Jackals

by Charles L. Grant

  You know what it’s like, she asked, plucking idly at the sheet, driving all night? I don’t know, it’s weird sometimes. Nothing looks like it’s supposed to. Every time you think you’re where you want to be so you can stop and find a room, there’s more highway up there. I probably should have flown, I had the money, but I had this stupid idea that I wanted to see the country. Thirty years old and not getting any younger, as my Momma used to say, so I decided to take the chance. Traveling alone, for a woman, is about as dumb a thing as you can do, I guess, but Momma always said Corder women were pioneers, so I figured what the hell.

  I saw them first just outside Nashville, on the way from Memphis.

  I went to Graceland, you know. God. There were kids there, crying at his grave. Kids! He’s been dead longer than some of them have been alive. You ever been to Lourdes? I have a feeling it’s something like that. I kept looking for the place where they keep the crutches people don’t need anymore. It was spooky. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  Three hours later, I decided to stop in Nashville and see some things, nothing special, and this really huge old Cadillac comes drifting up behind me. I mean, it was like an ocean liner with giant fins, and it must be thirty years old if it’s a day. I was doing sixty-five in the right lane, and that bastard driver, you should have seen him, he tailgated me for I don’t know how long. I tried slowing down to get him to pass, but he wouldn’t. I stopped for gas, and he was right there when I got back on the interstate.

  It’s the first time since I left California that I really got nervous. The truck drivers didn’t bother me, the kids, nothing did, not really. I’ve had guys play stupid highway tag with me before, but this guy … Jesus.

  Then, just outside the city, he went away.

  I only stayed for a couple of days. T couldn’t stand it anymore. You ever been there? Everything is Loretta Lynn this and Merle Haggard that, and some woman I never heard of has got a chain of discount drug stores, for crying out loud, her picture out front and everything. It’s crazy. So after I got tired of it, I shopped for some new clothes and had something for dinner, I figured I could get to Roanoke, or close to it, before I got too tired to drive anymore.

  He picked me up again, about half an hour outside Knoxville.

  Look, I’d been driving the interstates for days, I was touristed out, my eyes were crossed from looking at so much blacktop, and I was just not in the mood for some macho asshole trying to impress me with a refurbished Caddy. I mean, it was gorgeous and all, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing, but Jesus Christ, I was beginning to wish I had a gun.

  I could have shot him.

  I could have shot them all.

  I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Really. But for some stupid reason I thought that if they thought I was getting close to home, they’d stop bothering me and go pick on someone else. I could see. there were about four of them in there, maybe five. Damn, did you know those cars had so much room back then? It was hard to tell exactly how many because of the sun. It was about down by then, poking between the mountains behind us, and it shone through his back window to the windshield and made it look like silver one time, almost black the next. So after I passed the Ashville junction, where the interstates come together—you know where it is? Where after a while the highway starts all this up-and-down stuff before it goes into Virginia?—after that, when I couldn’t take him any longer, I decided to get off the first chance I got.

  I turned left off the ramp and crossed over the highway.

  He kept following.

  Now I was scared. I knew I’d been a jerk, but I didn’t dare stop because I realized they weren’t playing anymore, and all I wanted to do was find a town, police station, anything where I could get out and get some help.

  There wasn’t any.

  They started bumping me then.

  We weren’t going very fast, all those little roads kept twisting and turning, and he’d come up and nudge me a little. Not hard, but it made the wheel jump and a hell of a lot of noise and scared the shit out of me. I was screaming at him, and I was just screaming, you know? Then I found this place, this little side road and I took it.

  I don’t know why.

  The car had started to smoke, and it was making all these banging and rattling noises, and I started to cry, and it had finally gotten dark, and all I could think of was that the son of a bitch was going to run me into a tree, and they were going to rape me. They wouldn’t kill me. That wouldn’t be any fun. They were just going to drag me out and rape me.

  We climbed this mountain, hill, I don’t know what the hell it was, and ran along this narrow road, hardly any room on either side, and suddenly it was pretty open, and the road didn’t go anyplace except back the way I’d come.

  The moon was out.

  I could see for miles.

  I could see the edge past the trees that were there.

  I tried to stop and turn, all at the same time, and I ended up sideways to the edge.

  That … that thing just sat there, dust floating all around it, and I was so hoarse I couldn’t yell anymore, but I tried. God, I tried.

  His headlights blinded me.

  The engine … it was quiet, so quiet it sounded like … I don’t know, but it didn’t sound like a car.

  And those headlights looked like eyes.

  Then he came closer, and all I could think of was to lock the doors, then get ready to floor it when he came close enough.

  I didn’t have a chance.

  He came closer, so close there was nothing but light in the window and I couldn’t see a damn thing.

  Everything had turned white.

  I got ready to jam it, then, just waiting for him to open the door, but all I could hear was that engine, so quiet I couldn’t believe it. It’s dumb now, but it almost sounded like that car was breathing.

  He just sat there.

  And just when I decided I wasn’t going to wait, there was just enough room for me to go forward and, if I turned tight and fast enough, get around him before he could block me … he moved.

  The son of a bitch nudged me again.

  Then he pushed me over the side.

  And you know what?

  He was laughing.

  All the time we sat there, I could hear him laughing.

  Oh Jesus, Jim, look at me, I’m shaking.

  I don’t know how close to the bottom that damn car went, but all I could think of was thank God I was wearing my seatbelt. Jesus. I was going to die, get blown up or crushed or something, and all I could think of was that damn seatbelt.

  Then I stopped rolling and sliding, and I was out of there. I didn’t have time to find out if I was hurt. I just got out of there and ran.

  There were so many trees I couldn’t see, and there were bushes that had all kinds of thorns, and I don’t know how many times I fell, must’ve been a thousand, and that goddamned moon was bright enough for sunlight.

  And I could hear them laughing.

  All the time I ran, I could hear them laughing.

  And then … hell, I don’t know, I guess I lost them.

  I knew I was getting away and that made me run harder and I was so fucking scared, you don’t know how scared I was, and they were still laughing back there.

  Christ.

  All the time, the whole goddamn time I could hear them laughing.

  Like … I don’t know, like …

  “Jackals,” he said quietly. “They sound just like jackals.”

  Chapter Two

  Under the moon they rode the interstate, climbing toward Bristol and Virginia as the Blue Ridge Mountains closed close around them.

  A long white Cadillac with glaring white eyes.

  The two men in back, both young and both in jeans and plaid shirts, dozed fitfully. The blond, with a thin blond mustache nearly invisible in daylight, muttered something, licked his lips, and tucked himself into the corner; the other one, much larger and darker, had a knee propped up ag
ainst the seat in front. His long hair covered half his face, and the wide scar etched from the corner of his right eye to the corner of his mouth.

  The driver shook his head wearily. “How we going to work if they won’t stay awake.”

  The passenger patted his knee. “Don’t fret so much, Willum, you’ll get gray before your time.”

  Willum grinned. “Long as what I got hangs around long enough to get gray, I guess I won’t mind.”

  A pickup sped past them. Even in the dark they could see the exhaust cloud behind it.

  “Damn,” Willum said quietly. “That’s the first thing we’ve seen in nearly an hour.” He shifted, and rubbed a hand over his face. “I think it’s a waste, Ruby.”

  Ruby agreed with a soft grunt.

  “So?” he asked.

  She backed against the door. “So maybe we go back, find out where the fawn went.”

  “We know.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “We know,” he insisted without raising his voice.

  “So maybe we ought to make sure.”

  They rode on ..

  Willum’s hands tightened on the beveled wheel. “And what if she found him?”

  “Well,” she said, drawing out the word as she watched the road speed toward them, “maybe we just ought not to count our chickens before they’re dinner. Things happen, you know. Could be, things happen.”

  “We going back?” a graveled, tired voice asked from the back seat.

  Ruby nodded as Willum took the Caddy to an off-ramp.

  “We going to see him?”

  She nodded again.

  Before response could be made, Willum said, “We’ll find a place to rest, get something to eat.” He smacked his lips loudly. “Fried chicken, dumplings, gravy, ow!” when Ruby smacked him hard on the arm.

  “Watch your mouth,” she scolded.

  He looked at her.

  She laughed.

  The Caddy swept back onto the highway, heading west, all alone.

  Nothing in its wake but the sound of something laughing.

  Chapter Three

  He had seen it in those amazing pale-dark eyes the night before—the terror of irrational pursuit, and the mild shock that went with it, although she probably didn’t realize it. Deer-scared in the headlights, except she hadn’t run, and she certainly wasn’t soft, and those eyes didn’t belong to any deer he knew. Now he saw it all again when he spoke—the spastic twitch of a small muscle in her cheek that pulled the comer of her mouth back just a little, and the jerk of her right hand as she stared at him and debated whether or not she was fast enough to get away.

  She had escaped once; she could do it again.

  What to say. What to do to help her.

  How do you explain a nightmare so the nightmare isn’t a dream?

  She blinked so rapidly, he thought for a second she was going to faint.

  Then she cleared her throat. “You know them?” Hoarsely: “You know who they are?”

  He drank, and wiped his upper lip with a finger. “I’m not sure. Maybe.”

  She struggled to sit up again, and he held out a palm, not touching her but putting her gently back to her pillow. “There’s some older boys, I think they’re from around Knoxville, they ride the roads and get their kicks from scaring the hell out of tourists.”

  Her face darkened. “This was more than just scaring.”

  He nodded carefully. “I can see that.” He scratched his cheek, the bottle still in his hand. “Drinking, sounds to me, don’t you think? I have to admit, though, I don’t know everything they do. It’s their reputation, you know what I mean?” Another drink, the bottle was empty.

  “No,” she said.

  “I mean, there’s stuff they could be getting away with, nobody knows about it, they can only guess.” He set the bottle down beside the chair.

  Her eyelids fluttered as she fought to stay alert. “So you didn’t call the cops?”

  He looked at her for several seconds, trying to judge just how much of a city girl she really was. “Sometimes, around here, it’s more … effective … when some things get handled on their own.”

  He wasn’t sure, but he thought she was both shocked, and that she approved. They had touched her, those men had, in places she probably didn’t know about, and most certainly didn’t approve.

  He had been touched too long ago to care.

  Not long enough to forget.

  The sun was gone; only the small lamp, and a fainter glow from the hall.

  “A name.”

  “What?”

  She looked at him, the dim light streaking her face with shadowed lines. She seemed a lot older; he suspected sadly she was.

  “A name. Do these ‘boys’ have a name?”

  “Modeen,” he answered without hesitation. Then he added, “Pricks, the whole family.”

  “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

  No, he thought; not if you want to get home alive.

  She groaned suddenly, hissed with drawn-back lips, and closed her eyes as she twisted away from one hip. He was on his feet quickly, pushing the chair out of the way, but she shook her head, lifted a staying hand.

  “Ache, you said?”

  He waggled a hand side to side.

  She snorted. “Try misery.”

  He told her to hang on a minute, he’d be right back.

  He took the tray and bottle and brought them into the kitchen, grabbed a shot glass from a cupboard over the stove, and hurried into the bathroom. There he filled the glass from a bottle in the medicine cabinet.

  Not thinking.

  Not daring.

  In the bedroom she had pressed back into the pillows, staring at the ceiling.

  “You all right?”

  Her smile was brief and mocking.

  “Sorry.” He handed her the glass.

  She frowned at the pale red liquid. “What’s this?”

  “Phenobarb.” He took the chair again. “It tastes awful, so chug it. It’ll calm you enough to sleep.”

  “I thought you weren’t a doctor.”

  He shook his head, grinning. “Not quite. But you’ve obviously got yourself a little concussion there, like I said. Plus you’re beat up, and you still hurt like holy hell. You slept before because you were exhausted from all that running. Now you’re healing. A good sleep isn’t going to be that easy for a while.”

  She drank, grimaced, and handed him the empty glass. “Not a doctor, huh? Lots of experience, though.”

  He shrugged with one shoulder.

  She adjusted the pillows and sighed loudly.

  “Who are you?” she asked softly.

  “Jim Scott.”

  “I know that.” Her lips moved, trembling for words.

  “But who are you?”

  He stood, moved the chair back to its place against the wall, and settled the light blanket over her. “A friend,” he answered, just as softly.

  “Hope so.”

  So do I, he thought as he switched off the light.

  “Leave the door open?”

  “Sure.”

  He stood in the hallway and looked at her, all in shadow now, just a form on the bed.

  And just before he turned away, his expression turned to stone.

  Once in the living room, he dropped into an old leather armchair deliberately angled so he could glance out the large front window while he read, or listen to a ballgame while sitting in the dark.

  It was a simple room, with an ordinary two-cushion couch facing the curtain-framed picture window. No pictures or travel posters, nothing on the floor, the furniture doing nothing more than doing its job—a low filled bookcase, a packed magazine rack, a low metal stand with a small-screen TV, a sideboard dressed with glasses and several bottles of liquor, another chair that matched and faced his, and end tables that held lamps that didn’t match at all.

  He was tired.

  He had spent most of last night sitting right here, staring out at the road.
/>   Waiting.

  Dozing until the sun rose.

  After checking on Rachel, he had eaten, and after the phone line had been repaired, he had made a few calls. Once done with business, he had had every intention of driving into town to find out what, if anything, anyone had heard about the Modeens. Instead, he had dozed off on the couch and hadn’t awakened until he’d heard her stirring.

  That unnerved him.

  Sleeping like that, at a time like this, was going to get him killed.

  Now, he pressed the heels of his hands against his temples and pressed, pushed, creating sparks that banished any temptation to close his eyes again.

  Bad business, he thought as his hands lowered to his lap; just when you think you’ve got it all set, everything ready, something comes along and makes it look all wrong.

  He coughed quietly.

  You’re feeling sorry for yourself

  He shook his head.

  Nope; just feeling stupid.

  He took the telephone from the side table and set it on his lap, and was about to call Maurice, to get some comfort and pass the word, when it rang, nearly stopping his heart, forcing him to hold his breath.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, throat abruptly dry, staring at the instrument as if he’d never seen one before. “Get hold, you idiot, get hold.”

  The telephone rang.

  He didn’t want to pick it up.

  Not this time of night.

  “Jim?”

  He tucked the receiver between ear and shoulder and twisted around so he could look out the window. The moon. He kept his voice low.

  “Charlie, for God’s sake, that you?”

  He propped his feet up on the sill, grinning.

  “In the flesh, in the flesh.”

  He grinned, reached for a cigarette, and remembered he’d left the pack in his bedroom.

  “Well, where the hell are you?”

  The field across the road was silver and black.

  “Birmingham.”

  Something moved out there.

  “Son of a bitch, no kidding? You coming up this way, I hope. It’s been a hell of a long time, man. Maurice’s going to have a fit. And Nola and Jonelle, all they ever do is talk about—”

  Charlie Acres coughed as though he were bringing up his lungs. Jim winced at the familiar painful sound and waited, left hand on the armrest, fingers drumming.