The street they were on — Via Vista — was the last one in the development, and it dead-ended in the hillside just above. It was wide and curving, and dimly lighted by the lampposts, which were fairly few and far between. One of their neighbors had once told him that the homeowners’ association had voted to keep it that way; they wanted it to have the feel of living out in the country — which, to some extent, they’d done. Although the 405 freeway was just a few minutes away, up here it was dark and quiet, and the air smelled of the dry brush in the canyon behind the houses.
That was another thing Carter found so surprising, and unexpected, about living in L.A. Yes, you heard all the time about the traffic and the sprawl and the smog, but no one ever told you about how intimately nature was woven into the fabric of the city. In New York, you had Central Park, and the occasional green pocket here and there, but in L.A. you had mountains and canyons, beaches and ravines, everywhere you went. Looking off to his left, there was a tennis court — several of them dotted the development — but just beyond its fence the land fell away, and quite steeply, into a dense forested valley. All Carter could see in the summer moonlight was a deep, dark cleft, with the rolling flank of the Santa Monica Mountains in the distance. The only sign of civilization in there were the towers that rose up, well above the treetops, to carry the high-power lines. Atop each one a red beacon light went on and off and on again.
Carter strolled slowly, careful to blow his cigar smoke away from the baby. Joey rested his head against his father’s shoulder, but if Carter had to guess, he’d bet the kid’s eyes were still open. What did babies think about? What
Carter took another puff of the cigar, and scanned the windows of the neighboring houses. The only lights that were on were over the garages. Was anybody home, he wondered, in any of them?
Joey stirred in his arms.
And would his son ever understand just what a miracle child he was? Carter had been told it was impossible for him to father a child, that a boyhood illness had rendered him sterile. And then, in defiance of all the odds, Beth had become pregnant after all. Carter could still recall the surprise on the fertility expert’s face.
Via Vista stopped, on the south end, where the scrub-covered side of the hill rose up. Carter turned around, and leaving the sidewalk, headed back down in the center of the street. It’s not like there were going to be any cars up here. Looking all the way down the wide, curving road, he saw only one thing moving, and at first he thought it was just a shadow.
Then it moved again, and he knew it wasn’t.
From here, it looked like a medium-sized dog, maybe a collie. The first thing that occurred to him was that it might be that stray dog Beth had told him about. It had come up from the canyon side; maybe it lived in the brush somewhere.
Carter continued on, his flip-flops slapping the concrete street, enjoying his cigar… when the dog stopped and looked up the street at him.
And now he could see it was not a dog. The snout was too narrow, the bushy tail was held straight down from the body. This was a coyote, the first one Carter had seen since his fieldwork in Utah.
And the only one he’d ever seen in the middle of a street.
Nor, he suddenly realized, was it alone.
Several other shadows slowly emerged above the lip of the scrubby hillside. Skulking low, along the ground, walking on their toes — digitigrade — with that distinctive gait of their species.
Carter stopped in his tracks; his grip on Joey instinctively tightened.
One of the pack was loping toward Carter’s front lawn.
The bowl. With the water in it. They’d come up looking for water. In Utah, Carter had once seen a coyote leap an eight-foot wall to get to a cattle trough.
He’d also seen one take down a lamb with a single savage bite to the throat.
He quickly surveyed the area. The nearest house on his left was black and the low fence in front of it would offer no protection at all.
To his right, there was only the tennis court. But it did have a high Cyclone fence around it — high enough even to keep a coyote from leaping over it.
Carter moved slowly to his right, the cigar still clenched and glowing between his teeth.
The first coyote was still watching him; normally, coyotes were afraid of humans and would run for cover, but for all Carter knew, these had become acclimated. Or bold. Maybe the drought conditions had forced them to try some new survival strategies.
He inched his way up onto the curb — the watching coyote took a step in his direction — and edged toward the tennis court, never taking his own eyes off the animal. Coyotes were great stalkers, he knew — they would follow or chase their prey indefinitely, until the poor creature, exhausted, gave up. And then the pack would descend upon it.
Carter reached out one hand to the tennis court gate and tried the latch. For some reason, it didn’t go down. He tried again, then, looking away from the coyote for an instant, he glanced at the handle. Which had a padlocked chain around it.
They locked the courts at dusk, so hard-core players wouldn’t keep their neighbors up at night.
The coyote that had loped onto his lawn came out again, licking its chops. Two others followed it. And they, too, smelled — then saw — Carter up the street.
They fanned out, approaching slowly. Carter would appear formidable to them, but the scent and sight of a baby they would find irresistible. Their tails, Carter noticed, had extended horizontally from their bodies — a clear sign of aggression.
He could try a run for it, but he’d never make it through them to his own front door. And it might just encourage them to attack.
He looked in vain for any sign of the nightly patrol car. But there was none.
Fear is your friend, he suddenly thought. Learn from it.
But what? Learn what?
Fire. Fire is your friend, too.
And the coyotes’ enemy.
He anxiously looked around. A bush, with scraggly, dry branches, was a few feet away. He went closer, puffing madly on his cigar. The tip glowed hot and bright, and Carter took it from his mouth and touched it to a brittle leaf.
The leaf burst into flame, and then the flame raced down the withered branch.
Carter reached below it, into the bush, and snapped off the now burning branch. It wouldn’t burn long so he had to work fast.
Holding the branch in front of him, waving it just enough to let the smoke drift their way, he moved down the street toward the coyotes. Still they stood their ground. Carter went closer, toward what he perceived to be the leader of the pack — a scraggly gray beast with glaring eyes and raised ears. The branch was snapping and crackling in his hand, but the flame was also burning perilously close to his fingertips. He wouldn’t be able to hold it for more than a few seconds.
Joey turned his head to look at the coyotes, but didn’t know enough to be afraid.
The gray coyote bared its fangs and growled softly. The others gathered closer, moving forward with their bodies close to the concrete, their black-tipped tails rigid.
The fire singed Carter’s thumb, and before it went out altogether, he tossed the smoldering branch at the leader. Who jumped back.
And Carter ran, his thongs flapping, toward his own front door. He was clutching Joey under his arm like a running back carrying a football.
He broke through the line of coyotes, and kept on moving. But he could sense at least one of the animals turning, and dogging his heels. He could hear panting.
And then he felt fur, brushing his leg. The coyote was going to try to leap up and snatch the baby from his arms.
