I Speak for the Dead

Part Eight

My car surprised me.  For starters, it started.  There have been many occasions when it didn't; it just sat there, smug and ugly, like a broken-down pit bull waiting for its last fight, too big to shove off to the side of the road, and too ugly to just walk by.  For finishers, it didn't explode.  There was one time, a year ago, when it did neither.  When it refused to start, I had gotten out and popped the hood, just to make sure the engine was still there.  It had been, along with a small bomb that someone who didn't like me very much knew enough to put together, but not enough to make it explode.  Craftsmanship is a dying thing in this country.   

I eased the gear shift toward drive, and the car lurched forward, a Dorian Grey-like facsmile of its home town, which from what I heard, wasn't doing too well either.  I prowled down the dark streets as the wet rain started to smack the windshield like a swarm of those tiny gnats out mating; there was no sense in turning on the wipers because the rubber was shot.  Another item for the to-do list, if I every got making the list done. 

My apartment is located in the only section of town sadder than the one more office hunkers in.  I drifted in a general way toward the curb, parking in front of the same panel truck which had been sitting there for more than three weeks.  One of the wheels was gone.  Apparently the owner had removed a flat, rolling it away to look for repairs.  Something must have happened to him, because he never came back. 

I slammed the door hard enough to make it close, but not so hard as to shatter the windows.  The doors weighed a ton, and they were starting to sag a bit.   

"Rachel." 

I whirled around to face the speaker.  My neighbors do not usually sit on the front porch greeting people, but neither do muggers announce their presence by calling my name.  My neighborhood seems its share of robberies, thefts, and break-ins.  Sometimes there's a rape or a murder, just to balance things out.  I had not intention of becoming a digit in some crime-stat spread sheet. 

My hand was on the small revolver I carried in my jacket pocket.  It's just a .22, but if I put it in your ear and pull the trigger, I will have your full attention for the split-second you'll have to realize what just happened.  "What?" 

A figure melted out of the shadows near my front door, his long face slowly illuminated as he approached me, under he came under the street light. The hat he wore shaded his face even then, so I decided to wait.  I slid my revolver from my pocket and palmed it, slowly pulling the hammer back until I felt the satisfying click that told me the gun was ready for action.  Despite myself, that's a moment I always enjoy, sort of like a hillbilly hearing a banjo.  

"You need to listen to me, and do what I say."  I couldn't place the voice as one that I had ever heard before, but he was clearly disguising his voice.   

I squinted at the face, but with the harsh light streaming straight against the bill of the hat, I could not make it out.  "Who are you, anyway?  Why should I listen to you?" 

The man pulled back a step, and dropped his head a little lower.   

"Because Emma Gold was my daughter."