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21244146 C E Murphy Walker Papers 03 Coyote Dreams

21244146 C E Murphy Walker Papers 03 Coyote Dreams

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11/15/2013

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original

 
 
 
 
COYOTE
 
DREAMS
 
(Vol 
 
3
 
of 
 
the
 
Walker 
 
Papers)
 
By
 
C.E.
 
MURPHY
 
Most
 
especially,
 
I
 
want
 
to
 
say
 
thank
 
you
 
to
 
my
 
husband,
 
Ted.
 
The
 
kernel
 
of 
 
this
 
series
 
was
 
his,
 
and
 
I
 
quite
 
literally
 
wouldn’t
 
be
 
here
 
without
 
him.
 
I
 
love
 
you,
 
hon.
 
Let’s
 
hope
 
there
 
are
 
lots
 
of 
 
Walker
 
Papers
 
to
 
celebrate
 
in
 
the
 
future.
 
Thanks
 
are
 
also
 
due
 
to
 
cover
 
artist
 
Hugh
 
Syme;
 
my
 
editor,
 
Mary
Theresa
 
Hussey;
 
and
 
my
 
agent,
 
Jennifer
 
Jackson;
 
as
 
well
 
as
 
my
 
usual
 
suspects,
 
particularly
 
Silkie,
 
who
 
once
 
more
 
went
 
beyond
 
the
 
call
 
of 
 
duty
 
in
 
doing
 
unpaid
 
research
 
and
 
catching
 
my
 
embarrassing
 
spelling
 
errors.
 
For
 
Ted,
 
because
 
I
 
wouldn’t
 
be
 
here
 
without
 
him
 
CHAPTER
 
ONE
 
Tuesday,
 
July
 
5,
 
8:58
 
a.m.
 
Someone
 
had
 
driven
 
a
 
tire
 
iron
 
into
 
my
 
skull.
 
I
 
could
 
tell,
 
because
 
centered
 
in
 
my
 
left
 
temple
 
was
 
a
 
vast
 
throbbing
 
pain
 
that
 
could
 
only
 
come
 
from
 
desperate
 
injury.
 
It
 
felt
 
like
 
there
 
were
 
a
 
thousand
 
vicious
 
gnomes
 
leaping
 
up
 
and
 
down
 
on
 
the
 
iron,
 
trying
 
to
 
increase
 
the
 
size
 
of 
 
the
 
hole
 
in
 
my
 
head.
 
I
 
had
 
the
 
idea
 
that
 
once
 
it
 
was
 
split
 
open
 
far
 
enough,
 
they
 
would
 
run
 
down
 
the
 
length
 
of 
 
metal
 
and
 
dive
 
into
 
the
 
soft,
 
gooey
 
gray
 
matter
 
of 
 
my
 
brain
 
and
 
have
 
themselves
 
a
 
little
 
gnomish
 
pool
 
party.
 
Neither
 
of 
 
my
 
eyes
 
would
 
open.
 
I
 
fumbled
 
a
 
hand
 
up
 
to
 
poke
 
at
 
them
 
and
 
encountered
 
sufficient
 
goo
 
that
 
I
 
took
 
a
 
moment
 
to
 
consider
 
the
 
possibility
 
that
 
the
 
gnomes
 
were
 
already
 
in
 
my
 
head,
 
had
 
overfilled
 
it
 
and
 
were
 
now
 
flowing
 
out
 
my
 
sinuses
 
and
 
tear
 
ducts.
 
It
 
wasn’t
 
a
 
pretty
 
thought.
 
Then
 
again,
 
nothing
 
could
 
be
 
a
 
pretty
 
thought
 
when
 
some
one’d
 
smashed
 
a
 
tire
 
iron
 
into
 
my
 
head.
 
I
 
rolled
 
my
 
fingers
 
across
 
my
 
eyelashes,
 
trying
 
to
 
work
 
some
 
of 
 
the
 
ook
 
out
 
of 
 
them.
 
My
 
heart
 
was
 
beating
 
like
 
a
 
rabbit
 
on
 
speed,
 
except
 
when
 
it
 
paused
 
with
 
an
 
alarming
 
little
 
arrhythmia
 
that
 
made
 
me
 
start
 
hyperventilating.
 
I
 
hoped
 
I
 
was
 
dying,
 
because
 
anything
 
else
 
seemed
 
anticlimactic
 
with
 
all
 
that
 
going
 
on.
 
Besides,
 
I
 
had
 
some
 
experience
 
with
 
dying.
 
It
 
was
 
kind
 
of 
 
old
 
hat,
 
and
 
so
 
far
 
it
 
hadn’t
 
stuck.
 
Unlike
 
my
 
eyes.
 
I
 
physically
 
pried
 
one
 
open
 
with
 
my
 
fingers.
 
The
 
red
 
numbers
 
on
 
my
 
alarm
 
clock
 
 jumped
 
into
 
it
 
and
 
stabbed
 
it
 
with
 
white
hot
 
pokers.
 
I
 
whimpered
 
and
 
let
 
it
 
close
 
again,
 
wondering
 
why
 
the
 
hell
 
I
 
was
 
in
 
my
 
bed,
 
if 
 
I
 
was
 
dying.
 
Usually
 
I
 
found
 
myself 
 
dying
 
in
 
more
 
exotic
 
locations,
 
like
 
diners
 
or
 
city
 
parks.
 
A
 
whisper
 
of 
 
memory
 
drifted
 
through
 
my
 
brain
 
in
 
search
 
of 
 
something
 
to
 
attach
 
itself 
 
to.
 
The
 
department’s
 
Fourth
 
of 
 
July
 
picnic
 
had
 
been
 
the
 
day
 
before.
 
I’d
 
attended,
 
feeling
 
saucy
 
and
 
cute
 
in
 
a
 
pair
 
of 
 
 jeans
 
shorts
 
and
 
a
 
tank
 
top.
 
I’m
 
five
 
foot
 
eleven
 
and
 
a
 
half.
 
Cute
 
and
 
I
 
are
 
not
 
generally
 
on
 
speaking
 
terms,
 
so
 
the
 
feeling
 
had
 
been
 
a
 
novel
 
one
 
and
 
I’d
 
been
 
enjoying
 
it.
 
The
 
outfit
 
had
 
shown
 
off 
 
a
 
rare
 
tan
 
and
 
the
 
fact
 
that
 
I’d
 
lost
 
twelve
 
pounds
 
in
 
the
 
past
 
few
 
months,
 
and
 
I’d
 
gotten
 
several
 
compliments.
 
Those
 
were
 
as
 
rare
 
as
 
me
 
rubbing
 
elbows
 
with
 
cute,
 
so
 
it’d
 
been
 
a
 
good
 
day.
 
Which
 
did
 
nothing
 
to
 
explain
 
how
 
it
 
had
 
ended
 
with
 
a
 
tire
 
iron
 
separating
 
the
 
bones
 
of 
 
my
 
cranium.
 
I
 
walked
 
my
 
fingers
 
over
 
the
 
left
 
side
 
of 
 
my
 
head,
 
cautiously.
 
My
 
fingers
 
encountered
 
hair
 
too
 
short
 
to
 
be
 
tangled,
 
but
 
no
 
tools
 
of 
 
a
 
mechanic’s
 
trade.
 
I
 
pressed
 
my
 
hand
 
against
 
my
 
temple,
 
admiring
 
how
 
nice
 
and
 
cool
 
it
 
felt
 
against
 
the
 
splitting
 
headache,
 
and
 
the
 
memory
 
found
 
something
 
to
 
attach
 
itself 
 
to.
 
Morrison.
 
My
 
boss.
 
Smiling
 
fatuously
 
down
 
at
 
a
 
petite
 
redhead
 
in
 
Daisy
 
Mae
 
shorts
 
that
 
hugged
 
her
 
va
va
va
voom
 
curves.
 
Right
 
about
 
then
 
somebody’d
 
offered
 
me
 
a
 
beer,
 
and
 
it’d
 
sounded
 
like
 
an
 
awfully
 
good
 
idea.
 
I
 
tried
 
to
 
close
 
my
 
eyes
 
in
 
a
 
pained
 
squint,
 
but
 
I’d
 
never
 
gotten
 
them
 
open,
 
so
 
I
 
only
 
wrinkled
 
them
 
and
 
felt
 
crusty
 
goo
 
crinkle
 
around
 
my
 
lashes.
 
 
The
 
only
 
other
 
thing
 
I
 
remember
 
clearly
 
was
 
a
 
bunch
 
of 
 
guys
 
from
 
the
 
shop
 
swooping
 
down
 
on
 
me
 
as
 
they—each—
 
bore
 
a
 
fifth
 
of 
 
Johnnie
 
Walker.
 
With
 
my
 
last
 
name
 
being
 
Walker,
 
they
 
figured
 
me
 
and
 
Johnnie
 
must
 
be
 
cousins
 
and
 
that
 
gave
 
me
 
a
 
leg
 
up
 
on
 
them.
 
I
 
was
 
pretty
 
sure
 
my
 
leg
 
up
 
had
 
turned
 
into
 
a
 
slide
 
down
 
the
 
slow
 
painful
 
descent
 
of 
 
hangover
 
hell.
 
I
 
gave
 
up
 
on
 
rubbing
 
my
 
eyes
 
and
 
prodding
 
my
 
head,
 
and
 
instead
 
flopped
 
my
 
arm
 
out
 
to
 
the
 
side
 
with
 
a
 
heartfelt
 
grunt.
 
Unfortunately,
 
the
 
grunt
 
wasn’t
 
mine.
 
It
 
turned
 
out
 
my
 
eyes
 
were
 
willing
 
to
 
come
 
open
 
after
 
all,
 
with
 
sufficient
 
force
 
behind
 
the
 
attempt.
 
I
 
wasn’t
 
sure
 
I
 
had
 
eyelashes
 
left
 
after
 
the
 
agony
 
of 
 
ripping
 
through
 
loaded
up
 
sleep,
 
but
 
at
 
least
 
the
 
subsequent
 
tears
 
did
 
something
 
to
 
wash
 
away
 
some
 
of 
 
the
 
goop.
 
I
 
was
 
out
 
of 
 
bed
 
and
 
halfway
 
across
 
the
 
room
 
with
 
a
 
slipper
 
in
 
hand,
 
ready
 
to
 
fling
 
it
 
like
 
the
 
deadly
 
weapon
 
it
 
wasn’t,
 
when
 
I
 
noticed
 
I
 
wasn’t
 
wearing
 
any
 
clothes.
 
Neither
 
was
 
the
 
blurry
eyed
 
guy
 
who’d
 
grunted
 
when
 
I’d
 
smacked
 
him.
 
At
 
least
 
not
 
on
 
his
 
upper
 
half.
 
He
 
pushed
 
up
 
on
 
his
 
elbows
 
while
 
I
 
scrubbed
 
at
 
my
 
eyes
 
with
 
my
 
free
 
hand.
 
I’d
 
gone
 
to
 
sleep
 
with
 
my
 
contacts
 
in,
 
which
 
partly
 
explained
 
why
 
there
 
was
 
such
 
a
 
lot
 
of 
 
gunk
 
in
 
my
 
lashes,
 
but
 
I
 
didn’t
 
believe
 
what
 
my
 
twenty
twenty
 
vision
 
was
 
telling
 
me.
 
I
 
was
 
pretty
 
certain
 
the
 
goo
 
had
 
to
 
be
 
impairing
 
it
 
somehow,
 
because—
 
—because
 
damn,
 
sister!
 
“Easy
 
on
 
the
 
eyes”
 
didn’t
 
cover
 
it.
 
He
 
was
 
so
 
easy
 
on
 
the
 
eyes
 
that
 
they
 
 just
 
sort
 
of 
 
rolled
 
right
 
off 
 
him
 
as
 
precursor
 
to
 
a
 
girl
 
turning
 
into
 
a
 
puddle
 
of—
 
All
 
right,
 
there
 
was
 
way
 
too
 
much
 
goo
 
going
 
on
 
in
 
my
 
morning.
 
“Who
 
the
 
hell
 
are
 
you?”
 
I
 
demanded,
 
then
 
coughed.
 
I
 
sounded
 
like
 
I’d
 
been
 
on
 
a
 
three
day
 
drunk.
 
In
 
my
 
defense,
 
I
 
knew
 
it
 
wasn’t
 
more
 
than
 
a
 
one
night
 
drunk,
 
but
 
Jesus.
 
“Mark,”
 
he
 
said
 
in
 
a
 
sleepy,
 
good
natured
 
sort
 
of 
 
rumble,
 
and
 
grinned
 
at
 
me.
 
“Who’re
 
you?”
 
“What’re
 
you
 
doing
 
here?”
 
I
 
asked
 
instead
 
of 
 
answering.
 
He
 
arched
 
one
 
eyebrow
 
and
 
looked
 
my
 
naked
 
self 
 
over,
 
then
 
lifted
 
the
 
covers
 
a
 
few
 
inches
 
to
 
inspect
 
his
 
own
 
lower
 
half.
 
“I’d
 
say
 
I’m
 
havin’
 
a
 
real
 
good
 
night.”
 
He
 
grinned
 
again
 
and
 
flopped
 
back
 
onto
 
my
 
bed,
 
arms
 
folded
 
behind
 
his
 
head.
 
His
 
hair
 
was
 
this
 
amazing
 
color
 
between
 
blond
 
and
 
brown,
 
not
 
dishwater,
 
but
 
glimmering
 
with
 
shadows
 
and
 
streaks
 
of 
 
light.
 
His
 
folded
back
 
arms
 
displayed
 
smoothly
 
muscular
 
triceps.
 
Who
 
ever
 
heard
 
of 
 
someone
 
having
 
noticeably
 
beautiful
 
triceps,
 
for
 
heaven’s
 
sake?
 
The
 
puff 
 
of 
 
hair
 
in
 
his
 
armpits
 
was,
 
at
 
least,
 
an
 
ordinary
 
brown
 
and
 
not
 
waxed
 
away.
 
That
 
would’ve
 
been
 
more
 
than
 
I
 
could
 
handle.
 
“So
 
who’re
 
you?”
 
he
 
asked
 
again,
 
pleasantly.
 
More
 
than
 
pleasantly.
 
More
 
like
 
the
 
cat
 
who’d
 
stolen
 
the
 
cream,
 
eaten
 
the
 
canary
 
and
 
then
 
knocked
 
the
 
dog
 
out
 
of 
 
the
 
sunbeam
 
so
 
he
 
could
 
loll
 
in
 
it
 
undisturbed.
 
For
 
a
 
moment
 
I
 
was
 
tempted
 
to
 
open
 
the
 
curtains
 
so
 
I
 
could
 
see
 
if 
 
he’d
 
stretch
 
out
 
and
 
expose
 
his
 
belly
 
to
 
the
 
morning
 
sunlight.
 
God
 
should
 
be
 
so
 
good
 
as
 
to
 
give
 
every
 
woman
 
such
 
a
 
view
 
once
 
in
 
her
 
life.
 
The
 
thing
 
was—well,
 
there
 
were
 
many
 
things.
 
Many,
 
many
 
things
 
and
 
all
 
of 
 
them
 
led
 
back
 
to
 
me
 
being
 
unable
 
to
 
think
 
of 
 
the
 
last
 
time
 
I’d
 
done
 
something
 
so
 
astoundingly
 
stupid.
 
No,
 
that
 
wasn’t
 
true.
 
I
 
knew
 
exactly
 
the
 
last
 
time
 
I’d
 
done
 
something
 
so
 
astoundingly
 
stupid.
 
I’d
 
been
 
fifteen,
 
and
 
I’d
 
have
 
hoped
 
the
 
intervening
 
thirteen
 
years
 
of 
 
experience
 
would
 
be
 
enough
 
to
 
keep
 
me
 
from
 
doing
 
it
 
again.
 
Only
 
I
 
hadn’t
 
been
 
shitface
 
drunk
 
then,
 
and
 
if 
 
the
 
God
 
who
 
was
 
kind
 
enough
 
to
 
provide
 
the
 
gorgeous
 
man
 
in
 
my
 
bed
 
was
 
genuinely
 
kind,
 
there
 
wouldn’t
 
be
 
the
 
same
 
consequences
 
there’d
 
been
 
then.
 
The
 
point
 
was,
 
Mark
 
was
 
so
 
far
 
out
 
of 
 
my
 
league
 
it
 
wasn’t
 
even
 
funny.
 
I
 
didn’t
 
think
 
I’d
 
said
 
that
 
out
 
loud
 
until
 
he
 
pushed
 
up
 
on
 
an
 
elbow
 
again
 
and
 
looked
 
me
 
over
 
a
 
second
 
time
 
before
 
saying,
 
“I
 
beg
 
to
 
differ,”
 
in
 
a
 
mildly
 
affronted
 
tone.
 
Then
 
curiosity
 
clearly
 
got
 
the
 
better
 
of 
 
him
 
as
 
he
 
sat
 
all
 
the
 
way
 
up,
 
drawing
 
his
 
knees
 
up
 
and
 
looping
 
his
 
arms
 
around
 
them
 
as
 
he
 
squinted
 
at
 
me.
 
He
 
had
 
a
 
tattoo
 
on
 
his
 
right
 
shoulder,
 
a
 
butterfly
 
whose
 
colors
 
were
 
so
 
bright
 
it
 
had
 
to
 
be
 
new.
 
His
 
biceps
 
were
 
magnificent.
 
He
 
had
 

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