Ken Douglas - Nightwitch

“ You come in the night, like a thief, but you don’t take the gold coins one drawer down. You don’t stuff your pockets full of silver dollars. You don’t run off with the coin albums. And you don’t steal the money you know is hidden in a false bottom under the coin albums. All you take is a five dollar roll of silver dimes, worth less than fifty dollars.”

“ I’m really sorry, Harry.”

“ So it’s not money you’re after, is it Arty?”

Arty shook his head.

“ And you’re not here on a childish dare, because you wouldn’t do anything like that, would you, Arty?”

Arty shook his head again.

“ So it’s something serious. So serious that you would steal from a friend. So serious that you would risk going to jail. So serious that you would overcome your sense of right and wrong, not to mention your fear, and break into my house, when you thought I was gone. That’s it, isn’t it, Arty?”

Arty nodded his head.

“ It’s the silver, isn’t it?”

Arty nodded again.

“ You think you can kill it with the silver, don’t you?”

Arty nodded again.

“ It’s not an animal, is it?

Arty shook his head.

“ It’s not human either?”

Arty shook his head.

“ You’ve seen it?”

Arty nodded and the room was silent. The old Indian had been sitting in a reclining chair in a corner of the room, opposite the desk. He got up, using both hands to push on his knees. “I hate getting old,” he said, shuffling over to the fireplace, where he bent over and picked up some newspaper.

“ You need silver bullets, not silver dimes to kill something like this. And even silver might not work.” He wadded up the newspaper and stuffed it under a log in the fireplace, but he kept his piercing Indian brown eyes on Arty as Arty nodded.

“ There was a tall man in town,” Harry Lightfoot said, “staying at the motel down by the highway. Do you know him?”

Arty shook his head.

“ And you, young miss?”

“ No,” Carolina whispered.

“ He left the motel and set up a camp in the woods. He parks his car at the end of the block, then hikes up to that clearing by the cliff. I saw him coming out of your backyard, young miss, like he lived there, but he doesn’t, does he?”

“ It’s my dad. It must be.”

“ I think he is somehow connected.” Harry held out his hand.

“ I can’t give ’em back, Harry. I need ’em to kill the werewolf.”

“ How?”

“ I’m gonna load ’em into twelve gauge shells.”

“ Good idea, but I have a better one. Give me the dimes and go home. Stay inside till I come for you. I’ll take care of your werewolf.” He shook his outstretched hand. Arty reached into his pocket, fished out one of the rolls and tossed it to Harry, who picked it out of the air.

Sarah felt the rush of a false breeze, as the great paw sliced the air above her head. She smelled the stink of its breath as she ducked low, bending over the front window, with half her body out of the car, breasts pressed against the glass, buttocks in the air, as the Corvette caromed off the bear, sliding sideways down the road, heading for a curve.

She struggled to get back in, while Coffee fought the wheel, trying to keep the Corvette on the road. There was no margin for error. If he spun the car off the pavement, they would slide into the trees.

She couldn’t see what he was doing, but she felt the car straighten, then slide, then straighten again. She almost lost her hand hold on the window as he slid it around a turn. She screamed and he grabbed onto her arm with his blistered right hand, saving her from taking flight and becoming one with the road. He was driving one-handed, battling the wheel, as he pulled her back from cold, cold death and slammed her into her seat.

“ Seatbelt,” he bellowed as her back slapped against the leather. She sought the harness, whipping the strap between her breasts, snapping herself in as she stole a look at the speedometer. It was pushing sixty on a road meant for thirty, forty tops, and he was still in second, the tach needle bobbing in the red.

He took another turn without slowing. He was driving crazy. If a car had been coming from the other direction, it would have been certain death for all. The tall pines guarding the side of the road guaranteed there would be no avoiding a collision. Coffee was hogging the centerline, driving like he was in a sportscar rally with the confidence that the road was his.

But it wasn’t. Up ahead, tail lights were disappearing round a curve. She prayed he’d slow down, but instead he turned on the brights and shifted into third. The car jumped to sixty, roaring its displeasure, when he went back into second at the curve. They were closing on the car ahead like it was standing still, but it wasn’t pulling over, and Coffee wasn’t slowing down.

He swung the Corvette to the left, to pass. The car in front turned on its overhead flashers and made to block. Coffee jumped on the gas, too quick for the policeman, squeezing between the cruiser and the trees, the sportscar sliding and screeching alongside the black and white.

Sarah whipped her head out of the way as the driver’s mirror of the police car came scraping by and she got a fast look into the terrified eyes of Sheriff Sturgees of the Tampico Sheriff’s Department, as he fought the wheel of the police car and she knew he’d recognized her.

Coffee stood on the brakes as soon as he’d passed, locking the rear wheels, causing the Corvette to fishtail all over the road. Sarah bit into her lip when the cruiser hit them in the rear, but the collision was minor, because Coffee jammed on the gas, as the sheriff was jamming on the brakes and losing control of his car.

Sarah turned her head around in time to see the black and white slide into the trees with a loud crash. Then they were around the next turn and on the straightaway headed for the highway.

They passed the Pine Tree Motel doing eighty. He was doing ninety in third gear, with the tachometer pinned, as they shot from the ramp onto the highway, and she was holding her breath when he shifted into fourth at a hundred and five.

The Corvette was flying, but Sarah wasn’t enjoying the experience. Tail lights were coming up fast. Coffee moved into the left lane, passing a milk tanker, then a UPS tractor trailer at a hundred and thirty. The speedometer went up to a hundred and sixty, and he still had a gear to go.

She wondered what he would do if he passed a Highway Patrolman. They had high powered cars fitted with skilled drivers. Would he try and out run one of them? It wouldn’t be as easy as surprising a small town sheriff.

But there were no Highway Patrolmen on this section of the highway at this hour of the night and the road became his. He shifted into fifth, pinning the speedometer, keeping his foot on the floor, gobbling up the road as he increased the distance between themselves and whatever it was that had surprised them in the night, back on the twisty, curvy Solitude River Road.

He eased off the accelerator after about ten minutes, letting the speed drop to a hundred and thirty. He held it there. Every now and then they passed a truck or car doing sixty-five or seventy and he would slow to a hundred as they passed, then promptly bring the speed back up.

Two or three times they came up on vehicles in the fast lane doing about eighty, but a quick flick of the bright lights got them to pull over. She wished the top was up, because the cold wind stole through to her soul and her naked skin was covered in goose bumps. She wondered what he was going to do when they reached the part of the highway, coming up fast, that bent and twisted along the ocean.

He slowed to ninety during the first bend, testing to see if the car would hold the road. He took the speed back up to over a hundred when he found out it would, taking the turns without backing off on the speed or downshifting. She grabbed a quick hope-she’d given him the car with hardly any gas, but, when she glanced at the fuel gauge, it was quickly dashed. Ever the gentleman, he had filled the tank.