The Stranger Next Door

Fire!

Behind him, the flames leaped higher, and the light from the fire illuminated both yards. Wood crackled and split. Smoke blew toward Pete, making his eyes smart.

Pete howled louder. “Fire!” he screeched. “Wake up! Wake up and call the fire department!”

Alex opened his eyes, blinking sleepily. It took a moment for him to realize what had awakened him. He lay in bed, listening. Where was Pete? Alex was sure he had heard Pete yowling, but the cries sounded far away, as if Pete were shut in a closet.

Alex got out of bed and went into the hallway.

“Wake up! Bring a ladder and get me off this roof!”

Alex listened again; the yowling seemed to come from outside. Had Pete managed to sneak outdoors?

Alex went downstairs. He opened the front door, looked out, and gasped.

“Mom! Dad!” he yelled as he raced to the telephone. “The Morrises’ house is on fire!”

OTHER BOOKS BY PEG KEHRET

Abduction!

Cages

Danger at the Fair

Don’t Tell Anyone

Earthquake Terror

The Ghost’s Grave

Horror at the Haunted House

I’m Not Who You Think I Am

Night of Fear

Nightmare Mountain

Searching for Candlestick Park

Sisters Long Ago

Spy Cat

Terror at the Zoo

Trapped

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

A
llow me to
introduce myself. I am Pete, a cat of superior intellect and handsome features. My fur is
mostly white, with several attractive brown spots. My eyes are the sweet, clear blue of a robin’s egg, and I wear a matching blue collar. My ears and tail are deep brown, and a dark mask surrounds my eyes.

But I am telling you only about my outside, when any fool knows it’s what’s inside that matters—in cats as in people. Inside, I am courageous, clever, and capable. If you ever want to describe me, remember the three C’s.

You will notice I did not mention my size. Despite what the misinformed veterinarian who gives me my checkups says, I am not—repeat NOT—overweight.

*   *   *

Until now, I’ve always written my books alone. This time, I had help. I didn’t ask for help; Pete, my cat, volunteered.
Demanded
is closer to the truth. Like most cats, Pete does what he wants without asking permission.

He simply started adding pages to the book I was working on. I had no idea Pete could type, and I certainly did not know that he was smart enough to help write a novel. The papers that came with him from the Humane Society said only: “Good with children.” Not a word about any literary talent.

One afternoon when I was working on a new book, I got interrupted, and I left my office without turning off the computer as I usually do. When I returned, there was a new page in the story I had been writing. Even more astonishing, the page was signed by its author. It clearly said: “by Pete the Cat.”

I read the page; then I read it again. It was good—really good! I didn’t like the way he had changed the villain from an escaped convict to a rottweiler, but other than that I was truly impressed with Pete’s ability. He didn’t even make any typos.

I don’t know why she was so surprised that I can write. We cats are known to be exceptionally intelligent creatures. How many humans do you know who can catch their dinner in the weeds behind the garage? Who else can convince a soundly sleeping person to get out of bed at three
A.M.
on a cold night to pour cat food into a bowl—simply by walking up and down the piano keys? This trick works every time, although I must say the humans tend to be cranky at that hour.

The night after I discovered that first page, I purposely
left my computer running when I went to bed. If Pete the Cat wants to help me write my books, who am I to discourage him? Heaven knows writing is hard enough work that I need all the help I can get.

When I first approached the computer keyboard, I had no desire for literary fame. I wanted to write because I had heard that every computer has a mouse. By the time I discovered that the computer mouse was not edible, I was interested in the story.

Two amazing things happened that night. First, I got a complete night’s sleep for the first time in the seven years since I adopted Pete. Usually, Pete wakes me up at least once during the night. Either he jumps on the bedside table and tries to knock my glasses to the floor, or if I have shut him out of the bedroom so he can’t do that, he sits outside the door and yowls. That night, I slept straight through with nary a whisper from Pete.

Until then, I had been bored at night. Catnip-scented balls are fun for a few minutes, but I needed intellectual stimulation. I had told her that many times as I sat outside the closed bedroom door, but she never could figure out what I was saying. Humans are not as bright as cats are.

The other astonishing thing that happened the first time I left the computer on overnight was that three pages of the new book were waiting for me the next morning. Good pages. Pages that I didn’t have to write.

Excitement crept up the back of my neck as I read
them. If he does this every night, I thought, it will double my output. Some days I don’t finish even one page, much less three. With Pete’s help I can write my books twice as fast. Do twice as many each year.

Make twice as much money. Buy twice as much cat food.

I should point out that as you’re reading this book, the words in italics, like the two sentences just before this one, are the ones Pete wrote. You probably guessed that already.

This is a novel, so all of the events and characters are fictitious, but you will notice that the cat in the story looks exactly like Pete. He is also named Pete. I tried to explain to my coauthor that characters in a novel are not supposed to be real, but, as I’ve already mentioned, Pete does things his own way.

Why make up a pretend cat when a fine feline, with the perfect name, appearance, and disposition, is willing to be in the story? There’s an old saying that truth is stranger than fiction. In the case of the cat in this book, truth is better than fiction.

Enough of this explanation. Here is the story that Pete and I wrote together.

The byline REALLY should read: “by Pete the Cat, with a little help from Peg Kehret.” I did most of the work.

T
hey’re coming!
They’re coming tomorrow!”

Alex Kendrill sighed as his little brother, Benjie,
burst through the back door, yelling as loudly as he could.

Pete, Alex’s big brown-and-white cat, leaped off the chair where he had been napping and ran under the table. Pete disliked sudden loud noises, which was why he usually avoided Benjie.

Alex did not look up from his homework. “You don’t have to yell,” he said. “I’m right here.”

“They’ll be here tomorrow morning!” Benjie shouted.

“Who?” Alex asked, anticipating another of Benjie’s tall tales. Benjie loved to draw goofy animal pictures and then make up stories to go with them. Alex expected Benjie to say that a green-haired dog with five legs would be in their yard tomorrow, or some equally ridiculous story.

“Our new neighbors,” Benjie said. “Mr. Woolsey came
to take down the
FOR SALE
sign, and he said people will be moving in next door on Saturday.”

Alex paid attention now. “Did he tell you anything about them?” he asked.

“Nope. But I bet they’ll have a six-year-old boy, just like me. They might even have twin boys—or triplets.” Benjie’s voice got even louder as his imagination ran wild. “Maybe our new neighbors will have quadruplet boys or—what’s the word for five?”

“Quintuplets,” Alex said.

“Right. I bet they’ll have quintuplets—five boys exactly my age—and they’ll all like to play spy and ride scooters and draw animal pictures and invent stories!”

Pete’s tail swished nervously back and forth on the floor. Five more boys exactly like Benjie was a thought too terrible to contemplate. It would be even worse than getting a family dog.

Alex said, “If the new neighbors have quintuplets your age, I’m moving out. I’ll go live with Grandma.”

“Take me with you,” said Pete.

“Good,” Benjie said. “Your bedroom can be our clubhouse. We’ll set up my race-car track.”

Alex knew it was unlikely that the new neighbors would have five boys all the same age and personality as Benjie. “Did Mr. Woolsey tell you their name?” he asked.

“No. He told me to quit bothering him.”

“That sounds like Mr. Woolsey,” Alex said. “He does a good job of building houses, but he sure is crabby.”