, raking and biting him, clawing at him, a dervish of flying fur and screams. In their rage, the dead kitten was tossed aside. The cats didn't separate long enough for Florie Mae or Martha to grab any one cat. To reach into the flying whirlwind trying to save the mother cats could be lethal.

Martha threw her robe over the tom as Florie Mae grabbed up gunnysacks. The instant the three cats were covered they became still, their fighting reduced to enraged growls. Neither Florie Mae or Martha knew which cat was poised beneath her own pressing hands—until an orange paw appeared under a fold of cloth.

Pulling back the gunnysack no more than an inch, Florie Mae let Goldie slip out, then pushed the cloth down fast.

Goldie went straight to her dead little kitten, picked it up, and carried it back to the box.

As the snarling continued, Martha slid a red plaid corner of cloth back, trying to see under. The cat responded with a scream like attacking tigers that made her cover the beast again.

The next move was so well coordinated they could have practiced for days. While Florie Mae guarded her side, holding the gunnysacks in place, Martha lifted another corner, revealing a black tail. Pulling the cloth higher, she pushed Blackie from above.

Streaking out, Blackie fled for the kitten box. What was left under the burlap was a cyclone. Bundling the corners of the bags together around the storm of snarling, yowling fury, Florie Mae and Martha each held a fistful of cat securely through layers of burlap.

Carrying the bundle between them, much as a bomb squad might carry a package of TNT, they fought open the back door and ran across the dark, concrete yard to the back sheds.

At the trap, Florie Mae snatched off the bungie cord. She held the spring-loaded door open as Martha shoved the cat in.

"Now!" Martha hissed. The bundle was through. Florie Mae released the door as Martha jerked her hands away. It snapped closed scraping their fingers. The bundle within heaved and thrashed.

"He's choking. He can't breathe."

Martha looked at her. "Do you care?"

Florie Mae got a bamboo stick that she used in the nursery, shoved it through into the cage, and worked at the burlap. Inside, her red robe, mixed up with the burlap, was already in shreds and still ripping. She was still pulling at the burlap when it flew apart and the tomcat burst out tumbling, spitting, panting for air.

Martha knelt, watching him, as Florie Mae headed back inside the store, sick at heart, fearing what she would find.

She knelt over the box, touching and stroking the kittens.

She could see no blood and no wounds. The kittens were all lively and feisty, nosing at their mothers. Goldie and Blackie lay among them licking their babies madly, turning from one kit to the next, and back again. Only the mother cats' own blood stained the healthy kits, and there was blood on the box where they had struggled back in, after the fight. Goldie had a long gash down her neck, and one ear was torn. Blackie had a four-inch square of skin off her shoulder, and was lame where the tom had bitten her, his teeth going deep into her leg.

At four in the morning, an hour before dawn, Martha and Florie Mae left the veterinary's office carrying Blackie and Goldie. The two mother cats were shaved and sutured, but both were alert. The town of Greeley might be small and backwoods, but Dr. Mackay used the latest methods. The inhalent anesthetic he had give the mama cats had worn off almost at once, and there would be no trace to get into their systems, to mix with their milk. The doctor had wiped the two cats down with damp cloths, to take away the smell of the tomcat and of the medications. Florie Mae put the mamas right in the kitten box, in the camper shell of Martha's pickup. They had carried the box into the store, behind the counter, and were watching the hungry babies nursing when Martha's cell phone rang.

Martha lifted the phone from her jacket pocket. "Who would call at this hour?"

"Your mother?"

She answered, listening for a moment and glancing at Florie Mae. "Hold on. Hold on a minute." She covered the speaker. "It's Mrs. McPherson." Martha turned on the speaker so Florie Mae could hear. "Slow down, Mrs. McPherson. When did you see her last?"

Florie Mae went icy. Had Idola McPherson disappeared? Redheaded Idola was the youngest of the girls they'd run with in high school. But Mrs. McPherson was saying, "I'm sure it's Rebecca's cat. That white and gold one, a big gold spot on her side. Your mother said she's missing and you been looking for her, Martha. Well I just saw that cat, out around where Albern's been fixing our road. Nearly all white, with a gold circle on her left side? Oh, it's Rebecca's cat, she's always there in the garden or the house when Leatha Duncan has our church group."

"Where's the cat now? Can Idola help you catch her?"

"She was right here in my garden trying to eat with our cats, trying to eat their food, but they run her off. Likely she's still around, maybe in among them downed trees that Albern took out."

"I'll be there in half an hour," Martha said. "Can you try to feed her? Maybe she'll come to you, maybe you can take her inside? Maybe Idola and Rick could help you?"

"Idola's still asleep. Rick's off helping his cousin move, down in Habersham County. And I have to be to work, you know how busy we are on the weekend. I'll wake Idola. Maybe we can get the cat inside, shut her in before I leave." Mrs. McPherson had worked at the savings bank ever since Idola's father died, five years back, when Idola was fifteen. They stayed open all day on Saturday, that brought in a lot of business. Saturday, as in the old days, was a time to come into town.

Martha flipped the phone closed. The McPherson place was the other side of town and half way up the mountain, overlooking Goose Lake, a little man-made lake with a few cabins around it. "Why would Nugget go way up there, so far from home? Seems impossible she'd go up there, she's never strayed like that."

Florie Mae and Martha looked at each other. Both thinking the same. Thinking how Goldie would go to Florie Mae when Florie Mae felt sick or had a little tiff with James. How Goldie always found Florie Mae when she was hurting. Thinking how Nugget had done the same with Rebecca. Ever since she was a kitten, how she would curl up with Rebecca when Rebecca was sick or felt bad. How Nugget was always there, when Rebecca maybe needed to cry. They looked at each other, and neither said a word. Florie Mae shivered.

Together they loaded the caged tomcat into the camper shell of Martha's pickup, keeping the big trap covered with towels.

"I'll just drop him off," Martha said, swinging into the cab. "Dr. Mackay probably didn't go back to bed after we woke him." John Mackay lived next door to the clinic. "Drop the cat off, then go up the mountain to McPherson's. I'll call you, let you know if I find Nugget."

"It's Saturday."

Martha looked blank. Then, "Oh. Kids' fishing day."

Once a year the rifle and hunting club of Greeley, which consisted of nearly every man in town, stocked Cody Creek with rainbow trout, rounded up all available fishing poles, and conducted a special fishing day for Greeley's children. There would be a picnic, and there would be pictures in the paper the following week of the children holding up trout near as big as they were. Dr. Mackay was part of the committee to help stock the stream. The men did that first thing Saturday morning so the fish would be hungry but wouldn't travel away too far. Dr. Mackay always helped haul the picnic tables and chairs over from the church, too, and set them up.

"Well if he's already left, if he can't do it this morning, I'll just keep the cat in the truck, take him back later. I can shove in some food, and one of those drip water things. That cat's caused enough trouble. He can stand being in the truck for a while, long as he has plenty of air."

"I hope James gets back," Florie Mae said. "Bobbie Lee'll have a face as long as a skinned donkey, his daddy misses fishing day." Fishing day was a much anticipated outing in Greeley. The women brought casseroles and salads and cakes, and some of the men barbequed hamburgers and hotdogs. Harkin's Feed and Garden would close for the occasion, and James had bought Bobbie Lee his own brand-new bamboo pole. Bobbie Lee talked about nothing else. He had dug up a whole can full of fat worms by himself, and he'd be mighty hurt, his daddy didn't get home—if he had to go fishing with his mama. Lacie June thought trout would be something like Granny's rag dolls that she could play with, though they had tried to tell her different.

Martha said, "I'll come right on over to Cody Creek from the lake, so you'll know if I found Nugget. Or I'll phone—you take your cell phone."

Florie Mae nodded.

"So strange," Martha repeated, "that the cat would go way up there." Swinging into her pickup, she left, heading back to Dr. Mackay—to put that tomcat out of commission, at least in the kitten department.

Florie Mae stood watching her drive away, then went to bury the white kitten. Fetching a shovel, she dug a tiny grave at the far edge of the lot beneath a climbing pink rosebush that would flower and smell sweet all summer. She laid the kitten in, covered it, and put a flat rock over. Then she went back into the store and sat down behind the counter again, beside the kitten box.

She'd have some doctoring to do, salve to rub on their sewn-up wounds, maybe special food to fix, to get them to eat. The two cats made her feel shaky, the way they'd protected their babies. Leaning down, she kissed each one on top her sweet head.

Because the tom had got only the one kitten, Florie Mae thought the white one might have managed to climb out of the box during the night. She'd have to fix the box taller. And how had the tom got in? He might could have pushed his way in around the sheets of plastic in the greenhouse, that joined the back of the store. Or maybe slipped in last night before she locked up? Had the mother cats stood him off all night, before he snatched that kitten?

Well, Florie Mae knew one thing. James wasn't drowning these kittens, not after their mamas fought so hard for them.

James never had liked drowning the kittens. But he said it was better than seeing them go hungry and uncared for, and they couldn't keep 'em all. But this time ... she looked down at her mama cats, stroking them.

It would take all her little stash of pleasurin' money she'd saved, to have them "fixed," but she was going to do that. It made her sad to think there'd be no more of Goldie's babies. Ever' one of those cats had been so strange and different, just like Goldie. But seemed like there were no more homes wanted a little cat, seemed like Greeley had more cats than people.

It was a fact, Goldie's grown kittens was all around Greeley. She'd found good homes for them, too, most with older couples. Clive Garner's cat stayed on his bed the whole two months when Clive had cancer. They had to shut the cat up before they could take Clive away to the hospital for the last time, that cat was so wild to protect him. And Nellie Coombs, when she had that hip replacement? Her yellow cat wouldn't let anyone near her 'cept Nellie's own daughter, the cat was that watchful.

Rubbing Goldie's ears, Florie Mae thought how strange cats were, how much a person didn't know about them.

Cody Creek was flowing fast, from rains north of Greeley up around Simms. The newly released trout seemed content to lie in the eddies facing upstream, their flashing tails keeping them in place as they snatched the occasional bit of commercial fish food that the men dolled out to them. Their life in the trout farm had left them far less wary of the noise and the movement of humans along the creek banks than if they'd been raised wild. They were used to people, used to the noise and hustle, used to the piping of children's voices.

Along the stream on the open green slopes of the mowed pasture, the tiniest toddlers, too young to fish, giggled, and screamed as their mothers pulled them away from the fast water. But the boys and girls who were set on catching fish were silent and businesslike beside their daddies. James had returned around eight that morning, bone weary from their all night search that had got them nothing but near-empty gas tanks. He'd ate a huge breakfast and was ready to go again, as excited as Bobbie Lee. Florie Mae had the truck packed and a blanket and cushions in the back for her and the children. Granny rode beside James, cuddling little Robert.

They'd been at Cody Creek for over two hours, and Bobbie Lee had already caught three trout, when Florie Mae began to wonder why Martha hadn't called. Fetching her cell phone from the picnic basket, where it was stuffed down between the cake box and the sandwiches, she opened it and checked the battery. Its charge was some low, but not clear down. She tried Martha's cell phone number, but got one of those messages that the phone was not in service at that time.

"What you fussin' about? Who you need to call on fishing day? Everyone in town is right here." Granny sat on a blanket sewing on a doll dress while little Robert slept, sprawled on a pillow beside her. Lacie June was off playing with some other toddlers, under the supervision of their mothers, who were happy for a chance to visit. Florie Mae didn't want to explain to Granny about Rebecca's missing cat showing up. The fact that it might have gone clear up to the lake gave her a mighty strange feeling that she wasn't ready to share.

But when Martha said she'd call, you could depend on her. And Idola McPherson was alone up there in that lonely cabin, with Dave gone off to Habersham County and her mama at work. Florie Mae sat absently stroking little Robert's forehead, looking up the mountain toward Goose Lake, feeling guilty already Fishing day was near as exciting for the children as Christmas. She oughtn't leave them, she ought to be here to admire the fish Bobbie Lee caught.

But she was already, in her mind, up the mountain. She might as well go on and go. She'd be gone just for a little while. The McPherson place was just 'round on the back side of the lake, other side of where Cody Creek flowed out of Goose Lake meandering down toward the old quarry. Florie Mae glanced at Granny, and looked down to the stream where James and Bobbie Lee were fishing. They were so happy together. Likely neither would miss her. "Granny, I'll just hop in the truck, run up to the lake. Martha's up there at Idola's. Just while the baby's napping?"

Granny looked back at her, scowling. "Somethin' to do with that tomcat. I'll say, girl, I'm proud you an Martha caught that thing." Granny glanced away, then looked at her sideways. "But what you up to, now?"

"I really need to do this, Gran."

"You oughtn't go by yourself, girl. It's lonely up there."

"It's Saturday, Gran." She didn't tell Granny that Rick McPherson wasn't to home as he usually would be, that Idola was by herself. "You be okay with the children?"

"Ain't I always? Go on, girl. The babies're fine. Lacie June right over there pounding little Willy Damen on the head with her Pokey doll."

Florie Mae didn't think Willy was in much danger from a rag doll. Snatching up the keys, she kissed Granny on the cheek and flew for the truck while James's back was turned, while he was helping Bobbie Lee bait his hook.

Along the road that climbed to the lake, the wild azaleas were finished with their deep pinks and reds. Patches of rhododendron covered the mountain now, paler pink and white, and the dogwood trees showed white clouds of blossom. The flowering trees and bushes softened the harsh roughness of the mountain shacks, of the wire chicken pens and the dog runs and the old rusted cars that were parked in near every yard. The blackberry blooms had fallen, leaving tiny green berries. Florie Mae skirted Goose Lake through thick pine woods, passing an occasional cabin set between the little road and the quiet water. On the backside of the lake she turned off the two-lane gravel road up a steep drive that served the McPherson place and five empty lots on beyond, all facing the lake. This was the narrow side road that had washed out so bad last winter.

The other lots, on beyond McPherson's, out on the point, had never seemed much to build on, dropping down to the water like they did, even steeper than McPherson's. The steps that led down to McPherson's dock made four long zigzags—easy enough going down, but a right smart climb in the heat after a day of lying on the dock soaking up sun, cooling off ever' now and then in the lake, the way she and Idola and Martha and Rebecca had done as kids. Ever' time she thought of Rebecca, that wave of sickness took her. She had a quick flash of the four of them, all tanned and sleek in their bathing suits, Rebecca so golden, Martha's black hair gleaming like a blackbird's wing. Idola's kinky red hair was the butt of teasing, from the boys. The way she'd tie it back real tight with a rubber band to make it seem straight, the way she wanted to dye it black like Martha's, but her mama never would let her. And Florie Mae herself, the plain one with her ordinary brown hair and brown eyes. Most times they'd bring a picnic down, cake and a thermos of tea, potato salad and sandwiches. They'd giggle and gossip all day, come home climbin' up that eighty-foot stairs wore out from pleasurin', and sore with sunburn. Young ones wasting their time, Granny said. Maybe. And maybe not. Those were good memories.

Except that now, all her memories of Rebecca stabbed right through her, hurt like a sore inside herself. She'd hurt painful since they first got the news, it had left her waking at night shaky and sweating.

Turning off the narrow one-car dirt road that went on up to the empty lots, she pulled the big truck onto the McPhersons' drive, its gravel washed partly away or deeply embedded in the hard clay. The house was old, like most all the lake houses. Made of weathered cedar, its rough gray boards and gray roof blended right into the pine woods. The gray stone of its chimney had come from the local quarry, just down the road, a warren of caves where children were not allowed to play. She parked next to Martha's pickup and got out. Martha's jacket was thrown on the front seat. The cage-trap was in the back of the camper shell, with the camper's rear door open, likely to give the cat air. When she stepped up to look, a hiss and a growl stopped her. Leaning in, she flipped back a corner of the towel.

The cat hit the cage screaming with anger and striking at her, making her step back away and drop the towel over the wire. She guessed Dr. Mackay hadn't had time to do the operation. Or he had used the same thing, the inhalant, that he'd used on her own cats. Well, Martha and Idola were here, Idola's old Ford parked beyond Martha's pickup. She guessed Martha had just forgot to call, though that sure wasn't like Martha.

As she crossed the garden and up the five steps to the deep front porch with its glider and rocking chairs, two cats jumped off the glider, looking suspiciously at her. Neither was Rebecca's Nugget. Idola had half a dozen cats. The front door was tight closed. She pressed the bell and could hear it ringing inside. Waiting, then ringing again, she put her ear to the door. Listening for their voices or for footsteps, she pushed the button hard twice more. The silence from within was dense and complete. No smallest sound, no scuff of feet or creak of wood.

Turning, glancing around the yard, she saw the two cats in the garden behind her, half-hiding, the dark brindle and the gray peering shyly out from the bushes. She rang again then tried the door. Folks seldom locked their doors. The McPhersons, living up here so far from everyone, hardly bothered to lock up even at night.

When the latch gave, she pushed inside, calling out to Idola.

Her voice echoed as she moved through the rooms. The house did feel empty. A tabby cat was on the couch, warily watching her. It leaped away when she approached. Why was it so skittish? Idola's cats weren't skittish. Calling out again, she circled through the big kitchen and the parlor, and Mrs. McPherson's bedroom. Maybe Idola and Martha had walked up the newly graveled road looking for Rebecca's cat, or down along the lake. She couldn't see from the kitchen window down to the dock, the angle wasn't right.

She stood at the bottom of the stairs listening and calling, then went up. Climbing the bare, steep steps to the upper floor, a chill began to prickle along her arms. Suddenly she wanted to go down again.

There were three bedrooms upstairs, and a bath that had been added long after the house was built. The back bedroom was the largest, looking out on the lake. Idola and Rick had no children yet, they'd been married only a year, so the two smaller rooms were empty, except for some storage boxes and Rick's loading equipment for his hunting rifle, and some fishing gear.

The big bedroom was furnished with antiques from Idola's grandmother, a lovely old spool bed and a crocheted coverlet, a cherry dresser with a marble top, a pretty bentwood rocker; and a huge rag rug that Idola and her mother had made together. All the windows were open to the lake breeze. Looking down the back, down the wide swath that had been cleared between the dense trees for the zigzag steps, she could see the wooden dock eighty feet below.

No one was there, no sun mat or towel lying on the dock, no one in the water swimming. The empty rowboat was tied to its mooring, a bucketful of rainwater in the bottom. She looked along the lake in both directions, as best she could among the pines. Three houses stood along the cove widely separated by the thick woods. To her left, where the hills dropped down to a little stream just at the end of the cove, stood the newest house on the lake, a two-story cedar with a wide porch overlooking the water, and a wide dock below skirting out over the marshy shore. Two rowboats were tied to the dock. These folks came up only on occasional weekends. She saw no one now, no one on the porch or the dock, and no figure behind the windows, the glass reflecting only lake and trees.

The house far to her right was hardly visible, sitting high on the hill among the heavy pines. It, too, would be empty; that couple both worked, she at the drugstore, he as a postal clerk. The third house, just across from her, sat low to the water where the shore was flat and muddy. Its narrow side deck, that led down from the road to the front door, was barely above the lake's backwash; the house had stood empty for years, had been flooded so many times it was falling apart, the walls and carpet rotting and moldy She knew, from exploring with Idola and Martha and Rebecca, that the floor inside was knee-high with beer cans and with trash not mentionable in polite company. She bet there wasn't no one, all at that end of the lake. Moving to the side window to look up the gravel road, she caught a glimpse of gold and white among the piled-up dirt and leaves where the tractor had been working. But the next instant, it was gone. Nugget?

She could just see the back of Albern's backhoe, pulled beyond the gravel off to the side where he had been taking out trees and scraping the road; that road had been clean washed out in the storm last winter, and half a dozen pine trees had been uprooted. Hurrying downstairs again, she let herself out, listening for her friends' voices. The silence was so complete that she was aware of the katydids, the constant buzz of summer that one seldom noticed.

Moving up the one-car road, she paused by Martha's open camper shell, wondering if she should close it. The cat needed air, but with the back full open he was sure prey to roving dogs or a bear. Either could bend and twist the thin wire of the cage. Black bears came down from the fancy tourist resort up on the mountain where the city folk fed them, bears that had forgot how to be afraid of humans. When they didn't get enough handouts in the resort, they came snooping around the back roads looking for garbage, bears that would take a dog or cat apart in a minute; though they'd turn tail if you shouted.

And the dogs that ran in packs were near as mean. Pet dogs, let to roam loose, would gather together killing calves all over the county. Big dogs. Dogs that came home again at night wore out from killing, to lie by the fire gentle as rabbits, playing with the children, the blood on their muzzles licked away. And not an owner among the lot who'd believe that his dogs killed livestock.

Well, but this cat was so mean that likely no sensible hound or bear would bother him. Turning away from the pickup, she headed up the hill along the side road where the land jutted like a fist thrust out, high above the water. The lake shone far below, on her left and straight ahead. It would appear again around the next curves to her right. The new gravel was hard to walk on; she stayed to the edge on the pine needles.

Just beyond the first curve in the rising hill, the big backhoe loomed, its dark green metal rusting along the bottom where the mud got to it, the whole tractor thick with dirt. The bucket attachment at one end, the big scraper at the other, it stood in shadow beneath the trees, waiting like some silent beast until Albern came, to work the earth with it. A man would leave his tractor on the job for weeks, until he finished up. Albern's car wasn't there. She guessed, after being up all night searching for Susan Slattery, he'd likely be a-sleeping. The pine trees that had fallen in the storm were tumbled against the hill, stripped of their branches, ready to be sawed into firewood. He had cut other pines, too, clearing for a building site, had left only the maples standing. The Ford dealer from Birmingham had bought the lot, meant to build a fishing cottage. The adjoining lots might could stay empty for years. Goose Lake had no golf course or tennis courts or fancy club to draw city folks.

There was no sign of the cat. Softly Florie Mae called her, coaxing her. She was looking along the crest of the hill for Nugget or for Martha and Idola when she fixed on a pile of dead leaves just beyond the gravel. Dark red-brown maple leaves from last fall, left wet and rotting, pushed away in a heap during the work of the tractor.

Stepping closer, and kneeling, she lifted a handful of leaves to which clung a dirty scrap of cloth. It was stained dark, but she could see the print of tiny daisies. Beneath where the scrap had lain, she glimpsed a tiny cloth hand.

Digging into the dark, wet leaves, she picked out Rebecca's doll, wet and soiled. Rebecca's little cloth doll, its little faded, daisy-print dress stained dark from the leaves. Rebecca's doll. The doll that had sat on Rebecca's bed as a child, the doll Granny had made for her when she was a little girl, Rebecca's good luck doll. The doll that since Rebecca bought her first car she'd carried on her dashboard, the doll Rebecca said would always ride with her.

Dark, wet leaves still stuck to the doll's dress. Picking them away, she looked closely at the marks they left—but there were darker stains, too. She drew her finger across these.

Even though the cloth was wet, those marks were stiff and hard. When she put her face to the doll, the stains stunk like spoiled meat.

Dropping the doll, she backed away, stood staring down where it lay on the fresh gravel—but then she snatched it up again and stuffed it in her pocket. Afraid someone was there, afraid someone had seen her find Rebecca's doll.

She stood there on the gravel wanting to be sick. Wanting to run, to get away. For the first time in her life she realized how lonely the woods were. She longed to go back to her truck, lock herself in, and lie down on the seat, she was that faint and sick. She stood for a long moment with her head down, trying to breathe slower; cold with fear, wanting only to be away from there.

When she looked up, Rebecca's cat was there.

The cat Martha and Idola must have walked up here to find. Had they not been able to catch her? Nugget sat on the gravel pile watching with grave golden eyes, the gold spot on her side round and bright.

Florie Mae approached quietly talking softly to her. Nugget looked at her pleasantly enough, but she backed away, evading her when she followed, staring back at her but circling away. Letting her get within a few feet, then moving off again. Playing some solemn cat's game with Florie Mae, just where the doll had lain. A game Florie Mae did not understand—did not want to understand.

Where were Martha and Idola? Looking up past the cat, she searched the woods beyond the cut trees, looked all among the shadows.

When she saw no one, she tried again to cajole Nugget. The cat wouldn't let her get close, she kept moving away leading her round and round on the fresh gravel.

Feeling totally cold inside, strange and still inside, Florie Mae left the cat at last, walking slowly up the new road, staying on the carpet of pine needles. Trying to make no sound, she was drawn ahead as if strings pulled her. Moving along above the lake she looked down at the dark, gleaming water, its ripples bitter green beneath the shadow of the land; and its chill breath rose up to her. And when she looked up at the woods that towered over her, she felt no sense of peace, none of the calm she most always knew in the woods' still loneliness. Now, their dark silence only turned her colder. And she kept thinking about the cat back there, circling and circling on the new gravel.

She had rounded two bends of the steep promontory when she caught her breath and drew back. A car was parked on the lip of the cliff, out of sight from the backhoe and the roadwork.

Well, but that car had been there forever, rusting among the blackberry tangles. A half-wrecked old Dodge sedan, the left front fender missing, the body thick with rust, the driver's window shattered in a thousand spidery cracks, the backseat decorated with rusted beer cans.

But now it did not stand in the bushes, it had been moved to the lip of the cliff, its front wheels chinked with rocks to keep it from dropping straight down the cliff into Goose Lake.

If you were to pull out the rocks and give it a push, it would be gone, thundering down into the lake with a splash as loud as when, last summer, she'd heard a pine tree fall. Gave way where its roots were bared at the cliff's edge and crashed down and down into a hundred feet of dark water. Remembering that fall, she felt danger stab through her.

Touching the doll in her pocket, she studied the woods above her. Nothing stirred, no shadow moved. Who would pull that old car out of the tangles and set it just so, at the cliff's edge?

Only when she looked back at the car did she see the gun, a dark, old fashioned shotgun lying in the dirt at the far side of the car, nearly hidden from her.

Stepping around the car she snatched it up. She looked around again, then broke it open to see if it was loaded. She was scared enough to use it, scared enough to shoot someone if she had to.

There was no shell in either chamber. From the stink of it, it had recently been fired. Quiet and afraid, still holding the gun, she approached the car.

She could hardly see in for dirt. Something pale lay across the front seat. Dropping the gun, she snatched open the door, staring in at the two bodies sprawled together flung across the seat and jammed beneath the steering wheel. Idola lay half under Martha, Martha's long black hair across both girls' shoulders, their arms and legs tangled together and dangling over the seat—as if they had been tossed into the car like sticks of firewood. Idola's curly red hair was still neatly tied back, but her face was bruised red and purple across her cheek and nose.

Florie Mae reached out a shaking hand. Idola's skin was warm, and when she took Idola's wrist she could feel her pulse, faint and weak, but beating. Putting her face to Martha's, avoiding her bloody wounds, she could feel her breathing. Florie Mae's heart was pounding so hard and fast she could hardly breathe her ownself. Grabbing Martha under her arms, she was trying to pull her out when she heard someone coming down the hill, someone heavy dropping down from the top of the hill in giant steps tearing the undergrowth.

She tried to get Martha out but couldn't budge her or Idola, the way they were wedged together. He was coming fast, was halfway down, a dark-coated figure running in the forest's shadow. She looked up through the shadows into his face, caught her breath and spun away, running.

She ran as she had never run, sick with shock. Knowing he would grab her. He made no sound. She could barely hear him running now, on the damp pine needles.

"Florie Mae, wait."

She ran full of fear, riddled with guilt for leaving them there. Cold with terror for her unborn baby. She fled around the curve of the hill, hit the gravel road and across it, pounding the forest floor racing for the house faster than she knew she could run; but he was gaining. She imagined his hands on her ...

"Florie Mae! Whatever happened isn't... Florie Mae, wait! We can talk. We need to talk."

She ran cold with terror, his voice sickening her. What kind of fool did he think she was? His footsteps pounded, gaining on her. "Florie Mae, it's all right, it'll be all right." She didn't dare look back. Any second he would grab her. He was so close she could hear him breathing. Her own breath burned like lime dust in her lungs.

"Wait, don't run. It's all right!" He hit the gravel behind her as she dove for Martha's truck, the closest truck, swinging into the camper banging her knees on the metal, jerking the tailgate closed. She was snatching for the upper door when he grabbed it, pulling it from her hands. She rolled to the back of the camper, pressing against the cage, looking frantically for a weapon, for maybe a wrench, anything among the clutter.

The second she touched the cage, the tomcat hit the wire, screaming. Its claws slashed through the wire mesh, raking her arm as Grady lunged in, reaching for her. "Wait, Florie Mae. It's all right. Believe me, it's all right."

What did he mean, it's all right? What kind of brazen talk was that? Snatching the cage, she shoved it at him, forcing the door open. She watched in relief and horror as the tomcat flew out biting and raking him. That cat clung to Grady's face venting all its wild rage, clawing and tearing at him, biting so deep that Grady screamed and struck at it, stumbling back. Tripping, he fell, his arms over his face. He rolled over, pressing hands and face to the ground, shouting something she couldn't understand. The cat leaped off him and fled.

Blood spurted from Grady's neck. Sick and horrified, she rolled out of the camper nearly on top of him and flew for her own truck. Hinging the door open, she snatched up her phone—was into her truck dialing the sheriff when she heard a siren up on the road, the whoop-whoop of the rescue vehicle ...

Where was it headed? Was someone sick, up the mountain? Could she stop them, bring them here? They had to come here, come now. Martha and Idola needed them. If she ran to the road they'd be past, they'd be gone. In panic she lay on the horn, honking and honking, her racket mixed with the siren. How could they hear?

But the siren died.

She kept honking. She opened the door and shouted. "Down here!" She screamed. "At McPherson's!" Then, gathering her wits, she snatched her phone and punched in 911.

The sheriff answered. She couldn't talk right. "At the lake," she screamed. "McPherson's. Ambulance is here, but... it's the killer. Grady Coulter. He's bleeding. Martha and Idola are hurt bad, real bad ... in a car above the lake, a car he meant to push over." All of this as the ambulance scorched down the gravel drive skidding to a stop beside her truck. She watched the medics race out to kneel over Grady Coulter. Dropping the phone, Florie Mae ran to them.

In a moment she was in the ambulance beside one of the two medics, while the other had stayed with Grady. Moving fast up the little road, the vehicle's wheels skidded in the gravel and pine needles. The driver was younger than Florie Mae but he looked determined, finessing the big van. At the third curve, he slowed, approaching the promontory where the rusted-out Dodge would be poised above the lake.

The car was gone. The rocks that had held its wheels had been tossed aside. Piling out, she ran to the edge of the cliff, stood at its edge then started down clinging to the bushes, hugging a bush, panic sickening her.

Far below, the water was still churning. She could see the glint of metal or glass down within the dark lake—but the car hung only half submerged, its right rear wheel wedged between the boulders.

Above her, the medic started down. As he passed her, telling her to go back, she tried to follow him, but she was terrified of the height. For an instant, she hung on the side of the cliff, frozen and immobile.

When she looked up, Albern Haber stood above her, his heavy work boots planted solidly, his black hair blowing against the sky.

His arm and shoulder were bleeding, were all torn up, his bloody shirt was in tatters. She had seen animals with shotgun wounds, torn up that way. His face was ashen pale, his dark eyes wild. He held the shotgun by its barrel, the butt down as if he would chop down at her, would slam it on her hands, make her lose her frail grip on the bushes. Even as she stared up at him frozen with fear she heard the sheriff's siren coming fast up the hills.

A breeze drifted through the open windows of the Harkin kitchen, its cool breath mighty welcome after the heat of the day. Though the night was not so cool that the katydids had stopped their song; their buzzing filled the kitchen, as comforting as the crackle of the wood stove would be, come winter. They sat around the oak table, Florie Mae and James close together with their three babies sprawled on their laps. Granny, dishing up the children's plates from the bowls that filled the table. Martha with her bruised face and sprained and bandaged arm. And Grady Coulter, Grady's own face crisscrossed with claw scratches that were still red and angry, and his throat sewn up with seven stitches and sealed with a plaster-tape bandage.

Their early supper was picnic leavings, cake and slaw, potato salad and deviled eggs and pickles and tea, and Granny had fried up a couple more chickens. Idola was in the hospital with two broken ribs, a broken collarbone, and two broken fingers where she had fought with Albern Haber. Albern was in the hospital, too, but he was under guard. They'd all just come from the little Greeley hospital, where two sheriff's deputies sat with their chairs tilted back against the door of Albern Haber's hospital room, one inside, one in the hall. Albern would be headed for a jail cell as soon as his shotgun wounds were tended.

As for the tomcat, the moment he sprang off Grady, he'd scorched away through the woods heading for parts unknown. The worst of that was, from Florie Mae and Martha's view, he hadn't had a chance for his life-changing operation. Dr. Mackay had already left, that morning, when Martha got back to the clinic, the door had been locked tight, and no one answered at the house. Martha had caught up with Dr. Mackay at Cody Creek and had arranged to take the cat back late that afternoon. Now, such was not to be.

Who knew where that tomcat would end up? Or what other mischief he'd stir in Farley County or how many more kittens he'd sire? Martha and Florie Mae just hoped he wouldn't show up around Harkin's store again. Even when Florie Mae had thought that cat was saving her life, lighting into Grady, that also had turned out a disaster. Maybe that tomcat carried bad luck around with him like a drinker totes his moonshine.

Sheriff Waller had identified the fingerprints on the shotgun. The over-and-under twelve-gauge held enough prints to implicate half of Greeley. Rick McPherson's prints, of course. It was his gun. The prints on top of Rick's, on the trigger and stock, were Idola's. Florie Mae's prints were on the stock, where she'd picked up the gun. And then Albern's prints, mostly on the barrel where he'd meant to use the gun as a battering ram against Florie Mae.

But it was Idola's prints on the trigger. Idola's handling of that weapon had been quick and deliberate. She'd blasted Albern Haber twice in the shoulder before he snatched the empty gun away from her. If she'd had any more shots she might have finished him and saved Farley County the cost of a trial.

The sheriff had a full confession from Albern, who had turned cowardly at the last, meek and frightened. "He just spilled it all out," the sheriff had said. "As to Rebecca, maybe Albern is telling the truth, that he had no notion to kill her. That he never meant to hit her, sure not hit her that hard. Said it happened real sudden-like." Sheriff Waller, standing with them in the hospital emergency room, had tried hard to contain his anger. "Well, Albern sure didn't stop with killing Rebecca. Once he killed Rebecca, seems like he taken off on a reg'lar binge of meanness."

Now, at the table, Martha said, "When I got up to Idola's, it must've been around nine this morning, before ever I knocked on the door I saw Rebecca's cat up that new gravel road. That's what I come for, so I went on up the road before I rang the bell. See if I could catch her.

"And there she was. It was Nugget—mostly all white, with that big gold circle on her side. Sitting smack in the middle of the new gravel where it was spread on the road." Martha shivered. "Sitting on Rebecca's grave.

"That's where I found the doll, just beside the gravel, nearly covered with leaves—just the way you found it later, Florie Mae. I'd knelt to pick it up when Albern came on me sudden, from around the hill—I guess he was up in the woods, saw me kneel down." She looked at Florie Mae. "Well, I'd picked it up. I was kneeling there looking at it, feeling strange. And here came Albern, straight for me— and I knew. The doll lying there, where he'd been digging. Rebecca's cat sitting there on the new-spread gravel. But mostly, the way Albern was looking at me. His look turned me cold clear to my toes.

"I jumped up and run but he was faster. He grabbed me, jerked me around, bent my arm behind me, near broke it. Hit me and hit me, until I don't remember. I just... I don't remember much after that but darkness and hurting. Then the medics were there over me, I woke lying on the ground, on the steep hill beside the lake, looking down at the dark water. Lying beside the old car with the medic kneeling over me."

The medics had got Martha and Idola out of the car, had carried them around the shore and up the McPhersons' stairs. Sheriff's deputies had brought the car up later, using Albern's backhoe, and chains and pulleys.

"But up there on the road, when Albern grabbed me, the doll must have fell back into the leaves," Martha said.

Florie Mae nodded. "The ground was all scuffed, the leaves scuffed up. It was when he carried you around the hill and shoved you in that old Dodge that Idola saw you from her bedroom window."

Idola would make her statement to the sheriff when she felt stronger, but there in the hospital she'd had to talk about those terrible moments, had to tell Florie Mae. Idola had seen Martha's pickup pull into her drive, had watched Martha hurry right on past the house and up the road. She'd figured that Martha saw the cat up there and was going to try to catch her. And then she saw the cat, too, there on the gravel.

"Idola was still looking out the window," Florie Mae said, "was just ready to go down and help try to catch the cat, when she saw you pick up something, there in the gravel—and she saw movement up in the woods. Saw Albern coming for you."

Florie Mae touched Martha's hand. "Idola saw him grab you and hit you. She snatched up Rick's loaded shotgun and ran, up along the road following Albern, trying to make no noise, scared he'd hear her. Said she didn't dare shoot while he was carrying you. But when he shoved you in the car— he'd already moved it up to the cliff edge—she ran up, so scared she was shaking. When he turned on her, a-lunging to grab her looking all wild, she shot him twice in the shoulder. Said she didn't want to kill him, just wanted to stop him, run him off.

"That's all she had, the two shots," Florie Mae said. "Rick's old over-and-under. When the gun was empty Albern, just a-bleedin' and swearin', grabbed her, jerked the gun away, and hit her. Pinned her against the car and beat her. She said she remembers him jamming her into the old car, on top of you. Remembers she was trying to scream but nothing came out, she couldn't find any voice to cry out."

Florie Mae was still holding Martha's hand. "When I got there—you were tangled in there like firewood, the two of you. You underneath, Idola thrown in on top. That's how I found you—and none of us knew that Susan Slattery's body was in the trunk."

James said, "Albern'll be making his formal statement to the sheriff about now, I'd guess. He was near bawling when the sheriff arrested him." James had ridden up from Cody Creek with the sheriff, after Florie Mae called for help—and James himself near frantic. James had helped the sheriff handcuff Albern and lock him in the backseat behind the security panel.

"He was some talky," James said. "Real scared. Said he saw Rebecca go in the bakery that night, said he'd only wanted to talk with her a few minutes— trying to get the sheriff to believe it was purely accident. Said he asked Rebecca to sit in his car, said he guessed she'd felt sorry for him, maybe guilty that she'd dumped him, he guessed that was why she got in his car. Albern said he'd been drinking pretty heavy. Well, they argued, he said something rude to her, and she slapped him. He hit her back, hard, knocked her against the door. Said her head hit the door and she passed out. That she never come to.

James frowned. "He said his feelings was all mixed up inside him. He was sorry, with her a-laying there in his car. But deep down inside him, said his heart was a-pounding real hard. He kept talking, like he was in a church confessional. I just stood there by the sheriff's car, listening. It was the last thing he said that sickened me most." He looked down at the children, making sure they were indeed asleep. In his lap, both Bobbie Lee and Lacie June were deep under, their supper plates untouched, both children all tuckered out after their day at Cody Creek.

"Well, I don't see this makes Albern insane," James said. "Don't see that it makes him not responsible. But Albern told the sheriff that when he saw Rebecca lying there dead, that nothing he'd done in his life, not nothing he'd ever done with a woman, had filled him brim-up full with that kind of thrill as seeing Rebecca lying there dead.

"To my way of thinking," James said, "he got full up with the lust to kill. Seems to me that's what made him rise up and kill Susan, when she found Rebecca's scarf in his car."

Albern had told the sheriff that he'd had a date with Susan, the night she died. Said she seldom told her folks her plans. Albern told the sheriff that when Susan dropped her compact and went fishing under the seat for it, that was when she found Rebecca's scarf. Said she'd hauled the scarf out, and just sat looking at him—then she'd snatched for the door handle, wanting to get away. And he'd grabbed her and killed her.

"Albern told the sheriff," James said, "that after he stuffed you and Idola in the car, Martha, he felt so weak from the gunshots, hurt so bad, that he stumbled up in the woods to hide before he passed out. Meant to go back in a few minutes, when he felt stronger, and push the car into the lake with you three in it. Get shut of the evidence, he said. Before he could do that, he passed out. That's how you found him, Grady."

Florie Mae looked at Grady. "What were you doing up there? I thought it was you that hurt Martha and Idola, the way you come after me."

"I saw you with that shotgun, Florie Mae, I thought you'd shot Albern. Him layin' up there in the woods half dead. I thought he'd maybe got smart with you, and you up and shot him."

Grady reached for another piece of fried chicken. The wounds the tomcat had bestowed hadn't hurt his appetite. "This morning early, Albern and me went on over to Cody Creek soon as we got back from looking for Susan's car. We helped with the fish and setting up the tables. I was helping the little kids fish, about eight, I guess, when I saw you, Martha, go by, headed up to the lake. Few minutes later I saw Albern leave, saw him heading up toward the lake, too. That made me mighty curious.

"I told myself that was foolish, that he was likely goin' get in a few hours work on the road. But then maybe an hour later when I saw you leave, Florie Mae, heading up that way, I got to thinking. Something about the way Albern acted the night before, looking for Susan Slattery, got me to wonderin'. Like he mightn't have really been looking for Susan, like maybe he'd been playacting? The kind of uneasy feeling like when a ole bear's prowling 'round your chickens out in the dark—you don't see or hear nothing, but something's not right out there.

"When I saw you heading up for the lake alone, Florie Mae, I got that feeling. You two girls up there alone. And Albern up there. And the way he might could have only acted like he was a-lookin' for Susan. Acted like he was lookin' real hard—too hard."

James nodded. "A person'd expect Albern to just go plodding along lookin', doing his duty. Last night he was just a-beatin' the bushes, like a hound ready to tree a coon."

Grady said, "Well, I headed up that way. Figured you was going to Idola's, Florie Mae. When I passed her road I saw your truck and Martha's. Didn't see Albern's pickup down the road by his rig, didn't see him working.

"I went on up the road to turn around, and there was Albern's truck, way at the top of the hill. Funny place to park. He had no work up there. I pulled up behind him, looked in his cab, then went on down the hill through the woods, listening for him. It was quiet, not a sound. Then I heard him moan.

"Found him lying in the woods, shot, nearly unconscious. I had a look at him, went back to the truck and called the sheriff. When I got back to Albern again, I tried to get him to talk to me. He was havin' trouble breathing. Asked him what happened. He opened his eyes, but he was groggy as a chicken in the sour mash. Said, 'She shot me!' That's all he said. I asked him who shot him, but he kind of went off again, grabbing for me, muttering at me to call the medics, staring like he didn't rightly see me.

"Then, when I stood up, I saw someone moving around below. I saw you, Florie Mae by that old car, and you was holdin' a shotgun, cracking it open."

Grady shook his head. "You know the rest. You saw me coming, dropped the gun and ran. I was thinking you shot him, that he'd tried to hurt you. Figured you was running 'cause you was some scared, after shooting him. I wanted you to stop, to talk some sense to you." Grady grinned. "You a-runnin', and me a-shouting at you to stop."

Florie Mae just looked at him.

Grady shrugged. "You find a man shot, see a woman holding a shotgun, what's a fellow supposed to think? Then you throwed that cursed tomcat at me, Florie Mae. No woman, no woman's ever done a thing like that to Grady Coulter."

Beside Florie Mae, James grinned. And he hugged Florie Mae, hard.

"Well," Grady said, "I guess Albern revived hisself some while that tomcat was a-trying to kill me. Revived hisself, got up and came on down the hill. Pulled them rocks from under that ole car, gave it a shove, and sent it over. Maybe thinking, all muddled like he was, thinking to get rid of it before I come back and found it with Martha and Idola in it—and Susan in the trunk."

Florie Mae shivered. "To kill Rebecca, even if he didn't mean to. To bury her with his backhoe. And then to kill Susan—try to kill Martha and Idola and me all because we found the doll, because we knew." She stroked Lacie June's soft hair. "Idola told me, there in the hospital, said she didn't fathom how Albern could've buried Rebecca, all that noise with the backhoe, and them not know. Not her or Rick or Rick's mother, there in the house, so close. Didn't hear a thing, in the dark of night. She thought he must have done it right in broad daylight, right while he was grading on the road. All three of them off at work, and no one else up there, he could've done it any time."

"But the car," James said. "He wouldn't know to move that, wouldn't have no reason to move it, gettin' it ready to shove it in the lake/till he'd killed Susan."

James settled Bobbie Lee easier on his lap. "He killed Susan night before last. Maybe drove up the mountain then, stayed off the gravel so not to be heard. Put her in the trunk the same night.

"Next morning—yesterday morning, say he waited 'till the McPhersons had gone to work, moved the car while he was working on the road." James shook his head. "Maybe didn't want to push it over, though, in daylight. Could be seen, and heard, from anywhere on the lake. Might could even thought to wait for a high wind, thought no one would be back up in there but him, to see the car set up like that. High wind come along, the sound of that car falling into the lake at night'd be no different from an old pine tree going over—and then last night he went searching for Susan acting all righteous," James said.

"If it wasn't for Rebecca's cat," Florie Mae said, "leadin' us back along that road, no one might never have thought to look up there for Rebecca. Might never have found her doll." Florie Mae looked at James. "He didn't know Rebecca's little cat would lead us there." James took her hand. She said, "He tried to kill us—just because of what we knew? Or, because killing gave him a thrill?"

If that be true, she had no words for the evil that filled Albern Haber. Leaning against James, and gently touching her sleeping babies, she wondered: when their babies had done their growin' up, what kind of world would they be getting? Would there be more like Albern Haber in the world? Oh, she prayed not.

Or would there be more like James? Loving and steady, and not twisted in his mind?

James said, "Sheriff told me, he guessed Susan'd been way ahead of him, finding Rebecca's scarf in Albern's truck—way ahead of him, but foolish how she handled it. The sheriff was sorry for that."

Granny looked at Florie Mae. "If Susan'd had a shotgun, she might could still be with us."

"A shotgun," Grady said. "Or a mean ole tomcat." And that made James and Granny smile.

Well, that tomcat might never be seen again in Greeley or anywhere else in Farley County. But Rebecca's Nugget, with the round gold spot on her side, she was home again now, sleeping on Rebecca's bed. Only now had she stopped keeping vigil; only now was her watch ended.

Nugget had still been there on the gravel road when the sheriff had started to dig for Rebecca. But when the sheriff's man had begun working with the backhoe, light and careful, why, Rebecca's cat had stopped evading everyone, and she'd come right to Martha and Florie Mae.

Picking up the little cat and cuddling her close, they had sat in Martha's truck, out of the way. They didn't want to be near when the body was brought up. But though they stroked her and tried to calm her, Nugget stayed nervous, staring out the window, until just at that terrible moment.

The minute the body was found, when the men went in with spades and shovels and brought Rebecca up, it was then that Nugget ceased her vigil.

She looked up at Florie Mae and yawned, and curled down in Martha's lap. And she went right to sleep, deep asleep. As if, for the first time in near two weeks, that poor, tired cat let go. Backed away from a job finished. Backed away, tired in every bone, from her lone vigil.

Even when they took Nugget home again to Rebecca's mama, just before suppertime, that little cat slept. She slept most all day and all night, for a week, on Rebecca's bed. Slept all during the police work as additional evidence was collected and logged in, strengthening the sheriff's case against Albern Haber. Nugget slept while the grand jury indicted Albern Haber, slept snuggled down in her own familiar blanket on Rebecca's bed.

After Rebecca was buried, Nugget began to hunt again and to act normal. But she didn't roam anymore, she stayed to home. Knowing, maybe, that something of Rebecca was still with her. Something of Rebecca settling in with her now, for a little while.

And Florie Mae thought, as she and Bobbie Lee and Lacie June played with the kittens, if Goldie's gold and white babies, sired by that bruiser tomcat, turned out as sweet and protective as Nugget and Goldie, but as big and bold as their daddy, why, she'd have herself some regular guard cats to help protect her young'uns.

Content

Мерфи Ширли Руссо Tomcat