Bestiary

CHAPTER NINE

Turnlng up the long private drive to Summit View, Beth’s heart lifted; in just a few minutes, she knew, she was going to have her baby, Joey, in her arms again.

When she’d taken the job at the Getty, she’d made it clear that she could not work a full weekly schedule, that she expected to have a lot of flexibility and to be able, once or twice a week, to work from home. But so far it hadn’t worked out that way. Mrs. Cabot expected her to be at the Getty Center nearly all the time, and whenever Beth was plainly not there — when she had to field a call from her house, for example — Mrs. Cabot sounded distinctly displeased about it.

And now, with the al-Kalli project under her supervision, Beth suspected things were only going to get worse.

To her surprise, Beth actually saw three people on her way up to the house. True, two of them were security personnel, but the third — a woman in a tracksuit and headphones — actually looked like she lived in one of the expensive, cookie-cutter houses that lined the broad streets of the development.

Beth parked her Volvo in the short driveway, next to the nanny’s Scion; the bumper stickers, which she’d never noticed before, said WAR IS NOT THE ANSWER and OIL EQUALS BLOOD. Who said young people weren’t getting involved anymore?

On the way in, she also noticed, of all things, a cereal bowl resting on the grass not far from the front door. What, she wondered, was that doing there?

“Robin?” she called out, but she got no answer. “Robin?” A warm breeze, blowing from the rear of the house, beckoned her out back.

The French doors on the ground level were open to a small patch of now desiccated lawn; the drought restrictions made watering your grass a capital offense. Robin was on a beach towel, reading a magazine, and Joey was happily bouncing in his red and yellow playpen. He positively chirped when he saw his mother.

“Oh, hi,” Robin said, putting down the magazine. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“And how’s my little angel?” Beth said, reaching down to pick up Joey. She nuzzled her cheek against his, marveling all over again at the smoothness, the perfection, of his little face. She knew all new mothers thought their own babies were the cutest in the world, but in her case she felt the empirical evidence was there; this was the cutest baby in all the world, with perfectly sculpted features, delicate blond ringlets, and eyes… eyes that seemed somehow wise, as if they were taking in everything at one glance.

“How’s he been today?” Beth asked, expecting — and getting — the usual answer.

“Good as gold.”

“Did I see a cereal bowl near the front door?”

Robin chuckled, and said, “You did. We’ve had a visitor the past few days.”

Holding the baby in her arms, Beth waited for more.

“I hope you don’t mind, but he looks so pathetic. A big yellow dog, mostly Lab I’d say, who kind of hangs around. It was so hot, I put out a bowl of water for him.”

“Is he a stray?”

“Yes, I didn’t see any collar on him.”

Beth was torn — she loved animals, but she wasn’t so sure she liked the idea of a stray dog hanging around the house where she had to leave Joey all day.

Robin, guessing what Beth was thinking, said, “He’s friendly — kind of skittish, but friendly. And I never let him get anywhere near the baby.”

Beth knew Robin would act responsibly; she might be young — twenty, and just out of community college — but she was a nice kid, and a real find. Already Beth had heard enough nanny horror stories to last her a lifetime.

“Are you in a rush?” Beth asked, “or could you hang around while I take a quick bath?”

“No problema,” Robin said, taking up her magazine again — now Beth could see it was In Touch Weekly—“it’s nice to see the sunsets from here.”

Beth had to agree — the houses here were built along a ridge, facing the Santa Monica Mountains. From the tiny backyards, you had a staggering view out over the canyon, toward the looming, chaparral-covered mountainsides, and the sun setting behind them.

Beth put Joey back in his playpen and went upstairs. She started filling the tub, but not with hot water. The temperatures in L.A. had been running in the low nineties, and nothing would feel better than something cool and cleansing and refreshing. When she got in, she felt as if she were shedding everything from the hot, gritty city to the pressures at work.

She could hear her cell phone ringing on the bed. She’d pick up the message — probably from Carter — when she got out. She hoped he’d say he was bringing home some food. One of the things she found so strange about living up here, especially after so many years in New York City, was how removed it was from everything. There were no delis, no dry cleaners, no pizza parlors, no newsstands. You couldn’t just walk out your front door and get something. You either had to get it delivered or you had to drive way back down to Sepulveda, and from there head back toward Brentwood or down to the Valley. It meant you had to sort of organize your time and errands; when you were out, you had to remember everything from the post office to the pharmacy, because once you got back home again, it was too late. Once you were home, in the quiet confines of Summit View, you were just plain home.

Like most things in life, Beth reflected, Summit View had its good points — this tub alone was twice the size as the one in New York — and its bad — she missed having neighbors she knew and liked.

She put on a sky blue silk robe — her first Mother’s Day gift from Carter — and picked up her message. It was indeed Carter, and he was calling, God bless him, from Dynasty Chinese, where he’d just picked up some dinner. How’d she get so lucky?

She went back downstairs in bare feet. And though she’d always thought wall-to-wall carpeting was kind of tacky, now that she had it, she had to admit that it sure felt good under your feet. Carter was just coming through the door, white plastic bags in hand.

“You get my message?” he said.

“I did.” She kissed him hello. “Robin’s in back with Joey. I’ll go and tell her she’s released from her bondage.”

“Say, did I see a bowl on the lawn?” he asked as he took the bags into the kitchen.

“I’ll explain later,” Beth called.

They ate in the breakfast nook, with Joey propped up on the window seat, a cushion or two keeping him from rolling off. Carter had picked up her favorite — shrimp with glazed walnuts — and a couple of other things just to lend some variety to the feast. Over a glass of cold white wine, she told him about the stray dog, and he told her about exhuming the La Brea Woman’s bones from their drawer in the museum. He also told her that he’d used the occasion to teach Miranda Adams something about doing anthropological work.

“Uh-huh,” she said, “isn’t this Miranda kind of a babe?”

Carter knew he had unthinkingly sailed into treacherous waters. “Some men might think so.”

“Some men?”

“Okay,” he conceded, “men with eyes.”

She tossed the uneaten half of her fortune cookie at him. The fortune was still inside.

Carter unfolded it and read it aloud:“‘Patience is a virtue worth waiting for.’”

“What’s yours?”

He unwrapped another cookie, read it, then paused.

Beth had her feet propped up on his thigh and said, “So?” She wriggled her toes. “What’s it say?”

“It says, ‘Fear is your friend — learn from it.’”

“Whoa,” she said, with a laugh, “that’s pretty heavy for a fortune cookie.”

“You’re telling me,” Carter replied, oddly discomfited by it. “Maybe I should complain to the management.” He couldn’t help but think of the skeletal hand, reaching up from the pit. What was he meant to learn from that, he wondered?

The sun had gone down behind the mountains, and they turned on the lights to clean up and do the dishes. Beth carried Joey up to the nursery — he seemed pooped, and felt like a sack of potatoes in her arms — while Carter got undressed and took a shower. When he came out, looking dashing as ever in a pair of boxers and a T. rex T-shirt (Beth had never guessed one person — much less a grown man — could own so many dinosaur-themed clothes), Beth was already turning out her bedside light.

“Not so fast,” Carter said, plopping himself on the bed beside her. “You’re not planning on going to sleep so soon, are you?”

Beth could hear the hopeful note in his voice, and much as she wanted to keep him happy, the fatigue was washing over her like a tide. “I’d like to, you know that, honey…”

She heard the drawer of Carter’s bedside table open, and she knew what he was taking out. Carter drew the sheet down off her body — it was too hot these days to sleep under anything more — and then he was removing her nightie. Beth didn’t fight it, in fact she tried to cooperate, but her limbs felt like lead, and she wished she hadn’t had that wine with dinner.

There was a splooshing sound as he squirted the lotion into his hands, then rubbed them together to warm it up. “Roll over on your belly,” he said.

That much she could do. She rolled over in the dark, and felt Carter’s hands rest gently on her shoulders. She could smell the sandalwood scent of the body lotion. And then she felt his hands moving, first in small circles on her shoulder. Then in widening circles. It felt wonderful… too wonderful in a way. If she wasn’t careful, she could drift off into unconsciousness. And she knew that was not what Carter was aiming at.

“How’s that feel?” Carter asked, kneeling now with one long leg on either side of her.

“Good,” she mumbled into the pillow. “Very… good.”

His hands moved lower, down her back. Then out to her sides. He was being very gentle, very solicitous. Beth thought, I’ve got to stay awake. I’ve got to get with it. His hands moved lower, caressing her waist, and then below.

He moved down the bed, and adjusted his weight above her. The mattress squished down, then up again. She sensed, without even having to look up, that he’d somehow managed to get his T-shirt and shorts off.

Wake up, she told herself.

He was lying beside her, his hands still moving on her body. He was aroused, too — she could feel him nudging her hip, anxiously. Damp already.

But something in her was still failing to click. Ever since the baby, she’d been slow to arousal, and quick to sleep. Maybe it was the pressure of everything, from having a baby to moving to L.A., from the new house to the new job. He slipped one hand between her legs, parting them.

She was still dry, and knew it. He’d know, too, in another second.

“Do you not want to do this?” he said, his voice husky. He was trying to sound okay with that, but she knew he wasn’t.

“It’s just that I’m so tired.”

He moved his fingers against her, in one last-ditch attempt. And Beth willed herself to squeeze down against them, to rub herself on his fingertips. He licked them, and tried again.

He was kneeling now between her legs. Lifting her hips.

Her hair hung down in her eyes, her face pressed down against the pillows. She spread her knees.

He reached past her, grabbed the pillows, and pushed them under her. She let her belly rest on the cool, smooth cloth.

His hands gripping her, holding her in place, he pressed himself against her from behind, first probingly, then hard. But she was still dry, and she could tell it must be chafing him as much as it did her.

“Should I get some… lubricant?” he said in a strained voice.

“No,” she said, arching her back, “just go on.”

“You sure?”

She didn’t answer, just nodded her head.

And he pushed harder — slowly, then deep. He was in, but to Beth it still felt rough and tight. She wasn’t really ready, she wasn’t really receptive.

He pushed again, even deeper, and it felt — to both of them now — like every centimeter was a battle.

“Can I…?”

“Yes,” she said, “yes…”

She knew his rhythms, she knew what he was asking. And where she used to want him to wait, to wait as long as possible — and he was good at that, very good — right now all she wanted was for him to finish.

And she knew he knew that.

His hands clenched her hips, and he pulled her back against him. She moved her knees as wide as she could. He moved into her, then out, then in again, several times. Faster. Suddenly, he groaned, and grew very still, arched, immobile, against her hot skin. She, too, stayed still, waiting for him to subside. A few moments later, he bent forward, resting his head between her shoulder blades. She could feel his breath, ragged, on the nape of her neck. She let her knees, starting to ache now, come together.

Carter rolled off of her and onto his back, one hand resting flat on his chest.

Beth moved the pillows out of the way, and lay on her side, facing him.

His eyes were closed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just—”

“It’s okay,” he said, his eyes still shut.

“No, it’s not, I—”

“Beth,” he said, “it’s alright. I shouldn’t have pushed it.”

She moved closer to him, and he draped one arm around her head and shoulder. She did love the smell of him. Now if only she could get that… feeling back.

She wanted to tell him that, she wanted to explain, and make it up to him somehow, but before she was really aware of it, before she was able to utter another word, she was fast asleep.

And Carter could tell — her breathing went suddenly low and steady. Her lips were slightly parted against the pillowcase.

He lay on his back, in the dark, thinking. While, most of the time, sex left him nicely drowsy, it wasn’t having that effect tonight.

He knew that new mothers often had some trouble getting back into the groove; he’d read the articles, he knew about the bonding process she was going through with Joey. He would have liked to have the old Beth back — their sex life had always been vigorous, to say the least — but he understood that he was going to have to give it some more time. No, that wasn’t really the reason his mind was still churning.

What was keeping him awake was everything else — Pit 91, the La Brea Woman, Gunderson’s publicity plans. He wanted to turn it all off, but the longer he lay there, the more his mind continued to go over it all. He envied Beth the deep, untroubled sleep she seemed to be enjoying. There was no way, he knew, that he was going to get there himself, not this early. Without waking her, he moved her head away from his shoulder, brushed the long dark hair away from her lips, and got out of bed. He put on some jeans, the T. rex T-shirt, and his rubber thongs, and went across the hall to check on Joey.

The moonlight was coming through the blinds, but even without that, he would have known Joey was awake. Not that he was making any noise; he seldom did that. But as Carter leaned over the edge of the crib, he could see that Joey’s eyes — a kind of gray blue — were open, as if he’d been simply waiting for his dad to come in. It was nearly always like this, and Carter often wondered if that was the way babies were — were they such finely tuned instruments that they woke up the minute anyone got near them? Never having had one before, he had no means of comparison.

“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.”