Odd Thomas

when I turned in from the state highway, I drove through the shaggy moonshadows cast by dead palm trees. The cracked and potholed blacktop driveway led to the back of the main building, and then farther to the arc of smaller Quonset huts.
        I was reluctant to leave the car with the engine running, but I wanted to be able to make a quick getaway. Without keys, I could not start the engine quickly enough in a crisis.
        With the flashlight I'd packed in my shopping bag, I set out to find a suitable place to stash an inconvenient corpse.
        The Mojave had recovered its breath again. A lazy exhalation blew out of the east, smelling of dry brush, hot sand, and the strange life of the desert.
        Each of the ten Quonset huts used as barracks by the church had housed sixty cult members in the cramped fashion of opium-den bunks. When the church was replaced by a bordello with burgers, a few of these structures were gutted, partitioned, and redecorated to serve as cozy cribs for the hookers who delivered what the topless dancers in the bar only promised.
        In the years since the property had been abandoned, morbidly curious people had explored and vandalized the main building and all the barracks. Doors had been broken open. Some had fallen off their corroded hinges.
        At the third barracks that I inspected, the spring latch on the door still worked well enough to hold it closed.
        I didn't want to leave the corpse in a space to which coyotes could easily gain access. Robertson had been a monster; I remained convinced of that; however, regardless of what he might have done or might have been capable of doing, I couldn't consign his remains to the indignity that Granny Sugars had feared might befall her if she dropped dead in a poker game with hardhearted players.
        Maybe coyotes weren't carrion eaters. Maybe they would eat only meat they killed.
        The desert, however, teemed with more life than could be seen at casual inspection. Much of it would be pleased to dine on a carcass as fleshy as Robertson's.
        After pulling the Chevy as close to the chosen building as possible - about ten feet from the door - I required a minute to summon the nerve to deal with the corpse. I chewed two antacid tablets.
        During the drive from town, Bob Robertson had not once asked, Are we there yet? Nevertheless, and against all reason, I didn't trust him to stay dead.
        Hauling him out of the car proved easier than getting him into it, except that at one point, when his big gelatinous body quivered inside the bed-sheet shroud, I felt as if I were handling a bag full of live snakes.
        After I dragged him to the door of the Quonset hut, which I had wedged open with the flashlight, I paused to wipe the sweat from my dripping brow - and saw the yellow eyes. Low to the ground, twenty or thirty feet away, they watched me with unmistakable hunger.
        I snatched up the flashlight and focused the beam on the very thing I had feared: a coyote that had come in from the open range, exploring among the abandoned buildings. Big, sinewy, rough-hewn, sharp of brow and jaw, it was less wicked by nature than are many human beings, but at that moment it looked like a demon that had slipped through the gates of Hell.
        The flashlight didn't frighten it off, which suggested that it had become dangerously certain of itself in the presence of people - and that it might not be alone. I swept the immediate night with the flashlight and discovered another slouching beast to the right of and behind the first.
        Until recent years, coyotes rarely savaged children and never adults. As human settlements encroached on their hunting grounds, they had become bolder, more aggressive. Within the past five years, several adults in California had been stalked and even attacked.
        These two didn't appear to find me in the least intimidating, only savory.
        I searched the ground near my feet, seeking a stone, and settled for a chunk of concrete that had broken off the edge of the walkway. I hurled it at the nearest predator. The missile struck the blacktop six inches wide of the target and bounced away into the darkness.
        The coyote shied from the point of impact but did not run. The second stalker took its cue from the first and stood its ground.
        The wheeze and clatter of the idling car, which didn't faze the coyotes, worried me. Whispering Burger