Jeff Rovin - Fatalis

"We make a good team, Fluff," he said.

Fluffy's head rose an inch.

"You come up with good ideas and I do the legwork," Grand said. "I only wish I knew which one of us screwed up tonight."

Fluffy continued to look back at him, patiently and politely.

"I still like the idea," Grand said, "so it must've been me who screwed up. We'll try and figure this out tomorrow. Right now, sleep."

Fluffy agreed and laid his head down. Grand stretched out too, sliding his tired, swollen feet under the dog. He'd done a lot of climbing and it was good to give them a rest.

He lay there and thought about the idea. It was sound. What he'd seen tonight when he looked at Fluffy was something that a Chumash shaman would have seen and pondered and might have painted.

The fact that Grand hadn't found any precedent didn't discourage him. Perhaps if he could figure out whether the images in the passageway related to the paintings of the mountains-

Later , he told himself, looking over at the clock. Do this later .

Grand shut off the light, punched up the pillow, and settled his head in the middle. He closed his eyes. The rain was stopping. The night was still.

He wasn't going to have any trouble sleeping tonight. It had been a long day but a challenging and also rewarding one. If nothing else, he'd reconnected with Tumamait. It was a tentative step but one he'd needed for a long time. And he had a mystery to solve. Because of that, because his passion had somewhere else to go, his thoughts of Rebecca were dreamy rather than sad. He saw Rebecca sitting at the dining room table on her day off, catching up on newspapers, journals, and correspondence. He could still smell the sweetness of her neck, feel her under the pink terrycloth robe. He could smell the Kona coffee she loved, taste the melted butter of an English muffin on her lips. He smiled as he remembered a song she once improvised to get him away from his computer late one night. She had called it "Chumash," a love song about a man and his art, and she sang it to the tune of the old Association song "Cherish."

Rebecca was so alive in his mind and senses. How could he want to send her spirit away? If he did, then he'd lose these precious moments along with the bad memories.

Or would he ? Wasn't there a place he could keep the happy times and still allow her spirit to rest, let himself get on with the business of living?

After a few minutes Grand was too tired to focus on the things Tumamait had said. Consciousness grew heavy and black. But before he surrendered it entirely, the images from the lower cave came back vividly, like the last, memorable bangs of a fireworks display.

Grand cracked his tired eyes. He didn't see how he could be wrong. He had seen the images from the cave in his living room.

The desk lamp gleaming in Fluffy's eyes. A pair of white crescents, side by side.

Grand shut his eyes again. He wondered where a Chumash shaman might have seen those same images. In what animal and under what circumstances? By sunlight? Moonlight? Firelight? And why would he have painted them in that passageway? Had that cave been inhabited by wolves or bears at some point in the past? Did the Chumash believe that one of their gods lived below? Did they think that this was the entrance to C'oyinashup , the lower world?

And if they did, were they right?

It was the last thought Grand had before surrendering to sleep.

Carl Fischer always took his morning jog just before sunup. The middle-aged manager of the Montecito post office would suit up in his black tights, a singlet and waterproof windbreaker, running shoes, and a tiny "headlight," a flashlight that fit around his forehead like the reflective glass doctors wore when he was a kid. Then he'd do a brisk mile along the narrow, deserted strip of beach. His beach, since there was no other human out at this hour and precious few birds. When he got back to his small waterfront home, Fischer would shower, put on the post office blue-and-whites, make apple and cinnamon oatmeal and hazelnut coffee, and enjoy them on his deck facing the Pacific. Fischer loved sunsets over the ocean. He loved having dinner on the deck with his wife and teenage daughter. But the sunrise, lighting the sea as it climbed over the mountains, was even more thrilling. The texture of the water changed with every moment and was different with each new day.

He loved the run, too. Rain or sun, the air was always invigorating and it gave him the lung-cleaning he needed to work indoors from six to three. After thirty years be could literally smell the difference between oil- and water-based ink on third-class newsprint, knew when magazines arrived with perfume and cologne sewn into the bindings, and had been compelled by employee sensitivity training to be mute about mail carriers and clerks who needed showers or deodorant. He'd suffocate without this daily purging.

The air had a misty chill but at least it wasn't raining. There were a few breaks in the dark, blotchy clouds where crisp stars could be seen against the blacker sky. Occasionally a car zipped by on 101 and then, save for the breakers, it was quiet again.

Fischer knew the beach and he knew the air. And he knew when something was different. This morning, when he neared the cove that marked the half-mile point, he knew that things weren't right. There was a strong, foul smell in the wind. It grew stronger as he ran so he started breathing only through his mouth. He heard dozens of birds from somewhere in the cove just ahead. Since the occasional early-rising gull usually picked its meal from the sea, Fischer's initial thought was that a whale had beached here. The cove was lower than the highway and the tides reached their peak around nine P.M., so it was possible that motorists might not have seen whatever was here. Fischer continued toward the line of rocks that formed a small, natural breakwater on the near side of the cove.

The white beam of Fischer's headlight bounced as he ran. He saw the sea slam against the rocks on the inside and crest in low, white plumes. Gulls sitting on the breakwater hopped up with each new wave. Fischer counted at least twenty birds on the outskirts of the cove. There were more birds beyond; he could see them as he neared. He slowed. The rocks were coated with droppings, which meant the birds had been here a while.

When he was about fifteen feet from the breakwater, Fischer turned toward the sea. The rocks were too high to see over, especially piled high with gulls, so he would have to go around them. He removed his shoes and socks. The tide was out and he wouldn't have to go in very deep to get around the rocks, maybe waist-high. He walked toward the water, alternately looking toward the cove and watching out for sharp-edged seashells.

The rocks were lower the closer to the sea Fischer came. He could see now that the birds were piled on something. They were clustered together so thickly that they looked like a single wriggling mass. There had to be a whale under all that. He couldn't think of anything else that would attract so many birds. The birds were quiet and ignored the glow of the headlight.

Carl Fischer waded into the surf; the water was stinging cold and the sand felt like slush. He continued to look to the left as he made his way toward the cove. When he finally rounded the breakwater, he stopped. What was in the cove was not a whale.

There was a truck beneath the birds. It was lying on its side, the cab facing the sea; the top and one side of the vehicle were both caved in. The gulls were not only on top of the truck but inside as well, feeding on whatever was there. They were also spread out on the beach, picking at bones and bits of flesh from what looked like fish.