Camouflage

the shots. He saw someone slide off the hotel awning and hit the sidewalk hard, and come up running, bleeding from the stump of an arm.
    It seemed to have no face, as if it had a stocking over its head. Russ rubbed his eyes.
    It ran over the slow traffic, one step on the roof of a southbound car, the next on a northbound, then onto the opposite sidewalk, over the low fence into the harborside park, and while tourists and picnicking families gaped, it ran like an Olympic sprinter and was over the stone breakwater in a flat dive.
    By the time anyone got to the breakwater, there was nothing but ripples. A siren threaded through the air.
    T he changeling sought shelter on the harbor bottom, under the shade of a tanker that was drawing half the depth of the water. It strained to become a fish as quickly as possible, bone into cartilege and denticles and teeth, muscle and guts into the streamlined swift form of a reef shark; bloody clothes left behind as a red herring.
    The metamorphosis was just complete when it heard divers splash into the harbor back where it had dived in. It breathed a surge of warm salt water liberally flavored with diesel spill—delicious—and flexed the one huge muscle of itself toward the open sea.
    A helicopter commandeered by the police made a search pattern low over the harbor, and with binoculars and sonar found nothing but the usual assortment of fish and discarded debris, from the surface to the bottom. A couple of large sharks, one evidently spooked by the helicopter.
    Russ hadn’t recognized the apparition as the woman he loved. Still trying to sort out what he had seen—there was a movie company shooting up in the hills; maybe they were using Aggie Grey’s as a location for an action sequence—he stepped into the lobby of the hotel like a sleepwalker.
    All the people at the registration desk were jabbering into phones. Two policemen with pistols drawn ran through the door and thundered up the stairs. While Russ was watching them, a man beside him said, “Russell Sutton?”
    It was a short, stocky man who smelled odd. Gunsmoke? “Who are you?”
    He held up identification. “Kenneth Swanwick. I’m a CIA investigator.”
    Russell shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
    “Rae Archer is a spy. We—”
    “Is this part of that movie?”
    It was the agent’s turn to be confused. “What movie?”
    “The one they’re shooting up by the waterfall.”
    He took a deep breath. “This is not a movie.” He held up the ID again. “We used the raffle here as a ruse. We knew Rae Archer was a spy and wanted to catch her unawares.”
    “Come on. I know she couldn’t be.” But certain oddnesses began to crystalize.
    “We picked her up to interrogate her and she killed one agent, injured another, and escaped by crashing through a glass door.”
    “That couldn’t have been her. Maybe somebody who looked like her.”
    “That’s exactly it,” Swanwick said, “and we think we can prove it.”
    “Wait.” Russell pointed out the door. “ That was—”
    “We don’t know who that was. Claimed to be her. Looked like Rae Archer. Had her fingerprints.”
    “But—”
    “But the real Rae Archer is still in California. We talked to her. She claims not to know anything about this, and I think we believe her.”
    They were joined by an attractive woman whose tense face was as pale as her ash-blonde hair. She was tightening a bandage around her right hand. “This is Mr. Sutton?”
    “Yeah,” Swanwick said. “He’s a little confused.”
    “Like we aren’t.” She was the same height as Russell and fixed him with her large gray eyes. The pupils were pinpoints from medication. “My name is Angela Smith.”
    “And you’re a spy?”
    “An investigator.”
    He stared at her weird eyes. “And this is not a movie.”
    “I wish to God it was. We could strike the set and start over.” To Swanwick: “You’re going to have to go with the police in a minute. There should be a lawyer by the time you get to the station.” She swiveled back to Russell. “You knew Rae Archer better than anybody else. You were intimate with her.”
    He nodded cautiously, and then shook his head. “Look, she couldn’t do this. Not at all.”
    “So maybe it wasn’t her,” Swanwick said quickly. “Whoever it was is pretty damned dangerous, and on the loose.”
    “We have to talk but can’t go up to the room,” Angela Smith said. “Get in the way of the cops.” She gestured toward the bar with her