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  Grumbling, Junior collared the dog and dragged him back the way he’d come. Baskerville, after a few yips of triumph, subsided onto the seat. One by one, the other canine choristers quietened down.

  “Hello, Mr Quentin,” said Marge. “To what do we owe this honour?”

  “He gave me a lift home,” said Lori, her face bright red with embarrassment.

  “That was good of you,” said Marge. “I was just about to call out the cops.” She turned to Lori. “You better get your skates on,” she said. “You’re due at the diner at six.”

  Lori looked blank. Marge made a fist and banged her lightly on the forehead.

  “Hello. Anybody home? Saturday job. This is Saturday, right?” She turned back to the others. “Lori’s got a job washing dishes in the diner,” she announced, as though this was something to be proud of. “Following in the family tradition.”

  Lori’s face got even redder. Like tell everybody. Dishwashing. How glamorous.

  “I forgot,” she said. “I had other things on my mind.”

  “Like what?” said Marge.

  “Lori got the lead in the school musical, Mrs Morrison” said Perry. “She sang up a storm at the audition.”

  “Yes indeed,” said Mr Quentin, “A voice in a million. I hope you realise you’ve got yourself a star a your hands?”

  “Our Lori?” said Marge, trying not to sound astounded, failing miserably.

  “Our Lori?” echoed Junior, reappearing round the side of the house, talking through a mouthful of sandwich. “Lori’s gotta voice like a corncrake.”

  “Thanks again for the lift, Mr Quentin.” Lori, mortified, pushed past her mom and into the house. Sometimes she wondered whether she’d been adopted? Left on a doorstep by a wealthy industrialist’s disgraced daughter? Surely she couldn’t have been born into this family for real?

  “Can I give you a ride downtown, Mrs Morrison?” she heard Mr Quentin say, as she stumped up the stairs. “I’m going right past the diner.”

  “Thanks Mr Quentin.” Marge jumped in, taking Baskerville by surprise, scooping him up and depositing him in the back seat before he could object.

  “Don’t mind if I do. Anything to take the weight off the bunions.”

  Upstairs in her bedroom, Lori winced at this further evidence of her mother’s lack of sophistication. Bunions. To Mr Quentin. How could she? She moved to the window, watching the car drive off and Perry turn and disappear up next door’s path. This time she didn’t knock. And he didn’t look up. Lori wasn’t surprised. Bunions. Good grief.

  She sat down on the bed. The face in the Dreamcatcher grinned at her and a voice in her head said...

  “Don’t worry, babe. You’ll be out of here soon. Dorothy is just the first step. You’re on your way. Soon you’ll never have to listen to anyone discussing the state of their feet or see anyone talking through a mouthful of peanut butter again. You’ll be rich and famous. You can shuck this family off like a snake shucks its skin.”

  Downstairs Junior came in and slammed the door.

  “Hey Dad,” he shouted. “Guess what. Lori got the lead in the school musical."

  “Our Lori?” Ted didn’t even bother to conceal his disbelief. “Must be some mistake. Lori can’t sing to save her life.”

  Lori closed her eyes.

  “Get me out of here,” she said to the voice. “I don’t care what it takes, just get me out of here.”

  A vision swam onto the back of her eyelids. A vision in a snakeskin jacket. Quickly she snapped open her eyes again, overcome by a sudden feeling of dread. Where had he come from this dream made flesh? And how come she could suddenly sing?

  “Who are you?” she whispered into the empty room.

  “I’m your guardian angel,” said the voice in her head. “What’s the matter? You don’t believe in magic?”

  “Lori,” the peanut eating pest, shouting from downstairs, shook her out of her reverie. In a shouting competition, Junior could shout for America. “If you don’t come down right now Dad says he’s gonna feed your food to the dog.”

  Lori sat up, staring at the Dreamcatcher, daring it to say something straight to her face. But it just swung there. An innocent looking charm slung on a leather thong.

  “Suits me,” she shouted back. “I’m late. I’ve got to go to work. Anyway, I’m not hungry.”

  And strangely enough, though she hadn’t eaten all day, she found she wasn’t.

  Miguel Coyote was parked two blocks along from the Morrison house. He was deep in conversation with Barney McGee, the town wino who, for some reason, was carrying a rake. Mr Quentin said nothing. He didn’t want to alarm Marge Morrison. Poor woman had enough on her plate with that husband of hers without having to worry about someone hassling her daughter.

  Mr Quentin doubted that there was anything it. With the best will in the world he couldn’t imagine that the boy, who, even though he was a biker, was undoubtedly handsome in an ethnic kind of way, could have the slightest sexual interest in Lori. Voice or not, she was about as appealing as a boiled potato.

  Perfect to play Dorothy of course. Plump verging on fat. In pigtails and a blue pinafore, she’d be a dead ringer for Judy Garland in the original movie. He was glad he hadn’t had to give the part to Tracey Barnes. Totally the wrong image. Far too glamorous. And she was a difficult girl. Temperamental. Now if the boy on the bike had been stalking her...?

  No, he couldn’t really imagine that anyone would be interested in Lori for THAT. But if not THAT, then what? And there was no accounting for taste. Some people LIKED fat girls. Chubby Chasers, they were called, apparently. Also one heard and read such distressing stories these days. Quite gruesome some of them. Mr Quentin blamed television. Such a corrosive influence. It put ideas in people’s heads. Perhaps he SHOULD say something to Mrs Morrison? Warn her, at least?

  He looked across at Lori’s mom, who was twisted round, leaning over the back of the seat, busily tickling Baskerville behind the ears.

  As they swept past Barney and the biker, Marge still turned away and so not noticing them, the boy looked up and fixed Mr Quentin with his cold blue stare. The teacher shivered. There was something frightening in that stare. As though the eyes were too old for the face that framed them.

  On second thoughts, Mr Quentin decided, it was probably better if he mentioned something to Rube Watson. He didn’t own a mobile phone himself, thought them the Devil’s own invention, otherwise he would have rung as soon as he dropped Marge at the diner. But as he drew into the car-park and deposited her in front of the swing doors, he determined to give the Sheriff a quick call just as soon as ever he got home.

  7

  Lori changed into fresh jeans and a clean T-shirt. Was it her imagination or was the waistband on the jeans a little loose? She dug in her drawer for a belt.

  What was it the old woman had said? – ‘It makes all your wildest dreams come true.’? And when Lori had said ‘Oh sure’, she’d told her - ‘Don’t take my word for it, just wait and see.’

  Well, in that case, Lori thought, might as well go for broke. How about rich and famous, size eight and Perry thrown in for good measure?

  The doorbell rang and she heard Junior clatter along the hallway to answer it.

  “For you-hoo,” he yelled, clattering back the way he had come. The television was going full blast, as usual. Lori sometimes wondered whether everybody in the house, except for herself, was absolutely stone deaf?

  She trooped downstairs to the door. It was Perry.

  “Like to go to the movies tonight?” he said.

  “Me?”

  Perry grinned. “Sure, you,” he said. “Why not?”

  “What about Tracey?”

  “Tracey’s having one of her moods,” he said.

  Lori’s face fell. “I see,” she said. “So I’m just the substitute?”

  “Not at all,” said Perry, hastily... “I didn’t mean...”

  “It’s OK,” said Lori, “I realise I’m probably the only
girl in town that doesn’t have a Saturday night date. Anyway, I can’t. You heard my mother, I’ve got to go to work.”

  “What time do you get off?”

  “Not until eleven.”

  “We could make the late night showing? It’s the new Wes Craven.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not usually allowed out that late.” The truth was she’d never been invited out that late before. She didn’t know what the house rules were in such an instance.

  “Ask your Dad, why don’t you?”

  This was one thing she did know about.

  “He’s watching the Dodgers,” she said. “If I interrupt him, he’s bound to say ‘no’.”

  “What if I take you into work? Square it with your mom?”

  He cocked his blonde head on one side and grinned again. Lori’s stomach turned a complete somersault.

  “Give me five minutes,” she said.

  “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  Lori rushed back upstairs, her feet barely touching the treads. This day was just getting better and better.

  She grabbed a band and brushed her hair up into a ponytail. She hadn’t been going to put on any make-up. Who needs make-up to wash dishes? But going to the movies, with the handsomest boy in town, that was a different story altogether. She slicked some shadow onto her eyelids, added lipstick, pouting at herself in the mirror.

  Behind her, from the bed-post, the Dreamcatcher gave a little snigger.

  Lori’s hand froze. Slowly, she looked over her shoulder. And the doorbell rang again, making her almost jump out of her skin.

  “Watch it,” said the voice in her head. “This could be trouble.”

  Lori laid down the lipstick and moved to the window. Parked outside the gate, right in front of red roadster in which Perry was waiting for her, was a black Honda with a coyote painted on the fuel tank. Lori felt a band of fear clutch her chest. She didn’t have to wait for her brother to call up the stairs to know who was at the door.

  “For you-hoo,” he shouted, again.

  Now what?

  “Who is it?” she said, playing for time. “I’m busy.”

  “Some guy. He says it’s important.”

  Reluctantly, Lori trailed back down the stairs.

  “What do you want?” she said. “Why are you hassling me?”

  “My name’s Coyote,” said the biker. “Miguel Coyote. I don’t mean to hassle you but I think you may have something belonging to me. It’s a Dreamcatcher.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Lori.

  She wasn’t about to give the Dreamcatcher up. Ever since she’d had it, her life had been changing – for the better. She didn’t know why it was working – she didn’t care. She only knew that it WAS – and she wasn’t about to part with it. She made to close the door.

  Coyote stuck his boot in the opening. He put his face very close to hers. His eyes, ice blue and intense, stared straight at her, laying her soul bare.

  “Please,” he said. “I know you have it. I can...I can smell it.”

  “Go away,” said Lori, her voice rising towards hysteria. “I don’t know you. I don’t want to talk to you.” At the bottom of the path she could see Perry getting out of the car.

  “Keep it down, will ya?” shouted her father, crossly, from in back. “I can’t hardly hear the commentary. Who is it, anyway?”

  “It’s some Indian,” bawled Junior, who was still lurking in the hallway. He too had seen Perry get out of the car. With a bit of luck there’d be a fight in a minute. “He says Lori’s got something belonging to him.”

  Ted Morrison WAS a racist. And unlike Rube Watson, he didn’t care who knew it. As far as Ted Morrison was concerned you could take political correctness and shove it. He lurched unsteadily into the hallway now, red-faced and with an open can of beer in his hand. His fourth of the afternoon.

  “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want none,” he said. “Now take off.”

  “I’m not selling anything, Sir. I just want a few words with your daughter,” said Coyote, moving back out of the doorway onto the front stoop, almost bumping into Perry.

  “What is this?” said Ted, sarcastically. “The Lori Morrison fan club?”

  “Is this guy bothering you, Lori?” said Perry.

  Lori nodded, wishing silently – ‘Get him out of here. Somebody, anybody, get him to leave me alone.’

  “Stay out of this,” said Coyote, not bothering to turn.

  “Vamoose,” said Ted, his temper rising. “My daughter don’t want no truck with the likes of you. Good for nothing Bikers. Ignorant Red-skins. Get off my property before I set the dog on you.”

  “A few words,” Coyote persisted. “Then I’ll go.”

  “You’ll go NOW,” shouted Ted.

  “You heard the man,” said Perry.

  Coyote turned and looked Perry in the eye.

  “You going to make me?” he said.

  “Junior,” shouted Ted, outraged. “Go get the dog.”

  “Yessir.”

  Junior skittered down the hallway, towards the back door. Lori retreated to the bottom stair, heart thumping.

  “Trouble Ted?”

  In the fracas, nobody had heard the Police car drive up. It was parked at the bottom of the drive now, blocking in both the stranger’s bike and Perry’s roadster. Rube Watson sauntered up the pathway, his right hand pointedly resting on the top of his pistol holster.

  “This Comanche here says he wants to talk to Lori,” blustered Ted. “Won’t leave. Comes to something when a man can’t spend a peaceful afternoon watching a game in the comfort of his own home without he and his family get menaced by some out-of-town low-life.”

  “OK, son, in the car.”

  “You arresting me?”

  “Let’s just say I’m taking you in for your own protection.” Rube grinned at Lori’s Dad. “Go back to your game, Ted,” he said. “I got this covered. You OK, Lori?”

  Lori nodded mutely from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Then let’s go,” said the Sheriff.

  “What about my bike?”

  “Nobody’s going to steal it from out front of the Morrison’s. Right Ted?”

  “Wouldn’t count on it,” said Ted, belligerently. “Somebody might just accidentally slash the tyres.”

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” warned the Sheriff. “Law’s the same for everybody. Wouldn’t want to run you in for malicious damage.” Then, to Coyote. “Don’t worry son, we can pick it up later. Providing I don’t charge you, that is. In which case my Deputy’ll collect it and put it in the pound.”

  “Charge me? With what?”

  “Resisting arrest if you don’t get into the car,” said Rube. “Right now.”

  Right now a boy and a dog came thundering down the hall, the boy whooping, the dog barking fit to beat the band. The pair of them hurtled out after the Sheriff and his charge, Junior inciting the animal to attack.

  “What the...?” The Sheriff turned in exasperation, swatting at the dog with his night-stick. “Call this blamed thing off,” he said.

  But Junior had other ideas.

  “Go on, sick him,” he shouted. “Tear his lights out.”

  With a growl, the excited animal launched itself at Coyote’s leg, jaws slavering, eyes alight with bloodlust. Stepping aside just in time, the boy reached out and placed the thumb and middle finger of his right hand in the centre of the dog’s forehead. Two sets of eyes connected, one set dark, one set light. As if it had been slapped across the muzzle, the dog stopped short and fell silent. Then dropping its head onto its paws, it lay down and rolled over on its back.

  Coyote leaned over and tickled it on the stomach.

  The dog was still squirming with pleasure when Rube Watson put a hand on the biker’s head and manoeuvred him into the Police car.

  “Goddamn useless animal,” snorted Ted, tottering down the path and kicking the dog in the ribs. “Ought to be put away.”

&nb
sp; Then turning on his heel, ignoring Perry and his daughter, he stumbled back into the house to pick up his interrupted game.

  8

  “That was quite a trick with the dog,” said Rube Watson, pulling the car into the curb in front of the Station House and studying his prisoner in the rear view mirror. “Must show me how it works sometime.”

  Coyote looked out the window, silent.

  “Hear you’ve taken rooms at Mrs Moody’s?”

  No response.

  “You seem to have a knack of getting up people’s noses,” the Sheriff went on. “Only been in town twenty four hours and already I’ve had three complaints.”

  Coyote turned and directed his gaze at the mirror. The Sheriff’s collar suddenly felt too tight for him. He ran a finger round the inside of the band, then undid the top button.

  “Three,” he repeated. “Janitor at the school house. Mr Quentin, the music teacher. Now Ted Morrison.” He decided to come directly to the point. “Just what exactly is your interest in Lori Morrison? I mean...she’s not exactly Cameron Diaz. I would have thought someone of your... persuasion... would have been interested in something more...flashy.”

  Coyote’s lip curled in a sneer. Still he didn’t speak.

  Rube Watson was famous for his patience. But his patience was rapidly running out.

  “What’re you here for, really, son?” he said, sharply. “And don’t lie to me. Not unless you want me to run you out of town on a rail.”

  Coyote continued to stare, unblinking, into the mirror.

  “I’m at UCLA,” he said, at last. “I’m taking the summer to do research for a project on Native American magic. I’m on the trail of a charm. A Dreamcatcher. It’s supposed to have special powers. I’ve tracked it this far. I think Lori Morrison’s got it.”

  Rube Watson shook his head, resignedly. “If you folks want to believe that bunkum it’s your privilege,” he said. “But not if it’s going to create havoc on my territory. What makes you think Lori Morrison’s got this thing anyway?”