Nightwitch

by Ken Douglas

  She moved slowly, without grace. A passerby or someone looking out of their front window would pass their eyes over this old black woman and not see her. She was remarkable only in the fact that she wasn’t remarkable. She was old and slow, that was all. Nothing to remember and nothing to be afraid of.

  She stopped and raised her head slightly. She folded her hands, as if in prayer, and sniffed the night. She stared again at the space between the two houses.

  Gibson wondered what she was doing, then she turned back toward them and he pulled back between the cars. He felt the new insect threading its way through the hairs on the back of his neck. He felt the sweat trickle under his arms. He felt the pain caused by a decaying tooth. His dirty skin itched. His bladder was about to burst. He wanted to jump up and run. He wanted it over and he wondered if Oxlade would go through with it and if she would scream.

  But he knew Oxlade was going to do it. He wondered if he’d be quick. He forced himself to wait. Only a few more seconds, he told himself, then it would be over. Then he noticed that she didn’t have a purse. That meant Oxlade would have to go through her pockets. It would take longer.

  What if she didn’t have any money, he thought, and then he mentally answered himself. It didn’t matter-Oxlade didn’t care.

  The old woman unclasped her hands and faced forward again. The wind dropped and silence reigned. She stood still, a statue in the night. Gibson willed her to turn away, to go back the way she’d come, but she didn’t. She resumed her shuffle down the sidewalk.

  Two houses away and she stopped again. And the wind picked up again, blowing from her to them. She farted, he both heard and smelled it. A fart yes, but there was something more there, putrid and vile-a smell that screamed, get up and run, get away, get far away. He might have done it, but Oxlade sensed his cowardice and grabbed him by the arm, holding him in place.

  He wanted to scream out to her to turn and flee, but the words were dead in his throat. He shook loose of Oxlade’s grasp, but he didn’t move as she resumed her slow walk toward them. He choked back his fear and tightened his resolve. He wished he had stayed home.

  When she was one house away, he thought he heard a low laugh, more like a cackle. She moved a few steps closer and the laughter came on the breeze like a full frontal assault. He couldn’t move. It was like he was hearing loud laughter with the volume turned down low. Laughter meant only for him.

  Oxlade didn’t seem to be bothered.

  She came closer and Gibson was numb.

  Oxlade jumped from behind the pickup, blocking her path. She whipped a clawed hand around, grizzly-quick and took his face off. No doubt about it, he was dead before his body slumped onto the sidewalk.

  The coward in Gibson said run. All he wanted was for her to keep going, to pass on by and never know he was there. To take that fart smell and that loud, quiet laughter away. I’ll be good Lord, he prayed. I’ll never even think a bad thought.

  Then she was standing there, facing him as he cringed on the wet pavement, paralyzed. He urinated as she glared at him, the wet soaking through his pants and dripping onto the pavement. The splashing drops the only sounds out and about in the neighborhood.

  Instinct overcame his fear and he started to get up. She let him rise. He turned to run, but was blinded by a light that hit him white hot between the eyes. He collapsed, face up, twitching on the ground.

  He could see, but he couldn’t move his head. He felt something wet on the back of his skull and hoped it was water from the street, but was afraid that it was his own blood. He moved his eyes around. The old woman was gone. For a second relief flooded through him. Then he heard a low growl and felt something clamp onto his twitching, jerking leg.

  He was unable to see it. He was being dragged. His head bounced on the curb as he was pulled up onto the grass and then he saw it. Only for an instant, but it was the longest instant of his life.

  Chapter Ten

  Sarah downshifted into fourth, thrilling as the RPM surged. No more old, yellow, bell jingling Beetle for her. She raised her foot from the gas, letting the car slow as she approached the off ramp. She loved driving with the top down, her hair whipping in the chill winter breeze, her heart racing with the speedometer, her body singing with the night.

  She gave it a little gas, punched the clutch, and dropped it into third. She shivered as the Corvette bucked, registering its displeasure. The car wanted to go fast. She jumped back on the clutch and shoved it into second. The tires chirped and the RPM soared against the lower gear.

  She went off the ramp, in second gear, at sixty miles per hour. The engine screamed as the RPM redlined. She left rubber all over the pavement as she swung off the ramp onto Solitude River Road, but she was an excellent driver. She was in no danger.

  But the old woman caught in her headlights was. When Sarah barreled down the ramp, there was nothing ahead of her but open road. Then out of nowhere, there she was, skinny, frail and blocking the way. She panicked and stabbed the brakes, locking the wheels.

  The old woman stood her ground. Sarah caught a glimpse of a weathered black face, caught in the headlights, as the car went into a spin, roaring past the woman. She thumped harder on the brakes. The car whipped around and she was going backwards, with the car continuing its rubber-burning-sliding spin off the road.

  She screamed as the Corvette’s wheels threw dirt into the air, praying as brush scrapped and screeched along the side of the car. Then it was over. The car came to a sliding halt, dying before she had a chance to get the clutch in.

  “ Damn.” She turned around to see if the woman was all right. There was no one there.

  She sat in silence and took in the sky, cloudy toward town and the ocean, clear overhead. Her heart was running flat out, pumping like the well would never go dry. She was on an adrenaline high and reveled in it. The old woman was out of her memory. Forgotten. Like she’d never been there.

  “ Damn,” she said, again, “I loved it.” She leaned back and faced the Big Dipper and was rewarded with a shooting star cutting across the heavens. She remained in her euphoric trance for about ten minutes, daydreaming and drinking in the night. She felt like she should be in the lotus position. She felt like she’d just had a religious experience. And she was getting cold.

  “ Home,” she told the night. She turned the key. The car roared to life, like the thoroughbred it was. Then it died. She turned the key again.

  Nothing.

  She thought about walking over to the motel and asking him for help, but decided against it. She would wait and let the car cool down. It would start then. It was brand new. It couldn’t be anything major.

  A spasm knotted her neck. She massaged it, rocking her head back and forth. That’s when she saw something. Out back, behind the motel, looking in one of the bathroom windows-a peeping Tom. She was quite a distance away, but it was a clear night and floodlights in the parking lot were on. It was the woman, the old black woman.

  Her first impulse was to shout, but she didn’t-she watched. Her second was to mind her own business, but she was fascinated. Her third was to get out of the car and to spy on the spy. She was just too curious. The peeping woman moved around to the other side of the building and Sarah gave in to her curiosity.

  She felt a school-girl-first-date thrill run through her as she opened the door and stepped out of the car. She walked toward the building, counting her steps. She’d always been a counter. She counted everything, from the floor tiles in the Greyhound bus station to the number of steps between the bank and the beauty parlor. It was habit.

  At ten steps, she wondered why nobody came rushing from the motel when she went squealing off the street. Then she remembered that the straight stretch of road, from the motel to where Solitude River Road started curving along the river toward Tampico, was used by the kids as the local drag strip. Her screeching tires probably didn’t sound out of place.

  At twenty steps, she began to wonder about the old woman. How and why did she vanish s
o fast?

  At thirty steps, she thought about him.

  At forty steps, she’d covered half the distance and began to question the wisdom of what she was doing. That wolf was still around somewhere. It didn’t make sense to be sneaking around like last night had never happened.

  At fifty steps, she slowed down and at step sixty-one, she stopped and listened to the soundless night.

  The lights from the motel suddenly sent goose bumps running up her arms. She took two steps back. Stopped. Listened to her heartbeat and the silence. She heard the buzzing sound of a big rig eating up Highway 1 off in the distance. She stayed rock still, till the buzzing turned into a roar. She covered her eyes, as the big truck’s brights sliced through the night.

  She stayed that way, tall and still, her hair wisping in a slight breeze, till the truck was again only a buzzing in the distance. Maybe the woman was gone, she thought, but maybe she wasn’t. Who was she and what was she up to? She had to know.

  She inhaled the night air. No more counting. She jogged the remainder of the way to the motel, not stopping till she reached the asphalt parking lot. She stopped by a white Toyota, to catch her breath, when she heard a noise around the side of the motel. The woman? She darted to the side of the building and scurried along the wall. She was a spy after a secret. She felt like a teenager. Her blood started delivering more oxygen to her brain as her heart accelerated. She was exhilarated. Excited. Nothing should come in the way of a secret.

  She stopped at the corner, took a silent breath and inched her head along the wall toward the edge, her cheek brushing against the cool stucco. She wondered who it was, this old woman that peeked in motel windows. Who was she and what did she see?

  She poked her eye around the ridge.

  There was no one there and all of the bathroom windows were closed.

  “ Damn,” she whispered, turning away from the motel. She started across the parking lot, and at a fifty-eight steps back toward the car, she stopped and gazed at her beauty. Long, low, sleek, and red. The kind of car she’d wanted all her life and only dreamed about. If only Miles, and his Volvo mentality, could see her now. At seventy steps, she stopped again.

  She thought she saw movement on the other side of the car. She took five cautious steps forward, squinting through the night. “Is somebody there?” Five more steps, slower than the last, eyes straining, heart again beginning to race. “Who’s there?” Still no response.

  “ You better not hurt my car,” she said. What a stupid thing to say, she thought. “Did you hear me? Get away from the car.” She was shouting as she took ten more steps toward the Corvette.

  She stopped again. She was well over halfway back to the car, no longer protected by the bright overhead lights of the motel. A small part of her worried about who could be waiting for her, hiding behind her car, like a mugger. But that’s ridiculous, she thought. There were no muggers in Palma or Tampico.

  “ I said, get away from the car.” She took five more cautious steps, thought about the highway, and stopped again. Whoever was hiding behind her car may not be from town at all. He may have come on the highway.

  She saw movement again. Her car door opened and someone got out. He called her name in a raspy, throaty voice that sent shivers crawling along her skin. She turned and fled, because she knew that whoever he was, he was coming after her.

  She stumbled, fell, and scraped her knees. She jumped up and continued running. She heard great clomping, stomping steps as it got closer. Thud, thud, thud, big feet pounding the earth. She felt like her lungs were going to pop. She gasped for air and struggled to keep running. She felt hot breath on the back of her neck as she plunged onto the road.

  She was blinded by the lights of the huge metal monster bearing down on her, blaring its horn, as it roared off the highway. She screamed as a huge hand grabbed her by the arm, jerking her out of the way of the tanker truck carrying gasoline to the service stations of Palma and Tampico.

  She got out the beginnings of another scream, before a strong hand clamped across her mouth, cutting it off, choking her. She bit it and the attacker jumped back, releasing her.

  “ Shit, you bit me,” the voice rasped.

  Once free, she whirled around to flee.

  “ It’s okay, Sarah, I won’t hurt you.”

  “ You?” she said. This was a man that would never cut and run. She looked into his eyes and saw the pain there. He was a worried man. She was both afraid of him, and fascinated by him, and she was hopelessly drawn in to the churning green sea behind those troubled eyes.

  “ Yeah.” He released his hold on her arm.

  “ You chased me.”

  “ I had to stop you from killing yourself.”

  “ What are you talking about?”

  “ The truck.”

  “ Oh, that.” She turned to look at its taillights fading in the distance. The truck went around the first bend and the lights were gone. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours she was almost killed by a tanker truck.

  “ Yeah, that.”

  “ You scared me,” she said.

  “ Didn’t mean to.”

  “ Well, you did.” She crossed her arms against the cold, while she took in his battered and scabbed face. What she couldn’t see in the dark last night was hauntingly surreal in the moonlight as he led her back to her car. He was rugged handsome, with the same crooked smile carried by his daughter.

  “ I’m sorry about that,” he said when they reached the car, “but I’ve always wanted to own one of these. When you walked away from it, I couldn’t resist. I just wanted a few seconds behind the wheel. I wasn’t going to steal it.”

  “ I didn’t think you were.”

  “ Occupational hazard,” he said, and she laughed.

  “ Were you always a thief?” she asked, remembering what he’d told her last night.

  “ Always.”

  “ No, really. How’d you start?” She smiled at him and got in the passenger side of the car.

  “ I’ve been a thief ever since I can remember.” He looked down at her.

  “ Why?”

  “ I don’t know. I don’t have the kind of conscience most people seem to have. It doesn’t bother me. I used to think I did it because it was easier than working, but stealing’s a job, like any other.”

  “ I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. Yesterday I was a married, mild mannered school teacher with a ten-year-old VW. Today the yellow bug is history and I’m single again. And I’m out here in the middle of nowhere-”

  “ Talking to the kind of man you would have passed by without a glance before,” he interrupted.

  “ I’d have given you a glance.”

  “ How much they give you for the Volkswagen?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “ How do you know about that?”

  “ I followed you.”

  “ How? I didn’t see you?”

  “ I must be better at it than you.”

  “ You saw me?”

  “ After you gave up, I turned around and followed you.”

  “ All the way to Eureka?”

  “ All the way.”

  “ When I went to the bank?”

  “ I was right outside.”

  “ When I bought the car?”

  “ I was looking at a new station wagon.”

  “ Why?”

  “ You came around checking me out. I was curious.”

  “ You wanna drive it?” She rubbed her hands on her knees against the cold.

  “ Sure you want me to?”

  “ I think I might like it.”

  He grinned and moved around to the driver’s side, trailing a hand along the car as he went.

  “ You ever driven one of these?” she asked.

  “ In my kind of work you can’t afford to draw too much attention to yourself.”

  “ Of course,” she said as he started it up and revved the powerful engine.

  “ Started for me,” he sai
d.

  “ It would,” she said.

  “ It’s a guy thing,” he said. Then he looked up, checked the road, shifted into first, popped the clutch, and held on to the wheel, as dirt and small rocks shot out from the spinning tires. The Corvette sprang out from the dirt, fishtailing, till Coffee wrestled it onto the road.

  Sarah pulled her seatbelt on as Coffee accelerated. She gulped air as the tack redlined in second, then again in third, then fourth. She glanced at the speedometer and gasped as the needle pushed a hundred, before Coffee threw it into fifth.

  She ran her fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp. He was driving like a man possessed and he was invigorating her, making her come alive like she hadn’t been in years. Doing for her in a few seconds what no man had ever done. And he’d hardly touched her.

  And she was afraid he never would. He was a self-confessed thief. Of what she didn’t know. But he was definitely not the kind of man she wanted anything to do with. However she found herself running her hand along the back of her neck to quiet the chills that shivered there when she thought of him.

  And he could drive.

  She was an experienced driver. He was a reckless driver, taking the car to its limits. A hundred and five and she grabbed her knees, pushing herself back into the seat. A hundred and ten and she was digging into her knees with white knuckles. A hundred and fifteen and she couldn’t feel her knees. A hundred and twenty and she was holding her breath.

  She tore her eyes away from the speedometer and glanced at John Coffee, hair blowing in the wind, hands clenched on the wheel, eyes on the road ahead. He was married to the Corvette. He’d become part of the car, the oil flowing through the engine the same as the blood flowing through his veins.

  She saw a flash out of the corner of her eye and turned her head to see another shooting star. She bit into her lower lip, because it looked like it landed up ahead. She looked back at Coffee and knew that he’d seen it, too, but he wasn’t slowing down. The speedometer read one-twenty.