EQMM, January 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  Oldsie was really rolling now. Slow and steady, that's all it'd take. Hank checked his watch: four-thirty. They were making great time, given the weather. Just keep humming along at a constant pace, crooning to Creedence, and he and baby girl'd be in Canada long before an alert went up. If anyone came knocking, they'd think the storm kept Angie at her mother's. Just to be safe, Hank had turned off the heat in Angie's apartment and pulled all the blinds shut. Not that anyone could see into the fourth-floor windows of that death-trap apartment, anyway, but still. Better safe than sorry, that's what Angie used to say.

  "What in hell?” Hank said. With his chest pressed close to the steering wheel, he craned his neck to see through the windshield. Red lights blinked ahead, to his right. Hank slowed down and made out a man, covered in snow, waving his arms from the roof of a buried car. Hank peeked at his daughter, curled up and silent in the back. He envied her stillness, her peace. When she woke, he'd tell her she missed seeing the Abominable Snowman, and then she'd laugh as he bared his fang and aped the battle he'd waged to protect her from the beast. Hank kept driving. “Poor sonofabitch,” he said. He took a drag from his cigarette and chuckled. A half-mile later, the gas light blinked red on the dashboard.

  "Shit,” Hank said. He eased the car to a stop and sat. The world was silent, except for the whistle of his own phlegmatic lungs. Even if a gas station were open, the last thing he wanted to do was stop and fill up. Apart from the obvious danger of being captured on video camera, the weather was too bad and the hour too early to pay without instigating small talk with the cashier. Small talk was risky—it created memories, impressions. Paying at the pump would electron-ically nail him down to a time and place. “Shit!” he yelled again, punching the dashboard. He should have thought to bring extra gas cans. Hank ran his tongue along the sharp ridge of his tooth and did the only thing he could think of. He pulled a screwdriver from the glove compartment and stepped out into the snow. With ears pricked for warning of another vehicle, he circled Oldsie and quickly removed its license plates after pissing on them to defrost the screws. He tucked the plates into the waist of his pants and carefully backtracked to the driver's side.

  * * * *

  Andrew sat cross-legged on the roof of the Saturn, taking a breather while he cursed under his breath at the Oldsmobile that'd blown right past him. “No one's got any decency anymore,” he muttered. He'd already uncovered the windshield, and he needed a rest before he tackled the hood. It was slow going. The more snow he swept off, the more densely he packed the snow beneath it. He wished he'd taken Kelly's Saab. Increasingly fearful over the last few years, Kelly had fortified everything she could get her hands on. In the trunk of the Saab, she kept a crate with two blankets, three boxes of granola bars, four jugs of water, a full first-aid kit, a lock de-icer, and a shovel. She carried a “fuel pack” in her purse at all times. “That's fine,” she'd say when he accused her of being paranoid, “but I damn well refuse to survive an explosion and then die of dehydration while I'm trapped somewhere.” She made a crate for his car, too, but he'd left it in the hall closet.

  Andrew stood on the hood of the car and began to kick the snow. The sound of another engine interrupted his string of curses. He climbed back onto the roof for a better view, but he could see no approaching headlights. A car honked behind him, and he nearly slipped off the hood. The Oldsmobile had reversed its path up the highway.

  The high-pitched groan of the Oldsmobile's door sliced the sharp air.

  "Hey, friend,” said the tall, wiry man who stepped, work boot first, from the car. “Looks like you've hit a spot of trouble."

  The man's neck was like that of a doberman. Andrew could see the sinewy muscles stretching up from its peacoat collar. Skinny, but built like a rock. Andrew sucked in his gut and waved.

  "Yeah, thanks for stopping,” he said. “I've been here for a half-hour or so, and you're the first car that's passed."

  "Really?” Dober Man said. He smiled. Red light glinted off his long canine tooth. “This seems to be a decent-sized road. Someone—a cop, a plow—must've been down here in the past half-hour. No?"

  "Nope."

  "No cops?"

  "No one. I was beginning to think I was the only bastard crazy enough to be on the road in a storm like this. Thought I was done for.” Andrew chuckled. “Good to meet another crazy bastard.” The man didn't laugh.

  "No offense, but you look like shit run over,” Dober Man said. “What happened?"

  "Freak accident. Hit an ice patch and slid into the shoulder."

  The man scanned the roadway of fluffy snow and cleared his throat. “So does she run?"

  "She did. I mean, she was still running fine until I turned her off. Let me see.” Andrew climbed into the car and turned the key. The engine fired up immediately.

  "Purring like an angel,” Dober Man said. He smiled, with his head cocked to the side. “This is your lucky day, friend. We'll clean off the hood and have her on the road in no time. Leave her running so she melts some snow. Where you headed?"

  Andrew did not respond. He wished people were taught to mind their own business at an early age. Conscious of being watched, Andrew walked around to the far side of the car—as steadily as he could manage—and started to pull down armloads of snow. “I sure do appreciate your help,” he said.

  The man made no move toward the car. “My baby girl's asleep in my backseat. The heat's not great in there. You mind if I lay her in your car, since it's warming up anyway?"

  Andrew was uneasy, but he nodded and watched the man walk away. He couldn't put his finger on it. Something about the flatness of this man's dark eyes, which shone less in the orange streetlight than that odd, long tooth did, startled him. Andrew felt mesmerized. His breath came short and shallow, and he worked faster, lunging across the hood of the car and straining as he swept armload-sized heaps of compact snow to the ground. They landed on his frozen feet with anticlimactic, hushed pats. A droplet of sweat traced a trail from his collar, past his shoulder blades, and was finally absorbed into the cold, damp fabric clinging to the curve of his back. He just wanted to go home.

  Dober Man returned, carrying his daughter. Even though she was wrapped in her father's bulky peacoat, Andrew thought she looked pale, still, stiff.

  "Hey, is she okay?” Andrew asked.

  The man laid her down on the backseat. With his sleeve, Andrew swiped the snow from the rear passenger window. The girl's hair hid her face.

  "No, seriously,” Andrew said. He tapped on the glass. “She looks cold."

  "She'll be fine,” Dober Man said. “She's a heavy sleeper. Takes after her mother.” He began to scoop the snow off the car in shovel-sized handfuls.

  "My wife should wake up soon. She'll be wondering where I am."

  "She doesn't know you're gone?"

  "She was asleep when I left, but she knows where I'm headed and the route I take, so she'd know where to look for me if, say, I crashed into a snowbank and couldn't get home.” Andrew laughed, hoping that if he pretended he was relaxed, he would calm down. “By the way, my name's Andrew,” he said. He held out his hand. Dober Man's bare paw engulfed Andrew's thickly gloved one in a firm handshake. Andrew was grateful for the layer of padding that kept him from wincing.

  "Always pleased to meet a fellow night-prowler,” the man said, squeezing Andrew's hand. “We're a dying breed, son. Name's Jessie."

  "Dying? How?” Andrew held his breath.

  Jessie grinned and cuffed Andrew's shoulder. Andrew wasn't sure if this was meant to be playful or threatening.

  "Folk who've never known the freedom of an empty highway aren't called to drive it at this hour,” Jessie said. “Too much traffic these days. Last thing most people want to do is leave their home and their family to sit in a cloud of exhaust from a sixteen-wheeler. They don't even know what they're missing. You have to be driven from your home to take to the highway."

  Andrew smiled as much as his swollen eye would all
ow, nodding emphatically. These lines sounded familiar, like Jessie was imitating a movie character, playing a part.

  "Know what I'm saying?” Jessie asked.

  "Actually, I do.” And he did, little as he wanted to admit it. “You married, Jessie?"

  Jessie's head jerked back on his neck defensively. Andrew almost thought he saw his ears perk.

  "Was. Once. Long time ago."

  "What happened?"

  "She died."

  "I'm sorry."

  "That's kind of you to say. Truth is,” Jessie said, hushing his voice and leaning across the car, as if he were telling a secret. “Truth is, Cynthia was a whore."

  Sour breath assaulted Andrew's nose. Never in his life had he heard a man refer to his dead wife as a whore. He pulled his scarf up over his face.

  "Stop blinking at me like that,” Jessie said. “Cyn and me, we had some problems. And she'd be the first to say it. To anyone who would listen. So I don't feel bad saying it now. That bitch probably nagged her way right through the pearly gates."

  "There has to be more to it than that,” Andrew said. “Kelly nags at me sometimes, but I'd never call her a whore. It can't just be nagging."

  "They're all whores. Take the word of an ol’ divorcé. What're you doing out here if your wife's such a treat?"

  Andrew clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt. “I don't sleep well."

  "Right."

  "So are you a divorcé or a widower, Jess?"

  "Can't I be both?"

  Andrew thought Jessie's toothy grin was too big.

  They were working fast, and soon the right headlight, dented and buckled but still working, was uncovered. They started to clear space in front of the car. Andrew noticed how dark this man's bare hands looked as they scooped giant armloads of snow from the car. His thick, shell-like nails were jagged and stained brown along the cuticles.

  "You from around here, Jess?"

  "Nah, I'm heading up from sunny Georgia. We don't get snow like this in Georgia."

  Andrew glanced back toward the Oldsmobile's bumper, but he couldn't see the license plate. “I'll bet you don't. Where you headed?"

  "Boy, you sure do ask a lot of questions,” Jessie said. “Now what business is that of yours?"

  "Well, you asked me."

  "And you didn't answer."

  "I was just wondering what would make you bring that little girl out in this kind of storm.” Andrew smiled, hoping he looked friendly. What would Kelly do if he didn't come home? Would she know where he had gone, after all? He tried to remember if he'd ever answered her when she asked him where he went during his night drives. She'd stopped nagging about it, so he must have answered at some point, Andrew thought. Until now, he hadn't wondered what she did while he was out, but just assumed that she never woke up. And if she did, that she rocked herself back to sleep. He wished he could rock her in her sleep now, his legs pressed close in the warm crook of her knee, his face, tickled on all sides by her hair, buried in the nape of her neck.

  "I happen to be bringing my baby girl up to visit her gram in Rhode Island."

  "You're driving from Georgia to Rhode Island in a blizzard?” Andrew said. If he were driving a toddler in a snowstorm, in the dark, he knew he wouldn't stop and help some unfortunate trapped on the side of the road. While that might make him an asshole, there was no way he was a bigger asshole than this Georgia redneck.

  "Why are you helping me?” he asked. Andrew felt the cold and the labor taking their toll on him. The throbbing in his eye was the only thing keeping him on his feet.

  "That should do it,” Jessie said. He kicked chunks of snow from behind the front tire. “Let's see if we can get her moving.” He opened the driver's-side door and scooted into the seat. Putting the Saturn into reverse, Jessie hit the gas. The wheels spun. Andrew stood in the space they'd cleared and pushed on the front end of the car. It shuddered and dislodged itself from the snowbank. A springtime wave of relief flooded through him—he would get home after all. His body was numb. Andrew wanted Kelly's warmth pressed against him. He gave his savior two thumbs up and stumbled through the snow toward the Saturn, which was still rolling backward. The car straightened out onto the highway and accelerated. “Thanks, Jessie!” Andrew called, but the Saturn didn't stop. With weighted legs, Andrew ran after his car. He gained on it for a moment, as the back wheels started to slide out, but then traction caught, and he was left alone.

  Andrew stood, sweat-drenched, in the middle of the road. His toes pruned inside their soggy socks as dawn bled through the clouds. Independent of his will, numb feet dragged him toward Jessie's abandoned car, but he found no help there. All the Oldsmobile's doors were locked. The violet-swollen eye, the spots of browning blood that reflected back to him in the car window felt familiar. Andrew clapped his hands together and bounced on the balls of his feet, and blood pricked him awake.

  He scooped up a handful of the clean snow and licked it. The water's ice-bite revived the sticky slug of his tongue. It slid down his throat and pooled in his stomach, and he felt alive. Sucking a new handful, he turned and started for home, his shuffling footsteps tracing the path back to Kelly that he hoped was still there, hidden beneath the snow.

  ©2008 by Eileen Anderson

  * * * *

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  Novelette: AN EARLY CHRISTMAS by Doug Allyn

  Over the years EQMM has published a number of stories by Doug Allyn set at Christmas. This one is darker than most, but like all of the Michigan author's tales it's got some truly engaging characters whom readers will want to see again. Mr. Allyn is an eight-time winner of the EQMM Readers Award, a short-story Edgar winner and multiple Edgar nominee, and a well-reviewed mystery novelist.

  Jared snapped awake to the sound of laughter. On the bedside TV, Jay Leno was yukking it up with a ditzy blond celeb. Jared sat up slowly, dazed and groggy from too much brandy, too much sex. Fumbling around, he found the remote control and killed the tinny TV cackling, then looked around slowly, trying to get his bearings.

  A bedroom. Not his own. Sunny Lockhart was sprawled beside him, nude, snoring softly with her mouth open, her platinum hair a tousled shambles. At forty-nine, Sunny had crow's-feet and smile lines, but her breasts were D-cup and she made love like a teenybopper. Better, in fact.

  Gratitude sex. The best-kept secret in the legal profession. After settling cases involving serious money, clients were often elated, horny, and very, very grateful to the guy who made it happen.

  Thanks to Jared's legal expertise, Sunny Lockhart was financially set for life, a free and independent woman of means. Unfortunately, she was also crowding fifty. Too old for Jared by a dozen years. And he had to be in the office to meet with a client at nine sharp.