Kitty Takes a Holiday kn-3

by Carrie Vaughn

  "Up past the curve there. Cormac drove the Jeep into the clearing. I don't really recognize it in the daylight."

  I couldn't guess what he was thinking, why he'd wanted to come here. Wanting to come full circle, hoping to find closure. Something pop-psychological like that.

  "You want to get out?" I said.

  "No," he said, shaking his head slowly. "I just wanted to see it. See if I could see it."

  "Without freaking out?"

  "Yeah, something like that. I wondered if there'd be more to this place. If I'd feel something."

  "Do you?"

  He pursed his lips. "I think I just want to go home." He turned the ignition and put the car in gear.

  On the way back to town I said, "I've never been back to the place where it happened to me," I said. "Just never saw much point in going back."

  "That's because you've moved on."

  "Have I? I guess it depends on what you call moving on. Sometimes I feel like I'm running in circles."

  "Do you want to go back? I'll go with you if you want to see it."

  I thought about it. I'd replayed that scene in my mind a hundred times, a thousand times, since that night. I real­ized I didn't want to see the place, and it wasn't because I was avoiding it, or because I was afraid.

  Ben was right. I'd come so far since then.

  "No, that's okay."

  We had lunch at a local diner before heading back to Colorado. We'd be caravanning back in separate cars. I was half worried that Ben might take the opportunity to drive through a guardrail and over a cliff, or into oncom­ing traffic, like he was still regretting not making Cormac shoot him.

  But he seemed okay. He was down, but not out. Some life had come back into his eyes over the last week or so. Even though we were leaving New Mexico with stories, but no hard evidence. Statements, but no witnesses. Noth­ing to keep Cormac out of court.

  Ben slouched in his side of the booth, leaning on the table, his head propped on his hand. "Everybody he's killed—every thing he's killed—deserved it. I have to believe that. I have to convince the court of that."

  With a sympathetic judge, a less gung-ho prosecutor, or just one person from Shiprock willing to come testify, this probably would all go away. Lawrence had called us lucky, and maybe we were, but only to a point.

  What it all came down to in the end: Cormac had shot an injured woman dead in front of the local sheriff, and nothing we could say changed that. And my opinion of Cormac was definitely colored by the fact that the first time we met, he'd been coming to kill me.

  "Cormac's not clean, Ben. We both know that."

  "We've spent half our lives looking out for each other. I guess it blinds you. I know he's killed people. The thing is, you drop a body down a mine shaft far enough off the main drag, nobody'll ever find it. And nobody's looking for the people he's killed."

  Like what Lawrence said about bodies in the desert. Every place had its black hole, where people disappeared and never came back again. It made the world a dark and foreboding place.

  "That's how the pack took care of things," I said. "T.J. ended up dumped in a mine shaft somewhere. I hate it."

  "Me, too." He stared at nothing, probably mentally reviewing everything we knew, everyone we'd talked to, every fact and scrap of evidence, looking for something he'd missed, waiting for that one piece to slide into place that would fix everything. The check arrived, and I took it—Ben seemed to not notice it. I was about to go pay it when he said, out of the blue, "I should just quit."

  "Quit what?"

  "The lawyer gig. Too complicated. I should go be a rancher like my dad. Cows and prairie."

  "Would that make you happy?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Don't quit. It'll get better."

  A slow smile grew on him. "I won't quit if you won't."

  "Quit what?" Now I just sounded dumb.

  "Your show."

  I hadn't quit. I'd just taken a break, why didn't people understand that?

  Because it looked like I quit. Because if I wasn't mak­ing plans to go back to it, it meant I'd quit.

  "Why not?" I said, feeling contrary. "They have Ariel, Priestess of the Night, now. She can handle it."

  "There's room for both of you. You love your show, Kitty. You're good at it."

  We were both leaning on the table now, within reach of each other, our feet almost touching underneath. Prox­imity was doing strange things to me. Sending a pleasant warmth through my gut. Making me smile like an idiot.

  It was getting very hard for me to imagine not having Ben around.

  I bit my lip, thought for a moment. Grinning, I took a chance. "Better be careful. You keep saying nice things about me I might fall for you or something."

  He didn't even hesitate. "And you're cute, smart, funny, great in bed—"

  I kicked him under the table—gently. "Flatterer."

  "Whatever it takes to keep you coming after me when I go around the bend."

  I touched his hand, the one lying flat on the table. Curled my fingers around it. He squeezed back, almost desperately. He was still scared. Getting better at hiding it, at overcoming it. But still scared, at least a little.

  "Of course I will. We're pack."

  He nodded, picked up my hand, brought it to his lips. Kissed the fingers. Then without a word he grabbed the check, slid out of the booth, and went to the front counter to pay.

  Bemused, I followed.

  Back in Walsenburg the next day, Espinoza was late for our meeting. The last meeting before the hearing. The last chance to convince him to drop the charges against Cormac. Ben had shaved, gotten a haircut, and looked as polished as I'd ever seen him. He had on his best suit this time. Even I put on slacks and a blouse and put my hair up. He paced along the wall with the window, in a conference room in the courthouse. Slowly, with measured steps. Not an angry, desperate, wolfish pacing. Just nerves. He held a pen and tapped it against his opposite hand, glanced out the window as he passed it.

  I sat in a chair by the wall and watched him. He was a handsome, competent, intelligent, determined man. And none of that was enough to help Cormac.

  The door opened, and the young prosecutor blazed in, like a general in wartime.

  "Mr. O'Farrell, sorry to keep you waiting." He glanced at me, his look questioning.

  Ben was right on top of things. "No problem. This is Kitty Norville, she's helping me with the case."

  Espinoza nodded, and his smile seemed more like a smirk. "The infamous uninjured Kitty Norville."

  "I heal fast."

  "Real fast, apparently."

  "Yeah."

  "Too bad for Mr. Bennett. If you'd ended up in the hos­pital he might have had a case."

  Of all the low, blunt, arrogant, shitty things to say…

  "That kind of talk isn't really appropriate," Ben said, the picture of calm professionalism.

  "Of course. I'm sorry, Ms. Norville."

  My smile felt wooden.

  "If you don't mind, I'd like to get moving on this," Ben said, handing Espinoza a written report.

  Ben explained the report, a formal, legalistic retelling of everything we'd found in Shiprock. Somehow, between then and now, between his abrupt shape-shifting and our night in the desert and the drive back, he'd compiled our adventures into a narrative that sounded dry, believable, and even logi­cal. He said that according to the local police Miriam had had a reputation for violence, that her younger sister Louise believed that Miriam killed her older sister Joan, that we'd been threatened by her grandfather Lawrence—in short, that the family's history and Miriam's character suggested that she was prone to murderous violence and it was entirely reasonable to assume that her motives here—against me and the others who'd witnessed the encounter—were vio­lent. That Cormac had had no choice but to stop her.

  Espinoza seemed to consider all this. He studied the report, tapping a finger on his chin, and nodded seriously.

  Then he said, "And what of the fact
that she had only her bare hands as a weapon? Was a naked woman dressed in a wolf skin really that threatening?"

  That was where Ben's scenario fell apart. We had no way to prove that she wasn't just a woman in a wolf skin.

  Ben said, "You have four signed statements from wit­nesses who swear she would have killed someone. Two more statements from Shiprock. All of them saying that she was more than a woman in a wolf costume."

  "Four people at night whose perceptions were muddled by fear and the dark, rendering their testimony somewhat unreliable."

  They were testing each other, I realized. Practicing the arguments they'd have to use against each other in court. This was a practice run, to see if each really had a chance of beating the other.

  Espinoza tapped the pages. "You've got hearsay. You've got nothing."

  "I have enough to raise a reasonable doubt in front of a jury. You'll never land a murder one conviction."

  "None of this is verified. I'll have it all disallowed. As I said—you've got nothing, and I will land the conviction. Your client's use of excessive force removes any protec­tion under the law he might have had."

  Ben turned away and crossed his arms. He was through arguing. I waited for a growl, a snarl, a hint that the wolf was breaking through. His shoulders hunched a little, like hackles. That was it.

  "Mr. O'Farrell, for what it's worth, I believe you," Espi­noza said, his tone turning sympathetic. I couldn't help but feel it was false sympathy—he was getting ready to bargain, softening Ben up. "I believe this. The skinwalker story, all of it. I grew up in this area, I've seen things that make no sense in the light of day. But you know how it goes in court. No judge is going to let you stand there and say she was a skinwalker, and that's the only way you can justify why Mr. Bennett did what he did."

  Ben turned back to him. "If you believe, then this doesn't have to go to court. A judge never has to see it. Drop the charges. You know the truth, you know he was justified. Drop the charges."

  Espinoza was already shaking his head, and my gut sank. "Sheriff Marks is standing by his testimony. If I won't prosecute, he'll find someone else to do the job."

  Ben said, "Marks threatened my client. He's a biased witness."

  "That's for the judge to decide," Espinoza said, giving no doubt how he thought the judge would decide. "If both sides' witnesses are discredited, it'll come down to the coroner's report." The coroner's report that said Cormac shot a woman in the back, then killed her when she was already dying.

  "So I guess that's it," Ben said curtly.

  "No." Espinoza produced a paper of his own and handed it across the table. Ben read it while the prosecu­tor explained. "I can offer a plea agreement. It's very gen­erous, and I think based on the circumstances it's the best any of us will get out of the situation."

  Espinoza didn't seem to be in a hurry. He sat back and gave Ben plenty of time to read the document. Ben must have read it half a dozen times. I could hear the electric hum of the clock on the wall.

  "Any questions?" Espinoza said.

  Ben lay the paper aside. "You're right. It's generous. I'll have to talk it over with my client."

  "Of course. Mr. O'Farrell, Ms. Norville." He gathered up his things and took his leave.

  I waited another minute. Ben still hadn't moved. "Ben? You okay?"

  He tapped the tabletop, then pressed a fist into it. Seemed to grind his knuckles into the wood. "I'm trying to figure out what I did wrong. I keep trying to figure it out."

  My guess was he hadn't done anything wrong. Some­times you did everything right and you still lost.

  We went to the jail to visit Cormac.

  The three of us sat in a small, windowless room, on hard, plastic seats, around a hard, plastic table, saturated with fluorescent lights and the smells of old coffee and tired bodies. Ben had his briefcase open, papers spread in front of us, everything we'd found in New Mexico, every­thing Espinoza had laid out for us. Cormac read through them all.

  "Espinoza will lower the charge to manslaughter in exchange for a guilty plea. Two to six years max. Other­wise, the charge stays first-degree murder and we go to trial. Mandatory life sentence if convicted." Ben explained it all, then finished, spreading his hands flat on the table, like he was offering himself as part of the evidence.

  The silence stretched on forever. No one would look at anyone. We stared at the pages, but they all said the same thing.

  Then Cormac said, "We'll take the plea bargain."

  Immediately Ben countered. "No, we have to fight it. A jury will see it our way. You didn't do anything wrong. You saved everyone there. We're not going to let them hang you out to dry."

  Cormac took a deep breath and shook his head. "Espi­noza's right. We all know how this is going to look in court. Everyone may be willing to sit here and talk about skinwalkers and the rest of it, but it won't hold up in court. The law hasn't caught up with it yet."

  "Then we'll make them catch up. We'll set the precedents—"

  Still, he shook his head. "My past's caught up with me. We knew it would sooner or later. This way, they put me away for a couple years, I get out and keep my nose clean, I'll get over it. If this guy pins murder one on me, I'll be in for decades. I've taken too many risks. I've gam­bled too much to think I can win this time. Time to cut our losses."

  "Think about it, a felony conviction on your record. Don't—"

  "I can handle it, Ben."

  "I won't let you do this."

  "It's my choice. I'll fire you and make the deal my­self."

  Ben bowed his head until he was almost doubled over. His hands closed into fists. Anger—anger made the wolf come to the surface. I half expected claws to burst from his fingers. I didn't know what we'd do if Ben shifted here, how we'd explain it to the cops. How we'd get him under control.

  Ben straightened, letting out a breath he'd been holding. "Don't think you have to do some kind of penance because of what happened to me."

  "It's not about you. If I hadn't taken that last shot…" He shook his head. "This is about folding a bad hand. Let it go."

  "I feel like I've failed."

  "You did the best you could. We both did."

  Ben collected his papers, shoving them into his brief­case, not caring if they bent or ripped. I didn't know what to do or say; I was almost bursting, wanting to say some­thing that would hold everyone together. That would somehow make this easier. Fat, hairy chance.

  Ben said, "The hearing's in an hour. We'll enter a guilty plea. The judge will review the case and pass sen­tence. We've got Espinoza's word, six years max. They try anything funny, we'll file a complaint, get this switched to another jurisdiction. They'll be coming to get you in a couple of minutes. Is there anything else? Anything I've forgotten? Anything you need?" He looked at his cousin, a desperate pleading in his eyes. He wanted to be able to do more.

  "Thanks, Ben. For everything."

  "I didn't do anything."

  Cormac shrugged. "Yeah, you did. Can I talk to Kitty alone for a minute? Before the goons come back."

  "Yeah. Sure." Gaze down, Ben gathered up his things, threw me a quick glance, and made a beeline out the door.

  That left the two of us alone, him in his orange jumpsuit sitting at the table, arms crossed, frowning. His expression hadn't changed; he still looked emotionless, determined. Though toward what purpose now, I couldn't guess.

  I hugged my knees, my heels propped on the edge of the chair, trying not to cry. And not succeeding.

  "What's wrong?" Cormac said, and it was an odd question coming from him. Wasn't it obvious? But it was an acknowledgment of emotion. He'd noticed. He'd been watching me closely enough to notice, and that fact was somehow thrilling.

  Thrilling, to no purpose.

  "It's not fair," I said. "You don't deserve this."

  He smiled. "Maybe I don't deserve it for this. But I'm no hero. You know that."

  "I can't imagine not being able to call you for help." I wiped tears away
with the heels of my hands. "Cormac, if things had been just a little different, if things had some­how worked out between us—"

  But it didn't bear thinking on, so I didn't finish the thought.

  "Will you look after Ben for me?" he said. "Keep him out of trouble."

  I nodded quickly. Of course I would. He slowly pushed his chair back and stood. I stood as well, clumsily untan­gling my legs. We didn't have much time. The cops would open the door any second and take him away.

  Face-to-face now, we regarded each other. Didn't say a word. He put his hands on either side of my face and kissed my forehead, lingering a moment. Taking a breath, I realized. The scent of my hair. Something to remember.

  I couldn't stop tears from falling. I wanted to put my arms around him and cling to him. Hold him tight enough to save him.

  He lightly brushed my cheeks with his thumbs, wiping away tears, and turned away just as the door opened, and the deputies came at him with handcuffs.

  Ben and I waited in the hallway, side by side, watch­ing them lead Cormac away, around the corner, and out of sight. Cormac never looked back. I held Ben's arm, and he curled his hand over mine.

  We'd lost a member of our pack.

  Epilogue

  I had to admit, being back at a radio station felt like com­ing home again. Like meeting a long-lost friend. I thought I'd be scared. I thought I'd dread the moment when that on air sign lit. I discovered, though, that I couldn't wait. I had so much to talk about.

  We'd set up the show in Pueblo, as far north as I dared to go. I'd packed up the house in Clay and left for good. It was time to head back to civilization. I had a lot of work to catch up on. Even Thoreau hadn't stayed at Walden Pond forever.

  I held the phone to my ear but had stopped paying attention to the voice on the line. I was too busy enjoying the dimly lit studio, taking it all in, the sights and smells, the hum of jazz playing on the current music program.

  "… don't take too many this time, let yourself get back into practice." Matt, the show's original sound guy from back in Denver, was talking at me over the phone. Giving me a pep talk or something.

  "Yeah, okay," I rambled.

  "Are you even listening to me?"