“It’s the odd man from the bus,” said Lovecraft, unconsciously fingering the Artifact in his pocket, “and now he has an accomplice.”
“I wouldn’ta believed it about the face. Thought it was your imagination.”
“The detail is far too strange to be fiction, Bob.”
“Well, whataya aim on doin’ now? They’ve been on our trail, obviously. ”
“I hate to interrupt your brooding, but I am at a loss at the moment. I believe they were already at the station when we arrived.” He winced in pain as the Artifact throbbed.
“What?” said Howard.
The black sedan pulled slowly forward, and now it was alongside Glory, who still stood at the entrance of the terminal. Through the open passenger-side window, the odd man from the bus had angled his head to speak and his intention, even from that distance, had the force of an intimate whisper. Glory walked innocently up to the open window and leaned forward.
“We’ve got to go back,” said Howard. “They know she was with us.”
Glory must not have noticed the man’s strange appearance, because she stood in rapt dialogue with him, smiling, then looking oddly placid as he said something to her. She motioned back toward her suitcase, but then her arm seemed to fall limp, and she straightened to move toward the back of the car.
“Bob!” said Lovecraft, to voice his alarm, but Howard had already put the Chevy in reverse and stepped on the gas. The car kicked up two gouts of dust and pebbles and careened backward, causing passersby to curse and shield their eyes. Howard steered expertly in reverse, his eyes on the street, his right arm draped across the seat back. Two approaching cars veered out of the way, sounding their annoyance on their Klaxons, but Howard was too intent to notice. Just as it seemed he would collide with the dead black sedan, he slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop, the Chevy’s bumper a scant inch from the other car, and as Lovecraft trembled in his seat, trying to regain his wits, Howard leaped out and grabbed Glory just as her limp hand closed on the handle of the door.
“No!” cried Howard. He wheeled her around and saw the blankness in her eyes flare suddenly into a wide expression of rage. She snarled at him and brought her other hand around, fingers curled, to claw at his face. Howard ducked like an expert boxer and brought his shoulder into her midriff, lifting her up in a fireman’s carry as he rose again, and while she kicked and flailed at him, he picked up her suitcase and strode back to his car.
Several people had gathered by now to watch the excitement. Lovecraft, in his calmest tones, announced to them that it was merely a lover’s quarrel, but his appearance didn’t seem to lend him much credibility.
“Let me go, you bastard!” said Glory. “Put me down!”
“We’ll take you to Vegas, okay? We’re going that way anyways.”
“I said put me down!”
Past Howard and his uncooperative load, Lovecraft saw the front door of the black sedan open. The odd man seemed to flow out of the car like a dark cloud and re-form himself on the sidewalk. He straightened his elegant, timeless clothes and stepped forward. “Bob!” he called.
“What?” said Howard, turning around, puzzled to hear Lovecraft’s voice from behind him.
The odd man’s face did a strange thing. Part of it solidified momentarily into a mouth and a smile. The lips moved very deliberately, as if forming sounds alien to its speaker. “Give. Us. The. Woman.” As he spoke the odd man drew open one side of his jacket and revealed a long, serpentine blade hanging where an inner pocket would normally have been. He drew the blade, very calmly, as if he did not care if the gathered people could see it. “Give. Her. To. Us. And. We. Shall. Kill. You. ”
Howard paused, trying to understand the logic of the threat. Some hypnotic quality in the voice overlay its imitation of Lovecraft’s tones. He felt himself becoming relaxed even when part of his mind had begun to feel an instinctive terror and repulsion.
The odd man drew closer, so close that the arcane symbols on the blade became distinct. They were not serpentine, but something else, something more tentacle-like, something that despite the abstractness of the etching exuded a feeling of disgusting wetness like a slug’s mucus trail.
“The hell with you,” said Howard, reaching toward his belt with his free hand. He paused and looked alarmed not to find his pistol there.
The odd man didn’t quite move the blade; it simply seemed to appear elsewhere, his arm attached to it. As he stepped forward, the aura around his body didn’t quite keep pace, and the air around him rippled as if it were distorted by waves of heat. Howard stepped backwards, clenching his free fist. He was frightened at the thought of what that blade could do-materialize suddenly in his gut or fly with imperceptible speed across his throat-but he was willing to make a fight of it. He prepared to put Glory and her bag down, wondering why she was suddenly so limp. “Lovecraft!” he called. “Where the blue blazes are you?”
“Bob!” The voice came from behind him, but Howard didn’t dare turn his head to see.
“Bob!” echoed the odd man, drawing closer.
“Bob! I have officers of the law here!”
“Officers,” echoed the odd man, pausing where he stood. The blade made one of its odd movements again and was gone. The odd man stood casually and yet with an inappropriate formality, as if he were posing for a portrait.
“What the Dickens is going on here?” said a voice.
Howard turned and saw the two police officers approaching. Lovecraft stood slightly behind them and followed as if he were pushing them along in front of him. Like hand puppets, thought Howard.
The other officer tapped a billy club absentmindedly against his thigh. “What’s the commotion, folks?”
“They were takin’ her against her will,” said Howard, gesturing toward the odd man and the sedan. “He has a knife under his jacket.”
“And what do you say to that, Mister?” the policeman said to the odd man.
“Knife. Under. His. Jacket,” said the odd man, still in Lovecraft’s voice.
“You makin’ fun?”
“He was about to stab me, Officer.”
The odd man said nothing.
The policeman stepped forward and directed the tip of the billy club at him. To Howard’s eyes, the black wood seemed to distort the aura around the odd man without piercing it, but the officer was oblivious.
“Open the jacket, Mister.”
The odd man complied, almost graciously, with a smooth sweep of his arms. Both flaps of his jacket flared back in the breeze like black, silk-lined wings; they shimmered luxuriously in the sunlight, rippling subtly like vertical pools of black water. There was no blade to be seen.
“What did you say he had under his jacket, eh?”
“I swear, Officer, he had a knife. A ceremonial dagger.”
“You been drinkin’?”
“Drinking,” said the odd man.
“Shut up,” said the policeman. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong I can think of at the moment, but I don’t like the looks of you, Mister.”
The odd man closed the wings of his jacket, furling them around him like the fleshy black wings of a bat. Howard could see the inhuman quality permeate the air around him, the aura expanding, but again the policeman didn’t seem to notice anything unusual.
“Maybe I’m mistaken,” said Howard. “But they were harrasin’ the lady, like I said.”
“Miss, was this man bothering you? Miss?”
Howard jostled Glory, then he thumped her on the back as if he were burping an infant before he swung her down to her feet, where she blinked her eyes in confusion. The two policemen exchanged glances before the first one asked again, “Was this man botherin’ you?”
“Why, no,” Glory said, rubbing her eyes like someone just awakened from sleep.
“Were you botherin’ him?”
She looked suddenly alert. “Just what are you insinuating?”
“We don’t like the looks of you, neither, in our town. I sugge
st you take the first bus out of here.”
“Why, you son of—”
Howard put a hand on Glory’s mouth before she could finish the sentence and get herself into trouble. “Sorry, Officer. I suppose we got this all under control now, if you don’t mind.”
“Well, this ain’t no kidnappin’ by my reckoning, though I can’t say I’d be all that concerned either way.”
Lovecraft saw Howard’s response. Before his friend could do something foolishly chivalrous, he stepped up between them and thanked the officers for their help. “I am most grateful for your assistance in this small matter of law enforcement,” he said. “My friend and I shall escort the lady now to her destination.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said the policeman. “You folks just get outta town, if you get my drift.”
“Before sundown, certainly,” Lovecraft said, amused by his own wit.
“I’d say before I have a mind to put you in the damn slammer,” said the policeman.
“I beg your pardon.”
Lovecraft rejoined Howard and Glory at the car. He paused momentarily to look over his shoulder at the odd man, who had been standing in the same posture during the past few minutes. He could feel the ill intention radiating from him, so strongly, perhaps, that the small crowd of babbling passersby left a distinct space around him.
“Jake,” called the other officer from where he stood by the odd man’s black sedan.
“Yeah?”
“This car here’s parked in a police zone. That’s illegal, far as I know.”
“Why, ain’t it just?” He turned to the odd man. “Well, Mister, I think we got some legal matters to discuss. Now, what do you say to that?”
The odd man showed absolutely no change of demeanor. “Discuss,” he said.
Lovecraft turned away, determined that they should escape during the distraction. Howard was having words with Glory. They each had a hand on the handle of her suitcase, though Glory had only been able to slip one finger past Howard’s beefy paw.
“Look, Miss,” said Howard, “we’re takin’ you to Vegas, and there ain’t no more arguin’ about it.”
“I could say you boys were kidnapping me.”
“And I have a notion to tap your jaw after we saved you back there.”
“Saved me? From what? The gentleman in the car was perfectly nice. He said he was headed to Vegas, and his car is a hell of a lot nicer than yours!”
Lovecraft cleared his throat. “I am rather loath to interrupt such a lively quarrel,” he said, “but consider for a moment the unlikelihood of such a coincidence. Two vehicles with a destination that happens to be identical to yours.”
“And what’s so odd about that?” said Glory. “He was very nice, and he offered to take me all the way to my sister’s front door.”
“And was this at your prompting?” Lovecraft asked.
“No. He volunteered, as a gentleman should.”
“And you explained to him that you were on your way to see your sister?”
“Why, of…” She trailed off.
“How was he cognizant of the fact that you were on your way to visit your sister if you did not divulge such information?”
“So what’re you sayin’, HP? Now you’re gonna tell us they read minds?”
Lovecraft nodded, and to Glory’s puzzled and confused look, he replied, “Those creatures that pass for men are minions of Cthulhu. Their intentions, I must say, are evil, and you are unfortunately associated with the current focus of their unholy attentions.”
Glory’s expression didn’t change noticeably, so Howard added, “They woulda kidnapped you and who knows what the Sam Hell they woulda done to you.”
“Why?”
“They are Cthulhu’s minions,” said Lovecraft, as if that explained everything.
“They’re after HP,” Howard said. “And now that they’ve seen you with us, you’re in danger, Miss.”
“What would they want from me? Call the police.” She seemed to be emerging from her daze now. Howard and Lovecraft ushered her into the Chevy while she was still compliant. They tossed her suitcase in after her, got in, and drove off before she could fully regain her wits and perhaps call the policemen herself.
As they pulled away, Lovecraft couldn’t help but glance back once more at the black sedan. The odd man was still speaking to the police officer, and the small crowd had now encircled them and the car, blocking traffic in front of the bus station. The officer had his pad open and jotted something in it while his partner absently slapped the tip of his billy club against his palm. Lovecraft felt a sudden sense of relief wash over him, but just then the odd man turned his way, and in his eyes Lovecraft could see the message as clearly as if it had been written in the pages of a book: “Die.” Lovecraft turned away, his heart pounding, before he could see more. He looked out of the windshield, westward, at the sun hanging ominously over the horizon.
7
DRIVING ON INTO THE RED GLARE of the westward sun toward Amarillo, Howard tried to blink away the weight of sleep. The episode at the bus station had left him enervated and full of a strange languor. He had accused Lovecraft of being like a lizard, but now it was he who wanted, more than anything, to stretch out on a warm rock and drowse in some interminable torpor. In the backseat, Glory was unconscious, having drifted off into a fitful sleep within moments of leaving the outskirts of Vernon.
“I’m gettin’ mighty hungry,” Howard said. “I could use a bite to eat and a pot fulla coffee. Whataya say, HP?”
Lovecraft stopped his scritching and folded his pencil stump into his journal for the umpteenth time. “I concur with your sentiments, particularly regarding the hot coffee.”
“What you writin’ there this time?”
“Some notes. I wanted not to forget the specifics of my dream. The Artifact has pained me since we were in the proximity of the odd men, Bob. I believe their influence is what precipitated my dream about our hapless passenger.”
“You dreamt about Glory? Why don’t ya tell me about it? Keep me awake, for God’s sake. I’m feelin’ a bit like a cat in the sun.”
“It was a dream of unusual vividness, much like the night terrors that haunted my childhood,” Lovecraft began. He recounted, as much as he remembered, the details of his dream, but out of his own shame he could not mention the erotic charge he had felt, or the sheer vividness of the sensory details. Instead he emphasized the direness of his feelings, the sense of urgency, and the psychic connection he seemed to have with Glory. “Perhaps it is irrational for me to draw such a conclusion, but I believe this was more of a vision than a dream. It had a certain numinous quality to it. It was foreshadowing something I dare not imagine.”
Howard quietly chewed it over before he answered. “You know,” he said, “I wouldn’t have believed you before I saw that odd fellow. When you told me about that man on the bus I figured you added a shot or two from your tall tales. Even with the bugs in my house. But when I saw that face, I had to give it to ya, HP.”
“I don’t know whether to be honored or insulted,” Lovecraft replied with a smile.
Howard reached over and thumped him on the chest with the back of his hand, and Lovecraft doubled over, an involuntary puff of air escaping his lungs. The two men laughed as both recovered from the shock.
“We got good imaginations,” said Howard. “How do ya explain those faces? I never even read about such a thing.”
“I suppose we could explain that phenomenon just as well by pretending to fictionalize it. Perhaps those creatures are only partially in this dimension and what we are perceiving is some oscillation between our dimensions. I dare not even imagine what must be on the other side.”
“You do enough of it in your Cthulhu yarns.”
“No, I do not. I go only as far as to insinuate those unspeakable details to allow them resonance in the reader’s mind.”
“Well, there you go,” said Howard, motioning with his head to a roadside diner. “Let’s fill this tank
and our bellies, eh? Won’t be another outpost for a while.”
“For your heroic role today, I shall purchase you a cup of coffee,” Lovecraft declared.
“Mighty generous of ya, buddy.” Howard slowed down to pull off the highway, checking his rearview mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed. Even at this distance from Vernon, he had the nagging feeling that the dead black sedan was nearby.
THE GAS STATION attendant was a half-blood, bronzed and angular, and his gray-black coveralls appeared to be more grease than fabric. He wiped his oil-blackened hands on the startlingly clean rag that protruded from his back pocket and approached the Chevy, in which he saw the unlikely trio of disheveled travelers. The driver’s face was stained with dust washed into pale rivulet patterns by the sweat that dripped from under the brim of his hat, and in the passenger seat, the pale, gourd-jawed man in his dingy white suit glanced about with the bulging eyes of a fish. In the backseat, as he approached, he saw what he thought was a fiery red animal pelt-perhaps the fur of an exotic fox-but it was a white woman, puffy and unconscious with sleep. “A hatted bear, a pale fish, and a sleeping red horse will come your way,” the old shaman had said to him. “You must let me know when they arrive, for those who come after will be witches.” He recalled the old man’s words as if they were being whispered to him now, with the force of urgency and dread.
“Check the oil, sir?” the attendant asked the hatted bear man. “Suppose so,” said Howard.
The attendant gave the pale fish man a lingering once-over as he got out of the passenger seat, and Lovecraft returned the favor, equally fascinated.
“What’re you gawkin’ at, Chief?” said Howard.
“Ah, nothing, sir. Check your tires?”
“Yeah, why don’tcha.”
Howard motioned Lovecraft over to the diner and leaned into the back, where Glory was still asleep, looking feverish and uncomfortable in the heat. It took a long time to wake her out of her thick slumber, and when she finally opened her eyes, she burst into tears.
“What’s the matter?” Howard asked. “How are ya feeling, Miss?”
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