“Linda is your name!” Ellen said, proud of herself for remembering.

  “That’s right. And Linda knows that Ellen is very much afraid … of coyotes. Ellen had bad dreams about coyotes because another little girl was chewed up by them and Ellen heard about it at school.”

  Gramma showed her the sketchpad. She’d done a kind of comic-book drawing of a little girl with golden hair sitting in bed staring at the window with big eyes. As Ellen watched, Gramma sketched something in at the window.

  “And,” Gramma said, “Ellen’s mommy has told her that coyotes eat little girls who make messes and mommies will often throw little girls into ravines where there are hungry coyotes waiting.”

  Gramma sketched in a coyote, seen through the little girl’s window, silhouetted against the moon.

  “I don’t want a story about coyotes,” Ellen said.

  “And Ellen is afraid that Linda might leave the door open and let the coyotes in. But that won’t happen, because Linda is a magic woman and she can turn into a coyote so she won’t leave the door open to let the other coyotes in because she wants Ellen all to herself because Linda has always had a secret dream about finding out what people taste like.”

  Ellen stared at the picture forming on the second page of the sketchpad, at the dripping fangs and hungry eyes of Gramma’s coyote, and then she said, close to tears, “I don’t like that picture!”

  “Are you afraid, Ellen? Don’t you trust your Gramma? You know if there’s one person who won’t hurt you, it’s your Gramma. Right?”

  The little girl nodded.

  Gramma sketched something on the third page of the book, something Ellen couldn’t see.

  After a minute she stopped and looked at her with nothing in her face and said, “Give Gramma a big hug.”

  Ellen smiled, relieved, and opened her arms. Gramma hugged her, hugged her so hard she lifted her a little bit out of bed, and with the shifting of the bed, the sketchbook fell open and Ellen saw the third page, the picture Gramma hadn’t shown her, a picture of Gramma biting a big hole in Ellen’s throat with her teeth.

  And Ellen felt Gramma’s warm breath on her neck.

  And again, the phone jangled between them. And again, it was Aunt June.

  Perry stood in the living room, nude, hoping Sandra wasn’t going to come home early, as he said, “Hello?”

  “Perry?” Aunt June. “Has Lois heard from Wendy?”

  “Nope. Maybe you should call Wendy’s house. Maybe she came back there.”

  “Well, there’s no answer there, we just called. We’ve been in touch with her parents. Her dad’s here, in fact. He got a call from some friends of his out at one of the campsites in some state park. Oh, Volcano Rock State Park. Some friends of his family saw Wendy walking barefoot through the park, carrying a screwdriver. They said she was smiling. They spoke to her and she looked at them and said something to herself they couldn’t understand and walked past without saying anything else. So one of them was getting worried about her because there are rattlers in that area and she was barefoot—so he put his hand on her shoulder and she said something to him he said he wouldn’t repeat to anyone. Something that obscene. And then she walked away and went out onto a dirt road near the campsite—about thirty yards away—and a yellow pickup truck drove up, out of the woods.”

  She paused. Perry thought: She sounds shook up.

  “This pickup truck,” she went on, “uh, it pulled up in front of her, blocked her path like police cars do. Three men the witnesses didn’t know got out, surrounded Wendy, and took the screwdriver from her. She fought them for a minute, and then calmed down, and she was smiling and chatting with them, it looked like, when she got into the truck. And then they drove away with her, crammed into the cab of the truck with them. They said she waved and laughed when the truck drove by. The damn thing didn’t have any license plates; that worried them too. That’s why they called Wendy’s father.”

  “These witnesses get a description of any of the men in the truck?”

  “Only one with any distinctiveness. They said he had long red hair and a red beard and a tattoo on his forearm. They couldn’t make out the tattoo. I thought maybe Lois might know who this guy was so I called to—”

  “Right. Hold on.”

  “What is it?” Lois asked. She came into the room wearing only a blouse.

  “Uh, some guys in a yellow pickup found Wendy, drove off with her. Maybe they took her home. But they’d taken the license plate off the truck and—oh, one of them had red hair, long red hair, and a red beard and a tattoo on his forearm. Do you know him?”

  “Not personally. I think it’s Charlie Myers. He’s one of Rofocale’s people. I heard he got into a fight defending Rofocale when somebody called the guy a crook.”

  Perry stared at her. “This guy is close to Rofocale?”

  “I’ve heard he just sort of works for him.”

  “Aunt June,” Perry began, “She said—”

  “I heard, I think. The guy is one of Rofocale’s assistants?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Huh. I spoke to Rofocale ten minutes ago. I called him because he seemed so interested in—”

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “He said he hadn’t seen her. Didn’t know who the guy with the red hair could be.”

  “Are they going to—”

  “Yeah, of course. Dawson’s arranging a search warrant for Rofocale’s therapy center. Does Lois know the name of the red-haired—”

  “Charlie Myers.”

  “Charlie Myers? Hold on.” He waited while she gave the name to Dawson. “Perry? Dawson says that Myers was alleged to have moved out of the area a month ago. He’s disappeared; they were looking for him in connection with a beating. Listen, there’s something else. Two things. I don’t know if you should tell Lois.”

  “What things?”

  “Another local was killed, not far from the campsite where Wendy was seen. A woman … someone cut off her head. Her husband’s missing. He was a foreman at the lumber mill, fairly prominent local citizen. Dawson thinks Wendy did it.”

  “Oh, I—I hardly knew her but I don’t believe—”

  “What?” Lois asked anxiously. “What don’t you believe?”

  Perry raised his hand to signal wait. “What’s the other thing?”

  “They found the pickup truck, in a dry wash. Smashed up, burned. Empty. No one around, no one in it.”

  7

  Usually, it was the light that woke Perry in the mornings, the first time. The dawn would slant into his room, and his eyes would flutter open for a moment, and he’d think, Morning. And then he’d put his head under a pillow and go back to sleep.

  This morning, it was the darkness that woke him. He had a sense that something was out of place, and he opened his eyes and sat up on his cot to see what it was.

  He glanced at his watch: 10:00 AM. He looked out the back window; it was too dark for ten in the morning. That was what had awakened him; the light was wrong. It was like twilight.

  He went to the windows. Low, dense gray-black clouds occupied the sky like the armored division of an encamped army. In the distance, the clouds bled streaks of black. A desert rainstorm was coming to Jasper. He saw a flicker of lightning but heard no thunder. He turned—and froze.

  Sandra was standing in the door to the kitchen, staring at him. Perry wore only a pair of rather battered briefs. He could feel the damp breeze come through the screen behind him; the wet air raised goose bumps on his back. I guess—” he began lamely, then broke off.

  “You guess I came back last night while you were asleep, I’ll wager,” she said. She obviously took pleasure in making him uncomfortable, staring at him when he was nearly nude. She stood with her arms crossed over her terrycloth bathrobe, her hair down and tousled, leaning against the door frame. Her eyes were red; he could smell last night’s gin on her from two yards away.

  As nonchalantly as possible, he went to the cot—aware that his testicles were swinging in his briefs with every step—and began to put on his trousers. She kept her eyes on him until he had the jeans snapped shut, then she yawned and went into the kitchen. He decided she’d stared at him because it suited her odd sense of humor, not because she had any sexual interest in him. He pulled on T-shirt, socks, and tennis shoes, thinking it was time he visited the local laundromat, and went into the kitchen.

  There was a stranger sitting at the kitchen table. A cleric of some kind. He had the black shirt, the collar. But somehow it wasn’t a Catholic priest’s collar. He was a nut-brown little man, thin but intense, thirtyish, going bald. He toyed with an unlit cigarette—no, Perry saw, it wasn’t a cigarette, it was one of those plastic, menthol flavored pseudo-cigarettes people chew on when they’re trying to give up smoking. Its filter end was badly mangled.

  Sandra stood at the stove, a Silva Thins cigarette, half-smoked, in her compressed lips, her face looking heavy, as if the heat from the burner had melted it a little. She was staring at a pot, waiting for it to boil.

  Aunt June came in, wearing the same green suit she’d arrived in; she’d washed it by hand and hung it up on the front porch to dry the night before. “Hullo, Perry.” She smiled. Perry was glad to see her. “Your friend still here?” Perry winced and glanced at Sandra. She made a half smile but said nothing.

  Perry said, “No, she went home last night.”

  “So—so this is Perry,” said the dark-eyed cleric nervously as he stood to shake Perry’s hand. His hand was warm and moist, like the storm-heavy air outside.

  Not sure what was expected of him, Perry sat across from the minister, who seemed to have forgotten to introduce himself. The man put the plastic pseudo-cigarette in his lips, chewed on it for a moment, then took it out again and held it in his dark, hairy fingers.

  “This is Reverend Martindale,” Aunt June said. She set a bowl of cereal, milk, and sliced peaches in front of Perry. Sandra’s staring had made Perry feel self-conscious. Now he was embarrassed to eat while the others watched. Oh, don’t be an ass, he told himself, and poured milk over the cereal. He was hungry, thanks to Lois. He wished he were having breakfast with her and Aunt June, instead of with a stranger and a woman who was always vaguely hostile. Of course, now Sandra had an excuse to be hostile to the world: she’d lost her only child

  Sandra served instant coffee in three cracked china cups and a greasy red thermos top. Perry got the thermos top. Aunt June sat on Perry’s left. Sandra took a sip of her coffee, grimaced, set it down on the table, and said, “I think I’ll just get dressed. Right back.”

  When she’d gone, Perry asked, “What did they find out about Tetty?”

  Reverend Martindale looked from Aunt June to Perry, back to Aunt June, trying to seem interested, supportive, but not intrusive.

  Aunt June said softly, “She died of some kind of brain lesion. Something exploded in her brain, they said. Did that to her eye.”

  “Is Sandra going to try to connect Rofocale with it? Hit him with the suit even without Tetty’s testimony?”

  “Yes. I don’t know how successful she’ll be. That’s one reason I sent for my paper. Rofocale said it had influenced him. Maybe he used something in it, something suggested by Dr. Horescu—used it, I mean, when he was working with Tetty. But I don’t see how any of it could apply. The paper came this morning. I’ve been telling Reverend Martindale about it.”

  She glanced at Martindale, and apparently feeling he had to say something then, he blurted, “Ah, I have, you know, talked to Dr. Rofocale, and your aunt gave me the general idea of what her paper was about, what Rofocale used—”

  “Then she told you a hell of a lot more about it than she told me,” Perry groused.

  Martindale paused, chuckled, then went on in what seemed a characteristic gush of words. “And I find it just really fascinating, the way this man—and your aunt—have tried to explain evil. Naturally that’s a concern of mine.” A self-deprecatory smile. “Well, your aunt hasn’t told you about it? As I understand it, the basic concept is that there are indeed genes that control behavior, to some extent. Not completely. But certain kinds of behavior. And, ah, your aunt believes that there are genes for complete selfishness—as opposed to mere self-preservation—and these genes are only activated under special conditions. And when they are, they completely suppress empathy. What was it?” He looked at Aunt June. “Empathy Syndrome—uh—”

  “Empathy Suppression Syndrome,” she said. She was turning a butter knife over and over in her vein-marbled fingers. In the leaden light, she looked very old.

  “Yes! ESS. It suppresses empathy for other people and other people means anyone they don’t identify with. Someone outside the family, their political party.”

  “Or their religion,” Perry said.

  “It’s fascinating,” Martindale went on, “and sort of comforting. Because it explains things.”

  Aunt June smiled, the patronizing smile of a scientist politely listening to a theologian. She knew what was coming.

  “Perhaps, if you don’t mind my suggesting it,” Martindale went on, “this comfort is the real reason for the theory. It gives people an explanation that’s easy to deal with. Easier than the belief in evil. When you believe evil behavior is dictated by a gene, you don’t have any real responsibility for your behavior. No choices. And you don’t have to fear God, or worry that the devil is gaining ground in the world.”

  “My theory,” Aunt June said, looking at her reflection in the butter knife, “really doesn’t dismiss choice. Not until after a certain point. I suggested that people willingly—although not knowingly—create the conditions for the emergence of the ESS gene’s control. When they continually perceive the world in an adversary way, choose to be continuously competitive, suspicious, they flood their systems with adrenaline and ACTH and other secretions, which, after a certain saturation level, trigger the activation of the ESS gene, for reasons of efficiency. The body has been fooled into thinking an emergency exists, a marauder is trying to steal one’s children, say. If you stop to worry about the marauder, if you have empathy for him, you may be slow to crack him over the head with your club, and he’ll win out. So you need total empathy suppression. It’s supposed to be temporary, but we’ve created an atmosphere of social anxiety that in some people puts it permanently in control. Once it’s taken over, they lose choice. But before it takes over, they can choose to prepare its way or not.” She shrugged. “On some level, we know what choice we’re making.”

  “I think you have only sidestepped the issue of choice, doctor,” Martindale said. “You’ve only said that you lose choice when it seems time be profoundly evil instead of mildly evil!”

  “Not exactly what I said. But I don’t mind you misinterpreting me; Rofocale may have misinterpreted me in a more dangerous way. He may have interpreted the theory to accommodate some kind of twisted notion he has of social engineering. Something that boils down to might means right and the ends justify the means.”

  “I’ll tell you frankly,” Martindale said, shifting uneasily in his seat, “I’ve been nervous about Dr. Rofocale for a while. I think he’s a man who has his own interests at heart, before the interests of the people who come to him for help.” Martindale said this gravely, and Perry could see that from the reverend’s viewpoint, this was a deeply serious charge. Perry was puzzled at a faint thumping sound from beneath the table until, getting up to put his bowl in the sink, he saw that it was made by Martindale’s foot. He was one of those people who perpetually jounce a knee or tap a foot, as if their motor’s idling, always ready to take to the road.

  Martindale caught Perry looking at him and said abruptly, “Probably you’re wondering what brings me here this morning.”

  Perry shrugged and sat down. “Sort of.”

  “I came to see Sandra. I assumed she was unhappy about the loss of her daughter. Well, of course she is, but—”

  But what?” Sandra asked, coming into the kitchen. She sat at the head of the table, on Perry’s right. She laid a pack of cigarettes and a lighter down beside her left elbow, arranged them with her right hand as if the arrangement were meaningful to her.

  Martindale reddened. “I only meant you didn’t seem to need my help. You’re a strong woman.”

  “I went to his church once,” she said, to Perry, as if explaining all. “He’s hoping I’ll come back.” The rain saved them from an awkward silence; it struck the house like a small tidal wave slapping down over the roof, and suddenly all the windows were dripping, the shingles rattatting.

  “Whew!” Aunt June said. “That’s a relief. I’ve been waiting for it to hit all morning.”

  “It’ll be gone in an hour, and the place will steam like the devil,” Sandra said.

  “Yes, it gets humid,” Martindale said, “after a rain. But it smells nice.”

  “Now isn’t that just like the bloody clergy,” Sandra said. She hadn’t so much interrupted him as bitten his sentence off. “You say it’s raining and he says, yes, but it smells nice after a rain. You say it’s too hot and he says, yes, but the plants like the sunshine. You say it’s too cold and he says but it does make us appreciate our nice cozy homes. Shit. What are you going to say,” she asked, bending a little toward him, pointing at him with the filter of an unlit cigarette she held in her hand like a wand, “when they drop the hydrogen bomb on us? Or when the neo-conservatives vote in a fascist who herds us into concentration camps?” She snorted, thrust the cigarette in her mouth, and lit it. “You’ll say, ‘Yes, it’s awful but it’ll be just that much better in the afterlife.’”

  Martindale had sat frozen through this verbal fusillade. When she paused to puff her cigarette, he said, “I understand how you must feel.”

  Perry was sorry to hear Martindale use this cliché. He knew she would turn it back on him. So he broke in, “Okay, so anyway, what would you say if they dropped the bomb and you were alive to comment on it, Sandra? Christ, whatever he’d say would be as good as anything else.”