Chapter 16 #2
I don’t ask who the judge is. I suspect there isn’t one. Coyote Springs hasn’t had a municipal judge since 1998, when old Judge Henry retired to Yuma and nobody replaced him. The county sheriff is forty-five minutes away on a good night, and this is not a good night.
Mrs. Pritchett seems to finally realize the fruitlessness of her efforts. Her hands slow on the rope. She looks at Oz’s dripping wrists, at the clothesline pooling uselessly on the sand, and her expression shifts from determination to frustration.
“That’s it. I’m calling Gary,” she announces, already reaching for her phone. “He served. He’ll know what to do.”
I try again to reason with her. “Yes, I’m sure he’ll be happy to know Oz found his cat.”
“That’s not why! I need the tactical support.” She punches the screen with her thumb. “Gary? Deborah. I’ve got a situation on the ridge. Monster. Yes, a real one. Bring your rifle.”
The truck arrives in eleven minutes, headlights carving up the wash. Gary steps out in jeans and a flannel shirt misbuttoned by two holes. His hair is standing up on one side like he’d been asleep when Mrs. Pritchett called. The rifle stays on the rack.
Mrs. Pritchett points at Oz with the authority of a prosecutor presenting evidence. “There. That’s the creature. It had Captain!”
Gary stares at Oz. His eyes travel from the iridescent surface to the shifting colors to the impossible geometry of a being that learned to hold a shape but never quite got the details right.
Then his gaze drops to the cat in my arms.
He moves faster than I’ve ever seen him move. Three long strides and he’s at my side, his hands reaching for Captain with a tenderness that looks almost painful on his weathered face.
I open my arms without resistance, and Captain meows in greeting to his owner.
“Hey, buddy.” Gary’s voice cracks on the second word. He cradles the cat against his chest, his chin dropping to rest on Captain’s head, his eyes squeezing shut. “Hey, hey, hey. I got you. You’re okay.”
Captain’s purr is loud as his paws knead against Gary’s flannel. Three months of desert and survival and whatever else, and he still knows who he belongs to.
Gary isn’t talking to any of us. He’s murmuring to the cat, a low stream of reassurance and welcome that doesn’t require an audience.
His shoulders are shaking. He doesn’t seem to register what Oz is, or care about the monster situation Mrs. Pritchett summoned him for. All that matters is the warm weight in his arms.
Mrs. Pritchett clears her throat. “Gary. The creature. We need to contain it until the authorities—”
“Old jailhouse.” Gary’s voice is rough, his eyes still locked on Captain. “Mining era. Iron bars. Still has a lock.”
Mrs. Pritchett straightens, satisfied. “See? Tactical thinking.”
Gary tucks Captain inside his flannel, the cat’s gray-and-white head poking above the button line, and walks back toward the truck without another word. Mrs. Pritchett follows, rope still trailing from her fist like a forgotten prop.
Nobody asks where the old jailhouse is. Everyone in Coyote Springs knows. It sits on the edge of town, behind Crawford’s, a sandstone relic with iron bars that survived a hundred and twenty years of weather and civic indifference.
Mrs. Pritchett’s golf cart is parked at the top of the wash, hazards blinking orange against the dark. She climbs into the driver’s seat and pats the passenger side.
“Get in, Maisie. We’ll follow Gary. Gary, think you can transport our criminal?”
Gary shrugs and finally gives Oz a good look. “You going to behave?”
Oz nods.
I glance at Oz. His colors have dimmed to a muted teal, and he’s compressed his form to something close to my height. He reads my expression and shapes his shoulders into a small shrug.
“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll cooperate.”
Gary opens the truck’s passenger door, and Oz compresses further, flowing into the seat with a fluidity that makes Gary step back.
Captain’s ears flatten, but the cat stays tucked against Gary’s chest. Oz settles into the far side of the bench, his substance pooling slightly around the seat cushion, and Gary hesitates for a moment before closing the door.
I climb into the golf cart. The vinyl seat is cold through my jeans.
Mrs. Pritchett turns the key and the cart lurches forward, electric motor humming. The truck pulls ahead of us, taillights red in the dark. The dirt road unrolls beneath us, hard-packed and pale in the headlight beam.
The cold seeps in. The wind cuts across my arms, and I tuck my hands under my thighs for warmth.
Mrs. Pritchett drives with both hands on the wheel, her posture stiff and correct.
The wheels grind over sand and stone. A creosote bush scrapes the side of the cart as we round a curve. The mountains roll past in dark, jagged shapes, silhouettes cutting into the stars.
Mrs. Pritchett clears her throat.
“I’m sorry you got caught up in this, Maisie.”
I turn to look at her. Her eyes stay on the road.
“The town will understand. We all know you’ve been lonely since Kyle left. Running that business by yourself, working late, never coming to potlucks.” She pauses, adjusting her grip on the wheel. “A woman gets isolated. Makes mistakes. Tries to find company in a monster.”
The word sits between us like a stone.
“They’ll forgive you,” she continues. “Once it’s contained. Once we’ve handled the situation. No one’s going to hold it against you.”
She glances at me. Her eyes are soft, almost maternal, and that’s worse than anger would be.
“But you can’t be on its side, Maisie.” She turns back to the road. “Not here. Not in Coyote Springs.”
The mountains keep passing. I watch their dark shapes roll by and say nothing.