Evil Harvest

by Anthony Izzo

  To top it off, AAA had brought him to this stinking garage because his Lexus had refused to start. Forty thousand dollars for the car and it quit on him.

  He sat in the area of the garage that doubled as an office and waiting room for the customers. There was a scuffed metal desk and an office chair with the stuffing poking out of the seat, three plastic chairs and a magazine rack. The rack held a copy of Life with a picture of Ronald Reagan on the cover. To top it off the place smelled like a cross between gasoline and a sweat sock.

  The sun beat on the back of his neck. The collar of his shirt scratched his neck, and sweat beads formed on his forehead. He wished for a pair of Bermudas and sandals instead of a suit.

  He had sold Chryslers, life insurance and even pawned off thousand-dollar vacuums on gullible housewives. Now it was pagers and cell phones, mostly sold to corporate customers.

  He was pretty damn good at selling—been top salesman three years running—and he had the Lexus to prove it. He liked thinking the other salesmen drooled over it when he pulled in the lot.

  Now, sitting in the garage, he began to get nervous, wondering what these small-town yokels would do to his prized automobile.

  The geezer named Jimbo entered the waiting room. He was George Burns old, with a scraggly white beard and an off-center eyeball. The guy could probably see his left ear with that eye, Bill thought. Jimbo wiped his hands on the front of his coveralls, smearing them with grease. He approached Bill and stopped.

  “That’s a pretty fancy car.”

  Scratchy voice, probably a heavy smoker.

  “What’s the damage?”

  “Fella like you must make a lotta money.”

  “I do all right,” Bill said. “What’s wrong with it?”

  Instead of answering, Jimbo hawked and spat a wad of phlegm on the floor. Bill recoiled in disgust.

  “Well, I believe it’s your alternator.”

  “That car’s only a year old!”

  Jimbo scratched his beard. “Yeah, but it’s a Jap car. Never did trust them to make cars, not after the War, that is.”

  “What exactly is wrong with the alternator?”

  “It’s just shot.”

  “I want to see it.”

  “Sorry, can’t let you in the garage,” he said and shrugged. “Insurance reasons.”

  “If you don’t let me in there, I’ll call the cops.”

  “Be my guest. Call ’em.”

  This guy is a number-one jackass. “All right, suit yourself,”

  Bill took out his cell phone, flipped it open. “I’m calling 911.”

  Jimbo reached out and grabbed Bill’s arm. “Well, maybe I should let you take a look. I’m getting a little crabby in my old age.”

  Bill gave him a speculative look; after a moment, he put the phone back in his pocket.

  “But it’ll cost you. Twenty-dollar consulting fee. That’s on top of parts and labor.”

  “And what’s that going to cost me?”

  “Oh, in the neighborhood of a thousand.”

  “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m paying that much. I’m getting my car out of here if I have to put it in neutral and push it out myself.”

  Bill stood and stomped into the garage.

  A skinny, acne-faced kid with “Carl” sewn on his coveralls looked over at him. There was a Ford up on the lift and Carl was monkeying with the front brakes.

  Bill’s Lexus, black and gleaming, waited in the bay next to the Ford. Jimbo followed Bill into the garage and slid up next to him. The hood of the Lexus was propped open; Bill leaned over the engine pretending to inspect the car’s components very carefully. He furrowed his brow, hoping the geezer wouldn’t catch on that Bill had no idea what to look for. “There doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong under here.”

  “Well, you got no juice. And I say it’s your alternator.”

  “Are you telling me you’re guessing?”

  “Not guessing,” Jimbo said, and tapped his finger against his temple. “Instinct.”

  That was it. Bill would go outside and call a tow truck on the cell. He had to get out of this place. It stunk.

  Bill started to move for the door, but Jimbo put a hand on his chest. Bill shoved forward, but Jimbo held him in place. He was surprisingly strong for an old man.

  “Maybe I misjudged you. You seem like a decent guy, and you sure don’t take any bullshit.”

  Bill beamed a little, happy with himself for getting the old man to back down. With any luck he’d be out of this Podunk town in a hurry. Bill glanced at the other mechanic, who had stopped working on the brake job and now stood at the overhead doors. He pressed a red button and the doors hummed and clacked before closing. That was weird. Why the hell would he do that?

  “Let’s sit down and talk about this and I’ll level with you. It’s just going to be more of a hassle for you to have this towed again anyway. Sound fair?”

  “All right. But you’d better not try and screw me.” Bill wagged his finger at Jimbo. “Got it?”

  “Hey, I know a tough customer when I see one. Let’s go into my office and talk.”

  As Bill stepped forward, something solid thudded against the back of his head. The ground rose up at terrifying speed, and a second later, everything went black.

  The fat guy in the expensive suit twitched and flopped like a snagged trout. After a few seconds, he stopped. The back of his skull now had a divot in it. Jimbo looked at Carl, who held the tire iron, now specked with blood and hair. A big grin crossed his face, and his breathing had quickened.

  Jimbo wound up and punched Carl square in the chest. Carl rocked back a step.

  “Now I’m gonna have to deal with Rafferty, you numb fuck!”

  Carl continued to stare at the body, an idiot grin on his face.

  “Carl!”

  Carl looked at Jimbo.

  “If you had to hit him, why did you hit him in the noggin?”

  “He was giving you trouble,” Carl said, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve.

  Half-wit, Jimbo thought. He didn’t have a problem with teaching the fat salesman a little lesson, but now Fatty was dead and if Rafferty found out, Jimbo might be joining him in the afterlife.

  They had to get rid of the body, and quick.

  Jimbo looked down at Fatty, guessed him to weigh two-fifty, maybe even two-eighty. He squatted down and rolled Jergens over, then stepped over the dead man, hooked his arms under the body’s armpits and heaved. One of Fatty’s tassled loafers slipped off, and the smell of shit was overwhelming. Apparently, Fatty had let loose when Carl caved in his skull.

  He thought for a moment about canning Carl, and then dismissed the thought because he needed the help at the garage.

  “Where you going with him, Jimbo?”

  “To the local barn dance, asshole. We’re gonna do the do-si-do together.” Jimbo shook his head. “Where the fuck do ya think I’m going with him?”

  “Uh, I dunno?”

  Jimbo jerked his head, indicating for Carl to get over and help. “Get his legs. We’ll stuff him in the dungeon.”

  The dungeon was a six-by-six room off the garage where Jimbo kept a bench grinder and old tires.

  Carl scurried over and lifted the salesman’s legs.

  The guy had a black splotch on his pant leg, most likely motor oil from when he hit the floor. Carl snickered at the fact that not only was the big shot dead, his suit was ruined too.

  His good time was short-lived when he thought of Rafferty coming in and poking around the station. If he found the body, they would be in violation of the rules, and if Rafferty exploded, he wanted to be two towns away.

  They dragged the body to the door of the dungeon, Carl grunting and cursing under his breath the whole time.

  “You got no right to swear. You caused this mess and I’m gonna hafta pay for it.”

  “Rafferty won’t find out.”

  “The hell he won’t. That man’s a fly on the wall in ev
ery building in this town. He doesn’t miss a trick.” Jimbo hawked and spat.

  “I think you’re afraid of him.”

  “If you were smart, you’d be afraid of him too.”

  “What’s the worst he’d do to you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Just kill me and eat my guts out, I suppose.”

  Carl spoke in a soft tone, as if explaining something simple to a child. “But you’re older. You’ve got experience on your side, Jimbo. You told me just the other day that you made your first kill before Rafferty was even thought of.”

  That was true, Jimbo thought. He did have experience versus Rafferty’s toughness and youth. Then he mentally shook himself. “This is horsecrap. Get Tubby here into the dungeon before Rafferty shows up.”

  “I think you could take care of him, Jimbo. Honest. You could run this town if Rafferty was gone,” Carl persisted.

  “You’re just kissin’ ass because I’m mad at you.”

  “No, I ain’t. I think you could give old numb-nuts police chief a run for his money.”

  The wheels began to turn in Jimbo’s head. He was older and more experienced in hunting and killing than Rafferty. He had killed hundreds of humans and nine or ten of his own kind in one dispute or another. Maybe he could take Rafferty, if it came down to it. Besides, he was getting sick of taking Rafferty’s crap year after year, watching him strut around town like a peacock. “Maybe you’re right, Carl. Set him down and then go put the Closed sign on the door. Make sure the door’s locked.”

  “Right.” Carl dropped the salesman’s legs and hurried into the office area.

  Jimbo set the rest of Fatty’s bulk on the floor, feeling brave right now. Why not indulge a little? Rafferty would never know. And if he did find out, he would be in for a nasty surprise because Old Jimbo was done taking his crap.

  Carl came back into the garage area, his eyes wide like a child discovering presents under the Christmas tree.

  “I’m gonna feed,” Jimbo said.

  He closed his eyes and focused in his mind on his jaw and mouth. Grow. The muscles in the jaw began to pulse, first slowly and then popping like pistons in an engine. Bones ground and shifted. His jaw expanded sideways, the skin stretching like a grotesque balloon. The flesh around his mouth and on his cheeks darkened to a blackish green tint, grew leathery and tough. The teeth thickened and became elongated, tearing through gum tissue that would later heal. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

  “A partial change,” Carl said. “That takes control!”

  Squatting over the body, Jimbo pressed his mouth against the side of Fatty’s neck. With a wet tearing sound, he bit the dead man’s throat, spilling blood onto the white dress shirt. With his fangs, he tore away a chunk of flesh. The feast had begun.

  Jill and Cora sat in the cafeteria at Lincoln Memorial. The clink of dishes and the occasional hiss from the deep fryer echoed in the background. A few surgeons dressed in gray scrubs picked at club sandwiches, their gazes blank and bleary.

  “I’m positive I locked that door before I left,” Jill said, and put a forkful of salad in her mouth. She was surprised that the food was actually pretty good. The salad had a mess of shredded cheese over the top and the cook hadn’t skimped on grilled chicken pieces either. Cora’s lunch looked good too. She had a Mount McKinley–sized mound of french fries on her plate and the remains of strawberry milk shake in a tall glass.

  “You don’t think he picked it, do you?” Cora said.

  A page for a Dr. Salam crackled over the intercom.

  “Why would he want to?”

  “Maybe he’s got a thing for you.”

  Jill sorted through her salad with the fork. “Please.”

  “Just watch yourself. Cops can do wrong just like anyone else. Maybe you should get some pepper spray.”

  “It hasn’t come to that,” Jill said, crunching another bite of salad. “And I hope it won’t.”

  “After what happened to you the other night, you can’t be too careful,” Cora pointed out.

  When they first sat down, Jill had recounted the story of her assault at the warehouse, not mentioning the strange animal.

  Cora took a swig of her milk shake. “So, you heard from the Good Samaritan?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You should call him.”

  “I want to, but I think it would be kind of weird. We don’t even know each other.”

  “Most men would’ve kept right on driving, don’t you think? Maybe there’s a little something special about him.”

  “Well—”

  “Well, nothing. Besides, you said he seemed okay. And he was good-looking too.”

  Jill smiled. “That he was.”

  “I’ve got a good feeling about him, Jill. The way you said he was polite and sort of sweet.” Cora plucked a fry from the plate. “You should make some friends, anyway.”

  “You really think he sounds all right?”

  “Him, yes. That cop, no. Stay away from him.”

  Jill shuddered at the thought of Rafferty being in her home, his eyes probing her body.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Just thinking about that creep of a police officer. He looked at me like he wanted ... you know.”

  “To do the wild thing?”

  Jill burst out laughing at Cora’s description. “Yeah, only without my full cooperation.”

  Cora pointed at her with her french fry. “You keep me posted on that cop. I gotta go to the little girl’s room.”

  Cora hefted herself up from the chair. Jill picked up her tray and took it to the trash receptacle. She felt the gazes of the two surgeons on her and fought the impulse to look back over her shoulder. She found it strange how people always knew when someone was watching them, almost like a sixth sense. Maybe it came from caveman days, when you had to be aware of being watched if you didn’t want to end up as dinner for a saber-toothed tiger.

  She didn’t mind the occasional look from men. She supposed it meant she was still marketable. It had been a constant problem when she was dating Jerry, though. The two of them would go out to a bar or restaurant, Jerry would go to use the john and a guy would offer to buy her a drink. Jerry would come back and threaten to kick the guy’s ass across the parking lot and make a huge scene.

  But he was history and she really shouldn’t dwell on him, she supposed. He was immature and hot-tempered, playing drinking games at parties and picking fights with anyone he thought had looked at him funny. Part of her was relieved when he broke it off, because she didn’t want to spend her life with someone who was terminally thirteen years old, she realized now.

  So maybe she would give Matt Crowe a call and feel him out for a friendly dinner. He seemed all right and she really didn’t know too many people in town. It would be a friendly date, nothing more—but if it became more, she wouldn’t mind.

  Cora came back to the table, sat down and dug into her fries.

  “I’m going to call him,” Jill told her.

  “Amen to that.”

  Jill punched the time clock, wished Cora good night and strolled out the ER entrance. The heat baked her skin, and she squinted against the sunlight. She unfastened the top two buttons on her blouse and fanned the material. It had to be ninety out here.

  She reached the parking ramp, nodded to the attendant in the booth (she thought his name was Al, but she could never remember) and walked through the entrance to the first level. To her right was the door to the stairs and the second level where her car was parked.

  She reached her car and had just inserted the key in the lock when she heard someone whistling behind her.

  She jerked the key from the lock, inserted it between her index and middle fingers and made a fist so it could be used to strike an attacker. Then she whirled around, half expecting to see a hulking fiend reaching out to grab her and drag her to the shadows. Instead she saw Chief Ed Rafferty standing with his hands up as if to say, “Whoa, easy now.”

  He snapp
ed his fingers. “Wow, you’re quick. That’s good, though, using the key like you have it. That’s a sure way to disable an attacker. Go for the eyes, the throat or the crotch.”

  She clamped down tighter on the key. “Chief, no disrespect, but why are you here?”

  “Just looking out for you, Jill. A pretty girl walking by herself to a parking ramp could be inviting trouble.”

  “It’s the middle of the afternoon,” she pointed out.

  “You can’t be too careful.”

  She looked around the ramp, hoping for someone else to walk past. “This town seems pretty quiet to me. I think I’ll be okay.”

  The chief wrinkled his mouth to one side and said, “Hmm. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but it might help you be more safe. Keep in mind I’m not trying to scare you. A while back a nurse named Helen Devereaux was walking to the garage after her shift—she finished at three-thirty. Well, Helen strolled up to the third level of the ramp with no trouble. It was daylight, just like now, and she felt safe and secure, I’m positive. Well, when she reached the third flight of stairs there was someone waiting for her. We found her purse and a broken nail on the concrete. It was painted pink, if I remember right. That was the end of her.”

  Is he trying to convince me I need protection? Half of her was rattled by Rafferty following her and the other half wanted to kick him square in the family jewels and then speed away in her car. “Thank you for the warning, Chief, but I really have to get home.”

  “Why’s that? No man to get home to, and I didn’t notice any pets to feed or take care of.”

  “I’m tired and I want to get a shower and some rest.”

  “Hmmm. A shower. Good idea.”

  She immediately wished she hadn’t mentioned it because she was sure Rafferty was visualizing her naked, soapy body in his head. The thought made her queasy.

  “Pretty hot, huh, Jill?”

  “Yes, it is. Now I really have to go.”

  Rafferty took a step toward her and leaned on the car, effectively preventing her from opening the door.