Species

by Yvonne Navarro

  “What are you going to do with those?” Marlo’s voice was shrill with panic.

  “Be quiet,” Sil said in a steady voice. “I have to think.” She held up her left hand and looked at it carefully, then let it drop it to the top of the nightstand. Hanging her thumb off the front edge of the piece of furniture, Sil positioned the pruning shears precisely between the first and second knuckle—

  “Oh, dear God,” Marlo whispered, her eyes protruding from her face.

  —and cut it off.

  The Keegan woman retched and shut her eyes, tucking her chin hard against her chest. When Sil didn’t cry out, she opened her eyes and watched, stupefied, as Sil held her hand up attentively between them. Arm wavering slightly, the raw wound on the end of Sil’s hand did not bleed; instead, the flesh in the middle of the injury, its edges pinched together by the pruning shears like the ends of a small sausage, began to squirm and pull apart. Gagging again but unable to look away, Marlo’s gaze flicked from Sil’s face to her hand and back again, each new glance marking the progress of Sil’s regeneration. In less than sixty seconds, Sil’s hand was whole again.

  Sil had brought Marlo’s handbag inside last night and set it next to the alarm clock on the nightstand. Now she opened it and slipped her severed thumb inside, zipping it into the smaller lipstick pocket at the top. She gave brief consideration to taping her captive’s mouth shut, but it seemed too much trouble. And what if she began to cry? With her mouth covered, the prisoner could suffocate if her nose became blocked. No, Sil decided, better just to get it over with.

  Before Marlo Keegan could yell, Sil grabbed the woman’s left wrist and shoved the pruning shears against her thumb; a hard snip! and the woman’s thumb fell to the sheets with a messy splash of blood. Marlo did scream then, loud and long enough so that Sil finally slapped her to put an end to the maddening racket; the blow rocked the woman’s head back and against the headboard, stunning her enough to dwindle her screeching to an incoherent babbling that Sil could at least tolerate. Marlo’s pale cheeks were wet with tears of agony as she curled in a fetal position atop the comforter.

  Sil dashed outside now, before the day’s traffic started building and cars began passing on the roadway. Driving back to Marlo Keegan’s house last night, she had seen without really registering the trash cans dotting the roadway where driveways met the curb. Today was trash pickup day—and to make things more perfect, Marlo had set her garbage can out last night, before her fateful trip to the Liquor Mart. A quick nudge into the contents, and Marlo’s thumb was destined for a permanent trip to an unknown landfill.

  Back inside, Sil quickly finished the remaining tasks. She was ready to go within a half hour, and this time the only thing she had to hunt for was the five-gallon gasoline container next to the lawn mower in Marlo’s storage shed.

  The view down Nichols Canyon from the road at noon was spectacular, ruined only by the small group of metallic rods and electrical transformers far below, at the foot of the incline. Sil had chosen this particular spot along Mulholland because of those same transformers, carefully committing the area to memory. Street names, landmarks, a handful of houses with features that set them apart from the rest—all of this coalesced into an effective mental map that would guide her back here later.

  Sil had learned her lesson with Robbie’s Puma, and she’d stopped at a gas station early in the morning after leaving the Keegan home. She wanted to spend the morning learning the area and working out the strategy for tonight, not skipping from vehicle to vehicle and juggling baggage in the meantime. Now she parked the taupe-colored Mazda beneath the shade of a handsome California live oak on a tiny street called Doña Nenita. The tree made her pause because it smelled strange, like nothing she’d encountered so far. She found the scent vaguely erotic and couldn’t decide if it reminded her of men or chlorine bleach, or both.

  Not far from the electrical substation in Nichols Canyon, Doña Nenita nonetheless offered Sil a number of retreat options, which included both Mulholland and Nichols Canyon Road, should the need arise. She didn’t really want to take Marlo’s cumbersome handbag with her, but it seemed that a woman was expected to have some sort of pocketbook all the time; grudgingly Sil slung the strap at an angle across her chest so it wouldn’t slide off. She locked the car doors and cracked the windows an inch on either side to vent the gasoline fumes coming from the backseat.

  The fresh air felt and tasted good after the warm, gas-laden air of the Mazda, and Sil took her time, enjoying the exercise and the sun. She noticed that the birdsong in the trees bordering the road ebbed and flowed according to the traffic that whizzed past. As she headed vaguely southwest it wasn’t that long before she found what she sought at the corner of Laurel Canyon and Oakdell—a full-service Mobil Station. There was a telephone box not far from the open garage doors and she stepped up to it and picked up the receiver, pressing it to her ear so she wouldn’t be conspicuous as she surveyed the mechanics working in the station and the cars parked outside.

  It took some time, but finally she understood the process. She was ready the next time a mechanic closed the hood on a car, backed it out of the garage, and reparked it in the line of cars to the side. Waiting until the mechanic returned to the garage, Sil hung up the telephone receiver and casually walked over to the car he’d just pulled into the spot, a white-on-beige 1984 Oldsmobile Cutlass that was bigger than anything she’d driven so far. She slid inside the car, closed the door gently, and checked the ignition; as she’d anticipated, the keys were in it.

  Fresh from a tune-up, the Cutlass started with a quiet purr, and no one paid any attention as she backed out of the parking spot and drove away.

  34

  “I still think this is a waste of time.”

  “Take the toothpick out, Press,” Laura said. “You sound like you’re talking around a branch in your mouth.”

  Press snatched the sliver of wood from between his teeth and stuck it in his shirt pocket. “Well, thank you, Miss Manners. Your tactfulness is certainly appreciated.”

  “Anytime, Mr. Lennox.” She gave him a smile so absurdly vapid that he had to laugh; after a moment Laura lost it and joined in. Her laughter died away as the lights of the ID glinted through the windshield of the van. “Oh, joy. It seems we’ve arrived.”

  “What the hell,” Press said as they all climbed out, “it’s a free night on the town.” His tone of voice, however, didn’t quite match the cheerful words. He offered his arm to Laura. “Shall I escort you inside? I see Bruno over there recognizes us, so I doubt we’ll have as much difficulty as the last time.”

  Laura playfully slapped his arm aside. “No thanks, Tarzan. I can walk upright fine on my own. Just follow me.”

  His eyebrows raised in mock affront. “Forgive me for dragging my knuckles, Dr. Baker. Please—lead on. I’ll study your stride and learn how you balance so well.”

  “Just watch your step, Lennox,” she retorted.

  “If you two are finished clowning around,” Fitch said sharply, “I’d appreciate you taking a post by the stairwell to the rest rooms and watching the crowd. Or would you prefer to stand on the sidewalk and flirt some more?”

  “Duty calls,” Press said with a slight salute. “You order and we obey.” Without further comment, he trailed after Laura. At the front entrance she nodded politely to Bruno and showed her government ID card; as with Dan and Stephen, he waved the remainder of the group inside without bothering to look any closer at their credentials.

  At least they were dressed casually enough to fit in with the crowd, although the men’s blue jeans and short-sleeved shirts and Laura’s jeans and snug blouse were a far cry from the provocative outfits worn by most of the patrons. In the excitement of their first visit to the ID, neither Press nor Laura had realized how much heat actually built up in the huge room after a couple of hours and a full crowd. Stationed at the head of the stairs in the back, they found the air sweltering and filled with thick layers of cigarette smoke. Vainly
trying to wave the smoky air aside, Laura stood next to Press and watched as Fitch, Carey’s Polaroid picture in hand, found the manager of the club and spent a good ten minutes aggravating him.

  “I can’t believe people still put this crap in their lungs,” Laura finally complained. “Haven’t they learned anything by now?”

  “Nah,” Press said. “I only quit a year ago myself.” He grinned. “Don’t tell me you never wondered why I just ‘happened’ to have a Bic in my pocket back at the research lab.”

  She shrugged prettily. “I didn’t think twice about it. I thought it was a guy thing.”

  “Like toothpicks.”

  Laura grinned. “Exactly.”

  “A behavior specialist you’re not.” Stephen, with Dan dallying behind, joined them by the staircase.

  “That’s your field, not mine,” she replied, her eyes scanning the throng of men and women. “Speaking of which, what the heck are we doing here?”

  “Not much,” Stephen admitted. He coughed delicately into his hand, then shook his head. “I need some air—there’s way too much smoke in here for me. And I hate these nighttime hours—I’m usually in bed by eleven-thirty. I’m going to slip into the van and put the seat back for a while, take a short rest. We’re getting nowhere here, anyway.”

  “I guess nature boy can’t take it.” Press’s tone was more joking than harsh as the three of them watched Stephen retreat. “He kind of strikes me as a ladies’ man, but I wonder where he goes to cruise if he can’t do the clubs. This place closes at three—hell, in New York they’re plenty of places with licenses until six in the morning.”

  “I think he knows you two like each other,” Dan said innocently. Despite the uneven lights flashing across their faces, Laura’s blush was still noticeable. “Besides, he told me this feels like a wild-goose chase.”

  “Really? And what do you feel, Dan?” Laura watched him closely.

  “I’m not sure,” the soft-spoken man admitted. “It’s easy for me to pinpoint what someone’s feeling, but usually only if I’m close to that person. This place is like a big blender, with way too much stuff going on too close together to segregate anything. Plus, I’ve never met Sil in person, just seen the aftermath.” He scrutinized the patrons of the ID for a few moments and scratched his head absently. “I just don’t know why she would want to come back here . . . unless she had a plan.” His black eyes were unfathomable. “Maybe we shouldn’t forget that this woman—”

  “Creature,” Laura reminded him.

  “—is awfully smart,” Dan finished. “We talked about this before. She second-guesses us because she can think like the human part of her, and outsmarts us because she can think like the . . .” He frowned. “What’s the word I’m looking for?”

  “Unknown,” Press said.

  “Well,” Dan said, his expression troubled, “I thought we’d called her something else, but I guess that fits, too.” He didn’t say anything else for a few seconds, then he glanced longingly toward the exit. “I don’t like it in here,” he said gloomily. “There’s too much going on in too small a space. I think I’ll go out to the van and talk to Stephen.”

  “Okay, Dan,” Press said. “You guys come back in when you’re ready. Take your time—we’ll be here.” Dan nodded and disappeared into the swarm of dancers, oblivious to the bodies swaying around him. An attractive young woman with short, spiked blond hair sidled toward Press with an engaging smile; he purposely turned his back on her and she sulked away in the direction of the dance floor. “So,” Press eventually asked, “what do you think the creature’s looking for, mate-wise?”

  Laura rubbed her arms and gazed around the club, wishing she’d worn something other than the short-sleeved satin blouse; despite the warm interior, she didn’t feel comfortable in here. “Who knows? Most females choose for resources and dominance in the group.”

  “You mean like the dominant male in a pride of lions?”

  “Something like that, although lion prides don’t necessarily work that way all the time. In more sophisticated cultures and when given a chance to decide for themselves, women consider humor, ability to express intimacy, and sensitivity to their feelings.”

  Press’s eyes narrowed as he considered this. “And our girl?”

  Laura deliberated the situation honestly before answering. “She’s been alive for a little under three weeks, and she’s spent nearly a third of that time fighting for survival. For the most part I don’t believe she understands human beings or the way we live. Children learn the most during their earliest years, and who can translate what that time period means to a life-form that develops to maturity in about fifteen days? Her existence so far will have taught her that to maintain freedom she must constantly be on the run, and to mate she may have to kill. In actuality, I think she’ll look for qualities that will help her offspring survive in a hostile environment. Good reflexes, strength, daring, shrewdness.”

  “In other words,” Press cracked his knuckles idly, “she’ll choose like an animal.”

  “You make it sound derogatory, but yes—I suppose she will.” Laura’s eyes sparkled beguilingly in the fluctuating lights. “That principle is still very much in practice, Press. While human women don’t generally end up with the strongest of their species—for the most part we’ve become far too populous for that—many are still attracted to the more powerful, physically appealing men, whether they admit it to others or not.”

  “Ah.” He nodded, then gave her an impish grin. “With all that competition, no wonder guys have started bathing regularly.”

  Dan Smithson stepped out the side door of the club, trying to guess where Fitch’s aides would have parked the van. It was doubtful they’d have taken it off to the main lot and relegated it to the next available space—that was too far away. More than likely they would have slapped a government permit in the window and brought it around to the back of the building. With that in mind, he turned and headed that way.

  A row of Dumpsters were pushed against the building, all overflowing, too packed to completely shut. The smell in the warm night was overpowering; he wrinkled his nose and tried to hold his breath as he passed them, then froze when something fell to the ground in the shadows between the last two.

  “Dr. Arden?” He took an uncertain step forward. Colored lights washed down the passageway behind him, but not strong enough to reach all the way back here. The sound came again at ground level, louder, and his hands started to tremble. He didn’t like this at all, he shouldn’t be out here by himself. Something was moving toward the front of the trash bin, almost into the light, and he had no clue as to where Stephen had gone or if the professor was even all right.

  Dan nearly yelled aloud when something scampered from underneath the Dumpster on his left and angled across the sidewalk, then paused to regard him inquisitively. Two white-ringed eyes stared up at his face, bright brown despite the darkness. A second later the raccoon was joined by its mate, chittering busily and rubbing at the fur of its face with tiny-fingered paws that made Dan remember what Dr. Baker had said about them being able to open things. For a moment man and animals regarded each other, then the raccoons raced one another to the cover of a line of low bushes planted at the edge of the sidewalk.

  Relieved, Dan decided to go back inside. Better the noise and heavy air of the club than this nerve-racking seclusion. Turning on his heel, he glanced around the bushes by his feet to reassure himself that the raccoons were gone. He started to step forward—

  —and nearly walked into the arms of the she-creature.

  He couldn’t begin to conceive how she’d gotten up to him so quietly. She stood less than two feet away, close enough to touch, too close for Dan to let himself exhale. In human form, Sil was lovely, as beautiful as any of the supermodels whose faces and figures were plastered all over the United States and the world. Would he see her transform to her alien shape? Please God—he didn’t want to.

  “It’s . . . you,” he heard himself
whisper. He stumbled backward and she came with him, matching him step for step. Any second she would pounce on him, and when the image of John Carey, eviscerated in his own hot tub, flashed in Dan’s mind, he scrunched his eyes shut and threw up his hands in an instinctive effort to ward her off when she came toward him again.

  The expected strike never came. Peering from behind his forearms, Dan saw the alien woman hesitate, as if she were appraising him. If she decided he posed a threat . . . in his head he visualized his own hand, saw himself cross his fingers for good luck. He lowered his arms slightly and his eyes locked with hers, such a clear, calculating blue, the color of an exquisite ocean with a deadly undertow. She held the gaze, fixing him in place, then abruptly dashed into the darkness.

  With her retreat, Dan’s paralysis broke. “She’s here!” he screamed. “Dr. Arden, she’s here!” He bolted out of the side passageway, nearly braining himself on the rear quarter panel of the van where the professor had reparked it at the front to better watch the crowd. He saw Stephen sit up from his slouched position in the driver’s seat in time to glimpse Sil as she jumped into a beige-colored Cutlass illegally parked only a few car lengths away. Dan was still yelling at the top of his lungs and government agents began pouring from every doorway and corner of the old movie palace; as Sil cranked the engine of her car and jammed the transmission into reverse, Press and Laura sprinted out the doorway of the club. Panicking and unfamiliar with the vehicle, Stephen tried desperately to start the van and succeeded only in stalling the engine when he pumped the gas pedal and simultaneously turned the key in the electronically controlled ignition.

  Sil’s car wasn’t the only one parked illegally. A glitzy, black-lacquer 1968 Impala low rider had squeezed into the space behind Sil’s Oldsmobile; it was older and heavier, but no one had told her that. She floored the accelerator and rammed the Impala hard, shoving it backward and onto the sidewalk with a crunch of metal and a shower of sparks, heedless of the people shrieking and scattering in every direction. Spinning the steering wheel of the Cutlass, she shoved the gearshift to drive and mashed the accelerator again; engine howling, the newly tuned auto leaped out of the parking space and sped down Formosa toward Sunset.