The Devil's Breath

by R. R. Irvine

  He heard a tearing in his chest.

  If what he’d seen wasn’t human, why, then it had to be an illusion. A mere dream. Of course. That was the explanation.

  The aspens weren’t more than a few feet away when Timmons stopped running. Foolish man, he thought, running from his own nightmare.

  He thought that even as the thing caught him from behind. And in that moment he knew—sweet Christ, he knew—what his own death would be like, because it had haunted his nightmares for years.

  17

  SHOTGUN LEAPT to his feet and growled, the hair along his spine as stiff as a brush.

  “Those evil spirits of yours,” Graham told Harry, “are probably out there in the dark sneaking around.”

  “They’re not mine,” she answered from her place in front of the fire. Warmth and two whiskies—Graham had found the bottle in the back of one of the kitchen cupboards, a hidden sin for a good Mormon like his uncle—had taken the edge from her voice. “Besides, I’m not worrying about them anymore tonight.”

  “I’m with you, but I don’t know about Shotgun.”

  The dog’s growl changed to something like the putt-putt of a single-cylinder engine.

  Harry sat up to peek over the back of the sofa.

  “What’s wrong, boy?” Graham asked, leaving his perch on the hearth.

  “Maybe he’s got to go outside and do his duty?”

  “He’s never growled before when he had to pee.”

  “Relax, Jack. He’s probably got a lady friend waiting for him out there.”

  “Far be it for me to stand in the way of true love.”

  Graham unlocked the door and opened it slowly. Outside, there was nothing but a slash of moonlight and cold air that raised goosebumps on Graham’s arms. “OK, Shotgun, in or out?”

  The dog’s tail curled protectively between its legs. Then it backed away from the open doorway.

  “Jesus,” Graham murmured. Fear, goaded by superstition and the recent real deaths, caused him to slam the door.

  “Dogs see things,” Harry said. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “What kind of things?”

  He snapped the lock, then tried the doorknob to make certain the latch had caught.

  “Things we can’t see. Wavelengths the human eye isn’t designed to catch.”

  They both stared at the dog, which had backed itself completely beneath the old desk, its head facing out, its lips curled into a snarl.

  “It was probably just a bad dream,” she said, “and he doesn’t realize that he’s awake yet.”

  Her voice, which had been warm and fuzzy around the edges, turned somewhat shrill, matching Graham’s mood perfectly.

  “Something’s out there,” he said. “Something real.”

  “As long as it stays out there, why worry about it?” She finished her drink.

  “Well, there’s one thing I know for sure. You shouldn’t drive back to town alone tonight.”

  “Why, Jack.” Her voice softened again. “You do care, don’t you?”

  “Tell you what. I’ll drive you home in the Jeep, then pick you up tomorrow so that you can come back for your car.”

  “That’s not exactly what I had in mind.” She stretched luxuriously. “I could always drive back in the morning.”

  “I’ll get us another drink,” he said brusquely to cover his confusion. He practically ran into the kitchen, where he stopped to lean against the sink. When he closed his eyes, the room spun gently. Had he heard correctly? Did she want to spend the night with him?

  He opened his eyes. Reality was everywhere he looked. In the window above the sink, he saw a fool reflected, himself.

  He poured two strong drinks, killing the bottle that had been only half-full to start with, a condition leading Graham to speculate that his uncle had secret vices or, at best, had been contributing to the delinquency of an Indian.

  “Cheers,” he said, handing Harry her glass. It was the only damned thing he could think to say.

  In one gulp he destroyed the ninety-proof evidence against old Lew.

  She contented herself with a sip of her drink, while her eyes narrowed as she concentrated on his face. For all he knew she could be looking right through him.

  “What wavelength are you tuned to?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t seeing things, not invisible things anyway. I was seeing myself spending the night here.”

  “I . . . what will your neighbors say?”

  “You’re forgetting something, that I live where I work—alone.”

  “Ah, yes. The anonymity of downtown Moondance.”

  “People already gossip about me.” Harry gave him a determined smile. “I have the right to live my life without being harassed.”

  She punctuated her statement by emptying her glass. “Take that,” she added, smacking her lips.

  “You’re really a fallen lady now. The locals will be smelling alcohol on your breath for weeks.”

  “And another thing, Jack. We have the right to grow old. I, for one, won’t tolerate threats, even from dancing animals.” She stood up, none too steadily, and took his hand. “If we’re lucky we can both die in bed.”

  God in heaven, he thought, as she pulled him toward the bedroom. He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. In the old days, with a woman like Harry, he’d have taken her right there on the floor. By now, his zipper should have been pressed to the point of explosion. But since the accident, he’d felt neither need nor capability.

  And now, even with Harry biting his ear, he sensed no response. It was as if his manhood had been amputated right along with his hand.

  Stop her then. Say something to hurt her, anything, but send her running for home. Hurt her and you can’t be hurt yourself.

  But they were in the bedroom already. And he needed her, a woman, to hold him, to love him, to tell him that he was still a man.

  “Close the door,” she said, turning out the light. “We don’t want that dog jumping in bed with us at the wrong moment.”

  ******

  Harry felt smug as she smiled in the darkness. It was a smile for her own benefit. Jack, being a man, would never have understood.

  Men! They were so concerned with appearances, masculine appearances. One and all, they had to think of themselves as great lovers.

  That was what Harry’s mother had always said. “Let them think they are the greatest,” she had advised her daughter.

  And once, in a moment of confession, she’d added, “All you have to do, Harriet, is whisper the right things in their ear and they’re yours. The magic words are, „My God, it’s big.’ That does wonders for a man’s ego.”

  As for Harry herself, she’d never used those magic words. The few times she’d had the opportunity, they hadn’t seemed appropriate. And her most recent experience had been an inconclusive wrestling match in the backseat of Sheriff Alden Fisk’s patrol car, after which the only thing she could think to say was, “If this is fun, then the human race is doomed to extinction.”

  But with Jack—sad, sweet Jack—she sensed that she would need all the magic she could muster.

  She’d even turned out the light so that she wouldn’t be tempted to stare at his stump. And at the moment she could hear him struggling out of the harness that held his hook in place. No big deal, since she already knew what the rig looked like, thanks to the medical dictionary she kept at the Ledger.

  “You’re going to have to build another fireplace in here,” she said, shivering. “Otherwise we’ll never be able to come out from under the covers in wintertime.”

  “It is cold,” he said stiffly and backed into bed beside her. She snuggled against him. But even after their bodies had grown warm together, Jack made no move. It was exactly as she’d suspected, the initiative would have to be hers.

  She tugged at him, trying to turn him over. He resisted until she commanded, “Kiss me.”

  “Harry,” he said, half turning. His voice was shaky. She silenced him with h
er mouth, opening her lips so that her tongue could tease. Even that drew no active response.

  One of her arms went around him. The other, trembling at its own boldness, crept down to fondle his small, limp manhood.

  “Harry,” he murmured, breaking away from her lips, “I don’t think I can.”

  She said nothing, but buried her burning face against his chest. Her caressing fingers started him trembling.

  “I haven’t been able to,” he whispered hoarsely, “not since the accident.”

  That pleased her somehow, because it was as if he’d never been with another woman. She would be the first for this new man, whose teeth chattered as if he were an inexperienced virgin.

  But if she failed him . . .

  When one hand did not arouse him, she used both, the tips of her fingers, then, ever so gently, her nails. He progressed from limp to semihard.

  Suddenly, the sound of her breath startled her. She was panting with desire and more aroused than she’d ever been.

  His manhood inched out, nearing the necessary firmness.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He was kissing her now, her neck, her mouth.

  She’d been so busy worrying about him that her own response took her by surprise. Her pelvis thrust against him, against his growing manhood, and then her hips bucked out of control, banging against him. She pulled free of his mouth to gasp for air, to gasp out the pleasure of her orgasm.

  Once she had calmed, he took her hand and carried it to himself. He had grown beyond the limit of her grasp.

  My God, it’s big, she thought.

  Then he was moving into her and the magic words came out as a cry: “It’s so big, Jack.”

  She kept repeating the magic words over and over again.

  18

  A POUNDING on the door started Shotgun barking. But to Graham there was nothing sinister about the dog’s reaction, not in the bright light of morning.

  Instead of fear, Graham felt annoyance as he eased out of the warm bed. He swore softly. He had been awake for quite a while, but hadn’t moved, and hadn’t intended to until he’d put his morning erection to good use.

  When his bare feet hit the floor, it was as if he’d stepped onto a sheet of ice. The shock of it threatened to shatter the bones in his legs. It did shatter his erection.

  “Damn,” he whispered, then clenched his teeth to keep himself quiet. He didn’t want to wake Harry, not until he had time to warm up again.

  “Whoever it is,” she mumbled, her voice thick, “they’ve seen my car already. So don’t bother lying.”

  Graham pulled on his robe and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  At the front door, Shotgun stood poised, pointing like an expectant bird dog.

  “Who is it?” Graham called out.

  The pounding resumed.

  Graham went to the window, but whoever was knocking was standing so close to the door he couldn’t be seen.

  “Whoever it is, bite him,” Graham told the dog and then opened the door.

  Graham recognized the sheriff only a fraction of a second before the man’s fist landed. The blow caught Graham flush on the mouth and sent him staggering back into the room, where he tripped on the Indian rug and fell heavily against the desk, his head striking a protruding corner.

  The world dimmed, flickered once, then partially rekindled as Shotgun sailed through the air. The dog’s jaws snapped, tearing at the arm which Sheriff Fisk had managed to throw up in front of his face.

  As if through a fog, Graham watched as Fisk chopped at the dog’s nose with his free hand. Shotgun released his grip and dropped to the floor, then backed up until he was standing directly in front of the fallen Graham.

  The dog’s head swung from side to side, spraying saliva. The snarl emanating from its throat was like nothing Graham had ever heard from an animal. It had a deadly quality. Apparently the sheriff thought so, too, because he drew his revolver.

  Graham recovered enough to grab hold of Shotgun’s tail. “Easy, boy,” he grunted, but the dog didn’t take its eyes from Fisk, who now had his pistol aimed at the animal’s head.

  “You’re trespassing,” Graham said feebly. His lip felt twice its normal size. The taste of blood was strong in his mouth.

  “What the hell is going on out there?” Harry shouted, charging into the room.

  She looked a bit ridiculous, wearing Graham’s large raincoat. Yet there was determination in her voice and manner. She reached past Graham to grab Shotgun’s collar.

  “You”—she eyed the sheriff with disgust—“put away that gun.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll take care of the dog.”

  Somehow, Graham managed to climb the heights above him and get to his feet. As he grabbed hold of the desk to steady himself, he realized that he didn’t have his hook on and felt exposed.

  Harry returned from the kitchen where she’d left Shotgun. “Jack,” she said, touching his face, “are you all right? There’s blood all over you.”

  He tried to smile, but his fat lip got in the way.

  “What happened?”

  “I hit him,” Fisk answered.

  Graham let go of the desk long enough to use his fingers to explore the back of his head. Blood was seeping through his hair and trickling down the side of his neck.

  He touched his lower lip, which felt large enough to qualify him for the cover of National Geographic.

  “Bastard!” Harry spat at the sheriff, who suddenly had the stricken look of a man realizing he’s just hit a man who doesn’t have two hands with which to fight back.

  Graham grinned at Fisk’s discomfort. However, the smile made him think of his swollen lip. He started for the kitchen.

  “Where are you going?” Harry asked.

  “Cold water,” Graham mumbled. It sounded as though he were speaking through a gag. His tongue probed his teeth one by one, seeking casualties. One incisor felt loose, but that was all.

  The instant he opened the kitchen door, Shotgun started growling again. Luckily, Harry was right behind Graham. She snagged the dog and dragged it to the bathroom.

  When she returned, she began applying wet paper towels to Graham’s face.

  After a while, Fisk poked his head around the door, saw that the dog was gone, and joined them in the kitchen.

  Harry glared at him and said, “I’m going to see that you’re charged with assault.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the sheriff.

  “That uniform doesn’t make you a man,” Harry went on.

  Graham blinked at the sheriff. No doubt about it; the man was jealous. The thought gave Graham a warm, self-satisfied feeling that more than made up for his pain. Once again, he was competitive.

  His complacency must have showed, because Fisk counterattacked. “This isn’t California, you know. Around here, we expect our women to be treated with respect.”

  “And what is your definition of respect?” Harry snapped at him. “Wrestling in the backseat?”

  A flush of color spread over the sheriff’s face.

  There was a flush to Harry’s, too, but it was from anger. Her eyes glinted with it.

  “You know what I meant,” the sheriff said, subdued.

  “No, I don’t,” Harry persisted. “Tell me.”

  Graham looked at her with a touch of awe. He didn’t give a damn about her past, or what she’d done in anybody’s backseat. Last night had taught him that she was a sensitive, beautiful woman. And, he thought, grinning enough to start his lip bleeding again, she was one hell of a bed partner.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “This, I want to hear.”

  Graham loved her.

  Fisk stepped over to the sink and peered through the small window above it. It was obvious he couldn’t meet Harry’s white-hot gaze.

  “I came looking for you, Harry,” he said at last, “and what do I find? You running around wearing nothing but his coat. Your car’s been here all night too. I can tell because there’s
dew all over it.”

  “Quite the detective, aren’t you?”

  Fisk, still keeping his back to her, hunched his shoulders.

  Harry said, “I stayed all night if that’s what you want to know.” Harry leaned over to kiss Graham’s whiskered cheek.

  And she has dew on her, too, Graham thought happily. His dew. A corny image, but nice nevertheless. He took her hand.

  “I have no previous commitments,” she said.

  All at once, Graham felt lighthearted, not from pain, but from hope. It was the first time he’d felt good, really good, in months. And for the first time in just as long, he had the urge, the need, to paint, to capture his joy on canvas.

  “Look at me,” Harry said to the sheriff.

  When the man complied, she took a deep breath. “There’s something I have to say.” She looked at Jack and squeezed his hand, then turned back to Fisk. “You hit a man who wasn’t expecting it and couldn’t fight back. As far as I’m concerned Alden Fisk, that makes you a coward.”

  Her last word seemed to hang in the air.

  Fisk’s mouth worked without anything coming out.

  My God, Graham wouldn’t have believed it. He was actually beginning to feel sorry for the sheriff. Graham’s spirit soared even higher. With a woman like Harry at his side, he would succeed. He’d paint again. Hell, with her help, he could probably get by with no hands at all. Well, almost. Knock on wood.

  Fisk stepped toward Graham. “Come on. You deserve a free swing at me.”

  “I never hit a man when he’s down,” Graham said.

  The sheriff flinched. “Take a sock at me . . . please.”

  Graham shook his head.

  “I’ll fight you one-handed then. My left against yours.”

  “My God.” Harry’s head shook in disbelief. “Don’t you ever learn? I’m not some prize that goes to the victor.”

  “Look, Harry,” Graham said, “I can take him left-handed.”

  “Not you too.”

  “You’re worth fighting for,” Graham said.

  “I know you mean that, Jack, and I thank you for it. But fighting solves nothing.”

  “But—”

  “Besides, I’m freezing.” She stomped into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. “I’ll be out as soon as I’m dressed.”