You or Them
He arrived at the parking lot at exactly nine o’clock. The fluorescent lights painted his black Escalade a murky brown as it cautiously approached my car. I stepped out, delicately shut the door behind me, and glanced around. A chain link fence surrounded the lot, and a line of trees, only visible in the beams of his headlights, lay beyond it. The air was stiller than a corpse. Only the insects of the night dared to raise their voices; all else was enveloped in silent calm.
He reached across the passenger seat to open the door for me. I thanked him with a smile and slid inside, carefully closing it behind me. The chorus of insects was replaced by the subtle hum of the air conditioner as a strong scent of leather and plastic tickled my nose. We looked at each other. He wore a crisp white dress shirt ornamented with a red tie hanging from his neck. The shirt was tucked cleanly into a pair of khaki pants. He had rolled up his sleeves, baring the silver Rolex on his left wrist. He ran his broad fingers through his greasy brown hair and opened his mouth to say something, but a sudden vibrating sound interrupted him.
“Sorry, I’ve been expecting a call,” he said.
He picked up his phone from its resting place on the center console and tapped the screen without looking at it.
“Hello, this is Martin.”
He was holding the phone up to his right ear. The volume was turned up loud enough that I could hear the voice of the man he was speaking to but could not make out his words.
“Sorry, who is this?”
Martin stared out at the motionless trees, a frown beginning to form on his brow.
“Nate? Is that you?”
He began drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.
“Who the hell is this?”
His hand was in his hair again. I noticed he was still wearing his wedding band. He must have forgotten to take it off.
“I’m hanging up.”
He pulled the phone away from his face for a moment and I heard the caller ask a question. Upon hearing it, Martin jerked the phone back to his ear and leaned forward.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
As he said this, he glanced at me without turning his head.
“Even if I did, how would you know?”
He transferred the phone to his other hand and pressed it against his left ear, resting his elbow on the door.
“Who are you? Wait, are you with—”
He cast another sideways glance at me and stopped mid-sentence, his mouth slightly ajar.
“Listen, this is none of your business. Do you really think it made a difference anyway? This is California.”
The trees began to move as a slight breeze broke through the blanket of stagnant air that was hanging over the parking lot. Martin’s jawline tightened.
“What are you talking about?”
He was leaning forward again, his right hand gripping the steering wheel.
“You bastard.”
He began twisting his neck to look around as his eyes darted back and forth. Nothing moved except the trees, still listlessly swaying.
“I swear to God, if you touch her—”
His forehead had become damp with sweat. He pressed a finger to his temple.
“What do you want from me?”
Martin went quiet for a while, slowly sinking back into the seat. His face was blank. His eyes were fixed on a point beyond the chain link fence, beyond the trees, beyond the darkness.
“He’s six,” he said finally. His voice was barely above a whisper.
The breeze died. All was still again. The caller must have spoken those last words very clearly, because I heard them almost as if he was in that car with us.
“You or them, Martin?”
“Bullshit!”
He ended the call and flung his phone back onto the center console. For a few heartbeats he looked out at the fence, his fingers running through his hair. Then, he apparently made up his mind and grabbed the gear shift. My hand shot out and found his wrist. He turned to me, his eyebrows raised as if he had forgotten I was there.
“Sorry, Jess. I’m going to have to cancel tonight,” he said darkly.
Suddenly there was a woman at the front of his car, not ten feet from the hood. The glow of the headlights turned her skin a dazzling white. Her dress was a blue smudge of paint on the windshield. I noticed the ring on her left hand. Martin froze, eyes wide, mouth agape.
“Sal?”
Her movements were not human. Before Martin could understand what was happening, she had pulled him out of the car and lifted him up by the throat with one hand.
“Let me change the question. Whose side are you on, Martin? And think carefully before you answer this time.” She spoke like a southern lullaby.
He dangled there for what might have been a year, his limbs hanging pathetically, wearing the eyes of a broken, hopeless man. Then I watched in awe as a ball of spit arced gracefully through the air and splattered on the woman’s cheek. For a moment, her face melted away to reveal the swirling galaxy of wrath and hate that was beneath it. Martin smiled. The skinshifter constricted its grip, and his neck snapped with a sickening crunch. Still wearing the face of the southern woman, it turned to me as his body hit the ground like a rag doll.
“See you around, Jessica.”
I did not sleep well that night.