Brian Garfield - Necessity

An instinct compels her away from her natural course; she turns south on Van Nuys Boulevard and drives up into the canyons, up Beverly Glen all the way to the top of the rugged spine that divides Beverly Hills and Bel Air from the Valley. She runs west on the ridge, hairpinning slowly along the tight twists of Mulholland Drive, here and there glimpsing a startling thirty-mile panorama of urban lights; up here on the thin strip of road corkscrewing through rocks and brush she has the atavistic feeling she’s been flung back into primordial wilderness.

The road swoops across a graceful bridge span, crossing above the freeway in Sepulveda Pass, and she continues to pursue the westering half moon, concentrating on her driving, putting everything else out of her mind except steering wheel and brakes and accelerator: the car and the road and the constantly shifting sliver of the world that is illuminated by her headlights.

There’s a clump of buildings on the left-a posh private school-and just beyond it is a wide graded pull-out where half a dozen cars are parked facing the sparkling view of the Valley. She comes slowly through the bend; her headlights sweep across the parked cars and she catches a sign of movement as two heads duck down behind a car seat. Lover’s lane.

Soon Mulholland Drive peters out. She wonders whether to take the steeply descending road to the right or turn around and retrace her course.

What the hell. Why not explore.

Down to the right. The road keeps curving back on itself; it becomes a residential street-one of those high canyon suburbs, houses perched on land-fill outcrops so that each site commands a view. You pay for the houses by the square foot; for the views by the square mile.

The streets intersect one another without pattern or reason. She keeps turning from one into another, always choosing the street that leads downhill. Now and then she finds herself in a cul-de-sac and has to turn back and try another turning; but you can’t really get lost up here-you can see the entire Valley asprawl below and you know you only need to keep going downhill until eventually, like a tributary rivulet seeking its main stream, you’re bound to flow into Ventura Boulevard.

She needs this sort of distraction right now: she needs to clear her mind.

A sudden bend makes her brake. The lights traverse a dark thicket and now there’s an animal caught in the blaze. It stands frozen, its eyes radiating phosphoric yellow. She stops the car.

Dog? Fox?

Then she realizes: coyote.

It stares at her, pinned by the headlights, ears up and bushy tail down, an emaciated grey yellow creature with bony spine and a swollen abdomen and its mouth peeled back in a proud smile.

Doyle says they’re becoming increasingly bold. Feral. The developers and their cancerous urban growth have depopulated the coyotes’ natural hunting ground and they’ve started coming down from the hills to slash Hefty bags and poke through garbage. They’re attracted to back yards by dog food that’s left out overnight unfinished. Sometimes they’ll attack family pets. Not long ago in Burbank one of them killed a six-month-old child.

The coyote stirs at last: turns and trots away toward the brush, exposing a new angle of view that makes it quite evident that the beast is pregnant.

Fleeing alone through the night with no society to protect her. Trying to safeguard her young; trying to stay alive.

The animal vanishes. One more flick of yellow light reflects from its eyes-or is that just a trick of her vision?

I feel as if I’ve been given a sign. I wish I could tell what it’s supposed to mean.

She finds her way down off the mountain and drives to within a few blocks of her apartment and waits five minutes in the mouth of an alley in deep darkness with windows rolled up and doors locked.

We’re going to get a dog, she decides. A female. We’ll adopt it from an animal shelter. When Ellen’s old enough we’ll breed it and Ellen can watch it bear puppies and she’ll learn to raise them and care for them. We’ll-

No. Let’s not dream about the future just now. There’s something more pressing to decide.

She’s waited here long enough. There’s no one following. That’s for sure.

Like a kid playing hide-and-seek. She hears her own giggle.

Don’t go all hysterical now. It’s hardly a suitable time for flying to pieces.

She parks on a side street. Can’t use the apartment building’s carport any longer; if her car were identified there it could lead someone straight to her room.

Walking to the court she keeps looking over her shoulder. In these small hours the emptiness of the street is dreadful.

A shadow stirs; it makes her jump; she peers into the darkness-a lemon tree, a cinderblock wall, something moving … an animal.

It darts into an unpaved alley and she can hear its toenails click on stones.

She lets herself in and double-locks the door and slumps into the threadbare easy chair. Strength flows away as if a drainplug has been pulled.

Blood pressure, she thinks. That’s all it is. A drop in blood pressure that follows shock’s injections of adrenaline. The body feels it’s safe now so it wants to relax.

Got to keep the brain working now: analytical, observant. No time for Victorian swoons.

A drink. A drink would help …

No. Coffee would be better.

She fills the kettle and sets it on the burner. For a moment it is good to occupy her hands with methodical functions: fit the paper filter into the Melitta’s plastic funnel; dip measures of ground coffee into it.

Waiting for the kettle to boil she’s imagining a knock at the door-seeing herself go right up the wall.

Crooks, she wonders: fugitives whose faces are pinned up on post office walls. How can they live like that-wanting to scream every time someone sounds the doorbell, desperate to run if the telephone rings, terrified if a stranger so much as looks at them twice?

She remembers the glittering eyes of the coyote. Not furtive but startled. Fear is nothing to be ashamed of. But how do you go on endlessly living with it?

Now we have got to think, children. Quickly and very clearly.

The son of a bitch took you by surprise and he threw a hell of a scare into you. But how much of a danger is Graeme, really?

He’s jumped to confusions: he doesn’t suspect any part of the real truth.

What is he likely to do? What’s his next move?

You can’t predict that until you’ve figured out what he really wants.

If you assume he’s eager to find someone to blackmail, then it’s quite possible he’ll give it up as soon as he realizes there’s no profit in it for him; and he’ll arrive soon enough at that realization because he isn’t going to find any leads that will take him any closer to identifying the Very Important Person whose mistress he believes you to be.

Maybe he’ll try to follow you around. He may keep an eye on the bookshop until you show up. Then he’ll try to tail you to see where you’re living.

You’ll have to have eyes in the back of your head for a while: keep giving him the slip until he gets tired of it.

Isn’t he bound to get tired of it? He’s not likely to waste weeks or months on something that isn’t paying off.

If it comes to the worst he’ll trace you as far as this place. He’ll ask questions-neighbors, superintendent-and he’ll learn nobody’s ever seen a male visitor to her apartment.

Maybe even then he’ll still believe she’s consorting with a tycoon or a movie star or a senator; but he’ll realize she’s too cagey for him and he’ll have no name-no one to blackmail.

Graeme’s an opportunist. He won’t waste his time. He’ll give up; go somewhere else and harass someone else. He’s the kind who likes to exploit people’s weaknesses. If you show him none he’ll go away and find easier opportunities elsewhere. All you’ve got to do is remain calm and strong.