The Traveling Vampire Show

Every so often, we came upon pickup trucks. None seemed to be Lee’s, though. Which didn’t mean her truck wasn’t there. So far, we hadn’t even stumbled upon the red pickup that we knew had arrived. We saw nothing much except what was beside us and straight in front of us.

About halfway through the labyrinth, we came upon a big old black Cadillac.

Chapter Forty-eight

Parked close behind some sort of boxy delivery truck, the Cadillac took us by surprise. There it suddenly was, its front bumper close enough to touch.

Rusty must’ve noticed it an instant before I did. He gasped and dropped to his knees. At first, I didn’t know what was wrong. I thought maybe someone had spotted us. Then I saw the hood ornament and felt as if my wind had been knocked out.

I hit the ground behind Rusty.

Twisting his head around, he whispered, “Is it it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Anyone in it?”

“I don’t know.”

Rusty moaned. “What if they’re in it?”

“Got your knife?” Even as I asked, I shoved a hand down the front pocket of my jeans and wrapped it around Slim’s folding knife.

Rusty reached back under the hanging tail of his shirt and pulled out Slim’s sheath knife.

I opened my blade. My hands were shaking. “They’re probably in the stands,” I whispered.

“They better be.”

I raised my head. The windshield had no glare. A pale glow from the grandstands lit up the rear window so I could see straight through the car.

If I’d found the twins staring back at me from the front seat, I probably would’ve dropped dead. Or at the very least filled my jeans. Instead, I let my breath out.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “They’re gone.”

Rusty took a look for himself. Then he muttered, “Thank God.”

We started forward again, moving through the narrow space between the side of the Cadillac and the station wagon beside it.

I suddenly got an idea. It sent a jolt of fear through me. Fear and excitement.

“Rusty, wait.”

He stopped and looked around at me. “Huh?”

“Think it’s really their car?” I whispered.

“Must be.”

“Yeah. Look. I’m gonna check it out. Maybe we can find out who they are.”

“But the show.”

“Screw the show. Anyway, it’s not gonna start for a while. Wait here.” I switched the knife to my left hand. With my right, I reached up for the handle of the passenger door.

“Are you nuts?”

“Shhh. Keep an eye out. Yell if anyone comes.”

The door wasn’t locked. I opened it. No lights came on. Cigarette stink filled my nostrils. When I climbed into the car, stuff slid and crunched under my feet. There seemed to be a lot of junk on the floor in front of the seat. Magazines or maps, bags, food wrappers, maybe some small boxes. I couldn’t see much in the darkness, but that was the impression I got.

I sat down and opened the glove compartment. It was full. I took out some cigarette packs, matches, maps, napkins, rubber gloves like my mom usually wore when she washed the dishes.

Rubber gloves.

I kept on searching, pausing to look at papers, hoping to find the car registration. There didn’t seem to be anything of the sort, but I found an ice pick with a wooden handle.

“Jeez,” I muttered.

“What?” Rusty asked through the door.

“An ice pick.”

“Let’s get outa here,” Rusty said.

I put Slim’s knife back into my pocket. Keeping the ice pick, I crawled out of the car. I eased its door shut and showed the pick to Rusty.

“Nasty,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Gonna keep it?”

“I don’t know.”

“These’ve gotta be our guys.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Find out who they are?”

I shook my head. “There’s probably something with their names on it, but… too much crap in there. And it’s too dark to see anything. Maybe if we took everything with us…”

“Forget it.”

“Anyway, that’d take a gunny sack.”

“Let’s just get going,” Rusty said.

“Wait.”

“Now what?”

“We can make sure it stays here. The car, everything in it.” I grinned. “Maybe them, too. The twins.”

“Huh?”

Instead of trying to explain, I scurried over to the right front tire and rammed the ice pick into its side. The point punched easily through the rubber. I shoved the shaft in deep, then jerked it free. Air chased it out, hissing.

“Terrific,” Rusty muttered.

At the front of the Cadillac, I checked for a license plate. There wasn’t one. I opened the hood and propped it up. Leaning inside, I poked holes in all the hoses I could find. And I removed the radiator cap and gave it a toss into the darkness. Silently, I shut the hood.

I crouched by the left front tire, jabbed it with the ice pick, then hurried to the rear tire and gave it the same treatment.

No back plate, either.

I stabbed the right rear tire.

Looking up, I saw Rusty shake his head. “Now can we go see the show?” he asked.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I rubbed the pick with my shirt tail to get my fingerprints off its handle, then tossed it under the Cadillac.

We moved on.