C.E. Murphy - Coyote Dreams

“We met again at Contour last night. How are you doing, Joanne?” Barbara’s eyebrows drew down, concern making fine lines on her forehead. “We were all pretty worried about you.” She put her hand out, and I took it automatically, braced for a wash of darkness.

She clasped my hand in both of hers as if she genuinely was concerned, and also possibly a close friend, but there was no dangerous hint of power in her touch. I pulled my gaze from her shoulder to our hands, then up to her eyes, tongue-tied with confusion and trying to figure out how to extract myself from her grasp without being rude.

“Contour?” There was slightly too much incredulity in Morrison’s voice. I felt like I should be insulted, except, frankly, I thought it was as unlikely as he did. “What happened?”

Whether he was asking what had happened at Contour to worry Barbara, or what unlikely event had transpired to get me to a dance club, I never got a chance to answer. Barb turned back to him with a teasing smile. “It’s a club, Michael. Stop looking so dour. I will get you to come out dancing with me, so you might as well accept it now.”

Morrison looked as though he couldn’t conceive of that idea any more than the idea of me going out dancing. I was with him on that, but Barb continued on merrily, stepping back to Morrison’s side.

“Joanne had—” she cast a quick glance at me, as if she was verifying the accuracy of what she was about to say, but barreled on without any actual input from me “—a little fainting spell. Probably dehydration,” she said, attention back to me now. I felt slightly dizzy, like sunshine was sweeping back and forth from me to Morrison, pouring radiant enthusiasm at us in turn without particular regard as to whether we were prepared for it. “You did drink most of a fifth of Johnnie Walker Monday night,” she pointed out. “If you didn’t hydrate yourself properly after that, going out dancing last night would do you right in.”

Even her aura was as cheerful as her chatter, spinning through every other color of the rainbow as I watched. There was nothing sleepy about her at all, no languid dark power to taint her smile or her touch. The butterfly on her shoulder was probably nothing more than an impulsive joy in pretty things, although I had no idea why Mark would have an identical one. That was actively bizarre. Barb smiled at me, and I had the sudden awful feeling that I would probably like this woman if she weren’t hanging on Morrison’s arm.

Or maybe if Morrison wasn’t smiling down at her with a delight I couldn’t remember ever seeing on his face before. Then again, usually when I was around, there was a specific reason for him not to be delighted. Today was no different. My stomach hurt. I looked away as Barbara squeezed Morrison’s arm, then stepped back. “You’re already late leaving work,” she said a bit sternly, and I had the even more horrible feeling that she might be good for my boss, if she wasn’t going to let him get away with working too many hours even after two days’ acquaintance. I swallowed and tried to imagine away the burning at the back of my eyes. I was being ridiculous. Over-emotional. “But if I’m interrupting a meeting I’ll give you a few more minutes, okay? Dinner reservations are for eight-thirty, though, so we leave in five minutes.”

“Not at all.” Morrison went around his desk to get his jacket. “Officer Walker and I were just finishing up.”

Barbara turned her half rainbow of good cheer on me again, interest lighting her eyes. “Oh, well then. Are you on shift, Joanne? No, you must not be,” she added, taking in my tank top and jeans. “Why don’t you come along with us? I’ll call Mark and he can meet us at the restaurant. We can all get to know one another.”

Morrison shot me a look of abject horror over Barbara’s head. For once I was in complete accordance with him. I made a stiff jerking motion, encompassing her sundress and Morrison’s suit, though the latter was tired from a day of heat, and said, “Oh, I, I—” I hadn’t managed to say a word since she’d come into the office, and my first vocal foray didn’t exactly cover me with glory. “I’m not dressed for it.” Morrison’s dismay faded, then leapt into relief again as Barbara sniffed.

“Nonsense. I’ll tell Mark to dress down a bit and it’ll be fine. Everybody talks about the relaxed dress code up here in the Pacific Northwest, anyway. I’ll call the restaurant and change the reservations to four.” She swept out the door, opening her purse to retrieve her cell phone as she went.

Morrison and I stood there staring at one another. I wanted to say something funny, not that I could remember easily amusing my boss. It seemed, though, like there ought to be something I could say. All that came out was, “Sorry.”

Morrison flinched. “Barb’s persuasive.” He followed her out, leaving me to trail behind.

“Persuasive.” Mark echoed the word at the end of the story with a laugh. “Barb’s a bulldozer.” He elbowed her, earning a mimed throw of the olive from her drink in return. We’d ended up with the pairs who knew each other best sitting next to each other: me and Morrison on one side of the table, Mark across from me and Barb across from my boss. Presumably that allowed us to focus on the person most important to us. I could smell Morrison’s cologne when he moved.

“Barb the bulldozer,” Mark repeated happily. His colors were an astounding complementary mix to Barb’s, all the opposite colors of the rainbow. When they laughed together, their auras jumped up and spun into a breathtaking light display. “That’s my big sister. Well, I’m glad, Joanne.”

I twitched, focus torn away from their entwining auras. “What? Oh. Yeah.” I retrieved a smile and pasted it on. “Big sister?” That was probably the wrong thing to say when a guy said he was glad to go out on a date with you, but the people who were having fun at this table were not Officer Joanne Walker and Captain Michael Morrison. Barb and Mark Bragg hadn’t seemed to notice.

“Seventeen minutes older,” Barb said triumphantly. “That makes me the boss of him.”

“And she never lets me forget it,” Mark said, full of mock despair. Morrison and I caught each other giving the other guarded looks, establishing that this was news to both of us.

“Twins?” I asked more than a little inanely. That was me, super-cop. They both laughed, sending their auras whirling together again in a rainbow of colors. Twins certainly explained that, anyway. It also explained the identical tattoos. I slid down in my chair, less happy than I thought I might be at clearing the Braggs of any likely connection with the sleeping sickness. At least if Barb was evil I’d have a legitimate reason not to like her. Instead, the more she talked, the more I felt like a jerk for hating her straight off.

“Identical,” Mark said, pulling his face straight. Morrison chuckled, a quiet sound, and I managed another smile, nodding.

“I can tell. All night I’ve been trying to figure out which one of you I was supposed to be playing footsies with.” I had no idea where that’d come from, but it got laughter from Mark and Barb. Morrison shot me a startled look. Mark leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

“What, can’t you tell with, you know.” A subtle eyebrow waggle suggested I was supposed to pick up on what you know was, but he wasn’t sure everybody else at the table was in on my shamanic practices. I sighed and flipped my fingers out, indicating a go-ahead. Morrison already knew. One more person thinking I was a weirdo wasn’t going to change the balance of my life. Barb leaned in curiously, and Mark put his elbows on the table to announce, with obvious relish, “Joanne’s a shaman.”