Third Grave Dead Ahead
Page 77
“Sorry about that,” I said, indicating the light as I aimed it to the side.
“Don’t be sorry to me,” she said, “it’s just that’s Miss Faye’s place, and she don’t take kindly to no visitors.”
“Should I knock?” I asked, only half serious. The acrid smell that hit me when I’d entered snaked around me like a poisonous gas, and I couldn’t decide which would be worse—breathing through my mouth or nose.
The woman chuckled. “Sure. Knock. Ain’t gonna help, but you go right ahead.”
“Have you ever heard of a Harold Reynolds?” I asked, again only half serious.
“Nope. Why you asking?”
“’Cause I’m looking for him. He used to live here.” I lifted the lapel of my leather jacket and covered the lower half of my face, hoping it would help. It didn’t.
“Oh, then you need to ask Miss Faye for sure. She used to run the place. Still thinks she does.”
In a flash, I realized who Miss Faye had to be. The landlady’s name all those years ago had been Faye. “I think I remember her.”
“Yeah?”
“Bleached blond hair? Resembles death warmed over?”
She chuckled again. “That’s her. You go on about your knocking, now. I could use me a good laugh.”
That didn’t sound promising, but the thought of actually talking to that landlady again had my pulse racing in anticipation. Maybe she knew where Earl Walker had moved off to after he left here. She hadn’t been much help when I was fifteen, but the possibility was worth a shot. I raised my hand to the door, and the woman started cackling in excitement, apparently readying herself to be entertained. How bad could Miss Faye be? She’d had one foot in the grave the first time I’d spoken to her, and that was over ten years ago. Surely, with a little luck, I could take her.
About half a second after my knuckles made first contact, something crashed against the door, loud enough to startle the bejesus out of me. I ducked and stumbled back before raising the light first to the door, then back to the woman.
“What the hell was that?”
She laughed some more, holding on to her sides, then managed to say, “Soup, sounded like.”
I frowned and glanced back at the door. “That didn’t sound like soup to me, unless it was a few weeks old.”
“In the can. You know, ’fore it’s made.”
“Oh, right, a can of soup. Wonderful,” I said, complaining. “This place is like crazy on crackers.”
The woman rolled onto her side with laughter. Normally, I liked making people laugh, but all I could seem to muster was a look of concern as I stepped back to the door and tried the knob.
“You still going in there?” she asked, her astonishment cutting the cackle-fest short.
“That’s the plan.” I turned back to her. “What do you think my chances are?”
She waved a hand. “She just likes to throw things. Her aim’s wretched. Likely, she won’t hit you if you run fast enough.”
“Her aim sounded pretty good from here.”
“Yeah, well, she gets lucky sometimes.”
“Great.”
Surprisingly, the door was unlocked. I raised one arm to cover my face, then cracked the door open. “Miss Faye?” I said through the opening.
Another can crashed against the door, slamming it shut, and the cackling started again. I’d have to make a run for it, possibly do a zigzag sprint until I found cover inside. I turned back to the woman and offered a sympathetic smile.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Tennessee,” she said, pride brightening her aura.
“Okay.” That was an odd name for a woman if ever I heard one. “Well, Tennessee, you can cross through me if you’d like.”
A toothless grin flashed across her face. “I think I’ll stay a bit. I’m waiting on Miss Faye. I reckon she won’t be much longer.”
“I understand. Wish me luck,” I said.
She chortled. “You’ll need it. I was lying about her aim.”
“Thanks,” I said with a final wave before bursting through the door. Something flew past my head. I stumbled over piles of junk and dived behind a decrepit couch just as another can was launched across the room. It crashed through the drywall and into the next room. “Miss Faye, damn it,” I called out from behind the arms covering my head as I cowered behind the couch. “Don’t make me call the police. I’m a friend. We met a few years ago.”
The aerial assault stopped, and I peeked over my elbows. Then I heard a creaking sound along the floor as she drew closer and I suddenly felt like I’d landed in a horror movie, waiting to be pummeled to death by soup cans.
“I don’t know you.”
I jumped and raised both the flashlight and the tire iron to defend myself. Considering she only had a flyswatter, I figured my chances were pretty freaking good.
“How do you know my name?” Her voice was a cross between a bulldog and a cement mixer. She’d clearly led a rough life.
“Tennessee told me.”
She frowned and studied me. I kept the light just close enough to her face to see her without blinding her. Since Miss Faye was still alive, I needed some kind of illumination to make out her features, unlike Tennessee.
“What’s your name?” she asked, turning toward a kerosene lamp and lighting it.
I switched off my flashlight when a soft glow filled a room that smelled like dirty ashtrays and mold. “Charley,” I said, glancing around at the piles and piles of magazines, old newspapers, books, and other nonessential paraphernalia. The place defined use extreme caution when lighting a cigarette.
“Don’t be sorry to me,” she said, “it’s just that’s Miss Faye’s place, and she don’t take kindly to no visitors.”
“Should I knock?” I asked, only half serious. The acrid smell that hit me when I’d entered snaked around me like a poisonous gas, and I couldn’t decide which would be worse—breathing through my mouth or nose.
The woman chuckled. “Sure. Knock. Ain’t gonna help, but you go right ahead.”
“Have you ever heard of a Harold Reynolds?” I asked, again only half serious.
“Nope. Why you asking?”
“’Cause I’m looking for him. He used to live here.” I lifted the lapel of my leather jacket and covered the lower half of my face, hoping it would help. It didn’t.
“Oh, then you need to ask Miss Faye for sure. She used to run the place. Still thinks she does.”
In a flash, I realized who Miss Faye had to be. The landlady’s name all those years ago had been Faye. “I think I remember her.”
“Yeah?”
“Bleached blond hair? Resembles death warmed over?”
She chuckled again. “That’s her. You go on about your knocking, now. I could use me a good laugh.”
That didn’t sound promising, but the thought of actually talking to that landlady again had my pulse racing in anticipation. Maybe she knew where Earl Walker had moved off to after he left here. She hadn’t been much help when I was fifteen, but the possibility was worth a shot. I raised my hand to the door, and the woman started cackling in excitement, apparently readying herself to be entertained. How bad could Miss Faye be? She’d had one foot in the grave the first time I’d spoken to her, and that was over ten years ago. Surely, with a little luck, I could take her.
About half a second after my knuckles made first contact, something crashed against the door, loud enough to startle the bejesus out of me. I ducked and stumbled back before raising the light first to the door, then back to the woman.
“What the hell was that?”
She laughed some more, holding on to her sides, then managed to say, “Soup, sounded like.”
I frowned and glanced back at the door. “That didn’t sound like soup to me, unless it was a few weeks old.”
“In the can. You know, ’fore it’s made.”
“Oh, right, a can of soup. Wonderful,” I said, complaining. “This place is like crazy on crackers.”
The woman rolled onto her side with laughter. Normally, I liked making people laugh, but all I could seem to muster was a look of concern as I stepped back to the door and tried the knob.
“You still going in there?” she asked, her astonishment cutting the cackle-fest short.
“That’s the plan.” I turned back to her. “What do you think my chances are?”
She waved a hand. “She just likes to throw things. Her aim’s wretched. Likely, she won’t hit you if you run fast enough.”
“Her aim sounded pretty good from here.”
“Yeah, well, she gets lucky sometimes.”
“Great.”
Surprisingly, the door was unlocked. I raised one arm to cover my face, then cracked the door open. “Miss Faye?” I said through the opening.
Another can crashed against the door, slamming it shut, and the cackling started again. I’d have to make a run for it, possibly do a zigzag sprint until I found cover inside. I turned back to the woman and offered a sympathetic smile.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Tennessee,” she said, pride brightening her aura.
“Okay.” That was an odd name for a woman if ever I heard one. “Well, Tennessee, you can cross through me if you’d like.”
A toothless grin flashed across her face. “I think I’ll stay a bit. I’m waiting on Miss Faye. I reckon she won’t be much longer.”
“I understand. Wish me luck,” I said.
She chortled. “You’ll need it. I was lying about her aim.”
“Thanks,” I said with a final wave before bursting through the door. Something flew past my head. I stumbled over piles of junk and dived behind a decrepit couch just as another can was launched across the room. It crashed through the drywall and into the next room. “Miss Faye, damn it,” I called out from behind the arms covering my head as I cowered behind the couch. “Don’t make me call the police. I’m a friend. We met a few years ago.”
The aerial assault stopped, and I peeked over my elbows. Then I heard a creaking sound along the floor as she drew closer and I suddenly felt like I’d landed in a horror movie, waiting to be pummeled to death by soup cans.
“I don’t know you.”
I jumped and raised both the flashlight and the tire iron to defend myself. Considering she only had a flyswatter, I figured my chances were pretty freaking good.
“How do you know my name?” Her voice was a cross between a bulldog and a cement mixer. She’d clearly led a rough life.
“Tennessee told me.”
She frowned and studied me. I kept the light just close enough to her face to see her without blinding her. Since Miss Faye was still alive, I needed some kind of illumination to make out her features, unlike Tennessee.
“What’s your name?” she asked, turning toward a kerosene lamp and lighting it.
I switched off my flashlight when a soft glow filled a room that smelled like dirty ashtrays and mold. “Charley,” I said, glancing around at the piles and piles of magazines, old newspapers, books, and other nonessential paraphernalia. The place defined use extreme caution when lighting a cigarette.
