Coyote Blues

by Karen F. Williams

  On impulse Riley peed on those rims, too, then headed back toward the house, slinking past a window from which came the flickering light of the television. The sound of running water and the clattering of plates made her run to the next window on the other side of the porch. Through sheer curtains ruffled by the breeze she saw a figure facing the open window. It was Fiona, standing at what must have been the kitchen sink, washing dishes, and although Riley couldn’t make out the details of her face through the fabric, she heard her sniffling as though she might be quietly crying. Riley felt ashamed of spying on her like this, a phantom voyeur eavesdropping on family conversation, but she had no choice. She knew Fiona hadn’t been truthful about her situation; she’d worked with enough abused women to know when they were lying. Fiona was protecting Jim in order to protect herself and her child. Giving up control and keeping the peace—that was the easiest way to live with an abusive narcissist.

  The phone rang, and above the noise of the television she heard a man speaking to someone. A moment later Jim walked into the kitchen.

  “That was Steve Wiltz calling,” Jim said. “He can’t get a truck over here until next week, Tuesday at the earliest. I gotta take off Monday, so you’ll have to make sure he knows what gets hauled and what stays.”

  “Okay,” Fiona said. Riley heard her sniffle again. Apparently Jim heard her sniffle, too.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he said.

  “Nothing.”

  “There better not be.” She heard the refrigerator open and slam shut, heard the pop of a soda can opening, and just when it looked like his passing shadow was heading back to the living room, he came up behind her and must have yanked her ponytail hard, because her head jerked back.

  “Let go!” she said, but he didn’t.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me about what went on today with the shrink?”

  “I told you everything.”

  “You better have told him what I told you to say?”

  “It was a woman.”

  “Dr. Spencer? The same one seeing Edy?”

  “No. A different one.”

  Riley saw him shake his head. “Fucking women…” he said to himself, but he still had her ponytail and yanked it back again. “I’m warning you, Fiona…if I catch you lying to me, I’ll beat the shit out of—”

  “I’m not lying. I swear.” She elbowed him in the ribs, although probably not as hard as she could have for fear of getting hit. “Stop it before you wake up Edy.”

  He let go then, giving her back a one-handed shove that knocked her toward the faucet and window. “Keep yourself in line, lady. That’s all I have to say,” he said as he left the kitchen. “And you better keep your daughter in line, too. This whole goddam mess is her fault.”

  Hackles raised, Riley felt her heart pounding. It took every drop of discipline she had not to tear through the screen and rip out his throat before he could even get that can of soda to his lips. But she didn’t. She dashed back along the house, hopped onto the porch, and peeked through the window lit by the television in time to see him come back and recline in his easy chair—a little bully who thought he was a big guy.

  He couldn’t have stood more than five foot, seven inches tall, the same as Riley when she was her normal self and standing upright. In all fairness, though, she had to admit that he was a surprisingly nice-looking man, lean, with straight, dirty-blond hair and soft features—a pretty boy who, like any self-serving narcissist, was probably adept at charming people when he needed to. Looking at him sitting there, it struck Riley that Jim actually looked a little bit like her; enough at least that they might have passed for relatives at a family reunion. At least Fiona’s taste was consistent…even if her gender preference was not.

  Fortunately, the porch lights were off, and she could have stood there studying him for a while, but she worried that her fanged family waiting at the creek might start growing anxious and call out or, worse yet, come looking for her. She didn’t want them anywhere near the homestead. Riley took off toward the outbuildings, passing a lopsided woodshed and then a vacant chicken coop, the filthy and miserable confines of the poor birds who had once called it home. Farther down was the main barn, padlocked, and beyond that a smaller hay barn, its doors hanging open on broken hinges. Old farm equipment stood stacked against its board-and-batten siding, and Riley slipped inside to snoop around.

  Moonlight filtered in through a dirty window and through holes in the barn wood where the knots had rotted out. The stench hit her right away. A person’s nose might have wrinkled and grown quickly accustomed to the mustiness, but it struck fear and disgust in Riley—a fear as potent as the rage she felt toward Jim Barrett. The damp air hung heavily around her, a vaporous veil of old chemicals and stale death as she fixed her eyes anxiously on what must have been two dozen coyote pelts nailed to the walls. One of those victims was much smaller than the rest. It hung low on the wall by its tail, its reddish fur glistening in a ray of moonlight.

  Riley moved closer and immediately recognized one of its ears split in two. It was Van Gogh, the elderly fox who had lived on her property. Whether he’d received the tear from a run-in with a coyote or another fox, she wasn’t sure. His ear had been torn as long as she’d known him. He had been scrawny and getting on in years, so Riley had supplied him with peanut-butter sandwiches to get him through the harsh winters. And then he’d disappeared. Foxes weren’t as skittish around people as coyotes, and she concluded that Van Gogh had been over this way hoping to snatch a chicken from the old man who’d lived here. In one jump, she grabbed the pelt in her teeth and ripped it from the nail. This barn was like a hellish morgue, and she wouldn’t let Van Gogh’s remains hang here another night.

  She took in a wide-angle view of the place, pausing to process everything she saw. One side of the barn was swept clean and organized; the other piled high with broken tools and machinery, wood and scrap metal, and a heap of debris set to be shoveled into a dumpster and carted away. It was from there that the stench came. Balanced atop the mess was the open skin of a beaver still tacked out on a board, and propped against the pile were the case skins of fox and coyotes still on pelt stretchers, like socks pulled over feet. It seemed the old man hadn’t properly fleshed them, and the hides had rotted. Riley stared at the flat, eyeless faces covered in dust and began to shake.

  Well, this solved the mystery of the many coyotes who had disappeared over the years. Those young dispersal coyotes going off to start their own lives hadn’t had a chance to live their lives at all. They’d met a horrid and untimely demise here on Dennis’s property. Forelegs shaking, she padded her way over to a few plastic milk crates filled with heavy chains and rusted steel-jaw traps. Legholds that had held them captive in a state of absolute panic, unimaginable pain, for God knew how long. Maybe days, until that heartless bastard came to dispatch them.

  Dispatch…kill…put an end to…it was murder by any other name. And those traps were illegal. Dennis hadn’t killed to feed himself. If he’d trapped out of necessity, maybe to supplement a measly social-security check with money made from selling pelts, he wouldn’t have let the hides go to ruin. All these creatures had come to a brutal end just to have their skins discarded like candy wrappers. He’d killed for sport, pure pleasure, nailing his predator harvests to the walls like a serial killer collects souvenirs of his victims.

  Riley dropped Van Gogh’s pelt. Her stomach turned, and she fought the urge to run outside, eat grass until she vomited, but she’d come this far and had more to investigate—like the other side of the barn that had been swept clean and organized. She nosed an empty box. It was fresh. The scent of the UPS man that had delivered it still clung to the cardboard. There were two sawhorses, upon which Dennis had probably worked his leather, and a large workbench. Two brand-new garbage pails stood next to it, along with wrapped rolls of plastic that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the television set of a Dexter episode. Against the barn wall was a cage tr
ap stacked high with salvaged boxes of Borax, degreasing soap, and bags of aluminum salt.

  Riley looked up at a workbench, unable to see the high surface from where she stood. Taking a step back, she jumped up to inspect the items that had arrived in the big box. She might not have been able to talk, but she could still read, although perhaps at a slower processing speed. She strained to make out the writing on the labels: skinning knife, fleshing knife, serrated pelter. There was a bottle of Leder’s tanning solution and a skull-bleaching kit. Riley didn’t need to read to recognize a set of new leghold traps shining in the moonlight filtering in through the grimy glass of the window, or the new stakes and cables, a few of which had fallen and landed beside a pair of worn Timberland boots caked with dry mud. They smelled like Jim.

  What a fucker. He should have been up on a ladder, repairing and painting the family’s new home before the cold weather came. Instead, he was carrying on like a sociopathic boy, getting his play station ready for the coming killing season.

  Riley jumped down, headed for the door, and looked back at the remains of animals waiting for the garbage collector. The man was expected on—what was it Jim said, Monday or Tuesday? Well, Riley would be back with opposable thumbs before then. Maybe on Sunday, while the Barretts were up in Lenox attending church, she’d drive over, come in through the road that led along the lake, and load some stuff into her Outback. She’d take those coyotes on pelt stretchers. Her little fox, too. And she definitely wanted the old leghold traps in those plastic milk crates. She didn’t know what she’d do with them, but she wanted them.

  Riley slipped back out to hear Widget’s worried howl. She couldn’t chance howling back. That would get Jim’s attention through the open windows. But if she didn’t answer or return to the creek, it wouldn’t be long before Gadget and Widget left Fidget in charge of Midget and came looking for her. She had started to pass the house, ready to take off through the pasture, when she heard the soft voice of a child coming from the low window at the side of the house. She stopped, cocked her ears, and listened. It was Edy talking to someone, maybe her mother, and Riley’s curiosity got the best of her. She crept to the window, stood up with her paws on the sill, and peeked inside.

  A night light burned softly, and through the screen she saw the girl all alone, kneeling by her bed. Riley realized she was praying.

  “…and please protect Mommy…and give Daddy a big job that will keep him away. It’s better when he’s not here, Jesus. I get scared when they fight…and I don’t want him hitting Mommy. I don’t understand why Grammy and Gramps won’t help us…but please send a guardian angel to watch over us. I keep asking you to send one, but she hasn’t come yet. I’m sorry I ever said anything to my guidance counselor. It’s only made Daddy worse. And please protect Dr. Spencer. She’s really nice, and I think maybe she could help, but…I don’t want her getting in trouble with Daddy either…

  Don’t you worry, she silently assured her namesake. Your guardian angel has come. Her front legs began to tremble again, her toes losing their grip on the sill, and as she slid to the ground her claws scraped the clapboards. Riley stood still, hoping the girl hadn’t heard the noise, but then a shadow moved in the room, and the girl’s face was at the window, her nose pressed to the screen. Just as Riley turned to run, she heard the girl lifting the window higher, and she froze, hoping she wouldn’t notice her. But then came the little girl’s whisper. “Hey, Coyote?”

  She turned around and through the screen saw the girl’s mouth drop open. “You know what you are…”

  Riley nodded. It was a human reflex, but a really stupid thing to do. It made the girl gasp and stare in open-mouthed wonder. “You understand what I’m saying, Coyote…”

  Riley jerked her head in a nod again. Damn it! She hadn’t meant to do that.

  Another howl rang out. It was Gadget calling. Where are you? Are you okay? We’re worried! Riley turned and made a dash for the pasture.

  “Hey, Coyote!” Edy called out in a loud whisper. Riley stopped and looked back at the shadowed little face in the dimly lit window. “Please come back to visit, okay? But not when the truck is here. My father’s really mean. He’ll shoot you.”

  The emotional impact of it all—seeing Fiona abused, finding the remains of animals she had known, hearing the prayers of a frightened child, and now this warning—triggered the beginning of the change back into human form. Her forearms buckled, and she stumbled, her back legs lengthening, spine straightening. A chorus of howls broke out as she scampered as best she could through the tall grass, all the way back to the creek.

  Never mind Jim shooting her. Her nerves were already shot.

  Chapter Six

  Five minutes late for class, Riley flew down Lily Hall and into the noisy room full of chattering students. “Sorry I’m late, guys. I got stuck in that road construction outside.” It was better than saying she’d overslept, which she had.

  Since seeing Fiona last week, she hadn’t slept well. And then on Sunday, she’d set her alarm and was up and dressed at dawn, ready to drive over to the farm and load those skins and crates into her Outback as soon as the Barretts left for Sunday services in Lenox. Those crates had been too heavy to lift, and she had picked through them, taking what she wanted. Some of the traps were smaller, but the three rusty larger ones, fit for bears, easily weighed twenty-five pounds apiece. On her last trip out of the barn she glanced at Jim’s old Timberland boots and took them, too. Providing the junk man showed up as scheduled to cart everything away, Jim would never notice that an intruder had been in the barn.

  Riley plopped her messenger bag and bottle of water on the desk and realized her students were conversing so loudly they hadn’t noticed her come in. Those in the front rows were turned around in their seats, facing the others. Only Madison looked at her.

  “What’s so interesting?” Riley asked.

  “That guy who killed his wife and kids this morning. You heard about it?”

  Riley raised her brow. “No. I haven’t heard the news yet.” The sound of human voices tended to rattle her brain in the mornings, especially after a night of shifting, and she preferred to listen to music in the car. Chill, classical, trance. Anything instrumental.

  “It was a homicide-suicide, just a few miles from here,” Madison said as the others turned back around in their seats and quieted down. “We were debating whether the husband would fit the criteria for a narcissistic or antisocial personality disorder.”

  “Probably both,” Riley said. “Think of it this way. All psychopaths are narcissists, but not all narcissists are psychopaths.”

  “What gets me,” Josh said, “is that when the reporters were interviewing neighbors walking their dogs, they had nothing but nice things to say about the guy. They all talked about how nice the family was, how the husband left for work every morning in a suit and tie and always waved good morning or stopped to chat and pet their dogs. It’s like everybody was totally shocked.”

  Riley nodded. “Family annihilation usually does come as a shock.”

  “Family what?” Madison asked.

  “Family annihilators. Men who kill their families. I say men, because most are white, middle-aged males, but on occasion a mother does the killing. I can think of one years back who packed her four or five kids into a car and drove into a lake to get revenge on the husband. As the car sank, she decided she didn’t want to drown and was able to get herself out, but not the kids.”

  “God…” Madison rubbed her arms, obviously chilled by the thought. “What makes someone do that?”

  “Hard to tell,” Riley said. “Some have a history of domestic violence, yet others don’t. Some are well-to-do members of the community, and others live on the fringe. Some have no morals, while others are moralistic to the point of delusional self-righteousness. But they’re all narcissistic. So based on your reading, what personality traits would they all have in common?”

  Several students spoke at the same time. “The need for
power and control.”

  “Always. Would-be annihilators are domineering, even if quietly so, and pride themselves on being head of the perfect family, which, of course, they see as an extension of their own wonderfulness. Anything that threatens their masculinity—financial ruin, divorce, separation of the family—can lead to unbearable humiliation and rage. In fact, if not out of revenge, many family annihilators see their murders as honor killings. Somewhere in their sick minds they believe they’re making the best choice for their loved ones because, as narcissists, what’s the one thing they all lack?”

  “Empathy,” her students called out together.

  A bunch of hands went up, and Riley might have spent more time on the topic, but the subject felt too personal right now. The clues Fiona had dropped in describing her situation as “untreatable” and saying she knew what to do to “survive” had Riley thinking that Jim Barrett was far more dangerous than she was letting on. Riley had seen for herself during her unannounced visit to the old homestead. Just thinking about it gave her the jitters. “I’d like to spend more time on the subject, but this is our last class, guys. We need to get through narcissism before your exam next week.”

  She went to the board and picked up a marker. “Fortunately, most narcissists aren’t antisocial. In fact, not all narcissists meet the criteria for a diagnosable personality disorder, so I’d like for you to think of narcissism on a spectrum.” Riley drew a horizontal line. “At the high end we’ll put the disorder,” she said, and wrote the abbreviation, NPD. “And if we keep extending the line, that’s when we start moving into the realm of…what?”