“Excellent.”
“Once I’m dead. Then the foundation takes over. It’s in my will.”
I laughed, but felt the headache roaming around the back of my skull. She went and began taking things out of the fridge. I rubbed the muscles in my neck, rolling my head.
“Mom, I’m the one who’s here to pry. I presume you’ve figured out that I flew three hundred miles because I need some straight answers.”
She set cherry tomatoes and a head of lettuce on the counter. “I know. Let’s make some dinner. I have a good Napa Valley red in the wine rack; we’ll crack it open.”
“Please don’t stonewall me.”
Her face was taut. “I won’t. This has been coming for a long time.”
“It has?”
“About twenty years.”
Coyote stood at the window. The view from the hotel room was panoramic. The sky was striated red, the skyscrapers downtown flecked orange with light. Smog provoked superlative sunsets, though they were increasingly rare. Pollution had decreased here. You could just taste it on your tongue, barely smell the hydrocarbons when you lifted your face to the breeze.
Down on Hollywood Boulevard, traffic droned. The sidewalks crawled with people. Tourists, players and whores, predators and prey. Wanting fame, wanting to get laid, selling themselves one way or another. They thought this was a hard town. Moneygrubbing and professional backstabbing—in their world, that was what they considered hard.
He fingered the amulet, thinking.
The skull X-rays from the Lezak woman had been scanned and uploaded, along with his notes on the operation. He had documented everything. Lezak’s response to the procedure had been textbook. Fight—stabbing him. Feebly, yes, but she made an attempt. Then screaming, squirming, attempting to flee—classic flight response. That, however, was not the exciting part. The exciting part occurred approximately ten seconds after he yanked the scaling implement through the flesh of her lip. She blanked. The look in her eyes, the way she fell still, told him everything. She went numb. The rest of the procedure was merely pushing and prodding. She did not respond. She didn’t scream when he drove the sharp tip of the scaler into her eye socket. Muzak and her ragged breathing didn’t obscure the sound of the scaler penetrating her eye. Blood and vitreous humor ran out and poured down her cheek, but Ceci Lezak lay there, perplexed, stunned, and vacant.
The thirst began building. A dry taste on the tongue. The mission called to him.
Turning from the window, he removed his medical kit from the suitcase. He applied antiseptic ointment to the minor wound Lezak had inflicted with the curette. Then he injected: chemo first, the enzymes that ensured deaggregation, so the wave didn’t swamp him. Nandrolone after that. He would throw the disposable syringes in the hotel Dumpster later. He checked that his other drugs were well stocked, those he kept in reserve for use on subjects. They were mainly tranquilizers—Pentothal, ketamine, and benzodiazepines. He closed the kit. In the bathroom he washed off the tan makeup and removed the green contact lenses. He never allowed the world to see the real eyes, Coyote eyes. The blown pupil spooked people, and it was memorable.
He returned his attention to the suitcase. The clothes, the shoes, the wigs, the cosmetics. Men’s things on one side, women’s on the other. Becoming female was occasionally necessary. Some targets responded more willingly to the anima than the animus. Still, that meant that he needed long sleeves to disguise his musculature. He clenched a fist, seeing the veins rise on his arm. He would wear a high collar, of course, to cover the scar.
His acting skills would cover his revulsion. As long as the mission was on track, he could stomach becoming a woman. Until the end, when the anima could be relegated to eternal shadow.
He ran his fingers over a black wig. The hair was coarse, shoulder-length. With brown contacts he could become suburban. A breeder. Yes, that was it.
Coyote flipped on the wig and looked in the mirror. She would wear conservative pink lipstick. She’d have a perky smile. Tight movements, thoughts of hubby and kids. Menstruation, separation anxiety, PTA, Scouts and ballet. Honey, have a brownie. I’m going to Pilates.
Soccer Mom, pathetic icon of the modern mythos.
Turning to the Tumi briefcase, he opened it and perused the weapons inside. Blades, C-4, grenades. He took out a serrated knife. The five-inch blade shone bright. Coyote opened his palm and pushed the tip of the knife into his flesh, along his lifeline. A balloon of blood rose through the skin. He watched, dispassionate. The sensation of pain was nonexistent. A smile lifted his lips.
The blood pooled on his palm. It shone under the light coming through the window, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. The sun hissed through the glass. It lit the blood to iridescent red and set it jumping off his palm, springing up like a tiny wet flame. He watched it writhe, fascinated, feeling no heat. But the wound was burning. The blood flame turned and beckoned to him. Telling him, giving him the answer.
A vacuum cleaner banged against the wall outside in the hallway, jerking him back. He blinked, feeling his head spin and settle. He looked at his hand. Blood was creasing along the lines of his palm. The knife had fallen to the floor.
That was a glitch.
Angry, he picked up the knife, cleaned the blade, and returned it to the briefcase. This was the third time that had happened in the past six weeks. He had to get it under control. Did he require heavier chemo? He glanced at the medical kit. He had only three doses left.
The growl was in his head. He shut it off. He sat down at the desk with the
Dog Days Update
, the
Paw Prints
yearbook, the notes and journal, and began to cross-reference. There were only a few left of these worthless unworthy people. These nothings, ignorant of the power that lay dormant inside them. Who failed to recognize it bursting to life, until the moments before death. That was why he had to take them. They were . . . glitches. He pored through the reunion book, finding the name he wanted. MapQuest gave him coordinates to the address, and he began to get a sense of the mission. It would require careful planning, because he had seen the end, in his dream vision.
Fire this time.
Mom sat down beside me at the kitchen table. Her face, with those wise eyes and that evergreen spark, looked apprehensive.
“That field trip your class took to Renegade Canyon. This has to be about what happened that day,” she said.
“The explosion.”
Again I saw the flash, felt the shudder in the air, and watched the cinder-block buildings disintegrate into flame. Saw the Jeep gunning up the hillside, coming after me and the others.
“Nobody would ever tell the parents. But I’d bet the farm that was South Star.”
“What happened?”
“An accident? An experiment gone wrong?” She shrugged. “All I know is, you were treated reprehensibly.”
Even now I could hear the engines of the navy helicopter whumping off the canyon walls. The downwash blew sand viciously in all directions. Valerie sat on the ground, her nose pouring blood from my punch. She was silent with shock. Me too. Ms. Shepard came running to check on her.
The soldier came for me.
He smelled of dust and gun oil, and the barrel of his rifle had a dark gleam that scared me cold. He hauled me by the elbow onto the bus. My classmates stared at me with confusion and maybe fear.
The soldier glared at the driver. “Go.”
The door wheezed closed and we lurched back toward the highway. Nobody spoke. The soldier stood in the door-well, rocking as the bus picked its way over stony ground.
Jeeps and a van raced past us going the other way. They screeched to a stop near the helicopter. The back doors of the van burst open and people jumped out.
“They wore biocontainment suits,” I said.
Olive green, with hoods and faceplates. They handed the pilot a gas mask. They carried medical equipment cases like paramedics do. One climbed in the bay of the helicopter and bent over, going to work. The helo was carrying casualties.
Mom’s eyes were hot. “Later, we found out they took the school bus out of service. The navy bought it and took it away, out on the base somewhere, to burn it.”
My voice felt croaky. “What about us?”
“They sent everybody to the showers in the gym. Had all the kids wash and change into PE clothes to wear home. They took everyone’s street clothes and sent them to the laundry on base.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Because they didn’t take you with everybody else.”
I nodded. “I had to wait for Dad. They put me in . . . I want to say an equipment room in the gym.”
“They talked to you separately. You four who had run off.” Her cheeks were burning. “Do you have any
idea
how that incensed me? Taking a group of thirteen-year-old kids who were horsing around, and isolating you for interrogation. And they wouldn’t let me in. You had been exposed to God knows what and they wouldn’t let your mother in to see you. Those fucking security assholes.”
I took a breath. Mom always drew the line at the F-word.
“Jackboot SOBs. I feel sick just thinking about what it was like for you.”
“Mom, at the time I thought that was because I punched Valerie.”
“Oh, my God. Evan, no.”
The equipment room was hot and dingy, a claustrophobic space with shelves stacked with athletic equipment. Blood was caked on my face and on the side of my hand. The air felt close, as if I had to breathe faster to get enough.
The police would be coming any minute, I knew it. They were going to arrest me for hitting Valerie. They’d put me in a lineup and she’d point me out. She’d cry and tell them I didn’t even look
sorry
after I did it.
What if they sent me to Juvenile Hall? My throat tightened. Juvie was in Bakersfield. That was a two-hour drive from China Lake.
Then I heard my dad’s voice in the hallway, rough and low, punctuated with remarks like cannon fire. He opened the door.
“Come with me, Kit.”
I rushed out like a cat freed from a box, taking big breaths. Soldiers were in the hallway, and Mr. Mickleson, the high school principal.
He pointed his finger at me. “Two weeks’ suspension, starting immediately. Are you listening, Miss Delaney?”
I stared at the linoleum, cold and light-headed, trying not to pee my pants. My fingers felt numb. I wasn’t under arrest, but Dad was furious. He said nothing, just led me down the hallway. He had my backpack in his hand.
Behind us came footsteps, three or four people. “Captain Delaney.”
My father didn’t stop.
A woman called to him. “Phil.”
Dad pointed me at the gym. “Go shower and change.” He handed me a brown paper bag. “Put your street clothes in this. Wear your gym clothes home.”
He marched back up the hall, boots racking against the floor. A woman strode toward him. She had red hair and a strong voice.
“Strict protocol on this one, Phil. Don’t think of violating it.”
“My daughter’s coming home with me. You’re out of bounds.”
The redhead glanced at me. “Didn’t you hear your father tell you to get going?”
Dad turned. His eyes were dark. “Kit, now. Go.”
The words came fast and hard, like buckshot. They tore the air and I couldn’t get a breath. The next thing I remember, I was sitting on the floor with cramps in my arms and legs, and Dad was holding the paper bag over my nose, telling me to breathe slowly.
Hyperventilation, one more embarrassment. I looked at Mom.
“What were we exposed to?”
“Corrosive chemicals. The high school told us they could cause skin blisters and asthma.”
“Didn’t parents go ballistic?”
“Hell, yes. Then the base commander sent us a report from this woman Maureen Swayze, director of special projects for some nebulous Office of Advanced Research. It said the explosion involved an experimental fuel. A new propellant—JP-5 mixed with caustic additives.”
“Did Swayze have red hair?”
“Like an oil well fire.”
“She was at the gym that day, arguing in the hall with Dad.”
An eyebrow rose. “Arguing. Really.” She pursed her lips. “Good.”
“Mom?”
Her eyes went sharp and broke from mine. She drew back from whatever she’d been about to unload.
“I used to see Swayze at the Officers’ Club,” she said. “She was a cold-faced bitch. She ran South Star.”
“How do you know that?”
“Not even black projects stayed totally dark. Rumors didn’t spread; they floated around the place like perfume. We knew she was a project director. She had a vibe.”
She stood up. “Her report assured us that any skin problems would be temporary, and that as a prophylactic measure they’d periodically test everyone who was on the field trip for breathing problems.”
“I remember that. Being called into the nurse’s office and asked to blow into a tube to measure my lung strength.”
Her eyes looked acid. “But then they asked parents to waive confidentiality on your medical records, so they could track your health.”
The Tylenol was not working. A hammer was thumping against the inside of my skull. “Did you?”
“Turn you into a volunteer lab rat for Swayze and her Department of Weird Shit? No damn way. I ripped up the waiver form.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Think about it. Why would a fuel researcher need to have your medical records? She was a stone liar.”
She walked to the sink. “Phil was taking it to her that day, huh?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“He tried to get to the bottom of what happened out in Renegade Canyon, but came back and told me it was classified. Swayze was off the scope, he said. Her working group was not navy. He didn’t have access to the channels that could give him the real information he needed.”