back!”
It was impossible to tell which vehicle the chubby finger was pointing at. Jimmy saw four: a station wagon that looked like it had been rode hard along nine miles of woods road, a spandy-clean Prius, a Dodge Ram hauling a horse-trailer, and a Ford Expedition.
“Little girl, what’s your name? I’m Trooper Jimmy.”
“Rachel Lussier,” she said. “This is Blakie. He’s my little brother. We live at Nineteen Fresh Winds Way, Falmouth, Maine, 04105. Don’t go near it, Trooper Jimmy. It looks like a car, but it’s not. It eats people.”
“Which car are we talking about, Rachel?”
“That one in front, next to my daddy’s. The muddy one.”
“The muddy car ate Daddy and Mommy!” the little boy—Blakie—proclaimed. “You get them back, you’re a policeman, you got a gun!”
Still on one knee, Jimmy held the children in his arms and eyeballed the muddy station wagon. The sun went back in; their shadows disappeared. On the turnpike, traffic swished past, but slower now, mindful of those flashing blue lights.
No one in the Expedition, the Prius, or the truck. He was guessing there was no one in the horse-trailer, either, unless they were hunkered down, and in that case the horse would probably seem a lot more nervous than it did. The only vehicle he couldn’t see into was the one these kids claimed had eaten their parents. Jimmy didn’t like the way the mud was smeared on all its windows. It looked like deliberate mud, somehow. He didn’t like the cracked cell phone lying by the driver’s door, either. Or the ring beside it. The ring was downright creepy.
Like the rest of this isn’t .
The driver’s door suddenly creaked partway open, upping the Creepy Quotient a bit more. Jimmy tensed and put his hand the butt of his Glock, but no one came out. The door just hung there, six inches ajar.
“That’s how it tries to get you to come in,” the little girl said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “It’s a monster car.”
Jimmy Golding hadn’t believed in monster cars since he saw that movie Christine as a kid, but he believed that sometimes monsters could lurk in cars. And someone was in this one. How else had the door opened? It could be one of the kids’ parents, hurt and unable to cry out. It could also be a man lying down on the seat, so he wouldn’t make a shape visible through the mud-smeared rear window. Maybe a man with a gun.
“Who’s in the station wagon?” Jimmy called. “I’m a state trooper, and I need you to announce yourself.”
No one announced himself.
“Come out. Hands first, and I want to see them empty.”
The only thing that came out was the sun, printing the door’s shadow on the pavement for a second or two before ducking back into the clouds. Then there was only the hanging door.
“Come with me, kids,” Jimmy said, and shepherded them to his cruiser. He opened the back door. They looked at the backseat with its litter of paperwork, Jimmy’s fleece-lined jacket (which he didn’t need today), and the shotgun clipped and locked to the back of the bench seat. Especially that.
“Mommy-n-daddy say never get into a stranger’s car,” the boy named Blakie said. “They say it at school, too. Stranger-danger.”
“He’s a policeman with a policeman’s car,” Rachel said. “It’s okay. Get in. And if you touch that gun, I’ll smack you.”
“Good advice on the gun, but it’s secured and the trigger lock’s on,” Jimmy said.
Blakie got in, and peered over the seat. “Hey, you got a iPad!”
“Shut up,” Rachel said. She started to get in, then looked at Jimmy Golding with tired, horrified eyes. “Don’t touch it. It’s sticky .”
Jimmy almost smiled. He had a daughter only a year or so younger than this little girl, and she might have said the same thing. He guessed little girls divided naturally into two groups, tomboys and dirt-haters. Like his Ellen, this one was a dirt-hater.
It was with this soon-to-be fatal
It was impossible to tell which vehicle the chubby finger was pointing at. Jimmy saw four: a station wagon that looked like it had been rode hard along nine miles of woods road, a spandy-clean Prius, a Dodge Ram hauling a horse-trailer, and a Ford Expedition.
“Little girl, what’s your name? I’m Trooper Jimmy.”
“Rachel Lussier,” she said. “This is Blakie. He’s my little brother. We live at Nineteen Fresh Winds Way, Falmouth, Maine, 04105. Don’t go near it, Trooper Jimmy. It looks like a car, but it’s not. It eats people.”
“Which car are we talking about, Rachel?”
“That one in front, next to my daddy’s. The muddy one.”
“The muddy car ate Daddy and Mommy!” the little boy—Blakie—proclaimed. “You get them back, you’re a policeman, you got a gun!”
Still on one knee, Jimmy held the children in his arms and eyeballed the muddy station wagon. The sun went back in; their shadows disappeared. On the turnpike, traffic swished past, but slower now, mindful of those flashing blue lights.
No one in the Expedition, the Prius, or the truck. He was guessing there was no one in the horse-trailer, either, unless they were hunkered down, and in that case the horse would probably seem a lot more nervous than it did. The only vehicle he couldn’t see into was the one these kids claimed had eaten their parents. Jimmy didn’t like the way the mud was smeared on all its windows. It looked like deliberate mud, somehow. He didn’t like the cracked cell phone lying by the driver’s door, either. Or the ring beside it. The ring was downright creepy.
Like the rest of this isn’t .
The driver’s door suddenly creaked partway open, upping the Creepy Quotient a bit more. Jimmy tensed and put his hand the butt of his Glock, but no one came out. The door just hung there, six inches ajar.
“That’s how it tries to get you to come in,” the little girl said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “It’s a monster car.”
Jimmy Golding hadn’t believed in monster cars since he saw that movie Christine as a kid, but he believed that sometimes monsters could lurk in cars. And someone was in this one. How else had the door opened? It could be one of the kids’ parents, hurt and unable to cry out. It could also be a man lying down on the seat, so he wouldn’t make a shape visible through the mud-smeared rear window. Maybe a man with a gun.
“Who’s in the station wagon?” Jimmy called. “I’m a state trooper, and I need you to announce yourself.”
No one announced himself.
“Come out. Hands first, and I want to see them empty.”
The only thing that came out was the sun, printing the door’s shadow on the pavement for a second or two before ducking back into the clouds. Then there was only the hanging door.
“Come with me, kids,” Jimmy said, and shepherded them to his cruiser. He opened the back door. They looked at the backseat with its litter of paperwork, Jimmy’s fleece-lined jacket (which he didn’t need today), and the shotgun clipped and locked to the back of the bench seat. Especially that.
“Mommy-n-daddy say never get into a stranger’s car,” the boy named Blakie said. “They say it at school, too. Stranger-danger.”
“He’s a policeman with a policeman’s car,” Rachel said. “It’s okay. Get in. And if you touch that gun, I’ll smack you.”
“Good advice on the gun, but it’s secured and the trigger lock’s on,” Jimmy said.
Blakie got in, and peered over the seat. “Hey, you got a iPad!”
“Shut up,” Rachel said. She started to get in, then looked at Jimmy Golding with tired, horrified eyes. “Don’t touch it. It’s sticky .”
Jimmy almost smiled. He had a daughter only a year or so younger than this little girl, and she might have said the same thing. He guessed little girls divided naturally into two groups, tomboys and dirt-haters. Like his Ellen, this one was a dirt-hater.
It was with this soon-to-be fatal
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