Nightwitch (11 page)

“
Home, most likely, to call the police.”

“
Can you stop him?”

She spun the car around, but they didn’t have far to go. Miles had collapsed on the sidewalk about two blocks away. She pulled over to the curb, on the wrong side of the street, and jumped out of the car. She bent over him, then looked up at John Coffee, who slid over behind the wheel.

“
He fainted,” she said.

“
Can you keep him quiet about this?”

“
I think so. He’ll hate losing his car, though.”

“
Car like this, he must have insurance.”

“
He has insurance for everything.”

“
I’m sorry about all this, Sarah,” he said, “but I had no choice.”

“
Will we be okay?”

“
If I was you, I’d pack a bag and get out of town for a few days. And I wouldn’t tell anyone where I was going.”

“
It’s that bad?”

“
She’s human, too. If she finds out who helped me, she’ll be coming for them. This is a small town, not many Volvos.”

“
Like a werewolf?”

“
Worse. She can be whatever she wants,” he said. Then he put his foot on the gas and drove away.

* * *

He kept the window down, inhaling the night, as he drove out of town and into the woods. He saw the streetlights in the rear view mirror as he passed the city limits sign. She would be back, and judging by how long it took her to recover last time, she would find him about halfway between Tampico and California’s Highway 1, about five miles away.

He punched the odometer button, sending the gauge back to zero-zero-zero. He kept glancing at it every few seconds. He expected her at the halfway point. Halfway between town and the highway. Halfway between life and death. He looked at the speedometer and kept the needle halfway between thirty and forty. It was dark and the road had many curves. There was no need to be reckless.

He shivered and sweat tickled him as it dripped from under his arms. He rubbed his elbows against his sides, without letting go of the steering wheel, forcing his shirt to soak up the sweat.

Zero-zero-two on the odometer and the dripping sweat was back. Zero-zero-four and he tightened his hands on the wheel, trying to shake the electric tingling sensation that was running up and down his spine. Zero-zero-six and it started to rain, hard. He was forced to roll up his window. Zero-zero-eight and the front window started to steam up. Zero-one-zero and he was forced to take his right hand off the wheel and wipe the steam away. He turned on the defroster. It didn’t work.

“
Damn,” he muttered. He felt that she was somehow responsible, but he knew she couldn’t be. He rubbed his elbows against his side again, but it was no use, his shirt was soaking. It was like he’d stepped into a sauna with his clothes on. His palms were wet and his right one was getting wetter as he kept wiping the window.

Zero-one-two and his stomach cramped. He hunched forward, waiting for the spasm to pass, zero-one-four and it did. Zero-one-five and a flash shot in front of the car, brushing the windshield, turning the rain water on it into steam.

She was early.

He slammed on the brakes, putting the car into a skid. The Volvo started sliding to the right. He turned the wheel into it, gently putting his foot back on the accelerator and giving it some gas, cursing himself for panicking.

He grabbed the stick, pulling it down into low, but he didn’t feel any response from the heavy car. Ahead, he saw the road curve to the right. He gave the car more gas and felt it start to respond, but would he have control before the road curved or would he slam into one of the giant pine trees beyond? He inched a little more on the accelerator and sighed as he regained control of the Volvo.

Then the burning ball of light flashed in front of him for a second time, lighting up the night. He jammed his foot on the brake pedal, locking the rear wheels. The car spun sideways as it went off the road, coming to a jerking stop inches from a two hundred year old redwood pine.

The seat belt and shoulder harness held him fast, but still he had the wind knocked out of him. He fought for air as he pushed the latch on the belt, freeing himself. He pulled on the door handle, without waiting to catch his breath, and hit the ground, pulling his Bowie knife free with his left hand as he rolled.

The woods were covered in silence, as if every creature, every insect, even the wind itself, knew what was loose among them this night. He strained his eyes forward into the dark, willing them to see as his wind came back in slow uneven breaths.

He heard the howl of the wolf. She was close and she meant to kill him. What had happened in town was no accident. He had lost his life insurance policy. Somehow she had seen the locket and she no longer needed him.

The fog had lifted enough for him to see that he was lying in a patch of dirt between two tall California redwoods. He stole a quick glance back at the car. He thought he might be able to get it back on the road. If she didn’t kill him first.

He crawled on his belly, using his elbows and knees for propulsion, toward the tree on his left. When she came for him, he wanted something at his back. He heard a rustling of pine needles coming from the dark on his right. She wasn’t even trying to maintain silence, so sure was she of the kill. Well, he had news for her, he wasn’t going to be so easy. She was so used to others, who turned and ran, that she was getting careless. He would use that to his advantage.

The wolf howled again, sending terror to the creatures of the night and shivers through his body. He moved toward the tree and scooted up against it. He crouched low, with his knees bent and his buttocks and back pressed firmly into the rough bark. He wished he had his gun, but he’d battled her without a gun before and he’d survived.

The wolf growled, telegraphing him of the pending attack. So unwolf like, he thought, but she could be arrogant. He heard the quick even patter of paws on pine needles. Her leg was healed. She would guard it better this time.

He had to make an instant decision. She could see in the dark, so she knew about the tree at his back. She wouldn’t come straight at him, at the last instant she’d veer to the left or right and leap with open jaws from about ten feet away. She’d want to grab his head, clamping down on it as she passed. The sheer force of her moving thrusting weight would break his neck.

Left or right, he thought, choose wrong and die, choose right and maybe he had a chance. He chose left, and turned holding the knife in front of himself with both hands, arms outstretched and elbows locked. He had only one chance and if he guessed right he’d have a surprise for her, if he guessed wrong she’d snap his neck and feast on his carcass.

He kept himself low and jumped forward, using his bent legs like pistons. He let out a war cry as he felt the knife sink into the soft underbelly of the wolf that went sailing over his head.

She howled in pain, a wail shrill and angry. A wail that would keep the dead in their graves and make the living wish they were lying beside them. He laughed as she scooted off into the dark.

She hadn’t expected a silver blade.

Chapter Seven

Arty was three blocks from home, pedaling into the dark with a rack full of papers, when he heard the familiar sound of his father blasting away on the horn. Six in the morning and most of the town still asleep, but his father didn’t care. He stiffened his heart and his right leg and pushed back on the brake, no sense pretending he didn’t hear.

At first he thought his father had discovered that he snuck out last night, but he shelved that thought as quickly as it came. He wouldn’t be coming after him in the truck if he was pissed. When his dad was pissed he couldn’t sleep till he hit something. He would have been waiting up if he knew Arty hadn’t been at home last night, belt in hand, and Arty would have felt its sting way before he would have folded paper one.

He put the kickstand down and rubbed his hands together against the cold. The pickup backfired as Bill Gibson downshifted and the tires chirped when his dad popped the clutch. Bill Gibson was never easy on anything or anyone, not clutches, wives—Arty’s mom was his dad’s fourth wife—or his son.

The pickup drew closer and Arty saw the shotgun in the gunrack behind his father. So he was going shooting today. That explained why he was up so early, but not why he had come chasing after him. It couldn’t be good, nothing his father ever did was good.

“
Hey, son,” Bill Gibson said.

“
Yeah, Dad?” Arty tensed. His father never called him son. It was almost friendly.

“
Can you give me some money? I’m a little flat and I need some shells.” Arty recognized the lie immediately. His father was too cheap to buy shells and he was too lazy to load his own. He had Arty do it, but Arty wasn’t about to mention it, because it would be like calling him a liar and that couldn’t be good.

“
How much?” It wasn’t fair. They had an unwritten rule. Arty’s paper route money was his. He bought his own clothes and paid for his own lunches at school. None of the other kids had to do that. He needed his money.

“
Twenty bucks.” His father had opened the door of the truck and the dome light came on, illuminating a two day stubble and a wicked mean look in his eyes. Arty shuddered as his father stepped down, spitting a cigarette in the street. He wanted to tell him no, but he knew the consequences and didn’t want to suffer them, especially not on the street at the beginning of his route.

“
That’s gonna leave me real short, Dad,” Arty said. He had three hundred and sixty dollars hidden in an envelope, taped behind his top dresser drawer, but he was hoping he would never have to use it, because he was saving up to run away.

“
I’ll pay you back,” Bill Gibson said, yawning and acting like he meant it, but Arty knew he’d never see the twenty again. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He sighed and took out the money, four fives and three ones.

“
Here you go, Dad.” He separated the fives from the ones and handed them toward his father.

“
That all you got?”

“
I had to pay for the new tires for the bike. I gave Mr. Wilkes the money yesterday, right after I got paid.”

“
Damn.”

“
But you said you only wanted twenty.”

“
I lied.” His father snatched the remaining three dollars from his other hand.

“
How am I gonna pay for lunch?”

“
Not my problem, boy.” Bill Gibson turned away from his son. He climbed back into the truck, settled behind the wheel, slapped a mosquito on the back of his neck, then popped a cigarette into his mouth.

Arty watched till the truck turned the corner at the end of the block and he was worried. If his father started taking his money on a regular basis, he would have to raid his stash, something he didn’t want to do. He would have to run away much sooner than he’d planned.

* * *

“
Arty and Carolina sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

Arty heard the voice singing out of tune and turned to see Brad Peters coming up the walk behind them, wearing a black leather jacket over a white tee shirt. He hated that song. Why couldn’t Brad leave them alone?

“
Hurry,” Arty said, “he can’t bother us once we get inside.” He took her by the elbow and started pushing her at a faster pace toward the safety of the school doors. The last thing he wanted was trouble with Brad.

He wanted to look behind to see if Brad had sped up, but he continued on, like he hadn’t heard the bully behind. Sometimes that worked with his father, especially if he’d been drinking. But sometimes it only made him madder, and those were the times when he really lit into him.

“
K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” Brad repeated, too loud to be ignored, but they were almost to the steps and Arty decided to risk a glance behind to see how close he was. Turning his head, he saw that Brad was too far to catch them before they were inside the school and he felt a surge of warm relief. Now he could only hope that someone else would irritate Brad enough during the school day to take his mind off of whatever mischief he had planned for him.

“
Look!” Carolina grabbed onto Arty’s arm and pointed. “There!” Arty faced back forward, looked up and sighed, then stopped. In front of them, barring their way up the concrete steps, were Brad’s shadows, Ray Harpine and Steve Kerr, both dressed in Levi’s and white tee shirts, the standard uniform of Brad’s small gang. Only Brad wore the black leather mantel of leadership.

Arty’s first impulse was to run, but he was too fat and too slow and besides he would never leave Carolina alone. Even if the bullies would never hurt a girl, he couldn’t leave her. He quivered, but he stood his ground. They might tease him, but they would never thump him right in front of the school. That was too close to trouble, even for Brad.

“
First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Arty pushing a baby carriage.”

“
Funny, Brad, real funny,” Arty said. Arty hated to be embarrassed and embarrassing him was something Brad was good at, just like his father. He wished he knew how to fight. Sometimes he would stretch out in bed and dream that he was slim, tough and not afraid of anyone.

“
Got a girlfriend, Arty?” Ray came down the steps with Steve following behind. Both boys cast long early morning shadows and the sun reflecting off their pale white faces gave them a ghostly pallor. Steve cracked a knuckle and Ray farted.