by Meg Gardiner
Jesse glanced over. “Is he gay?”
“Gay, bi, a goat shagger, I don’t know. But this katoey—this Thai ladyboy—it wasn’t a simple murder.” He shrugged. “Huge city like that, ordinarily a whore dies and few people take notice. But the trappings of this death were . . . well, it was . . .”
He stared at the ground.
Jax mimed a knife slicing flesh. “Coyote used a KA-BAR. Took ’em off midwank.”
Jesse flinched. So did Tim.
“After that Coyote turned into smoke,” he said. “Out of play, dead, who knew?”
“Why—” I began, and had to clear my throat. “Why did his mission change from sorting out thugs in Southeast Asia to killing my classmates here at home?”
Jax sat down beside me. “You’ve made the leap, then.”
“That he never went off the government clock.”
She nodded. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Is Project South Star still active?”
“No. This seems more like an aftereffect. South Star died out but Coyote burns on.”
The sun felt hot on my face. “If you walk back the cat, the tangled ball of string unspools to China Lake. Things went wrong when my class got too close to that explosion out in Renegade Canyon. We were exposed to something that’s causing my classmates to get sick and die. And now it’s leading Coyote to kill them.” I looked at her. “Are we the error that somebody’s trying to correct? The flaw?”
Jax eyed me. “Get sick and die? Is that why you were coming out of a doctor’s office?”
I should have known they’d been following us from Dr. Abbott’s. “No, I’m fine. Are you telling me that you didn’t know about that?”
Jesse raised a hand. “Before you ask any more questions, I have one.” He waved at Jax and Tim. “Why do you want to help track down Coyote? Tell me how come you give a shit.”
They didn’t answer. Tim lit a cigarette.
“Cross off altruism or a desire to atone for your own sins. That leaves money or a vendetta.”
Tim’s expression didn’t change. “Nobody’s paying me to kill Coyote.”
“So it’s a freebie?”
Jax stood up. “It’s neither. What matters is that I will not lie to Evan or put her in danger. That’s all you need to know.”
“The hell it is.”
Tim dragged on his cigarette. “Jax went to Evan with information intended to shut down this bastard before anybody else died. So maybe you could dial it down, mate.”
“Don’t tell me to cool it.”
“Twenty minutes ago you pulled a gun on an inflatable toy. Cooling it is precisely what you need to do.”
Jesse closed his eyes and put up his hands. “Fine.”
Jax sat down beside me again. “Summarize what you’ve learned.”
I gave them the short form: South Star, explosion, death, death, and death.
She scanned the view of the harbor. “It almost ties together, but not quite. We’re missing something.”
I looked at her. “He killed the helicopter pilot last year near Seattle.”
“Dearing? I didn’t know she had a China Lake connection.”
“Do you know about any other murders?”
“There was a car wreck in Cincinnati that’s suspicious.”
“Hell,” I said. “Marcy Yakulski?”
“That’s it. The paper reported that the gas tank caught fire when they flipped. It didn’t report that somebody watched the car burn.”
“A bystander?” Jesse said.
“This was a dispassionate observer. He stood by while two people burned inside the vehicle. But the driver ignored the flames and managed to get her child free and carry her down the street. The observer followed. When the driver collapsed he stood over her, staring. He was there when the fire department arrived. Before he fled, one of the firefighters saw him squat next to the driver, touching her. The autopsy showed marks in her flesh.”
Jesse’s voice was low. “Holy fuck.”
“That was Marcy,” I said. “Did he rig the crash?”
Jesse came up behind me. “No, I mean that Coyote was observing the effects of South Star. He watched Marcy burn to study the effects of the pain vaccine.”
From the hillside below us a vulture swooped up into the sky, black wings a hole in the blue. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out all but the evidence. Trying to make the string untangle.
“We weren’t vaccinated against pain. We were contaminated with something, and so was Coyote. And now he’s trying to get rid of us.”
“It’s a coverup,” Jesse said. “Coyote isn’t out there running amok. He’s on assignment.”
Tim dragged on his cigarette. “A comment from one who toiled in the bowels of government. If an agency wants something covered up, they may outsource the work so that they can keep their hands clean.”
“Covering their asses?” I said.
“They’re bureaucratic weasels. They like their comfy offices in Whitehall and Langley. They like their projects to look like successes in the after-mission reports. One gets promoted by running clean, successful projects.”
“So they’re going dirty as hell to clean up a messy project from way back?” I said.
Jax shrugged. “It’s conceivable.”
I ran my hands through my hair. “Then Coyote’s using the serial killer profile to distract attention from his real agenda.”
Jesse rubbed his palm along his leg. “Problem is, some government agency may have outsourced the coverup of a toxic chemical exposure to an actual psychopath.”
“If that’s what’s going on,” Jax said, “then Coyote has backers, funds, and possibly contacts who provide him with information to target his victims.”
“Salt ’n’ Pepa?” I said.
“I’m not sure who those men might have been. But right now we don’t know who you can trust. Presume that somebody is feeding Coyote information. Watch yourself.”
Jesse looked at me, bleak. Above us the vulture lazed in the sky, riding the late afternoon thermals.
I stood and began pacing. “It still doesn’t scan.”
Jesse echoed me. “For the government to try to kill every kid in a class that was exposed to toxic chemicals—for what? You’re right. It’s overkill.”
“We still haven’t put it together. Something else is going on.”
Jax said, “You need additional information. Who else can you talk to about this?”
I jumped. She was right behind me.
“I need to talk to the classmate who’s ill. And maybe the doctor back in China Lake who advised the high school.” Looking toward Jesse, the sun spun into my eyes and I put a hand up to block the glare. “Tully Cantwell, you met him at the reunion.”
Jax took hold of my hand. “Oh, my.”
She turned it so the ring flashed in the light. Her eyes narrowed.
“Colorless, excellent clarity, superb cut.” She looked at Jesse. “Mister, you have taste.”
Her feline gaze assessed me. She smiled as though enjoying the answer to a private riddle and brushed the back of her hand across my cheek. I swallowed, dry mouthed.
Tim stubbed out his cigarette. “Here’s the thing. Coyote likes knives and fire. And he’s after you.”
He crossed the concrete, hands loose at his sides. “There’s an adage. First rule of a gunfight? Bring a gun. First rule of a knife fight? Bring a gun.”
My mouth was still dry. “What’s the first rule of a fire-fight?”
“Be someplace else.” He stepped closer. “Get out of Dodge.”
That wasn’t an adage but a directive.
“I’m working with the cops and the FBI,” I said.
“Then do it on the fly. Keep moving and keep your head down. Coyote has no limits. Even if some government agency is sponsoring him, these killings are deeply personal. You can’t stop him; you can only stay ahead of him.”
They turned and headed back to the bike. Overhead, the vulture soared
in a figure eight, drawing a sign in the sky. Eternity.
20
I heard the key card flip the lock. I hiked the bath towel around myself just as Jesse pushed open the door. He came into the motel room with Mexican food, and it smelled great.
My hair was wet and the air-conditioning was up high. The South Coast Inn had what we needed for the night: a hot shower, a king bed, high-speed Internet access, and privacy. This was called getting out of Dodge.
I pulled on a white T-shirt and jeans. Jesse set the food on the coffee table.
“Rudy’s taquitos. Babe, this is reason ninety-eight.” I took the fork he offered, grabbed the plate, and started wolfing. “Thank you.”
Green chile salsa, fried tortillas, guacamole, and sour cream: the start to my pregnancy diet. I was eating for two, and right then I didn’t care if the second person was Marlon Brando.
Jesse got his own plate and dug in. He looked at the notes and printouts slung across the coffee table.
“How’s it going?” he said.
“Sally Shimada’s taking the feature idea to her editor.”
Sally was a reporter at the Santa Barbara News-Press. She was charming, dogged, and ambitious, so with luck I thought I might get my feature on the reunion killings published within a day or two. After that I could work on spreading it to other papers and online.
“At a minimum she’ll interview me for a piece of her own. And I left a message with Dr. Cantwell’s office in China Lake. Still no answer on Valerie’s number, though. That worries me.”
He eyed me. “You need to set that aside. Eat up, stretch out on the bed, and rest. No worrying tonight.”
“Sure. Flip that switch on my back, would you? I can’t reach it.”
He glanced at my computer. “Making progress on the writing?”
“Excellent progress.”
I took my plate to the desk, sat down, and scrolled through my document. He backpedaled to get a look.
“What is this?” he said.
My smile felt pleasingly evil.
He read the screen. “You’re not serious.”
“You don’t think Taylor deserves it?”
Setting his plate on his lap, he pulled the computer to the edge of the desk. He read aloud.
“ ‘Dear Mrs. Boggs: Thank you for your proposal for Pants on Fire: Weekend Fireworks for Couples, which your cousin submitted on your behalf.’ ”
He looked incredulous.
I gestured at the screen. “Didn’t I mock up a first-rate publisher’s letterhead? I’m lethal with fonts.”
“ ‘Your photographs have a gritty, vérité quality. And we agree that pants on fire are essential to the nation’s physical and spiritual health. Regretfully, however, your book does not fit with our current list. Photo essays are expensive, and the dimensions . . .’ ”
He blinked.
“Okay, I need a better adjective there.” I deleted vast. “Colossal? Thundering?”
“Gargantuan.”
“Now you’re talking.” I typed.
“ ‘. . . the dimensions of your gargantuan ass preclude us from publishing it as a coffee-table book. Even an oversize one. We have forwarded it to our sister publication, Cattle-men’s Quarterly, where bovine proportions are de rigueur and . . .’ ”
“Scratch ‘bovine.’ ” I backspaced and retyped.
“ ‘Heiferlicious,’ that’s evocative.” His jaw had gone slack. “How are you going to pull this off? You’ve given the publisher a New York address.”
“Manhattan area code, that’s all she needs to see on the fax header. Think your cousin would send it? The practical joker?”
“I’ll phone him.”
“Excellent.”
He took over the keyboard and added a final line.
“ ‘In closing, may we compliment you on your impeccable proofreading.’ ”
I kissed him on the cheek and stood up. He snagged my hand.
“You never lose your equilibrium. Did you know that?” he said.
I gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”
“You handle everything and you never capsize. Granted, you might handle things aggressively, but you always keep your feet underneath you.”
“I’m told it’s either poise or mulishness.”
“You even cope with a sarcastic hothead proposing marriage to you.”
I smiled. “I think of you more as a spirited wiseass.”
He held on to my hand. “Thank you. For everything.”
The words, his lopsided smile, and the humility in his voice hit me like a skillet in the face.
“Babe.”
I drew him to the bed and he swung over to sit next to me. I put my hand against his cheek.
“I’m the one who needs to thank you, for this tremendous gift,” I said.
“You’re welcome. But I want you to know that I mean it.” He pulled me down and we lay facing each other. “Thank you for taking me as I am. Thank you for taking this ride with me.”
“Taking each other as we are—I think that’s what marriage has to be about.”
He brushed my hair back from my face. “Fearsome idea, isn’t it?”
“Bloodcurdling.”
His lopsided smile remained. He rolled onto his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows.
“Our genes, wrapped up in a new package. Unbelievable.” Giving me the once-over, he said, “I predict freckles.”
I eyed him back. “Blue eyes. Long legs.”
“Your imagination.”
“Your relentlessness.”
“The comical way you cry at the end of movies.”
“That’s not comical; it’s warmhearted. Your misguided clothes sense.”
“Terminator turns on your waterworks. It’s comical. What’s wrong with my clothes?”
I pulled up his shirt. His shorts showed above the waistband of his jeans. “Krusty the Clown boxers. You’re right: That’s not misguided. It’s tragic.”
“Your mouth.”
“Your mouth.”
We stared at each other. He broke out laughing.
“God, what a nightmare,” I said.
He laid his cheek on my belly and whispered, “Hello, baby. It’s your dad.”
It’s the sweetest of memories.
When the stars came out, Coyote climbed the fire escape to the roof of the whore’s apartment building. It was a cheap California roof, tar paper covered with gravel that scrunched beneath his feet. Squatting down in the dark, he lifted his face to the sky and let the noise of the nearby freeway flow over him. The air carried the metallic taste of auto exhaust. He knew what he had to do.
He had to take the four whose names he had underlined. He would take others as well, but those four were the crux of the project. Taking them would stop the leaks. Taking them would balance the scales. It would cleanse and rectify. And he knew how he had to make his approach.
One name came back to him. She was a pivot point. She was one of the original group, the ones who set his life on the path to disorder. The documents contained more than enough information about her to help him focus his hunt. Valerie Skinner would be beyond valuable.
He put his hands on the gravel roof and scratched his fingernails back, drawing claw marks. The shamans knew, the Shoshone and Paiute of the Neolithic high desert. You draw your hunt, you carve it into the stone as his fingers had carved into Becky O’Keefe’s burned flesh, and you bring good fortune upon yourself.
He looked down. In front of the building a car stopped, a bloodred Camaro, and a man climbed out. He had a rat’s twitchiness. The pimp was here.
Coyote rushed down the fire escape to the apartment and began packing up his work. Footsteps climbed the stairs in the hall and the pimp pounded on the door. He ignored it. When the man left, he would get out. He didn’t need to go far, but he wanted to be away from this site when the stench of Wanda began wafting out. He knew where he would go. He gazed out the window, down toward the crawl of Hollywood. I
t had been many years, but it was time to go home.
Angie Delaney pulled into the driveway after dark, feeling weary. Work had been a total loss. All she could feel was a grinding worry about her daughter. But she knew that Phil was taking things in hand, and that alone made her feel more secure. Phil was a son of a bitch, but he was her son of a bitch.
She grabbed her purse from the passenger seat and saw the crumpled bits of paper littering the floor. She picked them up and realized they must have fallen out of Evan’s backpack.
She sighed. The visit had been too short. Blow in, blow out, the human hurricane. But that was her girl: Evan was her father’s daughter.
Loneliness swept through her. Damn, she missed her kids sometimes. The fact that they grew up and moved away was not fair, not at all. She uncrumpled the bits of paper, pressed them to her skirt, and smoothed them out.
She smiled to herself, seeing Evan’s handwriting. A grocery list. A legal sheet scribbled with court case citations. The receipt from the pharmacy.
She saw the itemized list of purchases and felt as though she’d been slapped in the head. Early Pregnancy Test.
She ran inside to call her ex-husband.
The ocean shines electric blue, lit from below. I swim nowhere. The surf roars and breakers hurl themselves up the sand. Jesse is standing on the beach.
Wind rakes his hair across his eyes. He’s waiting for me. I have to get to shore but I can’t kick.
Behind me comes a ripping sound. I turn. Three gashes are tearing toward me along the surface of the water. Strike-fighter speed. They’re talon tracks, but the creature, whatever huge thing is slicing the ocean, is invisible.
Hey. My arms won’t swim. I call to Jesse but the surf swallows my voice. The gashes race toward me. Where they rip the water it turns translucent, veined a bloody blue.
Do you have a message? I’m yelling. And Jesse sees. He runs into the surf, dives through a wave, and comes up sprinting. Head down, thresher kick, barreling toward me. The tracks are bearing down, roaring, and now in their wake the water is black. Wild laughter. I stretch my hand toward Jesse. He’s right there, inches away, when the talons slice the water on top of him.
I jerked awake. My hands were clutching the covers and I felt as though a concrete block were laid across my chest. The glow from the television flickered on the ceiling. The dream hung in my mind, sharp as a scream. I rolled over and reached for Jesse.
