With Annamaria to protect and with the responsibility to thwart whatever vast destruction was on the yellow-eyed hulk’s agenda, I had enough to keep me busy. I could not afford to be distracted by the melancholy spirits of murdered girls who would want to lead me to their long-hidden graves.
Concerned that even thinking about those sad victims would draw their spirits to me, if indeed they still lingered, I tried to elicit more information from Annamaria as we proceeded cautiously through the nearly impenetrable murk.
“Are you originally from around here?” I asked softly.
“No.”
“Where are you from?”
“Far away.”
“Faraway, Oklahoma?” I asked. “Faraway, Alabama? Maybe Faraway, Maine?”
“Farther away than all of those. You would not believe me if I named the place.”
“I would believe you,” I assured her. “I’ve believed everything you’ve said, though I don’t know why, and though I don’t understand most of it.”
“Why do you believe me so readily?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you do know.”
“I do?”
“Yes. You know.”
“Give me a hint. Why do I believe you so readily?”
“Why does anyone believe anything?” she asked.
“Is this a philosophical question—or just a riddle?”
“Empirical evidence is one reason.”
“You mean like—I believe in gravity because if I throw a stone in the air, it falls back to the ground.”
“Yes. That’s what I mean.”
“You haven’t been exactly generous with empirical evidence,” I reminded her. “I don’t even know where you’re from. Or your name.”
“You know my name.”
“Only your first name. What’s your last?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Everybody has a last name.”
“I’ve never had one.”
The night was cold; our breath smoked from us. She had such a mystical quality, I might have been persuaded that we had exhaled the entire vast ocean of fog that now drowned all things, that she had come down from Olympus with the power to breathe away the world and, out of the resultant mist, remake it to her liking.
I said, “You had to have a last name to go to school.”
“I’ve never gone to school.”
“You’re home-schooled?”
She did not reply.
“Without a last name, how do you get welfare?”
“I’m not on the welfare rolls.”
“But you said you don’t work.”
“That’s right.”
“What—do people just give you money when you need it?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. That would be even less stressful than the tire life or shoe sales.”
“I’ve never asked anyone for anything—until I asked you if you would die for me.”
Out there in the dissolved world, St. Joseph’s Church tower must have remained standing, for in the distance its familiar bell tolled the half-hour, which was strange for two reasons. First, the radiant dial of my watch showed 7:22, and that seemed right. Second, from eight in the morning till eight in the evening, St. Joe’s marked each hour with a single strike of the bell and the half-hour with two. Now it rang three times, a solemn reverberant voice in the fog.
“How old are you, Annamaria?”
“In one sense, eighteen.”
“To go eighteen years without asking anyone for anything—you must have known you were saving up for a really big request.”
“I had an inkling,” she said.
She sounded amused, but this was not the amusement of deception or obfuscation. I sensed again that she was being more direct than she seemed.
Frustrated, I returned to my former line of inquiry: “Without a last name, how do you get health care?”
“I don’t need health care.”
Referring to the baby she carried, I said, “In a couple months, you’ll need it.”
“All things in their time.”
“And, you know, it’s not good to go to term without regularly seeing a doctor.”
She favored me with a smile. “You’re a very sweet young man.”
“It’s a little weird when you call me a young man. I’m older than you are.”
“But nonetheless a young man, and sweet. Where are we going?” she wondered.
“That sure is the million-dollar question.”
“I mean right now. Where are we going now?”
I took some pleasure in answering her with a line that was as inscrutable as anything that she had said to me: “I have to go see a man with hair like wool-of-bat and tongue like fillet of fenny snake.”
“Macbeth,” she said, identifying the reference and robbing me of some of my satisfaction.
“I call him Flashlight Guy. You don’t need to know why. It’s liable to be dicey, so you can’t go with me.”
“I’m safest with you.”
“I’ll need to be able to move fast. Anyway, I know this woman—you’ll like her. No one would think of looking for either of us at her place.”
A growling behind us caused us to turn.
For an instant it seemed to me that the hulk had followed us and, while we had been engaged in our enigmatic conversation, had by some magic separated himself into three smaller forms. In the fog were six yellow eyes, as bright as road-sign reflectors, not at the height of a man’s eyes but lower to the ground.
When they slunk out of the mist and halted just ten feet from us, they were revealed as coyotes. Three of them.
The fog developed six more eyes, and three more rangy specimens arrived among the initial trio.
Evidently they had come out of Hecate’s Canyon, on the hunt. Six coyotes. A pack.
EIGHTEEN
HAVING LIVED WHERE PRAIRIE MET MOJAVE, IN Pico Mundo, I had encountered coyotes before. Usually the circumstances were such that, being skittish about human beings, they wanted to avoid me and had no thought of picking my bones.
On one late-night occasion, however, they had gone shopping for meat, and I had been the juiciest item in the display case. I barely escaped that situation without leaving behind a mouthful of my butt.
If I had been Hutch Hutchison and had found myself on the menu of a coyote pack twice within seventeen months, I would have viewed this not as an interesting coincidence but as irrefutable scientific proof that coyotes as a species had turned against humanity and were intent on exterminating us.
In the fog, on the greenbelt, alongside Hecate’s Canyon, the six prime specimens of Canis latrans had none of the appeal of any of the various species and breeds that pet shops put in their windows.
This was unusual, believe it or not, because coyotes sometimes can have a goofy charm. They are more closely related to wolves than to dogs, lean and sinewy, efficient predators, but with feet too big for their bodies and ears too big for their heads, they can appear a little puppylike, at least as cute as Iran’s homicidal dictator when he puts on a leisure suit and has his photo taken eating ice-cream cones with grade-school children whose parents have volunteered them to be suicide bombers.
With narrow faces, bared fangs, and radiant-eyed intensity, these current six coyotes confronting Annamaria and me did not have what it took to be featured in a Purina Puppy Chow commercial. They looked like fascist jihadists in fur.
In most perilous moments, I can put my hands on a makeshift weapon, but on this empty greensward, the only possibility seemed to be a wooden fence pale if I could break one of them loose. No rocks. No baseball bats, buckets, brooms, antique porcelain vases, frying pans, shovels, pop-up toasters, or angry cross-eyed ferrets, which had proved to make effective impromptu weapons in the past.
I began to think I really needed to get over my gun phobia and start packing heat.
As it turned out, I had a weapon of which I was unaware: one young, pregnant, eni
gmatic woman. As I urged her to back slowly away from the toothy pack, she said, “They are not only what they appear to be.”
“Well, who is?” I said. “But I think these guys are largely what they appear to be.”
Instead of cautiously retreating from the beasts and hoping to discover an unlocked gate in a fenced backyard, Annamaria took a step toward them.
I said what might have been a bad word meaning excrement, but I hope that I used a polite synonym.
Quietly but firmly, she said to the coyotes, “You do not belong here. The rest of the world is yours…but not this place at this moment.”