I watch, skulking in the shadows that still hover on the perimeter set up by journalists, as a national news team sets up for a live update. The anchor fidgets with her microphone and smooths her blonde hair. I listen as her vocal warmups echo over the dusty road like the cry of an animal.
I haven’t seen Jerry for the rest of the afternoon and evening, which is remarkable, given the tiny size of the town. I’m glad, though. The idea of making more polite conversation makes me uneasy. I’m fearful that my true intentions might become apparent with the revelation of any more details of my situation.
I wait by the car until the news broadcast is finished. I pop a couple of peanuts into my mouth, a snack that I bought at the general store when the grumpy guy behind the counter handed his shift off to a younger, friendlier version of himself. His son, I presume.
I‘m not sure how far a bag of peanuts will get me once I get to the creek, though.
I sling my bag over my shoulders and head out, now that the light has faded on the roadside that leads towards my destination. The Bower ranch sits in the distance, a dark shadow on the landscape under the moonlight. I imagine it watching me, knowing what I’m about to do.
I shake off the feeling of paranoia like a second skin, shedding it here on the desert floor like a reptile. Reborn, I walk on.
The road, red in the daylight, is purple under the moonlight. A taupe landscape spreads out in front of me, the sky broken up by rock formations and the mesa in the distance. The sky is inky, the stars spread out against it like confetti holding its place in mid-air, frozen during a celebration.
In the darkness that Kenton provides, the stars overwhelm the sky. There are pinpoints of light stretching from one horizon to the other. The moon hangs low and bloodless, a cool white against the navy behind it. It seems to glow. The perfect invitation for a werewolf.
Suddenly, I’m brought back to the very real and less fantastical idea that there are, indeed, many predators that haunt this landscape. The thought is brought home when I trip and fall. I look back to find that I narrowly missed a bear trap.
I examine it more closely, the rusted mouth of the device boasting teeth like sharpened stakes, ready to drive themselves deep into the ankle of an unsuspecting animal. Or in my case, human. I wonder for a moment what exactly the Bowers are hoping to catch with one of these things, but don’t let myself ruminate on it long. I need to get to the creek.
I roll the thought of a predator over in my mind, folding my brain around it like dough wrapping some guilt-inducing treat. Death is never far. It’s something I’ve learned in the last year away and during the writing of my first book. Even when we hope it is—when we’re sure—it isn’t.
Any of us is just a moment—a choice—away from the reaper at any time.
The thought does little to comfort me in this wasteland. I look back and see how far behind I’ve left the help of anyone that could hear me scream if a mountain lion did cross my path. The lights of the news trucks have become distant dots, so I look forward to the Bower ranch looming not far in front of me.
I pass the ranch house, noticing someone on the porch as I pass. I don’t wave, and neither does the man, but we see each other. He makes no motion telling me to turn back. I’m sure he’s resigned to the fact that journalists are going to come and go out to the little-known spot where the best shots of the ranch can be had. There’s probably even a part of him that would encourage it, knowing that any press Revelation Ranch gets is good news for him. It puts him one step closer to reclaiming this part of the country. I’m not a trespasser in his eyes; I’m an instrument.
I continue, watched in the darkness. It’s a relief when I reach a copse of trees that cover the periphery of the creek I’m seeking.
The cedar trees grab at my clothes like a crowd of men with no boundaries. My lightweight denim button up blouse snags on a naked branch. I wave it away, looking, I’m sure, like a girl fighting a spider’s web.
After I overtake my assailant, I push through the rest of the dense canopy. I hear the sounds of a menagerie as I pass through the last of the brambles. Nocturnal birds—owls, even, perhaps—call out to each other, not caring, and certainly not fearing, that I’m among them. I wonder for a moment what other nocturnal animals make this place their home. But I don’t have to wonder long.
I emerge from the trees on the edge of the dry creek bed. Drought conditions have dried up the tributaries to the dangerously low river that runs nearby. I scan the bed and my eyes find another’s.
Scavenging, a coyote raises its head from whatever feast it’s found at the bottom of the stream’s path. In the moonlight, I can still tell that his lips and tan-colored jowls are stained crimson with blood. He looks at me for what turns into a very long moment. I stare back, determined not to let him cow me into submission. I suddenly wish I’d come more prepared, armed at least with knowledge about how to handle an encounter with a coyote, crouched low and protective over its dinner.
The coyote gives in first, thank God. He grabs a final scrap of fur and flesh and jogs effortlessly up the
