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The remains of four eggs were scattered across the velvet pad. Two were just empty shells, their leathery skins split down the middle, but the remaining pair had shattered and their contents had splattered all over the inside of the box. |
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"Must have happened when I tossed it in the trunk." Kyna shrugged. |
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"I don't get it," Cyrus said. "Why would he do it?" |
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"Maybe he didn't know what they were," she replied, staring at the dried embryos. "Hell, I don't even know what they were." |
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Cyrus glanced at her facestill pale as paste from the ordealand said, "Maybe. But what was he doing hanging around the hotel yesterday morning?" |
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"You can't be sure it was the same old man," Kyna insisted. "He was so covered with grunge it was hard to be sure he was even human." |
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Kyna's first appointment was before lunch, which left them little time for discussion, and in a way Cyrus was glad. Kyna swore that she didn't know why all these bizarre things were happening to them and he was afraid to push it. Why? He didn't have any idea what to do about them anyway, and being hopelessly male he wasn't about to admit it. But mainly he needed time to come to grips with his own little secret before they started baring their souls. Besides, if he had turned into what he was afraid he'd turned into, how was he supposed to tell Kyna that they were going to have to forgo plans for any future moonlight strolls? |
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Before leaving the motel, Cyrus strapped on the automatic. He had made a vow never to take the gun off again except to shower, and maybe when he and Kyna were making love. To vary his Sam Spade disguise he put on a dark green turtleneck under the holster and a denim jacket over it. Kyna looked like the Avon lady: an abstract print dress over a smocked torso, dark hose, heels and the briefcase. This time her meet was on the patio of one of Seattle's harbor-side nouveau-yuppie salad- |
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