Fauna (40 page)

Stephen can’t sleep for thinking of them: the dead dogs on the page and the live ones in their cages; the kits safe in their den and the pups burnt to a crisp in theirs. Time and again his mind slips out the window, to where the three-footed coyote lies curled in the ground.

Maybe Lily’s right. Maybe there’s no getting through to some people. Okay, so he won’t comment. Just a quick check to see if there’s anything new.

Coyote Cop’s Blog

Sunday, June 1, 2008

See now thats the trouble with ignoring the difference between us and them soldierboy. Before you know it your putting yourself in their furry little shoes and forgetting your a man.

And speaking of us and them theres something important we haven’t covered yet. The subject in case you haven’t guessed is guns. Of course its complicated using one in the city. Unless you have some kind of silencer get ready to cause a stir. And be sure and plan out your escape route because your going to have to run.

Those of you who aren’t already crackshots will want to get in some practice before you head down to the Don Valley or some other ravine in town looking for a big old pair of ears. You won’t get a second shot at a coyote. Maybe you already have a rifle or even something smaller you like to use. Well I’m no expert but for my money theres nothing like a shotgun for bringing vermin down. Mine is an oldie but a goody. A Savage double-barrelled 12 gauge handed down to me along family lines. Nobody taught me how to use it. I figured that one out all by myself.

POSTED BY Coyote Cop at 8:31 PM

Edal’s come to the part where her namesake is learning to trust the sea. “‘By the end of June she was swimming as an otter should, diving deep to explore dim rock ledges at the edge of the sea tangle—’” She halts, certain she’s heard movement outside the door.

“Don’t stop,” Guy murmurs.

The knock, though soft, is somehow urgent. “Guy?” Stephen whispers harshly.

“Yeah, buddy.”

Stephen opens the door. His face is the fragile white of a supermarket egg. He’s been crying. Or sweating. Or both. “Oh, hey, Edal.” He fixes his gaze on the floor. “Sorry.”

“What’s up?” says Guy. “You okay?”

“I have to show you something.”

“What is it?” Edal lays the book down, losing the page.”What’s wrong?”

Stephen looks past her to Guy. “There’s a new post.” He pauses. “It’s bad.”

They follow Stephen back across the darkened kitchen, Guy in his boxers only, Edal in T-shirt and shorts. In the office, the computer whirrs. Light from the goose-necked lamp overlaps the glow of the screen.

Stephen stands to one side of the desk while Guy motions for Edal to take the chair. He reads the new entry over her shoulder. “Jesus.”

She turns to him. “Who is this guy?”

“You better read the rest.”

“All of it?”

“Yeah.”

She scrolls slowly down, clicking to skim the comments at the foot of each post. Guy and Stephen move to the couch. The pair of them sit quietly, like men at a funeral. Hands folded in their laps.

After a time, Edal looks up. “Soldierboy—that’s you?” she says to Stephen. He nods. “Have you reported this?”

“No.”

“You have to. You have to tell the police.”

“She’s right,” says Guy.

“Yeah. It’s just, I thought I might make him see—”

“It’s gone beyond that, Stephen,” she says. “I think this guy’s for real.”

He and Guy exchange a look.

“What?” she says. “Tell me.”

“They found the body,” says Guy.

“What?”

“The coyote,” says Stephen. “The one with the cut-off paw. We found it and—” He glances toward the back wall.

It dawns on her what he must mean. “And you brought it here.”

“Yeah.”

Edal thinks for a moment. “You can’t tell them,” she says finally. “Not about that.”

“But wouldn’t it be evidence?” says Guy.

“Maybe, but it’s an offence to be in possession of illegally killed wildlife. Not to mention all the accidental kills you
have buried out there. I’m guessing you didn’t report any of those to MNR.”

“MNR?”

“Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources. You’re supposed to report the acquisition of wildlife killed by natural or accidental causes. They’d get you on the hawk too, and the raccoons. You can’t keep wildlife in captivity without authorization, even if it is for the purpose of rehabilitation.” She scrolls back up to the photograph of the paw, leaning in for a closer look. “Anyway, the blog alone should be enough to get the police interested. They’ll bring MNR in on it. By the looks of it, he’s in violation of God knows how many articles—night hunting, using poison, destroying a fur-bearing mammal’s den—” She glances up to find them both staring.

“How do you know all this?” Stephen says.

“Good question,” Guy says quietly.

“I—” Her mind races then slows. Nothing for it but to tell them the truth. “I’m a federal wildlife officer. On leave. I’ve been on stress leave.”

Neither one of them speaks. After a moment Guy stands and comes to lay a hand on her shoulder. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Like what? I didn’t think you’d trust me, any of you. I wanted you to—Jesus, it’s pathetic.” She looks up at him. “I wanted you to like me.”

“Okay, well, mission accomplished.” He bends to kiss her, quick and natural, as though he’s been doing it for years. “So, seeing as you’re an expert, how should we do this?”

She takes a breath. “Stephen should go down to the station first thing.”

“Go down there?” Stephen says. “Really?”

“Definitely. If you call it in, there’s a chance they’ll come here to take a statement. They might start poking around.”

Guy gives her shoulder a squeeze. “Does this mean you’re not going to turn us in?”

“Who, me?” She tries out a smile. “I told you, I’m federal. And anyway, I’m on leave.”

How can they not have heard him coming? Both of them dead to the world until the tent flap lifts.

Billy thrashes awake, lunging into the zipped-up screen as Lily snaps her eyes open and screams. The flash-lit face is nothing like she’s imagined. Her mind’s eye held an older man, grey buzz cut, bright buttons for eyes. This one is closer to her own age, soft, sad features, brown hair curling like a boy’s.

Billy’s going berserk—he’ll bring the tent down around them any second, barking and snarling, tearing into the screen—but already the light and the face it showed them are gone. Lily throws both arms around her dog.

“Shh, Billy, shh. Stay. It’s okay. Stay.”

There’s no way she should open what’s left of the screen and let him give chase. The face was bad enough, but it wasn’t all. There was a weapon—a glinting length of pipe, or maybe even a gun—and there was the paw. She saw that too. The sad, silvery paw, swinging down at her like a pendant on its string.

——

Staring skyward, the raccoon works her hands over the river’s darkened bed. It’s an ideal spot—the current mild, the bank riddled with promising holes—yet so far not a single crayfish has offered itself up to her grasp. Her soft-skinned fingers keep on. Wet hands feel keenly—so keenly, they seem to see. The stars above show more than their own design; a second shadow pattern hovers there, a map of mud and pebbles, twigs and rippled sand.

She feels down into a crevice, hoping for a fan of tail armour, the slim pinch of a claw. She must find something soon; her milk will tell the night’s tale, and so far it holds only a swirled strain of snail meat and the tang of a long-dead gull.

The young await her—one for every clawed foot that will carry her back to them. It’s a decent den, still smelling of the fox that abandoned it, but well hidden and dry, and warmer than last year’s tree. Snuggest of all was the human-made den she stumbled upon one long-ago spring. It stuck straight up out of a roof, and though it was stone-like, it held none of stone’s chill. She fit its recess nicely with her brood, a large litter, as befits a cold year.

She lost all save one the day the grey smoke came curling. They’d lived with the thinner variety in their coats since birth, but this was different, so dense it rose like filthy water, drowning their squeals. She ran a mad relay, lunging for the nape of each little neck, depositing one kit after another in the long, leaf-choked ditch that ran along the edge of the roof. Too late. She whuffled over the dead for a time, then gripped the living kit in her teeth and reached for an overhanging branch.

It was easy producing enough milk to feed that surviving kit—a male that grew fat and left her come fall. Not so simple to provide for a denful. Perhaps if she holds still, something will scuttle up out of hiding, or hop down to the river’s edge. A starlit fish might even come winding her way.

The current tugs gently at her belly fur. A bat dips down out of the darkness to drink. Skims open-mouthed and rises, banks and skims again.

The stars are the only pattern now, her dark hands hanging blind. She looks down into the water to find points of light winking there too. Come, crayfish, with your fringed underbelly, your pebble eye. Come, sucker-fish, a silver twist for the milk.

There is only this: food and what her body can make of it, the den and its many mouths. In time, when the young leave off suckling and stumble after her in the hunt, every clouded message they drew from the teat will come clear. Barring death, they will grow. The males will wander off, the females may or may not stay. Come the cold, she’ll den up until mating time comes again.

This latest litter came of a lone male. Long-lived and tailless, he was the greatest weight she’d ever known. She felt him curve up inside her, push and push and pause. He laid his head down on her back, parting her winter ruff with his snout. She submitted until she was certain, then craned round to face him and snarled. He didn’t run, but he didn’t linger either. His hind end bulky in retreat, alien to her without its tail.

The water flows with scarcely a ripple. It may be best to move on—in more ways than one. The valley holds many sounds, but there’s no mistaking the dumb thunder of a dog.
She’s downwind for the moment, the first whiff of it reaching her nose. And now a grainy glimpse of darkness on the move.

Thudding through the understorey, the dog is larger than most. She could hold her nerve and hope for it to pass, but what of the moment when it lollops into the advantage end of the breeze? And what of the human blundering in its wake—its scent arriving now, female, fairly young. Some can be counted on to call off an attack, but just as many take part in the violence, goading their creatures on.

It’s a chance the mother raccoon can’t take. She drops forward, a lump of weathered wood come to life. Head up, she lays her tail along the surface and paddles for the opposite bank.