“Don’t you ever sleep?” Carter whispered.
Joey wiggled his legs, wanting to be picked up.
Carter leaned in and lifted him. “How was your day?” he asked, as if expecting an answer. “You and Robin have some fun?”
The baby calmly studied Carter’s face.
“You think your daddy’s good looking? Someday I’ll show you my whole T-shirt collection.” He bounced his son on his arm; Joey was wearing white cotton pj’s with little red roosters all over them.
Carter carried the baby downstairs to the kitchen, where he deposited him in the high chair, while he finished off some of the Chinese food leftovers. But he still wasn’t feeling sleepy. What might help, he thought, was a short walk and a cigar.
Beth forbade smoking in the house, and wasn’t crazy about the fact that Carter did it at all. But Carter had been hoarding a fine Macanudo that Gunderson, of all people, had stuck in his pocket when Carter had first told him about the find in Pit 91.
“Want to take a walk?” Carter asked Joey, who was forming a small bubble between his lips. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
While he’d have thought twice about a late-night stroll with a baby and a cigar anywhere else, in Summit View it posed no problem; who was gonna see him? There was never anyone on the streets even during the day. And at this hour, on a hot night, he could count on seeing no one.
The street they were on—Via Vista—was the last one in the development, and it dead-ended in the hillside just above. It was wide and curving, and dimly lighted by the lampposts, which were fairly few and far between. One of their neighbors had once told him that the homeowners’ association had voted to keep it that way; they wanted it to have the feel of living out in the country—which, to some extent, they’d done. Although the 405 freeway was just a few minutes away, up here it was dark and quiet, and the air smelled of the dry brush in the canyon behind the houses.
That was another thing Carter found so surprising, and unexpected, about living in L.A. Yes, you heard all the time about the traffic and the sprawl and the smog, but no one ever told you about how intimately nature was woven into the fabric of the city. In New York, you had Central Park, and the occasional green pocket here and there, but in L.A. you had mountains and canyons, beaches and ravines, everywhere you went. Looking off to his left, there was a tennis court—several of them dotted the development—but just beyond its fence the land fell away, and quite steeply, into a dense forested valley. All Carter could see in the summer moonlight was a deep, dark cleft, with the rolling flank of the Santa Monica Mountains in the distance. The only sign of civilization in there were the towers that rose up, well above the treetops, to carry the high-power lines. Atop each one a red beacon light went on and off and on again.
Carter strolled slowly, careful to blow his cigar smoke away from the baby. Joey rested his head against his father’s shoulder, but if Carter had to guess, he’d bet the kid’s eyes were still open. What did babies think about? What could they think about? Without a sufficiently developed cerebral cortex, it was unclear how much they could process, and what, if anything, they would ever be able to remember. When would it be, Carter thought, that he’d be able to tell his son about the man he’d been named after? Giuseppe—or Joe—Russo, Carter’s close friend and associate. The Italian paleontologist who’d brought into Carter’s life the greatest discovery he’d ever made—and who had paid for that discovery with his own life.
Carter took another puff of the cigar, and scanned the windows of the neighboring houses. The only lights that were on were over the garages. Was anybody home, he wondered, in any of them?
Joey stirred in his arms.
And would his son ever understand just what a miracle child he was? Carter had been told it was impossible for him to father a child, that a boyhood illness had rendered him sterile. And then, in defiance of all the odds, Beth had become pregnant after all. Carter could still recall the surprise on the fertility expert’s face.
Via Vista stopped, on the south end, where the scrub-covered side of the hill rose up. Carter turned around, and leaving the sidewalk, headed back down in the center of the street. It’s not like there were going to be any cars up here. Looking all the way down the wide, curving road, he saw only one thing moving, and at first he thought it was just a shadow.
Then it moved again, and he knew it wasn’t.
From here, it looked like a medium-sized dog, maybe a collie. The first thing that occurred to him was that it might be that stray dog Beth had told him about. It had come up from the canyon side; maybe it lived in the brush somewhere.
Carter continued on, his flip-flops slapping the concrete street, enjoying his cigar . . . when the dog stopped and looked up the street at him.
And now he could see it was not a dog. The snout was too narrow, the bushy tail was held straight down from the body. This was a coyote, the first one Carter had seen since his fieldwork in Utah.
And the only one he’d ever seen in the middle of a street.
Nor, he suddenly realized, was it alone.
Several other shadows slowly emerged above the lip of the scrubby hillside. Skulking low, along the ground, walking on their toes—digitigrade—with that distinctive gait of their species.
Carter stopped in his tracks; his grip on Joey instinctively tightened.
One of the pack was loping toward Carter’s front lawn.
The bowl. With the water in it. They’d come up looking for water. In Utah, Carter had once seen a coyote leap an eight-foot wall to get to a cattle trough.
He’d also seen one take down a lamb with a single savage bite to the throat.
He quickly surveyed the area. The nearest house on his left was black and the low fence in front of it would offer no protection at all.
To his right, there was only the tennis court. But it did have a high Cyclone fence around it—high enough even to keep a coyote from leaping over it.
Carter moved slowly to his right, the cigar still clenched and glowing between his teeth.
The first coyote was still watching him; normally, coyotes were afraid of humans and would run for cover, but for all Carter knew, these had become acclimated. Or bold. Maybe the drought conditions had forced them to try some new survival strategies.
He inched his way up onto the curb—the watching coyote took a step in his direction—and edged toward the tennis court, never taking his own eyes off the animal. Coyotes were great stalkers, he knew—they would follow or chase their prey indefinitely, until the poor creature, exhausted, gave up. And then the pack would descend upon it.
Carter reached out one hand to the tennis court gate and tried the latch. For some reason, it didn’t go down. He tried again, then, looking away from the coyote for an instant, he glanced at the handle. Which had a padlocked chain around it.
They locked the courts at dusk, so hard-core players wouldn’t keep their neighbors up at night.
The coyote that had loped onto his lawn came out again, licking its chops. Two others followed it. And they, too, smelled—then saw—Carter up the street.
They fanned out, approaching slowly. Carter would appear formidable to them, but the scent and sight of a baby they would find irresistible. Their tails, Carter noticed, had extended horizontally from their bodies—a clear sign of aggression.
He could try a run for it, but he’d never make it through them to his own front door. And it might just encourage them to attack.
He looked in vain for any sign of the nightly patrol car. But there was none.
Fear is your friend, he suddenly thought. Learn from it.
But what? Learn what?
Fire. Fire is your friend, too.
And the coyotes’ enemy.
He anxiously looked around. A bush, with scraggly, dry branches, was a few feet away. He went closer, puffing madly on his cigar. The tip glowed hot and bright, and Carter took it from his mouth and touched it to a brittle leaf.
The leaf burst into flame
, and then the flame raced down the withered branch.
Carter reached below it, into the bush, and snapped off the now burning branch. It wouldn’t burn long so he had to work fast.
Holding the branch in front of him, waving it just enough to let the smoke drift their way, he moved down the street toward the coyotes. Still they stood their ground. Carter went closer, toward what he perceived to be the leader of the pack—a scraggly gray beast with glaring eyes and raised ears. The branch was snapping and crackling in his hand, but the flame was also burning perilously close to his fingertips. He wouldn’t be able to hold it for more than a few seconds.
Joey turned his head to look at the coyotes, but didn’t know enough to be afraid.
The gray coyote bared its fangs and growled softly. The others gathered closer, moving forward with their bodies close to the concrete, their black-tipped tails rigid.
The fire singed Carter’s thumb, and before it went out altogether, he tossed the smoldering branch at the leader. Who jumped back.
And Carter ran, his thongs flapping, toward his own front door. He was clutching Joey under his arm like a running back carrying a football.
He broke through the line of coyotes, and kept on moving. But he could sense at least one of the animals turning, and dogging his heels. He could hear panting.
And then he felt fur, brushing his leg. The coyote was going to try to leap up and snatch the baby from his arms.
He raced along, one thong flying off his foot, and then the other. Now he could run faster. But it still wasn’t fast enough. He could tell another coyote was easily keeping pace with him on his other side. They were hunting as a pack.
He had just made it to his own driveway—Beth’s Volvo was still parked there, but he knew it would be locked—when he felt a rush of air hurtling toward his neck. And a raging snarl. Something struck him between the shoulder blades, but he didn’t turn around. He heard an angry yelp, and the sound of two animals tearing at each other in a mad frenzy.
He got to his door and threw it open, then kicked it shut behind him. There was a scrabbling sound, something clawing at the door, accompanied by wild barks and growls. A fight was going on, right outside the door. Carter, still clutching Joey, went to the window, where he saw a furious tussle of fur and fangs. But why would the coyotes be attacking each other?
He stood, gasping for breath, and realized, to his shock, that one of the battling animals was a dog—a yellow dog. That stray.
Three of the coyotes had given up and were strung out in the street; the gray one, caught up in the fight, suddenly gave up, too, and scooted away, yelping, his tail down.
The yellow dog barked ferociously, and stood, with his tail batting against the door, like a sentinel.
The coyotes took one long backward glance, as if saying we’ll be back, then trotted behind their wounded leader back toward the ravine.
The dog barked again and again, making sure they knew who’d won.
And Carter, catching his breath, wondered what to do next.
A light went on in the upstairs of the house across the street—the first time Carter had ever seen that happen.
Beth, alarmed and standing at the top of the stairs, said, “What’s going on? Carter—what’s happening?”
“We’re okay,” he said. “We’re all okay.”
He flicked on the lights so that they flooded the front lawn and driveway.
Beth hurried down the stairs, fastening her blue robe around her.
“You’ve got Joey?” she said, puzzled.
“Take him,” Carter said, handing over the still unperturbed baby. For all Carter knew, Joey had thought this whole thing was a grand adventure.
Carter went to the door. He could hear the yellow dog, not barking anymore, but panting.
He opened the door cautiously. The dog had blood on the crown of its head.
It turned around and looked at him.
“You okay?” Carter asked. It was a mutt, but mostly lab.
The dog took a second, then wagged its tail in reply.
Carter went outside, pulling the door closed behind him, and knelt down by the dog. “You saved my neck,” he said, “you know that, champ?”
The dog, still breathing hard, just looked at him. He had no collar, no tags. He looked pretty beaten up.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me your name,” Carter said, tentatively holding out the back of one hand.
The dog sniffed the hand, waited.
“How about Champ? Can you live with that?”
The dog looked like he could. He licked the sweat off Carter’s fingers.
Carter stroked the dog under the muzzle, where the fur was damp. Then he rubbed the dog’s back. The gash on the top of its head would need stitches.
“It’s been a long night,” Carter said, getting up. “What do you say you come inside?” Carter swung the door wide open and waited, silently, to one side. Beth, holding Joey in her arms, was standing in the foyer, looking as if she had no idea what was going on. “Honey,” Carter said, as the dog hesitantly stepped across the threshold, clearly unsure if this was allowed, “I want you to meet Champ.”
CHAPTER TEN
DEAR MR. AL-KALLl.
No, that didn’t even look right.
My dear Mr. al-Kalli.
Nah, how would he know that Greer was being sarcastic?
Dear Sir.
Christ, it sounded like something from a bill collector.
Greer stared at the computer screen, a cigarette hanging off his lower lip. If he couldn’t even get past this part, how was he ever going to figure out what kind of letter he wanted to write? Or just what it was he wanted to say?
Ever since Sadowski had told him about al-Kalli living in L.A., Greer had been consumed with questions and plans and possible schemes. He knew there was money to be made out of this, somehow, but he wasn’t sure how to approach it.
On the one hand, he could simply start with a strong appeal. After all, Captain Greer, as he had been known then, had led a patrol into dangerous territory, solely to execute a mission commissioned by al-Kalli. And in the course of that perilous mission, he, Greer, had been sorely injured. Handicapped. For life. Surely that was due some special compensation, above and beyond the fifty thousand dollars Greer had been given to cover expenses. (He’d arranged to share out twenty thousand with the soldiers he took along, but since Lopez hadn’t come back, Greer had hung on to his cut.)
But that would be counting on al-Kalli’s generosity and charity. And Greer had no reason to expect he was either generous or charitable. For starters, he was an Arab; for another, Greer had never even met the man. All of his dealings had been through some guy named Jakob, who had given him just enough information—maps and all—to proceed, but not a single thing more. Greer was a pretty good judge of guys like Jakob, and the guy’s demeanor positively screamed secret service/martial arts/M1/Savak/ Mossad, one of those. Greer had gotten back to camp, and even before he was airlifted to the army hospital in Germany, Jakob had showed up to claim the mysterious box. Greer had never even had a chance to try to jimmy it open.
Or, Greer thought, sitting back in the chair and taking a long drag on the cigarette (his mother hated him smoking in the apartment—she claimed she was allergic, but Greer didn’t buy it for a second), he could simply go straight for the shakedown. “Dear Mr. al-Kalli, I recovered some of your private property—under color of U.S. military authority—from your palace in Iraq, and unless you come across with some additional money in the amount of . . .” How much, Greer wondered, would be reasonable? One hundred thousand dollars? Five hundred thousand? An even million? If only he knew what it was he’d smuggled out for him. “. . . I will be forced to report you to . . .” Who? The immigration office? The State Department? The L.A. City Council?
God damn it. Greer didn’t even know what he could threaten him with. A man like al-Kalli probably had most people in his pocket anyway. And what if he turned the tables on Greer? I
t wasn’t, after all, a sanctioned U.S. army mission. And it could open a further investigation into the disappearance of Lopez, who’d first been listed as AWOL, and then, when he never showed up at all, as missing in action. Greer had pushed to make sure that the MIA status happened; that way, Lopez’s wife at least got the death benefit. He was proud of himself for having gone that extra mile for one of his men.
The computer screen was still mostly blank, waiting for him to come up with something. He went onto the Internet instead, visited a couple of his favorite porn sites, then figured he’d need to give it some more thought. Didn’t writers always say bullshit like that all the time—that their best ideas just came to them out of nowhere, when they weren’t even thinking about it?
“Derek, didn’t I ask you not to do that?” his mother called out from behind his bedroom door.
“Do what?” he said, waving the smoke toward the open window.
“I can smell it out here. You know I’m allergic.”
He stubbed out the cigarette and logged off. It was almost time to leave, anyway; he had a date in Westwood, with his physical therapist.
He’d been sort of considering it for a long time, but he hadn’t gotten up his nerve to ask her until the last session. And he couldn’t tell whether she was really interested or just being nice to a gimp. She’d said she’d meet him there, at the California Pizza Kitchen, a place he’d never set foot in. He was more of a Carl’s Jr. kind of guy. But he hadn’t been on what you’d call a date for a very long time, so maybe that was what you did these days.
In Westwood, he circled the area several times until he found a spot on the street—no way was he going to pay those parking garage fees—so by the time he got to the restaurant, Indira was already waiting outside. It was the first time he’d ever seen her when she wasn’t wearing her white coat. She had on a pair of black slacks and a striped blouse; her hips were bigger than he thought they’d be—that white coat was pretty good camouflage—but she looked good. He walked toward her slowly, so his limp would be less pronounced.
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