The Wood Wife

by Terri Windling

  Halfway through the Times article, Maggie found herself tuning out Nigel’s voice. Her thoughts had strayed many miles away, following Thumper into blue-grey hills, when the words in her ear came to a halt, and then Nigel asked, “Aren’t you pleased?”

  “Yes, I’m pleased,” she fudged and wondered what exactly she was claiming to be pleased about—the article? Or perhaps something Nigel had said. She’d have to read it tomorrow.

  “But enough about me,” said Nigel. “I want to talk about this filmscript of yours. I’ve got a meeting with Harvey next Friday. He’s certain he can set it up at Tristar.”

  “Earth to Nigel,” Maggie said, “listen to me for once. There is no filmscript. There won’t be a filmscript. I’m not even sure there will be a book.”

  “Now Mags, you can’t be serious.”

  “I am. Dead serious. Are you really listening? I don’t want to write a film about Cooper—”

  “Look, you don’t even have to write it, although you’d make a hell of a lot more money if you did. Just give me a treatment. I know you can do it. They’ll probably want a real writer on the script anyway.”

  “A real writer?”

  “I don’t mean that. You know what I mean. A scriptwriter. Harvey represents Desmond Cappell.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He wrote all the Deadly Touch movies.”

  “You want him to write about Davis Cooper? You want to make a horror film?”

  “Mags, calm down. Cappell is good, and those films made a lot of money. If you want to try screenwriting yourself—”

  “This is a completely absurd conversation.” Maggie paced acrossed the room as far as the cord for the phone would allow. “Cooper was my friend. I’m not going to exploit his life—”

  “What do you think a biography is?”

  “I thought it would be a testament to Cooper. Done right, that’s what it would be. But I’m not even sure I can do that now. Cooper put his life into his poems; maybe we should all be satisfied with that.”

  “You can’t film a bloody poem. You’ve got a great story here, why waste it?”

  “Give it up, Nigel. I don’t really believe Desmond Cappell wants to write about an elderly poet anyway.”

  “A poet, no. But a murdered poet, that’s a whole other kettle of fowl. Have the police found out who did it yet?”

  “Fish. And no.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “That leaves us more room.”

  “More room?”

  “For telling a good story. We can decide who we want to have done it. We’re not bound by the facts.”

  “Nigel, you’ve been in L.A. too long,” Maggie snarled, and she hung up on him.

  The phone rang again immediately. She sighed and picked it up.

  “Don’t speak. Don’t hang up. Just let me apologize first,” Nigel said in his best contrite-Nigel voice. “I see that I’m being insensitive here. I realize Cooper was a friend of yours, so of course you’re still touchy about his death. It’s just that I want to see you do well, Puck, that’s all. And there you are, sitting on Cooper’s estate—you said yourself you thought he wanted you to write about him. Why else would he have given it to you?”

  Why else? How could she begin to explain about the land, about Anna, about Thumper and Crow?

  “Apology accepted, Nigel,” she said. “But look, you’ve got to back off. Off of Cooper’s life, and off of mine. I’m a big girl. I’ll make my own decisions.”

  “You always were stubborn,” Nigel said, exasperated, and with a grudging admiration.

  “And you’re not?” Maggie countered.

  “I miss you, Maggie,” he said suddenly. “Let’s not sell the house. Not yet.”

  She blinked at this sudden change of subject. “I want to sell it. I need the money. I paid for most of that mortgage, remember, and I’d like to get my money back out.”

  Nigel made an impatient sound. “I’ll send you money.”

  “Don’t. I’d rather have my own. I’d rather sell. You’re hanging onto something that’s passed. Let’s let go and move on.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said reluctantly. “Look, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “I know you will.” She smiled. “And Nigel?”

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Cancel Harvey’s meeting.”

  She put down the phone, and picked up Tat’s letter. The morning was very nearly gone and she hadn’t even made it through the mail. She wandered over to the sink with it, and ran more water into the kettle. She heard a loud crack as she set the kettle on the stove and lit a flame beneath. She frowned at the stove. She heard it again; the sound was coming from somewhere outside. Maggie peered through the kitchen window and saw that the skinny coyote had come back again, running hard in the direction of the house. She heard a third crack. It was gunshot. Maggie ran for the door, and flung it open.

  “This way,” she called to the animal.

  He actually came. He hurled himself through the open door and collapsed, panting, in the hallway.

  “Oh god. Are you hit?” She saw no blood. “You stay there. Don’t leave the house.” She shut the door tightly behind her, and then she strode across the yard in the direction of the wash. A man was there, tall and sun-browned, dressed like he’d stepped from a Marlboro ad. He had a shotgun in his hands, and he was following the coyote’s tracks.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “This is private land.”

  “Not the wash. This here’s a public right of way.”

  “But it’s posted. No hunting,” she told him flatly.

  He took off his hat and smiled at her. He was Anglo, and young—maybe twenty years old. “I’m not hunting, ma’am,” he said politely. “I’m not after the deer; ‘just keeping the pest population down’. I almost had that sonuvabitch coyote. He must have cut through your yard.”

  “That ‘sonuvabitch’ belongs to me,” she lied. “That’s a tame coyote, a family pet. You hurt him, and I’ll see you in court.”

  His friendly smile disappeared. “You got no business keeping coyotes.”

  “And you’ve got no business coming up here with a shotgun.”

  “The hell I don’t,” he disagreed. “We’ve got a place down there in the foothills, and those coyotes are pestering our horses. A pack of them took down our best mare. They’re predators. They need to be controlled.”

  “You’re lying,” Maggie said.

  His eyes narrowed, but he said mildly, “Now how do you figure that?”

  “Coyotes live on mice, rabbits, carrion,” she informed him coldly. “They’re not going to mess with an animal that big, unless there’s something already wrong with it. You haven’t got a dead horse, buster. You’re shooting coyotes for the sport.”

  He laughed without humor. “I should’ve known. You’re one of them bleedin’-heart tree-huggers. You think coyotes are cute li’l pups and you don’t give a damn what they cost a working man.”

  “I want you off our land. Now. If I see you here again, I’ll call the cops.”

  “Well now, lady, you just go ahead.” He put his hat back on, still smiling. “I’m not doing anything illegal. There’s no law says I can’t shoot coyotes.”

  “Not here, you can’t,” Maggie insisted, without even knowing if this was true. “Are you leaving or should I dial that number?”

  “Listen, bitch,” he said suddenly, “if that’s a pet, you keep him on a chain. Or I’ll have his ass next time I see him. And you can count on it.”

  He spat in the sand, and stalked away. When he reached the bend in the wash, he turned and levelled the shotgun in her direction. His face was blank of all emotion. She heard the click of the safety’s release. He’s trying to scare you, she told herself, standing her ground though the blood drained from her face.

  He lowered the gun, with a boyish grin. “Have a nice day,” he said pleasantly, then disappeared through the cottonwood trees. Maggie watched him go, her heart pounding.
Then she heard a shot. And another one.

  He’s trying to scare you, she repeated to herself, tension and fear crystallizing into anger. She heard the sound of a truck start up, and move away down Redwater Road. She ran back to the house, grateful that the coyote was safely inside.

  Damn, she cursed. If only she had gotten the license plate number, she could file a complaint. When she reached the porch, she saw that the blue front door was hanging open. The hall was empty, the coyote gone. She cursed again. Then she jumped, nerves raw, as she heard the sound of someone moving in her kitchen. But it wasn’t the poacher in her house, or even the one-eyed coyote. It was sweet Pepe Hernandez, gulping down water from the tap cupped between his two brown hands.

  “Pepe,” she said, relieved to see him. “Where’s the coyote? Did you see him? Is he gone?”

  Pepe looked up, wiping water from his chin.

  “Come with me. And hurry,” she said.

  She ran outside and down the road with Pepe loping along beside her, and found the tire tracks where the poacher had parked his truck by the side of the wash. There were no other tracks besides his; the coyote had not come back this way. Maggie breathed a deep sigh of relief. A single quail lay dead in the wash, its blood bright on the silvery sand. The poacher hadn’t bothered to claim the body. He had left it there for her to find.

  She turned to Pepe to tell him what had happened. But Pepe was gone and the one-eyed coyote sat in the sand close by her heels, breathing with a labored breath. She stared at him with new understanding. The animal—Pepe—stared back at her out of his one undamaged eye. Then he stood and quickly crossed the wash, scooping up the dead bird in his mouth, crunching down on thin, brittle bones as Maggie watched, trying not to feel sick. This was how they lived, after all. They killed so that they could feed themselves, their mates, their children—so that life could go on. They didn’t kill out of sheer cussed spite like that poacher, like her own kind did.

  When he’d finished his meal, he looked back at Maggie. Then he climbed up the other bank of the wash, disappearing into the creosote beyond. A moment later, she heard the coyote howl, and then an answering song.

  Maggie listened to the wild duet. Then she slowly walked back to the house, her thin shirt drenched with salty sweat, the fierce sun beating down. She went into the house, dialed Fox’s number, distressed to find he wasn’t there. She dialed his workshop, then Juan and Dora’s number, but still no answer. She didn’t know the Alders’ number. She picked up her knapsack, her hat and her keys, and carefully locked the blue front door—for all the good that lock ever did her. She paused at the door of the rental car. Maggie doubted it would make it up the Alders’ drive. She sighed and headed up the road on foot, past stands of tall saguaro cactus and green paloverde trees, and down the rutted drive that led over Coyote Creek to the Alders’ ranch.

  She rang the bell at the outer gate, and let herself into the quiet courtyard. A wind chime rang in the willow’s branches. The sun beat down on sand and stones. The big front door stood open and Maggie crossed the yard to the porch.

  “Hello?” she called.

  A small girl appeared, dark-haired, dark-eyed, her thumb in her mouth, dragging an old stuffed rabbit across the floor by one frayed ear. She wore a Star Wars pajama top, and nothing at all from the waist down.

  “Hello there,” Maggie said. “I’m looking for John or Lillian. Are they inside?”

  “My abuelita’s out back,” said the little girl without removing her thumb.

  “Can you take me to your abuelita?”

  The child nodded. She led Maggie through the passageway to the back of the ranch, past the horse stables, out to the fenced runs where the wild creatures were housed. Lillian was coming out of a cage, a fat bundle of fur in her hands. “Maggie,” she said. “You’ve come just in time. I’ve got this poor doped-up critter here and I want to change his bandage. I can use an extra pair of hands. Come on. I’m headed for the kitchen.”

  “Let me see,” said the child, reaching up one hand to grab a fistful of fur. Lillian held the animal above the girl’s reach. “He’s sick, sweetie pie. You can’t touch him. He’s a real wild critter, not a stuffed animal like old Jack Rabbit there.” Lillian looked at Maggie and winked. “This is my granddaughter Mahina. She’s my son J.J.’s little girl—the exhibitionist of the family.”

  “So I see,” said Maggie as she followed the older woman into the house. She asked, “Is John home?”

  “Nope. He’s out on a Search and Rescue call. They’ve got the horse posse out for some hiker missing on the Rincon Peak trail.”

  “Is Fox with him then?” Maggie’s heart sunk. She had hoped she’d find Fox over here.

  “Could be. No, now that I think of it, probably not. John only took one horse.” The old woman turned to Mahina. “Spread that towel there across the table, honey. Thatta girl.” Then she put the animal down. It looked like a cross between a raccoon and a cat, with a long body, large round ears, a pointed nose and a striped, bushy tail.

  “What is it?” said Maggie.

  “He’s a ringtail cat—but they’re not cats at all. Cousin to the ’coons. This here’s another leg-trap accident. He’s a bit mangled, but we’re going to save the foot. Here, hold the leg out for me like this. Don’t worry, he’s fast asleep.”

  The little girl, watching, grew distinctly pale as her grandmother unwound the bloody bandage. “Mahina, I think we can finish up without you—don’t you, Maggie?”

  The girl left the room without argument, dragging her bunny behind her. From the other room came the sound of a Roadrunner cartoon on the television.

  Maggie made herself watch as Lillian carefully washed out the ugly wound. It could have been Pepe lying there, if the poacher had been any quicker. She could feel a faint pulse beating beneath the fur of the damaged limb she held. “What are these traps supposed to be catching, when ringtail cats aren’t falling into them?”

  “Coyotes,” said Lillian. “The traps are set on leased public lands down south of here. PRC lets us take these little guys away. They’re no threat to anyone.”

  “And the coyotes?”

  “They’re shot. That is, if they haven’t starved to death in the leg-trap first.”

  Maggie frowned. “I’ve been reading those books John gave me. Coyotes are smart. Surely by now they have learned to avoid the traps.”

  “Well, yes. So they use bait to attract them.” She did not look up at Maggie as she worked.

  “But I read coyotes learn to avoid meat they haven’t killed themselves…”

  “There’s other kinds of bait,” Lillian said tersely, applying medication to the ringtail’s wound. The animal remained quite still. “Let me tell you how coyote bait is made—it’s your tax money paying for it, after all. First thing you do, you string up live coyotes—hang ’em upside down by their legs and wire their mouths shut. Terror makes them pump adrenaline into their systems. Then you cut the bladder from the live animal and use the scent of it as ‘passion’ bait. Works like a charm.”

  Maggie stared at Lillian. “And John used to do that?” She felt distinctly sick.

  Lillian looked up and shook her head. “The day he found out what coyote bait was made from he resigned from PRC. Went back to school and studied wildlife behavior. And became the kind of man I’d want to marry.” She wrapped fresh gauze around the ringtail’s leg and taped it firmly. “There we go. Pretty as a picture. Let’s put the little fellow back in his bed.”

  She picked him up gently, nested in the towel. Maggie stared at the creature. She saw human arms; small human hands; bony little legs, one crushed and bandaged. The pointed face had a ringtail’s eyes, a human chin and cactus spines instead of hair.

  Lillian seemed to find nothing amiss with the creature in her arms, but she stared at Maggie. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Maggie swallowed, searching for her voice. She could see the creature both ways—as a ringtail cat, and as something else from Cooper’s
poems, or Anna’s paintings, or the lands of a surrealist’s dreams.

  “Actually,” she said, her voice husky, “I came over here to tell you and John that there was a man shooting at coyotes in the wash, right near my house. He was after that skinny one-eyed fellow, but I don’t think he actually hit him.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Lillian said. Her voice was clipped and angry. Maggie did so, following the older woman outside to put the ringtail back into its cage. Then Lillian turned to Maggie, eyes narrowed. “That’s the one who shot Cody. Same description. Same nasty disposition. I want you to tell John about this. It sounds like it’s time to call the sheriff.”

  “He told me there’s no law against shooting coyotes.”

  “He was bluffing you. He’s got no right to shoot a gun in this canyon at all. Not even in the wash.”

  “I was hoping that you’d say that,” Maggie told her, relieved.

  “Doesn’t mean that’ll stop him.”

  “But at least we can report him to the cops.”

  “Darn right we can,” said Lillian decisively. “It’s even conceivable that he had something to do with Cooper’s death. Cooper wouldn’t have reacted kindly if he’d caught him shooting coyotes either.”

  Maggie swallowed. “That hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “It might not be connected at all, of course. But I think we should mention it to the sheriff’s office. And about the time that those hunting dogs went and made a mess of Cooper’s house. The sheriff will put more enthusiasm into looking for a murder suspect than for a poacher. The point here is to scare this guy off, keep him out of the canyon.”

  “Whatever happened with that sample of animal scat John took? Did the lab confirm that it was from dogs?”

  Lillian frowned. “Now that was peculiar. I reckon Fox didn’t get a proper sample after all. The lab technician told John there was only leaf mold in the container. But it must have been dogs. What else could it have been, making that kind of mischief?” She turned, shading her eyes from the sun, and looked the younger woman up and down. “Maggie, why don’t you come back to the house and I’ll rustle up something to eat. I don’t know when John’s going to get back and, darlin’, you look tuckered out.”