Prologue

She was the sort of cat that people think of when they say they don’t really like them. Named Emma by her owners and Shit Machine by the neighbours, she dominated the whole of her suburban Arcadia throughout the long night. One unrecognizable creature left in pieces under the spirea in the corner and, beneath the butterfly bush -- the Buddleia davidii -- a yellow songbird who’d never sing that particular song again. But the rain was almost here. And soon the can-opener in the kitchen would be whirring out its seeming unending supply of salmon bits and grain filler.

Emma slipped into the still-quiet house, enjoying as she did the familiar, even strokes from the plastic flaps in the all-weather door installed solely for her convenience. There was only an absence in the kitchen. No slippered feet showing yet. No flannel-covered legs to push against in an act of proprietary aggression that they chose to interpret as affection, while they mumbled on, unintelligibly. No whirring.

From a static standing position Emma leapt on to the sleekly smooth granite countertop beside the sink. Normally a forbidden area, she was prepared to vacate it if necessary, a split second ahead of any hand raised in her direction. Her peripheral vision described an arc of more than 210 degrees. But she sensed no threat in this place any more.

A thin sheen of spectres and auras filled in all the corners of the room, their colours slowly fading as the level of watery daylight rose behind them. Her eyes were already narrowed to slits against it. She could make out some new outlines from yesterday. Shapes, still distinct, hard and bright. The softened, more pastel ones of last week were beginning already to blend with layers left by years and hordes of others. Shadows, in this place at least, were made of something other than light. The infinitesimal movement of ethers, liquid currents curling up against the ivory-painted ceiling mouldings. Mere remnants of heightened moments and loud words. The things only a cat really cared to see. For her, and for all her kind through the millennia, it was the means of simple survival.

Emma slid within her own skin loosely, comfortably. The fur was merely a sheath laid over harder bone and muscle. At the touch of her tongue it was reduced to pure texture, attached but apart, the sensation a combination of delicious and disgusting. Irresistible.

One or two single raindrops struck the glass and ran like syrup down the window nearest her, which overlooked a carefully sculpted garden. Under a high, polished pearl grey sky, the colours of the now visible landscape folded into one another. This birth time of day.

In late spring it was formed of myriad shades of green -- sea green, emerald green, linden green, jade, moss, chrome green, olive, khaki, kelp. The cat perceived a world of difference among them, her palette a substantial and generous one, expanded a hundredfold in the water-washed air. Add cilantro and catnip. Emma’s senses blended the sights and tastes into an intense combination that lifted each element high above any singular aspect.

She willed herself to relax now, though her thoughts still fluttered up like high-pitched birds. She settled in place and studied the view. Icy turquoise, bronzed green, celadon, acid, pistachio, ivy, kiwi, mustard, celery and apple green, tangy green, porcelain green, pale green milk.

Still no legs or hands or big-eyed faces up and about yet. Admittedly, they were loud and they were disruptive. But they were late. The coffee pot, with a series of wet pops, had filled now, its brown fragrance confirming her own sense of the time. Emma went looking for someone to feed her, up the silent stairs.

* * * * *

A hundred yards away, at the school-bus stop out front on Scott Boulevard, it was the usual Monday morning near-catastrophe of straining children and taut-faced, strained mothers. One seven-year-old whining that she’d forgotten her lunch and blaming everyone. Another finding the entire contents of his knapsack covered in spilled contact cement. Dean Hartwell, age nine, had just discovered his Friday homework assignment, due today. He was ready to start crying, right here, right now, if his mother even looked like she was thinking of getting mad at him.

A comfortable street. An appearance of openness in the well-done women and carefully arranged offspring, even now, in the pouring rain. Gore-Tex and Burberry and Aquascutum in fortunate plenty.

The children were decorated in colourful slickers. Most of them just wanted to go home and watch TV, have another bowl of Cocoa Puffs and milk. Each mother smiled tightly and rolled her eyes at the others, knowing that briefcases and laptops and -- hopefully -- enough time for a mocha latté from the drive-through waited in the length of Cherokees, Sidewinders and Magic Vans idling up and down the block.

One small boy, already inside the bus, was waving for his mother’s attention. As usual she was occupied with everything else. Finally, another interrupted the conversation to point out the boy’s flagging efforts, the shouted, unheard words. This other woman was better at lip-reading too. “He’s saying Kyle’s not here.” And out of habit the entire group, as one, looked resentfully towards the big house just across the street.

“The Mallick kid again,” the boy’s mother muttered under her breath. Then she spoke to her son through the window, enunciating each word distinctly. “Just go on. You’ll see him at school.” She backed further away from the bus and continued in a hushed tone to the others, “The usual. You’ve got to wonder, though -- her being a doctor and everything.” She made a slight face.

Her own son, unfortunately named Orion, settled back into his seat, unaccountably angry. OK, let’s get this show on the road, he thought. What the hell were they waiting for, anyway?

At the same time, only one street away, a stranger’s car had already turned towards them all, heading at a speed more than twenty-two miles an hour over the posted limit. It was easy enough to overlook the traffic cone, even the sign warning drivers to watch for children and pets. On a normal day it wouldn’t have mattered that the tires were nearly bald. But this morning, rain was falling. And by now Melissa Redmond was already jumping out of her mother’s temperamental red Audi, slipping out from under the seatbelt by herself. She didn’t need help. She’d been diagnosed as quite advanced for seven. And Melissa was in a hurry to show off her new Xena Warrior Princess doll. None of those waiting on the other side even noticed the car approaching until it cut out suddenly from behind the school bus.

The driver’s face widened in surprise and the cellphone fell from his hand. The slick pavement might have been a sheet of ice for all the purchase it gave. The car began its inexorable, slow drift to the right and, very slowly, stopped. There was one loud shout from someone in the crowd.