hands poised over the keyboard, and he stared at the screen, trying to ignore the object that was slowly changing his world.
****
“Hey, old timer, want a ride?”
Walter slowed, straightened his spine, and considered the offer despite the disrespect. The walk from the bus stop had been uphill, and the pack was beginning to feel like a bag of bowling balls. “I’d appreciate it very much.” His graying temples and stooped posture were probably to blame for the kid thinking he was older than he really was.
“We’re going all the way up the mountain. Pound on the roof when you want out, and I’ll stop.” Sporting a stubbly beard, the driver thumbed into the truck bed. Another hitchhiker, Walter assumed, already sat in the back leaning against the wheel well, arms crossed, and dozing. A young woman and a black and white dog watched him through the cab window.
Climbing in with a bit of difficulty, Walter settled onto the metal floor, leaning against his pack, letting his tired back relax.
The truck pulled onto the tarmac, the wind and road noise preventing more than the initial exchange of pleasantries. The other rider closed his eyes again after shifting so Walter could stretch out. He removed a shoe and rubbed a blister that had complained for the past hour. No one had followed him when he got off the bus in the mountain town, zigzagging the narrow streets. Just in case someone had followed him.
Walter pulled out the napkin where he’d jotted down the directions Luke gave him, and he searched for landmarks guiding him to the turnoff to his final hideout.
Chapter Seven
“Hello, Harold.”
He turned toward the cheerful greeting. Again, it was his neighbor with the dog. Today’s headscarf was a silky blue and green number, knotted at the nape of her long neck. He thought of the tie Rhashan had given him, and remembered an argument he’d had with Georgia over his lack of imagination when it came to clothes. Maybe he’d wear the tie after all.
“Pretty scarf.” He fumbled his keys, his right hand with that slight tremble he got whenever an attractive woman spoke to him.
“Tut-tut! Not so fast, you dropped something.” She held up the Kaleidoscope just out of his reach.
The clip usually made a sharp click when he removed it from his pocket, and he couldn’t recall hearing it. “How did that fall? Thanks.” Harold scanned the names on the bank of mailboxes. Gave him a chance to control the shaking. Her mailbox read S. Eubanks. When she’d first moved in, they had exchanged names, he was sure of it, but that must have been at least three years ago. He guessed she was an artist of some kind. At least she dressed that way.
“Sure is a pretty one. I had a cardboard one when I was a kid.” Before he could warn her, she jammed it up to her eye. A penciled brow curled over it. She dropped her arm, and with a stomach clench, Harold knew.
She had “the look.” He willed his hand to steady and lightly touched her elbow to guide her inside. She threw her hand out like she was going to faint.
“Sit down a minute, I’ll get you some water.”
Miss Eubanks sank, zombie-like, onto one of his kitchen chairs. Her dog trotted past Harold before he could protest, tail whopping back and forth as it sniffed his furniture. Worried it would lift its leg, he filled a plastic bowl of water, hoping to trap the dog on the linoleum. “Here, dog!” Harold set the water down, and the dog trotted over.
Lolling laps of water all over his floor and up the side of his cabinet, the dog made itself at home, then flopped down on its side, panting.
“I thought I’d seen everything, but I’ve never seen anything like a psychic Kaleidoscope.” Miss Eubanks had watched him interact with the dog with some amusement.
Harold’s shirt buttons pulled at each other on the inhale. “I don’t really believe in magic or that sort of thing—”
“I don’t care whether you believe or not, that’s what it is.”
She met his
****
“Hey, old timer, want a ride?”
Walter slowed, straightened his spine, and considered the offer despite the disrespect. The walk from the bus stop had been uphill, and the pack was beginning to feel like a bag of bowling balls. “I’d appreciate it very much.” His graying temples and stooped posture were probably to blame for the kid thinking he was older than he really was.
“We’re going all the way up the mountain. Pound on the roof when you want out, and I’ll stop.” Sporting a stubbly beard, the driver thumbed into the truck bed. Another hitchhiker, Walter assumed, already sat in the back leaning against the wheel well, arms crossed, and dozing. A young woman and a black and white dog watched him through the cab window.
Climbing in with a bit of difficulty, Walter settled onto the metal floor, leaning against his pack, letting his tired back relax.
The truck pulled onto the tarmac, the wind and road noise preventing more than the initial exchange of pleasantries. The other rider closed his eyes again after shifting so Walter could stretch out. He removed a shoe and rubbed a blister that had complained for the past hour. No one had followed him when he got off the bus in the mountain town, zigzagging the narrow streets. Just in case someone had followed him.
Walter pulled out the napkin where he’d jotted down the directions Luke gave him, and he searched for landmarks guiding him to the turnoff to his final hideout.
Chapter Seven
“Hello, Harold.”
He turned toward the cheerful greeting. Again, it was his neighbor with the dog. Today’s headscarf was a silky blue and green number, knotted at the nape of her long neck. He thought of the tie Rhashan had given him, and remembered an argument he’d had with Georgia over his lack of imagination when it came to clothes. Maybe he’d wear the tie after all.
“Pretty scarf.” He fumbled his keys, his right hand with that slight tremble he got whenever an attractive woman spoke to him.
“Tut-tut! Not so fast, you dropped something.” She held up the Kaleidoscope just out of his reach.
The clip usually made a sharp click when he removed it from his pocket, and he couldn’t recall hearing it. “How did that fall? Thanks.” Harold scanned the names on the bank of mailboxes. Gave him a chance to control the shaking. Her mailbox read S. Eubanks. When she’d first moved in, they had exchanged names, he was sure of it, but that must have been at least three years ago. He guessed she was an artist of some kind. At least she dressed that way.
“Sure is a pretty one. I had a cardboard one when I was a kid.” Before he could warn her, she jammed it up to her eye. A penciled brow curled over it. She dropped her arm, and with a stomach clench, Harold knew.
She had “the look.” He willed his hand to steady and lightly touched her elbow to guide her inside. She threw her hand out like she was going to faint.
“Sit down a minute, I’ll get you some water.”
Miss Eubanks sank, zombie-like, onto one of his kitchen chairs. Her dog trotted past Harold before he could protest, tail whopping back and forth as it sniffed his furniture. Worried it would lift its leg, he filled a plastic bowl of water, hoping to trap the dog on the linoleum. “Here, dog!” Harold set the water down, and the dog trotted over.
Lolling laps of water all over his floor and up the side of his cabinet, the dog made itself at home, then flopped down on its side, panting.
“I thought I’d seen everything, but I’ve never seen anything like a psychic Kaleidoscope.” Miss Eubanks had watched him interact with the dog with some amusement.
Harold’s shirt buttons pulled at each other on the inhale. “I don’t really believe in magic or that sort of thing—”
“I don’t care whether you believe or not, that’s what it is.”
She met his
Similar Books
