I parked over both lanes of the state-park road, blocking it, my Jag facing north.
Then I shut off the ignition, set the parking brake, and got out.
I was only a few feet away when the Bastard crashed into my car. The sound was tremendous, overpowering everything, the scream of metal on metal.
His truck shoved my car toward me. I had to dive into the ditch between the highway and the mountainside to get out of the way. My car rolled and then hit the guard rail.
The Bastard turned north and drove away as if nothing had happened.
I lay in the ditch. I had landed in cold, brackish, muddy water. I made myself climb out slowly, my heart pounding, my breath coming in short gasps.
I never expected him to hit my car, not with the toddler in his truck. I thought he'd get out, scream at me, and stay busy until the police showed up.
I pulled myself up by my hands, then got onto the state-park road and walked to the highway. I stood beside the highway, looking north, probably as forlornly as Roxy had looked as the Bastard drove off with her baby girl.
In the distance, I heard sirens. I turned, slowly, and saw the middle-aged guy with the van. He was walking toward me, clutching a cell phone.
I refused to look at my Jag.
"That was like a monster truck rally,” he said. “I kept expecting him to drive over your car."
He sounded almost excited. His cheeks were flushed. As he got closer, I realized he was probably younger than I was. All I had seen before was the gray hair and paunch. I'd missed the roundness to his cheeks, the brightness of his eyes.
Or maybe that came from the adrenaline brought on by witnessing an accident.
"He did enough to my car,” I said without looking at it. I didn't want to know exactly what had happened to it. I knew the moment it hit the guard rail that he had totaled it.
Because of my vivid imagination, I did not want to know what the driver's side looked like. I didn't want to have nightmares about what might have happened to me had I been inside.
The middle-aged guy waved the cell phone at me. “They said that they already had reports on the guy and they were heading this way. They said that they'll catch him now that he's turned around. You forced him back to Seavy Village, you know?"
I knew. That hadn't quite been my plan—I didn't have a plan past blocking the road and waiting for the police—but it would have to do.
With the baby in the truck I preferred to have the police take down the Bastard rather than to do it myself.
"How'd you know what was going on with the guy?” the middle-aged man asked.
"I was there when he took the baby.” I suddenly felt very tired. My whole body hurt.
I wanted to go home. It meant I would leave the scene of an accident, which was a crime, but not a major one if no one had been injured.
I had a hunch I could talk my way out of that one.
And even if I couldn't, I could pay the damn fine.
"Can you give me a lift?” I asked the middle-aged guy. “I want to go home."
The middle-aged man grinned. “I'd be happy to,” he said. “Just don't ask me if you can drive."
* * * *
The middle-aged man, whose name was Tom Yates, chattered all the way to Crest Hill. I figured it was a nervous reaction and let him talk. I had him let me out at the bottom of Maize's driveway—for some reason I didn't want him to see my house—and then I waved as he drove away.
He had told me he was going to the police station to make a report. What a good citizen he was. I figured they could come to me if they wanted to talk.
As I reached the top of the driveway, I was stunned to see Ike's truck, two police cars, and an ambulance. One of the paramedics was working hard on something on the ground.
It took me a moment to realize he was bandaging up Wicked.
Ike wasn't around. Neither was Roxy.
But a uniformed police officer—a man I recognized but didn't know by name—walked over to me.
"You the famous writer neighbor?"
"Yeah,” I said tiredly.
"I didn't expect you here, sir,” he said. “I thought you'd be by Whale Cove State Park."
"I was. But the other guy at the scene offered to drive me home."
The policeman stuck out his hand. I stared at it a moment before taking it. He shook hard, then let go.
"You're a real hero, sir. They have the baby. She's fine. The Maizes have gone down to the station to get her."
"So they caught the Bastard,” I said.
"They did. He's going away for a long, long time."
I hoped so. I hoped that the legal system would work the way it was supposed to. I would testify against him, that was for certain.
But I didn't say that. I just nodded at the police officer and walked over to the paramedic. “Didn't know you guys worked on dogs,” I said.
"That girl,” he said, “she was hysterical. Dispatch thought she had been injured and sent me up here. She asked me to work on the dog. How could I say no?"
I looked down at the stretcher. Wicked's eyes were glassy and he was panting. The paramedic had bandaged his back legs.
"That guy who took the dog—he cut the tendons in its back legs. Knew what he was doing, too, because he stayed away from major arteries. This poor thing'll probably never walk right again."
Wicked's gaze met mine. He was clearly in pain. He whimpered.
Lifting his leg was probably impossible now. He wouldn't pee on my groceries again. He probably wouldn't ever run again.
I never thought I could feel sorry for that dog, but I did.
"I've got him stabilized,” the paramedic was saying. “Can you let Ike know I'm taking the dog to Seavy Village Animal Clinic? They'll know what to do with him."
"Think they'll have to put him down?” the officer said from behind me.
"No,” the paramedic said. “He's not a horse. You don't have to shoot him just because he's injured his leg. Right, buddy?"
To my surprise, he put his hand gently on Wicked's side and Wicked didn't even try to bite him. The dog closed his eyes. His tail thumped.
"I'll tell Ike,” I said. I wasn't sure he'd be happy. But he would have a different dog than the one he hated. Wicked would never be the same.
Neither would Roxy. I only hoped her daughter wouldn't have lasting scars.
Knowing the Maizes, they would do everything they could to make that little girl feel loved and wanted, not the product of some felon who had seduced their only daughter.
The paramedic wheeled the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, got in beside it, and pulled the double doors closed. The ambulance backed up in the very tracks left by the Bastard's truck, then eased carefully down the driveway as if its cargo were as precious as an injured human being.
The officer watched from beside me. Then he looked at me and frowned. “You okay?"
"Tired,” I said.
"No kidding. You did a great thing."
I hadn't done anything great. If anything, I'd been reckless and stupid, letting my vivid imagination get away with me, making me think I could be as heroic as the people I wrote about.
"What do we do about my car?” I asked. “It's crumpled on the side of the road by Whale Cove State Park."
"I'll take care of it,” the officer said. “And we'll need you to make a statement whenever you're ready."
"I'm ready now.” I wanted this incident behind me.
I didn't want to think about Wicked or the Bastard or Ike's helpless hatred of both. I wanted to go back to my office and use my vivid imagination to create stories.
I thought it would be easy to go back. But I found I couldn't shake the memories. Which is why I'm writing this.
Wicked is home. He'll limp badly, and he'll be a mostly indoor dog. The incident changed his temperament—or, as Ike says, being helpless has. Wicked lost all the aggression that made him the nasty little piece of work he was.
Roxy's divorce went through.
The Bastard pled out to the minimum on both kidnapping and the armed robbery. He'll be gone for years.
And the neighborhood has gone back to normal. Except that people ask me for advice now, as if my impulsive actions have given me some kind of wisdom.
Actually, old Mrs. Gailton says they don't see me as wise so much as the neighborhood leader. The mayor of Crest Hill subdivision.
Apparently, it's an appointed position. It's certainly not one I want.
I blame Wicked. If it hadn't been for the little bastard, I'd still be the mostly invisible weird writer who lives next to the Maizes, not the thriller writer who channels James Bond in his off-time.
So I hide in my office with the Goddess. She hunts raccoons again, having no interest in Wicked now that he's not barking incessantly.
I have a little more interest. Sometimes I wonder what he went through while the Bastard had him. Sometimes I wonder if Wicked realized he meant nothing to the man who had trained him. And I wonder if the little dog had wanted to die when the Bastard tossed him onto the driveway.
I'll never know, and Wicked will never tell.
He's quiet these days. Isabel actually stands guard over him, as if she understands the changes, too.
Sometimes, in the middle of the afternoon, when no one's around, I go to the Maizes’ yard and pet him.
I have the sense that, ever since the incident, Wicked needs comfort.
And I know that I do, too.
Copyright © 2010 Kristine Kathryn Rusch
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: ON THE BANKS OF THE KHORAD DUR by Brian Muir
* * * *
Art by Allen Davis
* * * *
Brian Muir is nothing if not inventive, a quality that may have developed through his work as a writer for Hollywood movies of various genres. He gives his imagination free reign in this story, which contains a tale within a tale and ranges over centuries and continents. A native Oregonian, Mr. Muir most often contributes stories in his Portland female private eye series to EQMM. The series now boasts a completed novel, one we're sure will be a stunning first when it's sold and released.
I write this by the dim light of a moon which hangs over the dune crest, its hue deep crimson, as if enwombed with the blood of those that have perished before me this night. I fear I have little time. But I must pause to record these events, for the story must be told.
My charges, though young, are not inexperienced. Those remaining stand nearby on the banks of this dead river, scanning the horizon, arrows notched bravely to string. Far off on darkened sands, our pursuers travel low to the ground, jaws slavering as they sniff out the scent of our dread, as comfortable on all fours as we are on two, furred knuckles the size of falcon eggs.
It is the palimpsest they want, the one I've stolen, but I will lay down my very life to protect it if need be, and given what has transpired this wicked eve, that may indeed be the dark outcome.
"Palimp . . . ? Palimps . . . ? What the hell's a—"
"Palimpsest,” chirped Mira, reading small letters highlighted by her fingertip on the dictionary page, the weighty tome open on her lap. ‘Palimpsest: a parchment, tablet, etc. that has been written upon or inscribed two or three times, the previous text or texts having been imperfectly erased and remaining, therefore, still partly visible.’ Hm."
"'Hm,’ is right. This isn't the palim-whatsit, is it?” MacLean shook the three pages in his hand, heavy yellowed parchment rattling.
"No, that's just a letter."
Mac set aside the letter and continued searching the old steamer trunk.
"Maybe the palimpsest isn't in there, Mac."
"Well, the guy stole it ‘cause he thought it was valuable. If his letter survived all these years, what about the...?"
"Palimpsest."
Mac mumbled, sifting through the contents of the trunk.
"Who knows if the letter is even real, hon."
"Look at that thing,” implored Mac, “Look how old it is."
"Well, it does look old, that's for sure.” Mira carefully flipped the crinkled pages; one had writing blurred by a dark brown stain. “Looks like somebody spilled coffee on it."
"What?!” Mac swiped the letter, turned the stationery this way and that, examining it under lamplight. “Blood's that color when it dries."
Exasperated, Mira rolled her eyes, yet when Mac went back to inspecting the steamer trunk's contents, she couldn't help but examine once more that dark blotch on the page; she didn't want to think it was blood. She kneeled beside Mac at the open trunk as he pulled out an old flannel shirt.
Mira got a whiff, “Eeewww. I don't think that got washed before it got put in there."
Mac spread out the shirt arms. “It's in good shape though. Might fit me."
"Are you kidding? That's going straight in the trash, mister. The stench on that shirt has its own zip code."
Mira grabbed the shirt and tossed it toward the back hall, which led to the porch and garbage can outside.
"I doubt the palimpsest is in there, hon. Look."
She pointed out a faded sticker on the rear bottom corner of the trunk, not a souvenir from faraway Singapore, Morocco, or even New Jersey, but rather a faded and worn sales sticker from K-Mart.
"That's probably from the seventies,” she said.
"Some of the stuff in here is older than that, though. The guy who died was in his nineties."
"You have to stop going to these estate auctions, hon. At least until we can afford to buy the good stuff. Not these sealed trunks with the mystery contents."
"Hey listen, spending all kinds of money for a painting with a gilded frame will only get me so much in return. This is where the true treasures are found, the kinda stuff people go nuts for on eBay. Like that old toy truck I found last February, remember?"
"You can't win the lottery every time. These mystery crates are like when we were in school and once a month the cafeteria would cart out its ‘Chef's Surprise.’ How many times was that a winner?"
Mac paused to recall his junior-high years. “Chef's Surprise . . . “ A shiver ran through him.
"See what else is in there,” said Mira.
"Oh, suddenly we're curious."
"Well, it is kinda fun."
Mac rummaged through the trunk, hauling out a dusty vase, chipped; a set of fountain pens still in their case, unused.
Mira plopped into the armchair with the old letter:
"It was she in the tower who drew us in, silken raiments hardly concealing nubile curves, flowing hair the color of moonglow framing a mythical face such as one to lure ships to their doom on rocky shores.
"As if her beauty were not enough to slake the hunger of my battle-scarred troops, the meal she kindly set out for us warmed our hearts to her as well as our loins."
Mira peered up over the parchment. “ ‘Warmed our hearts to her as well as our loins?’ Puh-lease."
Mac held an old fishing reel, fifty-pound test uncurling all over the floor. “Keep readin'. I'm startin’ to like this letter."
She frowned playfully and continued:
"It was earlier this very eve, while in the grip of some torpor brought about not by wine and revelry but of some otherworldly sort, when she seduced three of my soldiers, draining them not only of bodily fluids but of their very essence, as if a Satan-hewn succubus, no doubt killing to retain her youth or some other such devilry that is beyond my means to comprehend.
"What she had done to them I was not witness to firsthand. The heavy meal had satiated me to the point where pleasures of the flesh were not foremost on my mind, and indeed I was at the time of these events searching the tower for any riches that could be easily plundered while our hostess was thus occupied in her bedchamber.
"It was on this midnight search that I discovered the palimpsest, a curio that had me oddly bewitched. In a small antechamber, the book lay open and encased under glass atop a black marble pedestal. Candles flickered around it and a dark breeze se
emed to ruffle crimson velvet curtains draping the walls. It appeared to be the only item in the room. Indeed, it appeared as if the very room had been constructed around it, so obvious was the thing's importance to our beguiling hostess.
"I stepped closer. So light they were, the pages of the open tome, like wisps of air, as if paper pressed of rice in some Eastern temple. The words scrawled thereupon were of a language foreign to me, the letters indistinct, some inscribed with heavier ink than others, or perhaps written with a more insistent hand. In fact, there appeared to be generations of words coexisting on these pages. The lower right corner of one page contained a drawing formed of fine lines, difficult to make out in the chamber's dim light. I held one of the lit candles closer to the glass, the better to observe it.
"What the candle flame revealed to me was of a nature too hideous to make reference to within these pages. Even a man of war like myself, a man who will perhaps one day pay his due to the devil, must have some moral compass, and the needle of my soul's guide was sent whirling as if in magnetic confusion by the image I beheld on that withered parchment.
"It was then I heard the sound behind me, that of a heavy sandaled foot scraping stone. I twisted to see the thing lunge toward me, a scabbard in its claws and death within its blackened eye. What it was I do not know, I've never seen its like before, but a creature of God I am certain it was not.”
Mira put down the letter.
Mac had paused in his search of the trunk, a broken bisque doll in his hand.
"Why're you stopping?"
"Because it's ridiculous, that's why. I mean, come on, succubi and monsters with scabbards . . . “ She expelled a dismissive burst of air, shaking her head.
"Hey, we don't know how old that thing is. Way back when, in unexplored parts of the world, all kinds of weird stuff was going on."
"Not this kind of stuff, hon.” She joined him again on the floor next to the trunk. “You find any eBay treasures?"
"Not really.” He pointed out the contents of the trunk, now piled on the floor around him. “I might get something for this doll. Even though it's busted."
EQMM, March-April 2010 Page 30
