Crosscut

by Meg Gardiner

  A woman’s voice, talking rapid-fire, came at him. “She won’t get in the car. She’s a real mess; you need to get out here.”

  “Slow down. Back up,” he said.

  “I said, we saw this woman jump out of a pickup truck onto the highway. The truck was a big black thing with a bull bar and lights on top.”

  “You got the plates?”

  “I gave them to the nine-one-one dispatcher. We tried to help but the woman wouldn’t let us. This woman, she’s weaving along the shoulder of the highway on foot and screaming at us when we try to get near. She’s asking for her friends. Says she wants Abbie and Evan.”

  Tommy glanced up sharply.

  “What?” Abbie said.

  The motorist sounded edgy. “This gal, she’s like a cancer patient or something. Every time I try to get close to her she acts like she might attack me. Somebody’s gotta get out here, like right now.”

  Tommy glanced at Abbie. “It’s Valerie.”

  He explained. She looked at Wally.

  “You meet the sheriffs at your dad’s. Tommy and I will get Valerie.”

  “We’ll have to wait for a uniformed officer to get back here before we can take a black-and-white,” Tommy said. “When she sees it she may get aggressive.”

  Abbie held up her keys. “Big-ass van to the rescue. Wally can take his car to Independence. You go with me. Come on.”

  Jesse hit her number again. “Answer, Ev. Answer.” He looked at Swayze.

  “Coyote’s in China Lake, isn’t she?”

  In the living room, Swayze continued pawing through Coyote’s things. She tossed items off of the coffee table and dumped out a backpack.

  “I don’t know.”

  The phone didn’t ring. He heard static and clicks and blank air.

  Swayze let out a sound halfway between surprise and triumph. In her hand she held a necklace: a silver chain from which hung a set of dog tags and a strange, corkscrewed shard of gray metal. It swung, clinking in the sunlight.

  “We’ve got her. It’s her talisman. She’ll have to get this, more than if she were a junkie and this was her fix. She thinks it’s her power.” She looked astringent with victory. “Come on; we’re getting out of here.”

  He heard the thin wail of sirens in the distance. “That’s the cops. I can’t leave.”

  Evan’s phone was out of service. He hung up, found the slip of paper with Phil’s number, but couldn’t get through on that either.

  Swayze walked to the kitchen table. “If you stay here, you’ll be arrested for wrecking a murder scene. At this point, your only chance of getting what you want is to come with me and help draw Coyote in.”

  Maybe, maybe not. He knew only one thing for certain: He had to get hold of Evan, or somebody who could put her under armed guard. All of them. Now.

  “We have a bargain. I get Coyote; you delete that e-mail.” Clutching the talisman, she shook it in his face. “I’m keeping my part. Keep yours. Move it.”

  Swayze grabbed Coyote’s computer from the table, shoved it into the grocery cart, and headed for the door.

  “Last chance. Once the LAPD rolls up you’re spending the afternoon under interrogation. No phone, no way to get hold of Evan, no way to help her.”

  She walked out the door. The sirens were clearer now.

  He had to call the China Lake Police Department, but he didn’t have the number, and getting it would take a minute he didn’t have. The sirens were virtually down the block. He heard Swayze’s heels and the grocery cart creaking down the hall.

  “Shit.” He went after her.

  Officer Brinkley and I left the kitchen. In the living room, table lamps were on and an ashtray sat full of cigarette butts. Last week’s issue of People magazine was open to a story about the celebrity adoption du jour. Dad was standing in front of the mantel, examining some framed photos. The air conditioning was raising goose bumps on my arms.

  Brinkley paused at the head of a hallway. The doors were closed and music was playing. His right hand went to his holster. Unsnapping the latch, he began walking down the hall. I followed him, step by slow step. Again I heard a beating sound, like heavy cloth batting against the walls.

  “I think there’s a window open back here somewhere,” I said.

  Brinkley put his hand on a doorknob. “Hello?”

  He knocked and opened the door. Inside was a tidy bedroom filled with porcelain dolls and fluffy pillows. We kept going. The music got louder. A second bedroom revealed an unmade bed and a suitcase open on the floor, full of women’s clothing. Brinkley continued down the hall, toward the door at the end. I moved to follow him, stopped, and turned back around, looking at the suitcase on the floor. The clothes inside were bright and blowsy.

  The music played, singsong. Once more I heard the beating sound. It seemed busy, multilayered, eager.

  Brinkley knocked on the door at the end of the hall. “Police.”

  The beating sound became frantic, swelling to the same level as the radio. Brinkley put his hand on the doorknob. My stomach went hollow.

  “Officer, don’t—”

  He opened the door.

  The window was broken, the drapes swirling. The beating sound became frenzied and the birds, the flock of crows that carpeted the bed, rose in flight. The air shattered black with wings. Cawing, clawing, they flew at us. I screamed. Brinkley reached for the door but they filled the hallway and crashed against the walls and I kept screaming.

  “Evan!’ Dad came running. “Hell on earth—”

  Wings, beaks, claws, and stink caromed around the hallway. I dropped to the floor in a ball, heard them fly overhead, and got to my knees and crawled for the living room. Behind me came the sound of Brinkley discharging his gun into the bedroom. A wall of sound shrieked from the room, crows cawing like banshees.

  My glimpse inside the bedroom had lasted only a second, but I had seen. The birds were feasting. They were fighting one another in a pile three feet deep, ripping chunks of flesh out of a carcass on the bed.

  The rim road paralleled the edge of the base north of town, a black strip running through bare desert in tandem with the razor wire. Fifteen miles out into the emptiness Abbie saw Valerie staggering down the center of the asphalt.

  Tommy put his hand on the dashboard. “Oh, crap, look at her.”

  She was limping away from them, trying to run. Abbie pulled to the side of the road behind her and opened the door. Tommy grabbed her arm.

  “Wait.”

  “What?”

  He scanned the uneven terrain. “Something’s off. Where’s the motorist who called in about this?”

  Abbie looked around as well. At every turn there was nothing but sand and scrub.

  She waved at Valerie. “Then let’s get her and get out of here.”

  Valerie turned to face them.

  “Oh, my God,” Abbie said.

  Her hair was a mess, her wig askew. Her face was worse, bright red with scratches, as though she’d hit a cactus. Her blouse was torn. A patchy streak of blood ran diagonally across it.

  Tommy took his gun from the holster. They got out and walked quietly toward her, Tommy holding the revolver at his side, barrel pointed at the ground. His eyes swept the desert, the hills and rocks and gullies. Heat swelled off the asphalt. As they approached Valerie began backing away.

  “No,” she said.

  Her eyes looked at Abbie without recognition. One was blue, pinprick pupil. The other was dilated wide open, deep and black. She raised her hands to fend them off. Abbie stopped on the center line of the road, ten feet from her.

  Valerie waved her arms. “Keep back.”

  Abbie raised a hand. “Val, it’s me. It’s Abbie.”

  Val pointed at Tommy. “Look out; he has a gun. Put away the gun; put away that fucking gun.”

  Tommy calmly holstered it. “Val, it’s cool. Come on; it’s just us.”

  She looked around wildly. “Where is he? Is he gone?”

  Abbie gave Tommy
a sidelong glance and spoke quietly. “We have to get her to the hospital asap.”

  “I know.”

  Valerie backed away from them. “Where’s Evan? Evan was with me before. I want to see Evan; get her out of the car.”

  “Evan’s not with us, Val.”

  “Where is she? What’s wrong? Why isn’t she here?” She pointed at them. “She ran away to the safe place with your kids, didn’t she? Why won’t you tell me where everybody’s going?”

  “What happened to you, Val?” Tommy said.

  “Jumped out of his truck.”

  “Coyote?”

  “Opened the door and jumped out.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  She pointed west, toward the long miles of slope heading toward Highway 14.

  Sweat creased its way into Abbie’s eyes and tickled its way down her back. She inched toward Valerie, wiping her hand across her forehead.

  “Val, we have to get you in the van. It’s cool in there. We have a first-aid kit. Come on; you’re safe now.”

  Valerie turned, tried to run, and fell. They rushed to her side. When Abbie put a hand on her back, Valerie flailed at her. She fell back to the asphalt, chest heaving.

  Tommy said, “Come on; let’s get her in the car. This whole scene reeks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He kept looking around, but there was nothing to see but sand and rocks and the road.

  “Val escaping from Coyote in this condition?” He shook his head. “I have a bad feeling. Like Coyote let her go.”

  “To . . .”

  “Yeah, to draw us out here. Come on.”

  Working together, they lifted her to her feet. Abbie tried to support her elbow, but she said, “Don’t touch me,” and tottered to the van. She flopped into the back, collapsing on the bench seat like a broken toy.

  “Why isn’t Wally with you?” she said.

  “He’s gone to take care of the kids.”

  “Take me there.” Her voice cracked. “I want to be safe. That’s safe.”

  “No, we’re going to get you to the hospital.”

  “I don’t want to go to the hospital. Why won’t you take me to where the kids are? Nobody will take me there.” She lifted her head. “Tommy, where are your kids? Can you take me there?”

  Abbie got behind the wheel and fired up the engine. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “Why are they all safe and you’re out here with that fucking gun? Abbie, how come you won’t help me?”

  “Val, we’re doing that right now.”

  She U-turned and put the pedal down.

  The siren was blaring nearer. In the pickup Swayze snapped her fingers at Jesse.

  “Faster, come on,” she said.

  He tossed the wheel over his shoulder into the backseat and hauled the frame of the chair into the truck. He pulled his feet in and slammed the door. Twenty-five seconds, pretty damned fast. He yanked the disabled placard off the rearview mirror and stuck it in the glove compartment.

  An LAPD black-and-white came hauling up the street, lights flashing.

  “What are you waiting for? Go,” Swayze said.

  “Chill.”

  Two cops got out and strode to the apartment building. When they walked through the door he signaled and pulled away from the curb. Swayze’s forehead was creased, a line digging between her brows.

  “Well played.” She sounded grudging. “But you said you wouldn’t expose me to the police. You’re breaking your bargain.”

  “I said no such thing. I said if you help bring Coyote in I would delete the e-mail.” He glanced at her. “Anything I can do to keep Coyote from getting close to Evan and her friends, I’m going to do.”

  Accelerating around the corner, he stuck his phone in the hands-free set and called China Lake information to get the number for the police department. Waiting for them to put him through, he headed into central Hollywood.

  “Back to your office?” he said.

  “Yes. Can you access your e-mail and delete it from there?”

  “When Coyote’s out of action.”

  He hit Hollywood Boulevard and headed for Westwood. Over the speaker, the China Lake police switchboard came on the line. They told him that both Detective Chang and Captain McCracken were out. He tried not to yell at the operator.

  “Take this down and get the message to Tommy and McCracken. It’s crucial.”

  He told her what he’d found at the apartment. She sounded perplexed, and repeated it to make sure she had it right.

  “Yes. Get the information to them now.”

  Ending the call, he looked at the phone. Who could he call to explain why he’d left the crime scene? He didn’t know anybody at LAPD. The district attorney’s office? They passed the Chinese and the Egyptian theaters. Tourists thronged the sidewalks under the postcard-blue sky. Swayze unbuckled her seat belt and turned around, kneeling on the seat and leaning into the back.

  That alarmed him. “What are you doing?”

  She came back with Coyote’s laptop. “Figuring out how to contact Kai and draw her in.”

  He nodded at Coyote’s necklace. Swayze was wearing it around her own neck.

  “With that?” he said.

  “And this.” She held up a plastic case with a cross on it. “Her medical kit.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Anabolic steroids and stimulants, looks like, prepped for intramuscular injection. Kai must consider it a treatment to keep the prion under control.” Her smugness was almost radiant. “She’s going to want it back.”

  He hoped she was right. The talisman and medical kit would be more powerful draws for Coyote than a teddy bear placed on a grave. If they could pull her away from China Lake, the sooner the better.

  Swayze opened the computer and it came to life.

  Jesse nodded at it. “At the apartment I read an e-mail. The address it came from was bassett-dot-cl-dot-edu. Somebody at Bassett High School is e-mailing her.”

  She opened the e-mail program. “A friend? Or a contact, perhaps.”

  He had too much to think, too much to do, and was nowhere close enough to protect Evan the way she needed protecting. The message he’d left for Tommy and McCracken would sound insane, he feared. Coyote, this woman Kai Torrance, had possession of Evan’s high school journal and Valerie Skinner’s yearbook. She could have obtained them only from Valerie herself. And when she got them, she wouldn’t have left Valerie alive.

  Reaching for the phone, he punched Evan’s number.

  I grabbed Dad as I ran, pulling him along, flinging open the screen door and hearing it bang against the wall and bang again when Officer Brinkley came streaking out behind us. Crows were swooping up over the peak of the roof, landing on the chimney, screaming as though maddened. I pitched toward the cruiser and dove in the nearest door, the driver’s. Dad and Brinkley thudded into the backseat. We slammed and locked the doors.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Dad said.

  “The fuck was all that?” Brinkley said. “Fucking shit.”

  “Did you see? Did you see it?” I said.

  “I saw it, yeah.” Brinkley ran his hands over his face as though wiping off slime.

  A crow swooped, black and mean, wings spread, talons out, and landed on the hood of the car. It opened its mouth and cawed at us.

  Brinkley and I screamed, a loud, stupid, shrieking agh, and flung ourselves back against the seats, hands in front of our faces.

  “God. Shit.”

  The bird’s black eyes glared at us. A piece of meat hung from its beak. I hit the horn and held it down. The bird flapped away.

  “There’s a body on the bed,” Brinkley said. “The place was covered with those birds; did you see it?”

  I saw it, heard it, smelled it, and felt it as though that wall-to-wall carapace of shining black wings were covering my own flesh.

  “I have to call the station,” he said.

  To do that he needed to get in the front seat.
He put his hand on the door handle and two more crows landed on the trunk of the car. Their claws scratched the paint. Brinkley pulled his hand off the handle.

  “Put the radio transmitter up against the mesh.”

  He told me which buttons to hit and he spoke through the screen into the mike. His voice was loud, no longer eager but verging on panic.

  “Possible homicide,” he said. “Send detectives and the crime techs and an ambulance.”

  The image of shivering black wings and feasting mouths wouldn’t leave me. And something else.

  I replaced the radio transmitter. “The feet on the bed. Did you see them?”

  “Yes. Goddamn, that’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “What did you see?”

  “That bird perched on the shoe, picking at the toes.”

  “The shoe.”

  “Sandal, I mean. A woman’s sandal.”

  I turned around and looked at his pale eyes. “The other shoe was a cross-trainer.”

  There were two bodies on the bed.

  “Kit.”

  Behind the mesh screen, Dad was holding up one of the framed photos from the mantel. My vision was thumping. For a second my brain locked up, before I understood.

  “Coyote got them both,” I said.

  He pointed at the date stamped in the corner. “Taken last month. Easter.”

  “What are you talking about?” Brinkley said.

  The photo showed the woman who must have been Alma Skinner, a parched gal in her sixties with a cigarette in her hand. She was arm in arm with Valerie. It was the Valerie I remembered from high school: fleshy, voluptuous, with that imposing nose and a look of injury and entitlement in her eyes. She was the picture of robust health.

  She was not the terminally ill girl who had baby-stepped into the reunion, not the woman I had picked up in Canoga Park, not the woman who had flown up here with me on the plane. However, she looked much like her—the hair, the eye color, the posture. Subtract seventy pounds, give her a nose job and a supposedly fatal illness, and she could have passed. She had passed, showing a driver’s license as photo ID to the airline.

  Valerie was dead. She’d been dead before the reunion. Coyote had assumed her identity.