Riley shot him a crooked smile. “How embarrassing would it be, arriving in heaven and coming face to face with an animal you’d killed for its organs…or sitting down to dinner with that pig you had for dinner.”
“That would make for an awkward reunion. Maybe that’s why I prefer not to eat animals, although I’d have to stay away from all the lakes in heaven, to avoid being greeted by all those angry fish I caught on earth.” David seemed more relaxed now that they’d cleared up the werewolf conundrum and that he’d apparently decided Riley wasn’t insane.
“And for the record, Riley, I do believe we will see our cats and dogs and all our other nonhuman counterparts in heaven.” He raised his arm, reaching back to knock a knuckle against the Noah’s Ark print on the wall behind him. “Can you make out the scripture along the bottom?”
Riley shifted her body, turning in her seat to read it.
FOR WE KNOW THAT THE WHOLE OF CREATION GROANTH AND TRAVAILETH IN PAIN TOGETHER UNTIL NOW. AND NOT ONLY THE CREATURES, BUT OURSELVES ALSO, WHICH HAVE THE FIRST FRUIT OF THE SPIRIT, GROAN WITHIN OURSELVES, WAITING FOR THE REDEMPTION OF OUR BODY. ~ROMANS 8
“As I said, the Bible is subject to interpretation. The Book of Genesis, for instance, says the earth was created in seven days. But one day for God might have been a billion years here on earth, which is how theistic evolutionists, such as myself, reconcile religion with what science knows to be true. Nonetheless, I think that passage makes it clear that animals are quietly cognizant of the Creator, of their gratuitous suffering on earth, and longing for redemption. It may not be something they’re able to actively contemplate as we do, but in the silence of their souls is an understanding of something vast and deep.”
Yes, yes, yes! Riley wanted to holler. That was exactly what she experienced in fur. No matter what she was doing—listening to the wind, running with the pack, sprawled beneath the stars in a field at night—she was always aware of an indefinable truth, a universal principle, a greatness that was…yes, vast and deep.
It was hard for her coyote mind to translate the particulars to her human brain, impossible to effectively put into words. The logistics and linguistics were complicated. As the reverend said, so much is lost in translation. But when she walked on all fours that universal truth was there inside her: cryptic, encoded, perhaps, but connecting her to something greater. She could only describe it as a strange sort of knowing. Knowing you know something yet not quite understanding what it is you know, or even how you came to know it, only that you do. That’s how it felt. Kind of like the canine equivalent of a Buddhist achieving nirvana.
David slapped his thighs. “I’m getting hungry. How about a veggie wrap for lunch?”
“Thanks, but I have a list of things to do. And you’ve got wood to chop.”
“Can I at least tempt you with an apple for the road…said the snake.”
Riley grinned. “‘Certainly,’ said Eve.”
They laughed together as they stood, David handing her the book to take, then picking up the envelope and shaking it at her. “I’m going to lock this away.”
Riley watched him go to his desk. He went behind it, getting down on one knee in front of something she couldn’t see, but then heard the spinning dial of what must have been a safe. “I really appreciate you holding on to that,” she said.
“Don’t mention it.”
She felt connected to David, liked the way he thought. He seemed to have an intuitive understanding of all things great and small. If she was still alive come the holidays, maybe she’d accompany Peggy, Barbara, and Tom to church. It would be her way of showing respect and gratitude to whatever higher power had put her back in Fiona’s life. Not that she’d ever believed in one, but more and more she felt there was a reason for it all.
Riley got in her car with a shiny red apple, polishing it on her shirt as she headed off. She needed to pick up some augers at a hunting-supply store over in Connecticut. The state line was only a few miles from here, and it would be best to do business away from home. From there she’d pass by Michael’s craft store for a few bags of polyester pillow stuffing. Everything else she needed she’d already taken from Jim’s barn. She turned out of the church lot, cranked up the music, and sank her teeth into the crisp apple—the first in a string of sins to come. Redemption would have to wait.
Chapter Eighteen
The trees were bare now, their branches reaching up like fingers against the frosty October moon. Riley rubbed her hands together. It was getting cold. Her breath came in puffs of steam, icy leaves crunching underfoot as she snuck up behind the trail camera Jim had tied to a tree. Careful not to come within view of the lens, she reached around the trunk with both hands, opening the clasps on the casing and feeling for the switch. She flipped it to the off position, then took out the four-ounce bottle of Buck Baits Bear Urine and angled her way onto the narrow trail. Jim’s trap set, freshly baited with raw meat, was right there—exactly where she wanted it.
Every single night for the past two weeks, Riley had traveled in fur to the homestead to lure and taunt him, staring defiantly at the Nest camera on the porch while she squatted and peed, kicking up the grass to spread her scent. Then she trotted back through the pasture, toward the creek, stopping every few feet to turn and flash him that catch-me-if-you-can look. And it had worked. Jim had set and baited his traps with fresh meat.
Fiona had left only three notes on her windshield. The first one, last month, said: Straight up middle of pasture. The next, two weeks later, read: Same. Trail camera now. And the third, just days ago, said: Traps are set, I think. Leaves today. Back on Halloween. Afraid for Edy’s coyote.
Riley shook her head in disgust as she surveyed the area. First off, trapping season didn’t open until the first of November, which was three days off. The other thing was the leghold traps. Along with snares, they were prohibited in Massachusetts. Only humane cage traps were permitted. Jim had to know this. But why should a wifebeater who terrorized turtles and had his child living in fear worry about the law? And to make matters worse, he’d baited his traps and left town, leaving them unchecked for three days. How cruel was that? Riley could have him arrested, but that would only foil her plans. Jim deserved much more than a fine and a day in court.
Once she located his trap set, she had returned with an auger, drilling holes and digging beds before the temperature dropped and the ground froze. Her stakes were buried now, cables covered with leaves. She’d even lugged up Dennis’s cleaned traps. They were hidden under the nearby evergreens. Before the snow fell, she’d be back to attach them to the cables with her new S-hook tool. Then everything would be in perfect place: two rows of two bear traps leading up to Jim’s set, and five smaller ones positioned in a single line, right along his own. Lost in the excitement of seeing captured coyotes, he was bound to step on the plate of a bear trap; the trail wasn’t more than twenty inches wide, too narrow for him to avoid. And when he fell forward, she was counting on at least one hand getting caught in a smaller trap.
Riley removed the cap from the bottle and began spritzing the area, making sure to double-dose the bait with the stinky stuff. The urine wasn’t to attract bears. It was to repel other animals. The scent of a bruin would frighten away everything, except maybe another bear, but Riley suspected they were safely hunkered down, preparing to sleep out the coming storm. The first nor’easter of the season was on its way, expected to bring six to eight inches of snow to the Berkshires on Halloween.
Satisfied, she returned to the tree and stepped behind it, switching the camera back on and locking the casing, then hurried away, using a flashlight to find her way back through the woods, down along the edge of the field, and out to her car parked along the road.
The leaves needed to be bagged before the storm hit. She had blown them into a pile, but before she could bag them the wind had scattered and rearranged them, rather nicely, she thought, around her three pumpkins and the six-foot scarecrow staked in the ground. A small birdseed d
ish that Riley kept filled with sunflower seeds to attract the morning crows hung around its neck. Somehow, scarecrows looked their best when in the company of crows. The birds were gone now, though, the dish empty, shells from the seeds scattered all over the place. Riley brushed them aside with her foot, wiping her shoe on the doormat, but just as she reached for the doorknob, she heard something rushing through the crisp leaves. In her peripheral vision, a fleeting shadow passed through the woods. A shadow darker than the night itself. It moved so swiftly that by the time she spun around, it was gone.
It wasn’t the first time this had happened. All month long she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her. And always, an odor followed the sound. She couldn’t smell it now with this cheap, half-ass human nose of hers, but in fur her nostrils caught it—the distinct smell of testosterone: potent, familiar, yet unfamiliar. She couldn’t place it, but it wasn’t Gadget’s.
Truth to tell, it gave her the heebie-jeebies and brought to mind Jim’s face at the powwow—that arrogant expression, those aggressive eyes, that sneer. Supposedly he was out of town, off to deliver a load somewhere on the map, but really, there was no telling where he was, what he was up to, or how much he knew. Maybe it was just her mind—and her nose—playing tricks. She needed to calm down, still her thoughts. Once you let your emotions rise above your ears, past the fill line, it was hard to hear yourself think. And when you weren’t thinking clearly you were bound to lose perspective.
Riley went into the house then, shook out a pile of Temptations for Luna, who was begging for a treat, and decided to warm up with a cup of hot chocolate. She could have done without the extra caffeine. Planning a murder and fearing you might be murdered in the process didn’t exactly make for a good night’s sleep, but she made the drink anyway and took it down to the basement, Luna trailing close behind.
Like the staircase that followed the massive chimney up to the second floor of the house, the staircase to the basement followed it down. With the house built into a hill, the space was split into two rooms. The one to the right was ground level and finished, a door leading out to the garage and meadow. The windows, although shaded by the deck above, allowed the moonlight to stream in. A small billiards table sat in the middle of the room, its red-felt slate complementing the stained-glass light above it and the red shades of the lamps that cast a warm glow over the new black couch against a gray stone wall. Of course, the couch was hard to see, covered by a blanket and with four coyotes asleep on it. They should have been out scrounging around at this hour, but lately, sometimes as early as eight o’clock, Riley would hear their sharp barks of warning, and then all four of them scrambling in through the doggy door; not just the one leading to their beds in the garage, but right through the second one that led into the basement. The sudden change in their pattern bothered her. Whatever was spooking her had them spooked, too. Maybe it wasn’t her imagination. Who could say Jim wasn’t sneaking around her property while she was intruding on his?
To stay on the safe side, Riley made sure to shift only in the house and to use the same doggy doors to come and go. She’d also taken out and cleaned the .22 rifle that had stood in the back of her closet for years. The other day it had even occurred to her to leave the doors unlocked. How convenient would it be to invite Jim in, provide easy access, and claim self-defense when she shot him dead. But if she did fall asleep, he might get to her first. Leaving the basement door open was always an option. Widget and Gadget, if they heard her shouts of distress, would fly up the stairs and rip him to pieces right here in the bedroom, but how would she explain that mess to the police? Plan A was better.
Riley looked at them. “Are you guys sleeping already?” They each opened one eye, but no one stirred. Only Midget’s tail began thumping when Luna mewed and rubbed herself against the leg of the pool table. “Come on, you. Let them sleep,” she said, scooping up the cat and walking back past the staircase and garage door, into the deeper side of the basement. Riley set both her hot chocolate and the cat on the workbench and turned on the lights. There were cabinets above and below the work area, a slop sink to the side, and some extra shelving. Way in the back was the electric box and the pump that brought up spring water from the well. There wasn’t much else, except for snowshoes and sleds, her eight-foot Christmas tree boxed in pieces, and a bunch of storage bins containing holiday decorations.
The furthest thing from her mind had been decorating for Halloween, but she’d managed to pull out a few items, like the scarecrow outside, the jointed wooden witch that sat two feet high on her hearth, and the lighted string of orange pumpkins draped across the mantel. It was just enough to create a festive feel and the illusion of normalcy. She’d even displayed a small stack of scary novels on the coffee table: Pet Sematary, Ann Rice’s The Wolf Gift, and her favorite lesbian Halloween story, Love Spell. If anyone stopped by, it would appear that Riley wasn’t up to anything out of the ordinary—just enjoying the ambiance of the witching season, spending spooky evenings reading by the fire.
It was good thing she had staged the scene, because people did stop by, including the reverend. It gave her a startle to see him at her door, standing there in a black suit and wearing his clerical collar. Against the backdrop of pumpkins and leaves, he looked like one of those disturbingly handsome undead guys in Interview with the Vampire. He was on his way to visit a church member who was hospitalized, he said, and didn’t have time to come in, but wanted to drop off the homemade apple strudel he proceeded to hand her.
Riley had a feeling the strudel was an excuse to check in on her. She could tell by the way he carefully studied her that, after the will thing, he was worried she might be planning to check out. “I like your decorations,” he said, gesturing at the scarecrow and combing back that gorgeous head of hair with his fingers. Riley was beginning to think it was a nervous habit.
“Thanks. I love getting ready for Halloween. Thanksgiving, too,” she said, putting on a big smile. “And Christmas will be here before we know it. I was just online, as a matter of fact, getting a jump on my holiday shopping,” she said, indirectly reassuring him that she wasn’t suicidal. That was how she always evaluated her at-risk clients—by whether they talked about near-future plans. Suicidal people didn’t talk about tomorrow.
Peggy, Barbara, and Tom had stopped by, too. Peggy, of course, wouldn’t discuss her sessions with Fiona or Edy, or her communications with the caseworker, and Riley didn’t ask. That in itself seemed to put Peggy on alert—that and Riley’s refusal to attend the masquerade ball being held by their mutual friends Gwen and Samantha over in Stockbridge. The parties they threw on their lofty estate were outstanding. Unfortunately, Riley would be missing this one.
“You have to go,” Peggy insisted. “Halloween is your favorite holiday.”
“I’m in a funk, Peg. You know that. I just want to be alone.”
“All the more reason to get out and socialize. It’ll get your mind off things.”
“We’re expecting snow, you know.”
“I know.” Peggy shrugged. “We’ll take Barbara’s truck. And we’ll leave early if the storm gets bad.”
“Nah. I’m staying put. Besides, I don’t have time to start getting a costume together.”
“What’s to get together?” she asked. “You’re always a werewolf for Halloween.”
This was true. Her wolf suit, always the private joke among the four of them, was neatly packed away in one of those containers.
Peggy wasn’t buying it. “You’re not up to anything, are you?”
“Nope. Why would I be?” Riley asked, unable to stare into those all-knowing green eyes. Peggy wasn’t easily fooled. As quickly as Riley sensed a sudden shift in her coyotes’ behavior, a change in their pattern, Peggy had already picked up on hers.
Eventually she gave up, though. Even Barbara and Tom got tired of hounding her about the party. When they couldn’t convince her to join them, Tom finally called asking to borrow her werewolf suit. B
arbara, he said, was willing to dress up as Little Red Riding Hood, Peggy as the grandmother, if Tom would be the big bad wolf.
“Excellent idea. Come and get it,” Riley told him. The party would be lots of fun, no doubt. They always were, with all the music and dancing, the bobbing for apples, and other games. But Riley had her own party-of-two to attend with Jim Barrett. Part of her regretted declining the invitation and loaning her wolf suit to Tom. She could carry out her plan and, providing things went well, quickly change and zip over to the party. Being there would be the perfect alibi should she need one. But now she really would have to put a costume together. Thinking about it was too much for her brain right now. Clear her mind, make room in her head—that’s what she needed to do. It was important to stay focused and not assume her plan was foolproof.
Self-confidence was a delicate thing. Too little of it and you were bound to second-guess yourself, lose your nerve; too much and you ran the risk of overestimating yourself, getting sloppy and making mistakes. Just one hole in her plot, one item left behind, one track left uncovered would lead detectives right to her door. If that happened, Riley was prepared to shoot herself, plain and simple. She would not go to jail. The stress of being tossed in a cell would have her climbing the walls, shifting uncontrollably. And when the guards witnessed the freak show, then what? She’d end up in a lab, roommates with a goddamn chimera. No way. That scared her more than dying. Sitting on the edge of her bed last night, she’d discovered that holding her rifle vertically, stock on the floor and a thumb on the trigger, the end of the barrel fit quite nicely under her chin. Everyone needed an escape route. The gun was hers.
Luna was standing up on her hind legs now, batting the tails of three coyote pelts that dangled down past the cabinets over the workbench. Riley had hung them from a thin pipe running in between the beams to air them out. Van Gogh, the little fox, was there, too. Riley reached up, taking his split ear between her fingers, and rubbed his fur. Remembering him alive made her want to cry. Thinking of Fiona bruised and beaten made her want to scream. And thinking of Jim stalking her made her furious. This gamut of intensely negative feelings would not serve her well.
Coyote Blues Page 33