It was two in the morning, and I was high up a tree rescuing a cat.

 

There comes a time when a thoughtful man rethinks his career choices. Me, I'm a talented investigator. My filing cabinets overflow with client files, some of them rich, influential...

 

...hiring...

 

I sighed, closed my eyes, and then concentrated on the task at hand.

 

This was gonna be a tough one.

 

* * *

 

I'd just made it home from a crushingly long stakeout when Mrs. Spunkmeyer, my landlady, came to me with her problem: the cat was stuck in the tree.

 

Normally, I'd call the fire department, but she's been very understanding about the occasional late rent check. Instead, I put on my old sneakers and started climbing.

 

I can't tell you what kind of tree. It was huge and ancient, all twisted and gnarled from the perpetual struggle for light in our cramped backyard. Muffin had taken refuge halfway up, but before I got there she fled further up. So onward I climbed; heigh-ho.

 

Oddly, there was a pigeon watching the whole thing. Nature isn't my forte, but even I know pigeons sleep nights. Not this one, though. Maybe it was curious about the strange intruders. I climbed past it, then it flew past me, over and over. Soon Muffin was on the highest limb, the pigeon on the next down, and I was clinging to the trunk for dear life, wondering how I'd managed to get up this far.

 

"Do you see anything? Hello?"

 

That was Mrs. Spunkmeyer on the ground. I said something, then concentrated on the cat.

 

"Here, Muffin! Pusspusspuss!"

 

Muffin was having none of it. She was crouched as far out as she could go, and I could tell she wasn't even thinking about moving.

 

I hated to climb all this way for nothing, but there was no way I was going out after her. That limb was barely holding Muffin's five pounds of fluff. I considered deliberately snapping the branch, but then I pictured that sharp wood falling a hundred feet onto old Mrs. Spunkmeyer. Or worse, a maddened Muffin, descending claws first. No, not an option.

 

Then I noticed: That cat was terrified, and not of me. It was staring over my shoulder. I followed its gaze and saw... the pigeon? It was scared of a pigeon?! That couldn't be right.

 

Then again, the bird was acting peculiar. Hmm.

 

I looked closer. The pigeon looked back at me. It didn't blink. It didn't coo or strut or do any of the things that pigeons do. It just stared.

 

I wrapped my legs around the tree trunk, then turned to see it better. It kept staring. I flapped a hand at it. It didn't budge. Weird.

 

I had my pistol, but that seemed like overkill. Instead, I dug out some loose change and started flicking coins at the bird, to try to startle it into flying away. Hey, it made sense at the time, okay? I'd like to know what you'd have come up with.

 

*ping* Whickerwhickerwhicker... Missed.

 

*ping* THUMP. Hit the branch at its feet. Nothing.

 

*ping* Whickerwhickerwhicker... Missed again.

 

*ping* TINK! Whickerwhickerwhicker...

 

Tink?! What the—

 

"What are you doing up there, young man?"

 

I ignored Mrs. Spunkmeyer and concentrated on the bird. That had been a direct hit, and it hadn't moved at all. What's more, when the coin struck, it had sounded like metal.

 

That was no bird.

 

No wonder the cat was spooked! I was pretty freaked out myself.

 

A note on firearms safety: Don't pull the trigger if you're not absolutely sure where the bullet's going to land. You should never climb above the rooftops and take aim at a metal pigeon, especially knowing you're likely to miss.

 

But that's what I was doing.

 

The pigeon had a different idea. The moment I jacked a round into the chamber, that bird came straight at me, beating my hand with its wings and pecking away like crazy. I pulled my gun arm back behind the trunk and it started on the other one.

 

About then Muffin decided she'd had enough. She ran across and climbed down my left leg, leaving deep bloody gouges all the way.

 

Well. That was one problem sorted. I flipped my safety on and swung the gun butt at the probably-not-a-real-pigeon. Soon I connected, and the thing fluttered down out of sight. Unfortunately, I'd overbalanced and was slowly slipping off my branch.

 

The gun meant I had only one hand free, which was not ideal. I didn't dare drop it with Mrs. Spunkmeyer on the lawn below me. I slid further, shedding shirt buttons. Then I tipped upside-down, still gripping the limb between my legs. Random objects fell from my pockets, and I started to come loose. Had there not been another branch nearby, I wouldn't be writing this now.

 

Somehow, I got upright again and holstered my pistol. After that, it was just a matter of time and torn clothing before I made it to the ground. There was no sign of Mrs. Spunkmeyer or the cat. I felt unappreciated.

 

I'd pulled out my penlight and was busily refilling my pockets — wallet, money clip, cigarette lighter, keys — when I got that old familiar feeling: I was being watched. Slowly, I turned to see.

 

There on the ground were the battered remains of the metal pigeon. Surrounding it were other birds: pigeons, crows, seagulls. More settled all the time. They were all staring straight at me. I stared back, motionless, picturing that scene from The Birds.

 

In a minute a large owl swooped down, grabbed the wrecked pigeon-thing, and flew off. All the others left too, and I breathed a big sigh of relief and turned to go inside.

 

Then I saw something glittery from the corner of my eye. I went over and picked it up. I've still got it somewhere — an eerie memento.

 

It's a piece of metal mesh, with three plastic pigeon feathers sticking out of it.