On the private drive up to Summit View, Carter saw not a soul—even the patrol car was missing, off on its rounds perhaps—and only the porch light was on at his own house. He opened the door quietly, in case everyone was asleep, and crept up the stairs. The night-light was on in Joey’s bedroom and he poked his head in there first. Champ, asleep on the crocheted rug that lay beside the crib, immediately raised his head, but upon seeing Carter just thumped his tail on the floor and waited for his ears to be scratched.
Carter looked into the crib and, just as he expected, Joey’s little gray-blue eyes were wide open and looking right back at him. “One of these days,” Carter said, leaning down to give the baby a wet smooch on his little forehead, “I’m going to catch you with your eyes closed. I’m going to come in so quietly that even you can’t hear me.”
Joey looked at him as if to say,
Highly unlikely.
In the bedroom, Beth was propped up against the pillows with the TV on low, but she was fast asleep. Carter glanced at the screen—it was the same channel
The Vorhaus Report
was broadcast on, though now it was showing something about the dangers faced by illegal immigrants from Mexico. He picked up the remote, which was lying next to Beth’s hand, and flicked it off. The second he did, she stirred and opened her eyes.
“When did you get in?” she mumbled.
“Thirty seconds ago.”
“You were great, much better than that other guy.”
“He had a three-piece suit.”
She cleared her throat and sat up higher in the bed.
“But you’re taller.”
He laughed and took off his shirt. His arm, where Geronimo had cut him, was healing nicely. At least it had been a clean cut.
“Your boss’ll be pleased.”
“Gunderson’s never pleased. He’s just sometimes less unpleasant.”
“You hungry?”
“Nah, I ate at the museum before going over to the show.”
“Tell me you didn’t eat at one of the specimen tables, with all the bones and stones around you.”
“I ate with a very interesting guy that I’ve just recently met.”
Beth groaned, “Don’t tell me—the La Brea Man.”
“You said not to tell you,” Carter said, hanging up his shirt and then his pants.
Beth harrumphed. “I’m starting to think that James Running Horse had a point.”
Carter went into the bathroom, showered, put some antiseptic on his forearm, and by the time he came out in fresh boxers and a T-shirt, the lights were off and Beth was fast asleep again. He debated going downstairs to read for a while, but suddenly the day caught up to him and he fell on his back onto the bed. The air-conditioning was humming softly, and the room was almost completely dark.
He closed his eyes, tried hard not to think about
The Vorhaus Report
or Gunderson or even the La Brea Man, and succeeded eventually in alighting on some harmless memories from his boyhood—fireworks on the Fourth of July. He yawned, stretched his long legs out on top of the sheet, and let his mind just drift. Firecrackers, corn on the cob, catching fireflies in the backyard . . .
How long he’d been asleep he couldn’t even guess, but way off in the distance, as if from a world away, he thought he heard a dog growling . . . then a short bark. He was hoping it would stop—he was so damn comfortable—or that Beth would get up and see what was wrong. But when he heard it again, another bark, more frantic this time, but abruptly curtailed, he realized he’d have to get up himself and see what was wrong.
He dragged his legs off the bed, got up, and stumbled toward Joey’s room. His bare feet stepped into something wet in the hallway, but in the dim glow of the nursery night-light all he could see was what looked like a dark stain on the white wall-to-wall carpeting. Oh man, he thought, this was going to be expensive to clean up, whatever it was, nor did he want to have to tell the owner of the place about it.
Best leave that to Beth, he thought.
Crossing the threshold, he tripped on something, something heavy and furry, and when he looked down, he could see that it was Champ, that he was lying on his side . . . and his throat was torn out, hot blood spilling toward the door. His breath stopped, and when he looked up again he could see eyes—three or four pairs of them—staring at him from all corners of the nursery. They were yellow and malevolent, and the worst of them, the ones that were fixed on him the most intently, belonged to the big gray coyote who had led the pack.
And who was now inside Joey’s crib. Standing over him, panting fast.
How . . .
Carter’s mind could barely accept what he was seeing. A warm draft blew up the stairs and onto the back of his legs; he could hear the front door banging, loose and open, in the foyer downstairs.
Had he . . .
He didn’t dare move.
The other coyotes were perched around the room, one on the crocheted rug that Champ used to occupy, one on the window seat, a third in the corner near the closet, nosing now under the dresser.
Carter didn’t even want to shout to Beth—he didn’t want to do anything that might disturb, in some unpredictable way, the terrible tableau before him.
Not until he had figured out exactly what to do.
The leader’s jaws were wet with blood—Champ’s, no doubt—but Carter could see that Joey was so far unaffected. He was lying on his stomach, eyes open, in a blue sleep suit. His little toes curled, and Carter could see him now lifting his head to get a better look at this big stuffed toy that was sharing his crib.
No,
Carter thought,
no . . . don’t move. Please God don’t move.
The rank smell of fur and blood permeated the room.
The leader lowered his head, until his snout was just inches above the baby’s head. But his eyes remained on Carter, as if taunting him.
Carter inched closer, hoping that he might get near enough to make a lunge for the baby and get him. But the coyote on the rug stood up on all fours, and with his head down and back arched, snarled loudly.
Carter looked around for anything he could swing, but there was nothing. Even the lamp on the dresser was only a little round ginger jar in the shape of Dumbo.
Joey gurgled, and perhaps sensing his father was in the room, started to make noise. Happy, meaningless burbles. He kicked his legs.
The coyote in the crib growled, and snapped in Carter’s direction; his yellowed fangs, one of them badly broken, glistened wetly above the baby’s back.
The others were on full alert now, and Carter could sense them moving closer from all directions. His mouth was so dry he could barely speak, but in a low voice he said, “Okay now, okay now . . . that’s right, that’s right,” as he moved another few inches toward the crib. “Yeah, that’s right . . .”
But just when he was close enough to pounce and grab his son, the alpha coyote raised its hackles, then vaulted over the bars of the crib, leaping straight at his throat. The impact sent Carter crashing back toward the door, his feet sliding on the bloody floor, his hands scrabbling at the beast’s jaws. He could feel its hot breath scouring his skin and the fierce teeth biting and snapping. Carter slid down the wall, holding the beast just a fraction from his face, but he could feel the others now jumping in, one on each leg, another tearing at his shoulder . . .
“Carter!”
No, he didn’t want Beth anywhere near this. She needed to get away, she needed to grab Joey and get away!
“Carter!”
His shoulder was still being shaken by the coyote. He flung it out, trying to free it from the animal’s teeth.
“Carter! Watch it—you’re going to kill me!”
The shaking stopped.
There was a bright light in his eyes, and Beth was saying, “Carter—wake up. Wake up, honey.”
His legs kicked convulsively, one more time.
“You’re having a nightmare.”
He opened his eyes; he could barely swallow.
“You’re having a nightmare.”
Beth was kneeling over him on the bed, looking very, very concerned.
“Whew,” she said when she saw that he was at last coming to. “For a second there, I thought you were going to punch my lights out.”
He took a deep breath, and then another.
“You alright now?”
He nodded. The sheet had been kicked off and was trailing on the floor.
He propped himself up on his elbows and looked around the room, bewildered.
“Whoa,” he said, exhaling.
“You can say that again.”
“Worst dream I ever had.”
“You want to talk about it?”
He sat up, legs bent. “No, not yet.” He swiveled off the bed. “I just want to check on Joey.”
He padded across the hall—the carpeting was clean and dry—and into the nursery. Champ was curled up on the rug, and Joey was just as he had pictured him in the dream, lying on his tummy in blue pj’s. But he was alone, thank God, in the crib.
Beth followed him in and, seeing that Joey was awake, lifted him up and cradled him.
“See,” she said to Carter, “fit as a fiddle. And getting heavier all the time. Here,” she said, “you hold him.”
Carter took the baby in his arms.
“I had this terrible dream, of coyotes,” was all he said. Joey looked up at him with solemn eyes.
“Not surprising. They were howling in the canyon, and I have this terrible feeling they caught somebody’s cat. They started Champ barking, too.”
Carter nodded, rocking the baby. The muslin curtains were pulled back, and he could see outside into the deep dark canyon, where the dry trees and brush rustled in the night wind. And even now he could hear a coyote’s distant wail.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
GREER FELT LIKE a vampire, stepping out into the sun. He had on his shades and an Angels baseball cap, pulled down low over his brow, but there still wasn’t much he could do about the hot glare coming off the beach sand.
Zeke, the bartender, was somewhere down there on one of those volleyball courts just off the Pacific Coast Highway. When Greer had gone to find him the night before, at the Blue Bayou, they’d said he was resting up for the big tournament that day. Something about a round robin, sponsored by Adidas.
Greer had been pissed; he relied on Zeke to get him anything from Percodan to cocaine, amphetamines to ludes. Zeke was a big dolt, but for some reason he got good stuff—and he was reliable.
Greer had ordered a drink and sat at the bar for a while, not even watching the strippers work the pole. All he’d really wanted was to be out among people, with lots of noise. He wanted his head to be filled with something, anything, that wasn’t what he’d seen at the al-Kalli estate. It was funny, he’d seen all kinds of shit in Iraq—guys with their heads blown off or their guts spilling out, kids with missing limbs, an old lady cut neatly in two by an RPG—but the thing that kept him up at night, that intruded on his thoughts at all the worst times, was that creature in the private zoo. It was something out of a nightmare. His own nightmare, in fact: When he let his mind go back to that night in the palace outside Mosul, and he remembered the way that Lopez, and then the prisoner Hasan, had been snatched up and dragged off into the night, all he could see now was that beast. Now he knew what had done it, now he knew how close he’d come to being just another meal himself.