Holly laid a hand on his knee. 'I know it's boring, but it's one thing we can do.'
'Well, I'm beginning to feel like a damned paedophile.'
'Are you going to sulk now?'
'Sulk, hell. It's been half a year.'
'You said-'
'I know, I know, and I'm not backing out on you. I understand how important Malcolm is to you, and I'm willing to make every reasonable effort to find him. But do you realize how much time we're spending looking for a boy who could be anywhere in the western hemisphere by now? Or dead?'
'Malcolm is alive,' Holly said stubbornly. 'I know he is. I can feel it.'
'Okay, so he's alive. He's becoming an obsession with you. We can't even go to the movies without Malcolm sitting there between us.'
Holly's cheeks showed pink spots of anger. She took her hand away from Gavin's knee. 'Oh, is that so? I don't remember a lot of complaining from you last night about the bed being too crowded.'
'Last night was fine,' Gavin admitted. 'But those times are getting to be mighty rare. We started out with what I thought was a pretty good sex life. Lately it's Malcolm this and Malcolm that, and we're lucky to have an uninterrupted twenty minutes for fooling around.'
Holly stood up abruptly from the couch. Gavin scrambled to his feet to face her.
She said, 'If you want out, Sheriff, you've got it. Thank you very much for sticking it out this long. I'll handle it myself from here on. Goodnight.'
'If that's the way you want it, goodnight!' he said and stomped out the door.
Ramsay had gone all the way down the walk to his car and had his hand on the door handle when he stopped. Asshole, he told himself. He squared his shoulders, turned, and walked back up the path to Holly's little house. As he reached for the bell the door opened in his face.
'They always come back,' she said.
'You're too smart for your own good, lady. Want to look at the pictures some more?'
'Not tonight,' she said.
'Want to go to bed?'
'Try me.'
He gently closed the door behind them.
Chapter Eighteen
The weeks passed.
And the months.
Malcolm wandered up and down the long, diverse state of California. He had been in and out of cities, towns, villages; crossed mountains and desert. Several times he had ventured near the state line. He had looked across into Oregon, Nevada, and Arizona, but he had not crossed the line. Although he was a young man without roots, he still felt that it was in California that he would find what was waiting for him. It had all begun for him in this state, and he sensed that this was where it would end.
Once, during the winter when he was seeking warmth wherever he could find it, Malcolm did travel a short distance into Mexico. He had looked hard at the verdant hills below Tijuana and felt the presence there of others like himself. Yet, they were not his own people, the survivors of Drago. He had no doubt now that there were survivors. Many times he had heard the howling in the night — calling him. Though his body yearned to answer their call, he fought against it. He was not ready.
Despite the vagabond life, Malcolm's body filled out over the year. He grew stronger. His shoulders broadened out and his chest expanded. Such work as he was able to find helped harden him. His muscles were supple, his hands rough and calloused. Although he took a boyish pride in his more manly appearance, there were new problems.
In the dim outlaw world he was forced to live in, physical conflict was common. Malcolm had seen men fight to the death over half a bottle of wine. In the early days he had often been challenged by the boys and men he met in his travels. Every time, although his body ached to respond, he had backed away from a fight. He would suffer any humiliation to avoid combat.
They laughed at him and called him Coward. The taunts did not bother him, nor the name. He sensed how swiftly and terribly he might destroy these people if he yielded to violent emotions. Their name for him then would be far worse than Coward.
More frequently as the weeks passed Malcolm felt his body strain to change its shape when some passion gripped him. The urge to let go was powerful, but Malcolm continued to fight it. By intense effort of will he had so far resisted the full change, but he knew the day would come when he could resist no longer. He could only hope that by then he would know what to do.
While his body grew strong, the unsettled life took its toll on the young man's emotions. On a cloudless afternoon in late spring he felt he had hit bottom. He rested that day in the Inyo hills and thought about bringing his painful life to an end. But he did not even know how to do that. With his education cut off by the fire at Drago, he understood very little of his kind. There were ways, it was said, that they could be destroyed — silver, fire, and a third, which was never mentioned. Had one of his people ever killed himself? Was such an act possible? Malcolm had no way of knowing.
Suddenly he tensed, cocked his head, and listened. Faint but unmistakeable, there came a cry of mingled pain and fear. Malcolm tested the air, determined the direction from which the cry came, and climbed swiftly up the grassy slope.
The cries ceased as he drew near. Malcolm knew that the creature in pain sensed his approach and feared him. He moved on cautiously, guided by his sense of smell.
Behind a patch of scrub oak he found it — a young coyote, hardly more than a pup. Its forepaw was caught in a trap.
Memories flooded back to Malcolm of his own anguish on that night more than a year ago when his ankle had been crushed by the trap. He knelt beside the coyote pup, his eyes filling with tears. He reached his hand out tentatively, palm up, to show the creature he meant no harm.
The trapped coyote sniffed at his fingers. Its lip drew back in an instinctive snarl, but it made no attempt to bite him. Very gently Malcolm touched its muzzle. His fingers stroked the grey-brown fur of the head between the velvety pointed ears. The young coyote shivered under his touch.
'Easy, little guy,' the boy said. 'I'm not going to hurt you.'
The pup whined softly.
'I know how you feel. Believe me, I do.'
The coyote looked up at him with cautious eyes. Its shivering quieted.
'That's the boy,' Malcolm said, speaking in a slow, soothing tone. 'Now let's see how bad you're hurt.'
He moved the pup gently to get a better look at the damage done by the trap. With relief he saw it was not the bone-crushing kind that had caught him in the woods outside Pinyon. This was the legal, non-maiming trap designed to catch and hold, but not to do serious injury.
'You're a lucky fella,' Malcolm said. 'I know you probably don't think so, and it's no fun to be caught in any kind of a trap, but believe me, you could have it a lot worse.'
He slipped his fingers between the smooth jaws of the trap and pulled against the spring. Was there no place, he wondered, where a wild creature could be left alone? Down in the valley he had seen a flock of sheep. He supposed the rancher had set out the traps to protect his flock. Malcolm could not fault the man for that. At least the man had used this less-destructive trap, and he had not resorted to poison. Still, a lamb was natural prey for the coyote. Where was the right or wrong of it all?
Slowly Malcolm forced the jaws open. The young coyote drew back the injured paw, but did not try to get away. Malcolm ran gentle fingers along the leg that had been caught.
'Nothing's broken. Your foot will be sore for a while, but like I told you, it could be a lot worse.'
The coyote tested its weight on the paw, raised it quickly, then tried again.
