Jackals

by Charles L. Grant

  Out in the field, moving right to left, something dark passed through the high grass. It was too distant to tell size, but it was larger than a big dog.

  “They’re here, Jim,” Acres said hoarsely when the spasm passed. “They’re here.”

  Jim didn’t blink. “Who?”

  “Santa Claus and his elves. Who the fuck do you think, man? The Modeens. They’re here.”

  Jim blew softly. His chest, stomach, groin tightened, and the muscles of his right arm twitched once. “I’ll be damned. Which ones?”

  There was a pause, the sound of the receiver changing hands, and he could hear the distant muffled sound of passing traffic, the blare of an eighteen-wheeler. Acres was at a pay phone, probably on a highway.

  “Best I can figure … all of them.”

  Oh Jesus.

  He snapped his head around, staring at the hall in case Rachel had heard him. He strained, eyes narrowed, but he didn’t think she was there. With any luck at all, she’d sleep through the night. Like the dead.

  “Jim?”

  “Here, bud. Look, you sure it’s all? I think I got some of them up here too.”

  “Shit.”

  His fingers stopped; his feet dropped soundlessly to the floor.

  Something big, streaking through the field.

  Something large.

  “Charlie, you’ve got to get your ass to my place pronto. If you’re right—”

  Acres coughed again, worse than before, worse than Jim had ever heard. A touch of cold traced across his chest.

  “Jim?” Gasping now; hardly able to breathe.

  “Still here, pal. Now do me a favor and hang up, get to your car, and—”

  “I can’t.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Charlie.”

  “I can’t. They’ve seen me, Jim. Spotted me this afternoon, I think, when I stopped for gas. I don’t know if I can make it that far.”

  “Then fly, for Christ’s sake. You don’t need to take the roads. You need money, I’ll wire it.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jim’s throat dried; it felt like straw down there.

  “Jim? Shit. Look, there’s more. I heard—”

  “Charlie, forget it. Tell me when you—”

  “It’s not just them, Jim. The Modeens. I was in this diner last night, the most godawful meat loaf you ever had in your life, and I—”

  He heard a faint, high-pitched whistling, a winter’s wind in fallen leaves, and Acres whispered something he couldn’t catch just before the line went dead.

  “Charlie?”

  The shadow in the field passed out of sight.

  “Charlie?”

  Something flew across the moon.

  Something large.

  As silently as he could, he set the receiver on its cradle, eased the phone to the floor, and pushed himself to the edge of the cushion, leaning forward, elbows on his thighs, hands in a single fist beneath his chin. His forehead nearly touched the pane as he stared at the road, at the field, watching the moon bleach the stars.

  I’m not ready, he thought; please, God, I’m not ready.

  they tried to kill me.

  I’m not.

  they laughed like …

  He had fallen asleep last night when he should have been awake.

  “Charlie,” he whispered.

  He hoped it wasn’t a eulogy, found a star, made a wish and astonished himself by believing.

  Just drive, you son of a bitch, he told the dark; just get in that damn car and drive, you hear?

  He dragged the phone over between his feet, watched the moon for a while, then dialed.

  “Jonelle? It’s Jim.”

  “Well, damn, do you have any idea what time it is?”

  Jonelle Ryman, a little woman with a deep voice and black eyes and hair to match. Standing with him, she barely came up to the middle of his chest; standing with Maurice, she looked like a toddler until she turned around. Not even a blind man would mistake her for a child. She had a tendency to wear clothes that emphasized that face, and rode a motorcycle that, rolled over, would crush her like a gnat.

  “Peter around?”

  “That’s it? You call in the middle of the night, practically dawn, for God’s sake, and I don’t even get a ‘hey, Jonelle, what’s new?’”

  He smiled. “Last time I saw you was three days ago. What could be new?”

  “I could’ve run off with the garbageman, been hit by a truck, drowned, you name it.”

  He glanced outside. “Hey, Jonelle, what’s new?”

  She hesitated. “You sound awful.”

  “Peter,” he answered.

  She swore and covered the mouthpiece, but he could hear her calling her younger brother. Owner of the gas station on the interstate intersection.

  When he came on, he was coughing sleep from his throat. “It better be good.”

  “Modeen.”

  The silence matched the night.

  Then Peter said, “Aw, shit.”

  “Yeah. Just heard from Charlie Acres.”

  Peter made a noise; Jim could imagine him shaking his head.

  “Where?”

  “Birmingham, for sure.”

  “Here?”

  Moonlight made him squint. “I’m not sure. Maybe. There’s more, I’ll tell you later.”

  “Wonderful. Goddamn … wonderful.”

  “The tow truck?”

  “Damn, Jim, you really need it now?”

  “No. Soon, though. I reckon about … I don’t know. Soon.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Thanks. And tell Jonelle.”

  “Hell, she’s probably listening in down in the kitchen.”

  “I am not!”

  Jim almost laughed aloud. Something about that woman; there was just … something about that woman.

  “Sleep well, you two.”

  “Oh, sure,” Peter grumbled. “Right.”

  The young man hung up, Jonelle a moment later.

  Jim pushed the phone away with his foot, and stared at the moon.

  He didn’t bother to look at his watch when he finally roused himself and stood, rubbing at the small of his back to relieve the stiffness that had grown there. But he guessed that daybreak wasn’t all that far away.

  A yawn took him by surprise, but he didn’t feel tired; nevertheless, there was no question he had to rest. Tomorrow—today, he corrected—he had to do something about Rachel Corder. If she felt better, if he thought she could travel, he figured the best thing would be to bring her over to Tri-City Airport, get her on the first plane to Richmond, if that’s where she was headed. It wouldn’t be easy. She didn’t have any money, that had been taken with the rest of her things, and he doubted she was the kind to take anything from strangers.

  He grunted a laugh as he stood outside his bedroom, looking at her doorway. He couldn’t see anything from here, but he could feel her, and he moved quietly across the hall to the threshold, looked in and saw that she’d rolled over to her side, one arm dangling over the mattress.

  When she moaned in her sleep, he backed away guiltily, up on his toes. Sleep is private; no one should watch you sleep, no matter how romantic the romantics make it seem.

  Sleeping, Maurice had once said, is temporary dying; and no one should watch you die, either.

  Especially not a stranger.

  He tapped his forehead sharply to drive off the morbid thought, yawned again, and scratched his belly as he went into his own room, not bothering to switch on the light.

  Stranger.

  He shook his head.

  After all this, it wasn’t likely.

  But that was something he’d work on later. Right now, he needed rest. Too much fat-of the-land crap had gone under the bridge and to his waist since the first time, despite his efforts to stay in shape, and while he never considered himself old, seldom considered his age at all, there was the undeniable fact he was still getting older, getting slower. Adjustments would have to be made.<
br />
  If they’d only give him time.

  He undressed and raised the shade on his window, to use the sun as an alarm clock. Then he slipped shivering between the sheets, grunted, and closed his eyes with a silent sigh.

  Time was something they never gave anyone, least of all him.

  No, he corrected.

  Especially him.

  Chapter Four

  Ruby shifted her massive weight uneasily when Willum returned to the car. He was a little out of breath, and she scolded him for taking such a stupid chance.

  But all he said was, “I have an idea.”

  Ruby checked the back seat; the boys were sleeping hard, both of them snoring. “Tell me.”

  He did.

  She shook her head, wondering why she had bothered to listen in the first place. He was good, Willum was, but he had never been able to see beyond the next nightfall.

  “We have to know,” he insisted.

  “She’s there.”

  “But we have to know.”

  She folded her arms under her breasts and stared thoughtfully through the windshield. The car was parked beneath a huge tree, whose low branches nearly hid them. She shook her head slowly. There was something not right about this, and she couldn’t figure it out, and felt the anger grow again.

  “We don’t have much time,” he reminded her softly.

  “I know, I know! You think I don’t know that?”

  He glanced into the back. “It’ll give the boys something to do.”

  She had to smile. “True, they’d love it.”

  “And you can trust them not to be stupid.”

  A chuckle. “Don’t know about that.” She opened the door; the overhead light didn’t work. “I got to run. I got to think.”

  “Not too long now.”

  She promised.

  Not that she gave a damn.

  Chapter Five

  Charlie, damnit, be here, Jim thought the second he opened his eyes and felt the sun. A moment later he frowned; the room was too dim. He turned his head and realized the shade had been lowered, the curtains drawn across it. When he grabbed his watch from the night table and squinted at it, he sat up quickly in disbelief and groaned; it was almost noon, and he’d been worried about Rachel needing sleep?

  Jesus.

  “Oh, good work, Scott,” he told the room as he dressed. “Women and children first, but don’t bother me, boys, until the ship starts to slide. I need my beauty rest.”

  When he hurried into the kitchen she was already there, toast in the making, coffee on the round pine table, bare feet, shirt untucked, her hair still damp from a recent shower.

  And I didn’t hear a thing, he thought; Jesus H, I didn’t hear a thing.

  He dropped into a chair and picked up his cup.

  “You snore,” she said from the counter.

  “Nope.”

  “Trust me. You snore.”

  His gaze followed her from over the rim of the cup as she moved from place to place—“I ate hours ago, I’ll just have some coffee”—knowing where most things were, guessing pretty good at the rest. When she sensed him watching, she held up a butter knife. “You say I’ll make someone a good wife someday, I’ll use this.”

  He grinned. “Never crossed my mind.”

  She grinned back. “Like hell.”

  She joined him as he ate, her cup gathered between her palms, and he wondered aloud if anyone had come to the door while he’d slept.

  “No. You expecting a package?”

  He shook his head, didn’t explain.

  how many?

  She glanced around the room, then stretched, arms up and behind her head. “I feel …”

  He waited.

  She slumped, sighing. “Awful. But not as bad.”

  She looked much better. The scratches he could see weren’t nearly as nasty as they had been, and she had hidden the temple bruise with the fall of her hair. Only the swelling above her eye gave her away; it was much smaller now, but the bruising had spread, black and yellow. There wasn’t much she could do about that.

  “I’ve been thinking about those people, the Modeens?”

  Carefully, very carefully: “Okay.”

  “I guess you know what you’re doing, not going to the police.” She picked up a fork and pressed the tines lightly against her wrist. “I was mad at first, but then I figured things don’t necessarily work down here the same as they do up in Richmond.”

  all of them

  He was relieved, and did his best not to show it.

  The tines pressed deeper; her fingers curled.

  “But I’d like you to do something for me, okay?”

  “If I can.”

  A nod, barely seen. “Okay. You’ve got to promise me you’ll do something about it. Personally.”

  It was hard not laughing. “Rachel, that’s the easiest promise I’ll ever have to make.”

  She didn’t smile.

  Those eyes changed.

  “I don’t think you understand,” she said flatly. “I want them hurt. I want them hurt bad.”

  “And I suppose you’ll want proof?” He did laugh then, quickly, pushing a hand back through his hair. “An ear, a finger, something like that?”

  She didn’t laugh at all. “Something like that.”

  Brother, he thought; oh, brother.

  Her chest and arms rose as she inhaled slowly and deeply, exhaled in a rush. The eyes changed again, and he could feel the room change as well.

  “So,” she said. “How the hell do I get home?”

  That woman is too damn many people, he decided as he drank the last of his coffee. She was making him dizzy, and her cold-blooded demand hadn’t been a joke, which made him both uneasy and a little curious. In a way he was sorry she was leaving; he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know her much better than he already did, but at the same time, he had a feeling time with her wouldn’t be boring.

  Much as he didn’t want to, he said, “I’m not so sure you’re ready to travel just yet.”

  She stared at him for a long time, long enough to make him clear his throat, try to put it another way. But she beat him to it.

  “Actually, I already thought of that. I’m still a little dizzy now and then, and I don’t think my muscles are ever going to stop aching.” The fork returned to its spot on the placemat. “But I don’t want to put you to more trouble. God knows, you’ve done enough.”

  He had passed the test, whatever it was, and as he drained his cup, he feared he had made a mistake. But this was the second day after the chase, and they still hadn’t shown up, so maybe, this time, it would be all right.

  How do you know? You slept all night, half the day. How do you know?

  “You all right?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Just mad at myself, that’s all. I didn’t mean to sleep so long, leave you alone.”

  She leaned over the table to take his empty cup, but he stopped her with a wave. “You’ve done your bit. At least let me clean up.”

  She leaned back, folding her arms loosely across her chest. “I’m not going to argue.”

  “When I’m done,” he said, gesturing toward the back, “I’ll show you around. Give you a chance to keep those muscles from stiffening up too badly.”

  He was at the sink, rinsing the dishes, when she said, “So who are you, Jim?”

  He looked over his shoulder.

  “You’re not from around here,” she guessed, her voice startling him. Her accent, pure Virginia Richmond, had strengthened a little. “It’s some words that don’t really make it, if you know what I mean.”

  He dried the plate with a towel looped around the undersink cabinet handle. “Chicago.”

  “What?”

  “Yep.” His shrug was near apologetic. “Most of my young life there, right up through college and all. Too much, if you ask me again. Down here, though … I don’t know. It doesn’t take long to fall into the rhythm for someone like me. I heard one guy on TV a while back,
I don’t know where the hell he was from, he called it lazy talk. I call it easy talkin’, no reason to work at it, you’ll get where you’re going sooner or later. For some Northerners and West Coasters I guess I do pass for a native.” He winked at her. “It’s the pure bloods that know I’m a fake.”

  “So what do you do?”

  He turned and leaned back against the sink. “Kind of nosy, ain’t you?”

  “It’s part of my charm.” She met his gaze squarely. “So, you going to tell me?”

  His hand rubbed his chin mock thoughtfully, and there was an explosion of humor in his eyes. “Well, sometimes I buy and sell land here and there, sometimes I don’t do anything but scratch myself and get drunk, but mostly what I am, I guess, is goddamn rich.”

  She tried not to gape.

  When the humor reached his lips, he laughed aloud, crossed the cool tiled floor, and took her arm to lead her back into the hall.

  Finally she said, “You’re kidding, right?”

  He rapped a knuckle against the wall by her room, and stared pointedly at her feet. “Unless you want to put more holes in those things, maybe you ought to try the sneakers I left in the bedroom.”

  As she passed into the bedroom, he said, quite seriously, “No, Rachel. I’m not kidding.”

  A small porch like the porch in front faced a full-acre lawn. There was no fence out here, just meadow and pasture and climbing low hills that had reminded him of gumdrops the first time he’d seen them; a few old trees, two of which braced a canvas hammock between them, untouched woodland that bordered the lawn north and south. Far to their left was a ridge of mountains running east to west, summits smooth and jagged, slopes dark with trees and shadow.

  They walked for an hour, stopping now and then, resting on a boulder or under a tree, while he tried to show her how much land he owned without spelling out the numbers, without sounding as if he was bragging. Mostly, he said, not exaggerating all that much, it was what they could see until a hill or mountain got in the way. She was impressed, and he felt foolish because, oddly, he was pleased at her reaction.

  And when it was obvious she had neared the end of her strength, they returned to the house where he suggested, strongly, she take a nap.

  “Tonight, when you get up, I’ll take you to the finest meal this side of the Tennessee, maybe even the Mississippi. Then a good night’s sleep, you’ll be ready and home by dinnertime tomorrow.”