Predictably, Jed was his usual nonresponsive self.

THREE

Thanks to the mutual appetites of car and man, Ross Ed was just about bust by the time he pulled into Las Cruces. Knowing he’d have a better chance of finding a good temporary job in the much larger metropolis of El Paso, he swung south and made the half-hour detour to that center of southwestern culture, smuggling, Tex-Mex cooking, discount boot outlets, and other widely assorted local enterprises that would remain forever inscrutable to anyone born or raised east of the Mississippi or north of the Ozarks.

The city clung like a piece of weathered river driftwood to the rambling north shore of the Rio Grande, where it slammed into Chihuahua state before turning southeast toward the Gulf of Mexico. The river was the only reason for the town’s presence, since a bachelor coyote would have had a hard time making a living off the surrounding countryside. Compared with the dry desolation from which the city had been raised, distant Phoenix was the proverbial Garden of Eden.

Passing through downtown, he entered a highway hell of endless motels, truck stops, convenience stores, gas stations, and the ubiquitous discount stores. The presence of the latter caused him to examine his own footwear. His boots were scuffed and worn, but still serviceable and, more importantly, broken in. Leather still concealed the embedded steel toes, and the sharkskin uppers had not yet worn through. Stingray would’ve been better, but he’d yet to see a pair of boots fashioned entirely of that particular exotic material. Too tough to work, he’d been told. You could saw wood with the leather. In his profession reliable boots were a necessity rather than a fashion statement. Try to get by on an oil rig with sneakers or sandals and it wouldn’t be long before you acquired an interesting nickname. The Toeless Wonder, for example.

He calculated it would take at least a couple of weeks to replenish his finances. Meanwhile the Caddy would get a rest. He knew there was no oilfield work to be had this far west of Monahans, but over the years he had perfected a second skill for the times when roughneck work was scarce.

There were two professions which enabled any man or woman to get a temporary job anywhere in the world; that of nurse, or bartender. Ross Ed never had much cared for hospital ambience.

An exit sign shouted AIRPORT and he eased down the off-ramp. Driving north, he began to check out the line of hotels and motels. He knew he’d be able to get a job because he’d done so repeatedly in the past. Someone his size who didn’t drink while on duty, was careful with the money and good with the customers, was always a welcome addition to the staff of busy bars. In Ross Ed a manager acquired not only an experienced mixologist but a backup bouncer, all for the price of one. It enabled him to be somewhat selective.

Spotting a conveniently located Howard Johnson’s, he pulled in. Slightly more expensive than many chains, they had better security and the occasional extra-long king-size bed. While still not expansive enough for him, these at least allowed him to sleep with his knees situated somewhere below his chin.

Arranging a weekly rate with the duty manager, he pulled the Caddy around back. The interior hallway was air-conditioned, just like a bigger hotel, and his second-floor room looked out on a collection of drought-resistant trees and contented sparrows. The bed was almost big enough. The shower was impossible, but then they always were.

No one observed him as he transferred his suitcase and alien from car to room. Most travelers were still on the road and the parking lot wasn’t likely to get busy for another several hours.

He sat his patient companion upright in one of the two chairs, taking care to keep him away from the window and the blast of the air-conditioner. Relatively invisible from outside, Jed still had a good view of the trees and birds. Pity he couldn’t see them, Ross Ed thought.

“There you go. Time for me to get cleaned up.”

It took him five minutes to unpack, following which he climbed into the shower tub and sat down. That allowed the spray to hit him on the head instead of in the navel. It was the only way he could do his hair in a motel bathroom without imitating a Mongolian contortionist.

Washed and reinvigorated, he shaved and carefully combed his thick black hair. Under Jed’s unwatchful eye he drew forth from the suitcase fresh underwear, clean black jeans, and a neatly pressed, long-sleeve western shirt.

“Be back soon,” he told the alien, and made sure the door locked firmly behind him.

He found the nearest car wash and treated the road-weary Cadillac to a bath of its own. A few judicious questions while it was being dried directed him to the better airport hotels, where within the hour he had a secured a job tending bar at the Sheraton. He much preferred working hotel bars to local clubs. They were clean, the tips were better, and the neighborhood drunks did not patronize them.

His job application consisted of demonstrating for the bartender how to make a frozen daiquiri and a screwdriver. That, a few questions, and he found himself hired.

The first few nights were a little rough as he struggled to learn where everything was. After that it went smoothly. Usually he worked alone, occasionally in tandem with a second bartender. Tips came from a steady procession of traveling businessmen, regulars, and soldiers from Fort Bliss. The three-minute commute from the motel was easy on both him and the Caddy. On-the-job entertainment was provided by boisterous patrons and the overhead TVs, which were perpetually tuned to different sports channels.

He settled in for a brief but remunerative stay.

“Dios,” murmured Corrina Martinez. What was that? Absently she shoved the two-dollar tip that was always waiting for her on the sink counter of Room 225 into an apron pocket. She’d already stripped the bed preparatory to remaking it when she thought it might be nice to change the pillows as well. According to the records, the room was occupied by a single gentleman. It was unusual for someone like that to tip the maids daily and she wanted to reciprocate.

The spare pillows were located on the top shelf inside the single closet. Sliding one of the mirrored doors aside, she’d started to reach for the pillows when she’d been startled by sight of the thing. It hadn’t frightened her enough to make her scream, but she had drawn in her breath sharply.

When it didn’t move, she crossed herself reflexively before turning on the light in the dressing alcove so she could examine it more closely. It was a doll of some kind, exceedingly grotesque in appearance but not notably of the devil. Having worked as a seamstress, the material of the little suit puzzled her, but she did not linger over it.

There were all manner of strange toys in the stores these days, as her children were fond of pointing out whenever they could drag her to a mall. It was a game. She could never afford any of them, and the kids knew she couldn’t, but they would play at picking out their favorites and she would play at feigning interest. Then they would go for sopapillas and ice cream.

Was this a present for the gentleman’s children? It was big, but she’d seen walking, talking dolls that were bigger. Probably it was a tie-in to some popular movie or TV show. It lay propped up against the back of the closet, the light shining off its three little button eyes. It didn’t react when, feeling silly, she waved at it. Of course it wouldn’t. If it “did” anything at all there would be a button or pull string somewhere in the back to activate it.

It was certainly well made. Her kids, especially the eldest two, would think it was “cool.” She could see them making faces and funny voices behind it, flapping the multiple arms and legs to frighten the younger children. Recalling her own initial reaction to the sight of it made her smile.

She stretched to reach the pillows on the upper shelf, and found herself hesitating. What was that rusty brown fabric? Not leather, or satin. More like a very smooth foil, or crumpled, heavily starched silk. Who would starch silk? Her professional interest was piqued.

Bending, she used two fingers to pinch up a bit of the material covering the left arm.

The place where she found herself was dominated by a sky of silver that reminded her more than anything else of the mercury in a thermometer. How a sky could be silver she didn’t know, any more than she knew how a sun could be bright red instead of a soft, warm yellow.

So unstable was the ground beneath her feet that they sank into it for a couple of inches before stopping. She took a tentative step forward and found the sensation to be not unlike walking on Jell-O. All around her long, coiled, ropy creatures composed of similar material wiggled their rounded ends at the sunlight. A flock of bright green ropes speckled with pink undulated through the sky. Their flanks gleamed metallic and sparkled like the paint job on some of the neighborhood low-riders.

Off to her right something like a bright blue faceless pig trotted along on stumpy legs through the forest of drunken coils. It was trailed by three little ones. Half a dozen filaments terminating in turquoise-colored nodules protruded from each forehead, bobbing up and down with every step. The pseudo-pigs seemed to skip along the slick, gooey surface without getting bogged down.

Lowering her gaze, Corrina was surprised to see that in place of her maid’s uniform she was clad in some thin, bronze-hued material which covered her from head to foot while leaving significant gaps in unexpected places. Twenty years ago she wouldn’t have thought twice about flaunting so much skin. Now there was simply too much of it, but somehow in this place the design seemed natural and normal.

Instead of a vacuum cleaner she found herself holding a long black tube in both hands. This was connected to a pack on her back by means of several flexible black conduits. A semitransparent black globe bulged the center of the tube. Holding it up to her face, she found she could make out dozens of tiny obelisks floating inside, like string beans in a consommé. Each was inscribed with detailed writing.

Her right index finger rested on a plastic spur that jutted down from the underside of the tube. Was it a gun, she found herself wondering, or a window washer?

Something hiccuped violently off to her right and she turned sharply in its direction. Bear-sized and extravagantly tusked, it looked like nothing she’d ever seen in a zoo or on one of the television nature shows her tío Gabriel favored. Sprouting behind the tusks was a snaggle of fangs that glistened razorisharp in the argent twilight.

Each of the creature’s five legs was the height of a man. They splayed out at the base into broad, flat pads that resembled a pair of swim fins fused together front to back. These enabled the monster, despite its size, to tread lightly atop the barely congealed ground.

A single sinister eye set in a facial crevasse glared across at her, the slitted pupil narrowing threateningly. An incongruous mat of brown hair ran the length of the bulging spine. On closer inspection she saw that it wasn’t hair but a migrating colony of eellike creatures that were parasitic on the creature’s back.

The toothy mouth parted and the hiccuping sound was repeated, challengingly this time. Lowering its foreparts, it started toward her, lurching from side to side and gathering speed with each pentuple stride. Massive tusks bobbed and pink slobber trailed from between the fangs.

Instinctively, she swung the black tube around. On its expansive footpads the monster seemed to glide over the quivering ground. Running was out of the question. She’d get one shot, she knew, and one shot only. Her finger contracted on the plastic spur.

Something went splash in her ears as the tube kicked like a restive ocelot. The front of the beast splattered all over the undulating ropy coil-creatures, which shrank back in horror from the gelatinous ruin. The force of its charge sent the rest of the massive body careening onward and she threw herself to one side …

… Pulling her hand away from the motionless figure propped up against the back of the closet.

Breathing hard, one hand on her chest, Corrina Martinez reached out to touch the figure a second time, jerking her fingers back as if from a hot plate. Nothing happened. The dream, or hallucination, or whatever it had been was not repeated. She was alone in the motel room. Sparrows chattered incessantly outside the window.

She’d had strange dreams before, of course. Didn’t everyone? But this had been so vivid, so real, that she could still smell in her nostrils the peculiar fruity odor of that preposterous, unstable world and the distinctive muskiness of the monstrosity which had come charging down upon her.

What had happened? She gazed at the uncomely seated figure out of wide, staring eyes. It was some sort of demon. Something would have to be done about it.

But how could she be sure that her hallucination was connected to it? She’d touched it again and nothing had happened. Not taking her eyes from the motionless figure, she began backing away from the closet.

When the hand grabbed her, she very nearly did scream.

Despite his intimidating size, the stranger’s gentle smile and easy manner quickly reassured her. “Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to startle you. Is something wrong?”

Panting and still unsure of what she’d just experienced, she struggled to regain control of her emotions.

“I’m sorry, sir. This is my room. I mean. I am doing the cleaning.” She indicated the upper shelf. “I was going to change pillows for you.”

“Thanks. That’d be nice.” He showed her the large brown sack he was holding before putting it down on the floor. “Had some shopping to do. You sure everything’s okay?”