dark alleyways in quite the swift and stealthy fashion that I do now; but perhaps children will be amused by my hippopotamic heroics, and no one will disagree that bringing laughter to children in a dark world is admirable.
While Ozzie cooked, I told him about Dr. Jessup and all that had occurred since the dead radiologist had come to me in the middle of the night. Although as I recounted events I worried about Danny, I worried as well about Terrible Chester.
Terrible Chester, the cat about which every dog has nightmares, allows Ozzie to live with him. Ozzie cherishes this feline no less than he loves food and books.
Although Terrible Chester has never clawed me with the ferocity of which I believe he is capable, he has more than once urinated on my shoes. Ozzie says this is an expression of affection. This theory holds that the cat is marking me with his scent to identify me as an approved member of his family.
I have noticed that when Terrible Chester wishes to express his affection for Ozzie, he does so by cuddling and purring.
Since Ozzie opened the front door to me, as we passed through the house, and during the time that I sat in the kitchen, I had not seen Terrible Chester. This made me nervous. My shoes were new.
He is a big cat, so fearless and self-impressed that he disdains sneaking. He doesn’t creep into a room, but always makes an entrance. Although he expects to be the center of attention, he projects an air of indifference—even contempt—that makes it clear he wishes for the most part to be adored from a distance.
Although he does not sneak, he can appear at your shoes suddenly and by surprise. The first indication of trouble can be a briefly mystifying warm dampness of the toes.
Until Ozzie and I moved to the back porch to take our breakfast al fresco, I kept my feet off the floor, on a chair rung.
The porch overlooks a lawn and a half-acre woodlet of laurels, podocarpus, and graceful California peppers. In the golden morning sunshine, songbirds trilled and death seemed like a myth.
Had the table not been a sturdy redwood model, it would have groaned under the plates of lobster omelets, bowls of potatoes au gratin, stacks of toast, bagels, Danish, cinnamon rolls, pitchers of orange juice and milk, pots of coffee and cocoa. …
“‘What is food to one is to others bitter poison,’” Ozzie quoted happily, toasting me with a raised forkful of omelet.
“Shakespeare?” I asked.
“Lucretius, who wrote before the birth of Christ. Lad, I promise you this—I shall never be one of these health wimps who views a pint of heavy cream with the same horror that saner men reserve for atomic weapons.”
“Sir, those of us who care about you would suggest that vanilla soy milk isn’t the abomination you say it is.”
“I do not permit blasphemy, the F-word, or obscenities such as soy milk at my table. Consider yourself chastised.”
“I stopped in Gelato Italiano the other day. They now have some flavors with half the fat.”
He said, “The horses stabled at our local racetrack produce tons of manure each week, and I don’t stock my freezer with that, either. So where does Wyatt Porter think Danny might be?”
“Most likely Simon earlier stashed a second set of wheels in the lot beside the Blue Moon, in case things went bad at the Jessup house and someone saw him leaving there in the van.”
“But no one saw the van at the Jessup house, so it wasn’t a hot vehicle.”
“No.”
“Yet he switched at the Blue Moon anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Does that make sense to you?”
“It makes more sense than anything else.”
“For sixteen years, he remained obsessed with Carol, so obsessed that he wanted Dr. Jessup dead for having married her.”
“So it seems.”
“What does he want with Danny?”
“I don’t know.”
“Simon doesn’t seem like the type who’d yearn for an emotionally satisfying father-son relationship.”
“It doesn’t fit the profile,” I agreed.
“How’s your omelet?”
“Fantastic, sir.”
“There’s cream in it, and butter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Also parsley. I’m not opposed to a portion of green vegetables now and then. Roadblocks won’t be effective if Simon’s second vehicle has four-wheel drive and he goes overland.”
“The sheriff’s department is assisting with aerial patrols.”
“Do you have any sense whether Danny’s still in Pico Mundo?”
“I get this strange feeling.”
“Strange—how?”
“A wrongness.”
“A wrongness?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, everything’s crystal-clear now.”
“Sorry. I don’t know. I can’t be specific.”
“He isn’t … dead?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“More orange juice? It’s fresh-squeezed.”
As he poured, I said, “Sir, I’ve been wondering—where’s Terrible Chester?”
“Watching you,” he said, and pointed.
When I turned in my chair, I saw the cat ten feet behind me and above, perched on an exposed ceiling truss that supported the porch roof.
He is reddish-orange with black markings. His eyes are as green as emeralds fired by sunlight.
Ordinarily, Terrible Chester favors me—or anyone—with only a casual glance, as if human beings bore him beyond tolerance. With his eyes and attitude, he can express a dismissive judgment of humanity, a contempt, that even a minimalist writer like Cormac McCarthy would need twenty pages to convey.
Never previously had I been an object of intense interest to Chester. Now he held my gaze, did not look away, did not blink, and seemed to find me to be as fascinating as a three-headed extraterrestrial.
Although he didn’t appear to be poised to pounce, I did not feel comfortable turning my back on this formidable cat; however, I felt less comfortable engaging in a staring match with him. He would not look away from me.
When I faced the table again, Ozzie
