“Hey, is your car parked outside?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“I just saw the weirdest fucking thing out there.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, I mean … people used to talk about them when I worked at the Indian Center. One day I was driving on the 101 over by Salt River and I looked up on the embankment and there was a fucking coyote! I didn’t think they came that far into the city. He was standing there like he was taking it all in, checking it out. A twenty-first- century coyote!”
“It was probably just a dog that looked like a coyote.”
“No, no. I’m telling you, it was a fucking coyote.”
“Well, maybe it was lost,” Crista said.
For the rest of the night Tom couldn’t shake what he’d seen in the parking lot. Maybe it was just a dog. Had to be. Coyotes don’t come this far into the city. Hell, it was probably some dog that someone brought in from the rez and it got loose. Yeah, that was it.
“Hey, you all right?” Crista asked. “You look like you could use another drink.” She ordered them a round.
Crista reminded Tom of his first wife, who knew what to do. In a time of crisis she was like Captain Kirk, putting out orders and securing the ship.
The fluorescent lights were coming on, signaling closing time. The lights cast a garish glow on the leftovers from the Friday-night crowd and a shadow on Tom’s alcohol-soaked brain.
“You look like you need a ride home. My truck’s outside, parked near the 99 Cent store. It’s a tan Chevy with a feather hanging from the rearview mirror. I’ll be out in a few minutes.” She handed Tom her keys and left him to fend for himself.
As Tom made his way around the parking lot he wondered where he’d end up with Crista. Probably some Motel 6 in Glendale near I-17, he thought. More like Motel 69, and he laughed at his own joke. Her truck was backed in. A click of the key fob and the door unlocked. The smell that greeted him was the same smell as Crista’s. Something odd, something dark. He couldn’t put a finger on it. Tom settled into the passenger seat and waited. His head was spinning now, so he rolled down the window. Couples poured into the parking lot and groped at each other; some stopped to make out next to their vehicles. Tom leaned into the soft seat, rested his head against the door, and waited for Crista.
When he came to, he was no longer in the front seat. He was in the backseat and he had the sensation that he was moving at high speed. He sat up and saw pine trees whizzing past him. He’d sobered up enough to know he was no longer in Crista’s car. The crew cut was driving.
“Hey! Where’s Crista? What’re you doing?”
“I had to get you outta there,” said the crew cut.
“Where’s that woman I was with?”
“I think she’s after us.”
“After us? Where’re you taking me? What’s going on here?”
“Hang on. You got your seat belt on? You’re gonna need it.”
Headlights pierced through the darkness behind them. Tom looked back to see the truck following them. It was gaining on them.
“That woman you were with practices sacrifice to get what she wants.” The crew cut pressed on the gas and made the curve past the scenic outlook above Sedona. Something moved outside the window. Whatever it was, it was keeping up with them. It leaped toward the window and Tom saw it. A beast covered with hair, covered with skins. He remembered the stories of the shape-shifters coming out at night to claim their victims. Whatever it was, it shook Tom to the bone, and his heart nearly stopped.
“Jeeezus! Did you see that?” he shouted to the crew cut.
“I know, I know. Bet you wish you hadn’t danced with her.”
“You mean …?” The pieces were beginning to fall into place. What he’d seen in the parking lot. The smell. Crista.
The tires screeched and he felt the car moving on two wheels before it turned on its side into the shoulder and rolled into the pine trees. The crash broke a trail of pine needles and dust, mixed with the metallic sound of glass and metal breaking.
When Tom opened his eyes he wished he knew a death song, something to make meaning of it all. He saw the tree tops swaying and detected the faint smell of pine. Then the dark shape of the face he’d seen earlier looking down at him.
PART III
A TOWN WITHOUT PITY
OTHERS OF MY KIND
BY JAMES SALLIS
As I turned into my apartment complex, sack of Chinese takeout from Hong Kong Garden in hand, Szechuan bean curd, Buddhist Delight, a man stood from where he’d been sitting on the low wall by the bank of flowers and ground out his cigarette underfoot. He wore a cheap navy-blue suit that nonetheless fit him perfectly, gray cotton shirt, maroon tie, oxblood loafers. He had the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Miss Rowan? Jack Collins, violent crimes.” With an easy, practiced motion he flipped open his wallet to display a badge. “You give me a minute of your time?”
“Why not. Come on up.”
Without asking, I spooned food out onto two plates and handed one to him. For a moment he looked surprised, but only for a moment, then tucked in.
“So what can I do for you, Jack Collins?” I asked between bites. We stood around the kitchen island. Tiles chipped at the edge, grout stained by untold years of spills and seasoned by time to a light brown. The kitchen radio, as always, was on. After 6:00 the station switches from classical to jazz. Lots of tenor sax. California bebop beating its breast.
“Well, first, I guess, you could tell me why you handed me this plate.”
“You’re not wearing a wedding ring. Your shirt needs press-ing, and even with that suit and tie, you have on white socks. A wife or girlfriend would have called you on that. So I figure you live alone. People who live alone are usually up for a meal. Especially at 6:30 in the evening.”
“And here I thought
I admitted to it as he went to the sink, rinsed off utensils and plate, and set them in the rack.
“I know what happened to you,” he said.
“You mean how I spent my early years.”
“Danny and all the rest, yes.”
“Those records were sealed by the court.”
“Yeah, well …”
He came back to collect my dishes and utensils, took them to the sink and rinsed them, added them to the rack. Stood there looking out the window above the sink. Another tell that he’s a bachelor, used to living alone.
