And
even by then, Forrester could have required them to round up as many
house-cats in Tranquil as he could list on a 12F!
He began pawing through twenty-six years' worth of mementos, which were
crammed into a space that could barely hold enough office supplies from
one small conspiracy. But enough holes for an orange tabby to hide.
He waited for any kind of movement, and something eventually flickered
in the corner of his eye. He turned to see Cecil pull his head back
into the bathroom.
The man's sublingual cursing increased audibly as he tromped into the
bathroom and found find no trace of the cat in the bathtub, behind the
toilet, in the sink, or under the sink. Nowhere. He cursed audibly
and stormed out to see Cecil scamper off the couch and into the
kitchen. He flew toward him, but he'd already gone again. The man let
loose an expletive at the top of his lungs that woke the downstairs
neighbor who was napping in front of a hockey game. And with manic
grin born of angst and momentary abandon, he struck out the last line
and its corresponding box on the 12F.
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