Shifting (22 page)

30

I don't know how I made it home, but somehow, with the sun just above the horizon, I found myself wandering aimlessly around Mrs. Carpenter's property, searching for an animal to eat. Shash was barking inside the barn. I was still a cheetah and my wounds were about to drive the lingering bit of sanity I possessed right out of reach. I yearned to be me again.

I almost couldn't change back. It took a lot of energy, I guess, and mine was almost gone—had bled out of my body through the gashes on my back. Had I not been so scared of staying a cheetah forever, I never would have been able to use that last, tiny bit of adrenaline surging through my blood to make the change possible—even so, it just barely made the difference.

Naked, blood covered, and shivering, I skulked into the barn, to the joy of Shash, and stumbled toward the stairs. And then I realized … I had left my clothes and my key near the mine. Big lazy tears began making their sleepy way down my cheeks. Then I remembered: I'd replaced the spare key under the bottom step.

With shaking hands, I groped through cobwebs and dirt till I felt cold metal. It took two tries to get the key into the narrow lock, but I did.

In six stumbling steps, I was across the room and staring at my body in the mirror. My shoulder had four tiny puncture scabs. Four long, blood-framed welts shone on my pale back, like I had been whipped. But my skin was whole. I remembered the night Mrs. Carpenter had found me after I was attacked by dogs. I had healed before her eyes. This morning, it was the same. As I watched, the welts on my back faded and then disappeared. My broken ribs were the same. They just stopped hurting, as if they had never been cracked. And the tooth punctures on my shoulder? Gone.

I fell onto the bed, buried myself in blankets, and slept.

When next I opened my eyes, it was dark. I sat up in bed, frantic, and stumbled dizzily across the room to the light switch.

The light blinded me, making it impossible to see for a moment. When I could finally keep my eyes open, I looked at my watch: 9:57. I had missed my shift at work.

My gaze moved from my watch to my naked body, and I gasped. I was covered with brittle brown blood and dried mud. I ran to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Not waiting for the water to heat up, I stepped into the icy onslaught.

I scrubbed every inch of my skin with an entire bottle of body wash, then the entire bottle of shampoo, and still I didn't feel clean. My skin seemed permanently tainted. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move as panic set in. I sank down to the shower floor and huddled there with my head leaning sideways against the wall. Tears mingled with the water dripping down my face as I realized it was the end of the world, the end of
my
world. The world I had known. I had killed someone. And he had tried to kill me. Nothing would ever be the same and I could never go back to how things used to be.

When I finally regained control of myself, the hot water had run out. Cold water pelted my skin and I was shivering. I got out of the shower, wrapped myself up in a towel, and stumbled back into my bedroom.

Hunger pangs clenched at my hollow stomach. If I didn't eat, I thought I might die. And I smelled food. On the dresser, beside the bowl of ash, sat a plate with scrambled eggs and two pieces of toast on top of a handwritten note. Ignoring the note, I grabbed the plate. The eggs were cold and rubbery, the toast hard, but nothing in my life had ever tasted better.

With my belly nearly full, I picked up the piece of paper.

Maggie Mae,

I worried sick about you all night because you forgot to tell me when you got home! I almost called the police to go up to the mine and look for you. I tried to wake you, but you hardly stirred, so I thought I'd leave some breakfast.

Glad you're home safe.

—Mrs. C.

P.S. I forgive you. Just never forget to wake me again!

The thought of her coming up and down the stairs to my room made my heart hurt. She had done so much for me, and yet I was the reason she was injured—because I was being hunted. And based on the graduation night attack, the creatures knew where I lived. Mrs. Carpenter had already been attacked once. What if they came to the house looking for me and found her again instead?

I climbed from the bed and went to the window. Pulling the curtain aside, I peered into the dark night. Moon shadows shivered over the yard. Past Mrs. Carpenter's house, something gleamed, like the flash of animal eyes, but when I looked harder, I saw nothing but shadows.

I put my right hand on my left wrist, expecting to feel the juniper bracelet—for the
yo-ih
, Naalyehe's gift of protection, was a gift worth more than he'd ever know. But the bracelet was gone, left at the mine in the bag with my clothes. I clenched my teeth. How could I have been so stupid? Protection was what I desperately wanted. But it was Mrs. Carpenter who desperately needed it. Because I, at least, could fight back.

I got dressed and scribbled a quick note. Mrs. Carpenter would be safe as long as she stayed away from me. I just needed to ensure she kept her distance.

Mrs. C.,

I think I've caught something, maybe the flu, and I don't want you to catch it, so I'll be staying away from you for the next couple of days. Don't worry about the chickens. I'll take care of them. And Shash. And thanks for the scrambled eggs. I've got a few things up here to eat, so don't worry about feeding me! I don't have much appetite anyway.

—MM

I left the bedroom and crept through the barn, out the door, and to the front porch. Folding the note, I taped it to the edge of the front door so when Mrs. Carpenter let Duke out, she'd see it.

Next, I stuck to the shadows and made my way to the edge of the property, to the ring of protection. And then, one by one, I took the bleached animal skulls from between the trees and put them around the entire perimeter of the house, making Mrs. Carpenter her own snug ring of protection.

When I finished, I lay down in bed and listened. With the skulls only encircling the house, the barn was now accessible to my hunters. I knew they would come for me sooner or later. I prayed it would be never.

31

Wal-Mart at seven a.m. is not particularly busy. At least not on a Wednesday morning. I was grateful for the lack of customers and hoped no one would steal the Gary Fisher bike I'd hidden behind giant bags of water-softening salt sitting on the front curb of the store.

I'd hardly slept since moving the ring of protection to encircle Mrs. Carpenter's house, and the only things stronger than my exhaustion were my fear, my guilt, and, more importantly, the hole in my stomach. Even though I'd eaten cold eggs and toast last night, my body felt as if I hadn't eaten for a month. I needed calories ASAP, but didn't dare get food from Mrs. Carpenter's house. Too dangerous—for her. And the note I sent her, about me having food, was a lie.

Plus, my skin still felt tainted with Rolf Heinrich's blood. I desperately needed more soap.

Slouching behind a shopping cart, I hung my head and started toward the beauty supplies section. Hardly anyone passed me in the empty aisles, and when they did, they didn't even look my way. I was invisible again.

I turned my cart down the soap aisle and was reaching for a bulk-sized body wash when I heard a woman's twinkling, false laugh. You know the laugh—what a woman does when she's pretending something is funny to impress the guy she's with. I rolled my eyes—glad I never did that stupid, fake laugh—and picked up two huge bottles of the cheapest body wash.

I heard the laugh again, closer now, and hurried away to find shampoo. I wasn't in the mood to see the woman out giggling and shopping at seven on a Wednesday morning. And besides, I could feel a panic attack looming in my near future.

I scanned the shampoo section for the cheapest stuff. When I found what I was looking for, I heard that stupid laugh again. I grabbed a bottle of shampoo and started to walk away, but heard a familiar, low chuckle. And then the high-pitched laugh again. My feet turned to stone and my ears strained to hear the mumbled conversation going on one aisle over.

“—was so good!” the woman was saying. She had an accent, definitely not Spanish, and definitely not Navajo.

“I know. Tara's does make exquisite food, but, you know, the irony is, a local fast-food restaurant has much better fried chicken. I'll take you there sometime, if you'd like to try it,” Bridger's smooth, deep voice replied.

“
Oui!
Anything you like, Bridger, I would like to try,” the woman answered and laughed her chiming laugh.

Call me a glutton for punishment, or maybe a masochist, but I had to look. Everything else in my life was crumbling to ruin, so why not just take a quick peep? Bracing myself, I tiptoed around the corner of the shampoo aisle and peeked down the oral hygiene aisle.

She was beautiful. Long, loosely curled hair the color of honey, skin like a peach, eyes green as grass, makeup that was so smooth it could almost pass as natural, and a flowing dress cut down low on her chest, emphasizing her full boobs and teeny waist. Wow. And her hand, dainty and sparkling with gold and gemstones, rested comfortably in Bridger's.

To see my best friend, my heart seemed to heal and then break all over again. I put a hand to my chest, trying to ease the pain. His dark hair and stormy eyes were so familiar that I took a step toward him, ready to throw myself into his arms and cry on his shoulder. Ready, even, to tell him the truth about me. I desperately needed someone to tell me everything was going to be okay. I needed serious help.

But I looked at Bridger—dressed in designer jeans and a fitted short-sleeve polo shirt—and the sophisticated woman by his side, and stepped back. They looked good together, like two matching puzzle pieces. How could Bridger love me when he had someone like her?

My heart turned colder, harder, and heavier than a lump of lead.

Bridger yanked his hand from the woman's and began pushing on the bridge of his nose.

“Bridger!” the woman exclaimed, placing her delicate hands on his cheeks and trying to look into his scrunched-shut eyes. “
Est-ce que tu es d'accord
?
Regarde-moi.
”

“
Donne-moi juste une minute
,” he muttered.

I ducked back into the shampoo aisle, which also has a big selection of hair dye, and on impulse found just the right color. Black. So black it was almost blue. The color, I imagined, of a supermassive black hole, a color that swallowed and devoured all the light around it. Because that was how
I
felt.

I tossed the dye in the cart and walked, in robot mode once again, to the food section. I hardly looked at the things I grabbed. Any type of food would do. It's not like I actually tasted it.

From Wal-Mart I biked straight to the Navajo Mexican, hoping Naalyehe or José was in early—Wednesday morning was delivery morning. I rode around to the back of the restaurant and sighed with relief. José's car was in the parking lot.

When I walked into the kitchen with the bike and my two bags of groceries dangling from the handlebars, José whirled around. I must have looked pretty terrible, because when he saw me, he dropped what he was doing and ran over, covering me in a great big, warm, cilantro-scented hug.

“Oh, Magdalena. What's wrong?” he asked gently, patting my back.

I had been expecting wrath. I hadn't shown up for my shift last night.

“I need a few days off.” I sobbed into his shoulder. I don't know exactly why I was crying. Bridger? The dead man? José's kindness? Maybe all three combined.

“Sure. But do you need anything else?”

“No.” I pushed away from him and wiped my cheeks with the backs of my hands. “I'm so sorry about missing work.” I sniffled.

“Oh. It was nothing. Tito didn't show up, either, but we were so slow I ended up having Yana wash dishes and Penney run the dining room. We didn't need you, but we were worried about you.”

“The tourists?” I asked, wiping my nose on a dry washcloth José handed to me.

“All gone, like they up and left together.”

My stomach dropped. I had a guess what had happened to three of them.

“You're looking a little on the thin side, Magdalena. Let me fix up a plate of food for you to take home.”

“Thanks.”

I watched him make the fish tacos in silence, wishing I was on my way home, yet staying because I didn't want to make José feel bad by turning down his best entrée.

“Bridger stopped in last night.”

My eyes grew round and my blood accelerated at the mere mention of his name. José looked at me over his shoulder. I bit my tongue.

“Don't you want to know why?” he asked.

“No. Not really.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He started humming as he got a container of grated cheese out of the fridge.

“Why did Bridger come in?” I didn't mean to speak, but the question snuck out before I could stop it

José dropped a handful of cheese onto my food and said, “He ordered takeout. Fish tacos.”

“One plate or two?”

“Two.”

I nodded silently. I'd already known that would be the answer.

“He brought something of yours with him. Something a bit … awkward.” José turned and studied me.

“He did? What was it?”

“I'll get it.” José handed me my finished and boxed meal, wiped his hands on his apron, then took a bulging grocery bag from a coat hook. My face turned bright red.

He grinned. “I guess you already know what it is.”

It was my shoes, socks, jeans, black shirt, bra, panties,
to-ih
, and jacket from Monday night. He was at the mine that night with a gun. That was my guess, at least. Or, rather, my sinking suspicion.

“So, when can I put you back on the schedule?” José asked.

“Can you manage without me for a week?” I hoped that would be long enough to regain control of my sanity and figure out why I was being hunted. It had to be long enough.

“I'll put you down for next Wednesday's dinner shift. Let me know if that won't work.”

I nodded and thanked him for the meal. Without another word, I left.

It was raining. Raining really hard. And for some reason, when it rained in Silver City, tarantulas crawled out of wherever they lived and scrambled all over the road. I tried not to run over them with my bike, because their huge, hairy bodies would pop beneath the tires, making me sick to my stomach. Plus, I'd had enough killing to last a lifetime. Even taking the life of a spider seemed suddenly cruel.

When I got to Mrs. Carpenter's, so wet that even my running shoes had water pooled in them, I took the bike directly to the barn, hoping she wasn't watching me through a window, and threw a quick handful of feed at the chickens. Shash whined at me and paced in front of the barn door.

“No, you can't go out,” I snapped. “You'll get soaked.”

I went upstairs to hide. Shash didn't follow—wouldn't leave his spot by the barn door even when I called him.

José's fish tacos were gone before my groceries were put away. I stripped out of my wet things and then went to the bathroom and transformed my hair from faded plum to cold, colorless black. I will admit, I
looked
better with lighter hair, but I
felt
better when it was black.

After a hot shower, I went to my room and put on the
yo-ih
and an oversized T-shirt that hung halfway down my thighs. As I flopped down on the bed, I wished, not for the first time, that I could throw my arms around Mrs. Carpenter and tell her what was going on, why I hadn't come to check on her for a couple of days. I could practically hear her.

“Maggie Mae, quit moping and face the future. You did what was necessary, taking that man's life. He was evil if he wanted to kill you! You did the world good, removing him from it. You survived. You'll survive again. So count your blessings and come and have some corn bread and chili.”

“I am going crazy,” I mumbled. “Not only am I talking to myself, I'm imagining Mrs. Carpenter is talking to me, too.”

I lay in bed and felt time drag slowly by. Every minute, every
second
, seemed to last an hour. It felt as if the world had changed and days no longer lasted twenty-four hours, but an entire year. And every moment that passed, my heart seemed to hurt a little more. And insanity seemed a tiny bit closer. And my hold on reality slipped a bit farther from reach.

I closed my eyes and prayed I could fall asleep. During sleep, at least, I was numb.

I woke to the sound of claws on my bedroom door and bolted upright, wondering if they'd finally come for me. This time, maybe I would be ready to die.

A dog yelped and the scratching noise repeated.

“Shash?” I called. A dog whined outside my door and I laughed a shaky laugh of relief. And then the afternoon exploded with a single gunshot.