The Nightmare People

2.

Maggie Devanoy was irked.

She was aggravated.

“Irked” was her father’s word, and “aggravated” was her mother’s; in her own words, she was royally pissed off.

She had had to ride the bus most of the way home from her summer job at the mall, and walk home from the bus stop, in ninety-zillion degree heat, and after waiting tables for six hours she did not need to do any more walking, and all because that asshole Bill Goodwin hadn’t shown up the way he had promised he would.

Now it was well after seven, and the sun was setting, and she’d missed dinner, and if she admitted that she hadn’t eaten her parents were going to give her another stupid lecture and ask why she hadn’t called them for a ride – and if she had called, of course, she’d have gotten a lecture on being independent and old enough to take care of herself and how inconvenient it was for them to make a special trip.

In an attempt at fairness, she admitted that Bill might have an excuse. Maybe he was sick, or that old clunker of his had broken down again, or something – but then why hadn’t he called?

He hadn’t called her since Monday, in fact.

Maybe this was his not-particularly-clever way of hinting that he was losing interest in their relationship, and if that was it, then she was going to be even more irked, because it was a really shitty way to break it off, and didn’t he know that?

He could have just told her – preferably in the car or over dinner, after he’d picked her up the way he had promised.

She could see her house now. A little red car was sitting at the curb in front, one she didn’t remember ever seeing before – that was all she needed, for her parents to have some stupid guest there when she came in all dirty and sweaty and tired.

Then she saw that someone was sitting in the driver’s seat, and an instant later the car’s engine started up.

Well, that was a relief, anyway – she wouldn’t have to be polite to one of her parents’ friends. She shifted her backpack to her other shoulder and trudged on.

The car was rolling now, but moving very slowly, just inching along, and hanging close to the curb. She stopped and watched it.

The driver looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. Someone from her Dad’s office, maybe?

The car was coming closer, and she decided it was none of her business. She shrugged, and started walking again.

The car pulled up to the curb and stopped, about twenty feet in front of her.

She stopped.

What was this, some sort of pervert trying to pick her up, or something? Or someone selling drugs?

The driver leaned across and rolled down the window on the passenger side. Maggie stepped over toward the grass alongside the sidewalk, ready to head for cover if the guy tried anything funny. She glanced over and saw she was in front of the Goldsmiths’ house; she could run up and ring their doorbell if anything happened. Mrs. Goldsmith was pretty cool.

“Maggie?” the guy called, stretching his head out the window.

Oh, great, she thought, he knows my name! She didn’t say anything, just stood and watched.

“Aren’t you Maggie Devanoy?” the stranger asked.

“What if I am?” she called.

“I’m Ed Smith,” he said, pulling himself halfway out the window of his car. “I live upstairs from the Goodwins. I’ve got to talk to you about Bill.”

She eyed him warily.

Yeah, that was where she’d seen him; he and Bill got along pretty well. He’d been teaching Bill some stuff about computers back in the spring. She’d seen him around the Goodwins’ apartment building maybe three or four times.

“What about?” she called, not going any closer.

“It’s hard to explain. Something’s happened to him. Look, have you seen him since Tuesday? Did he seem strange to you?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t talked to him since Monday,” she said.

“Well, isn’t that strange?” the man in the car asked. “I mean, it’s Friday evening, and you haven’t heard from him?”

Her irritation got the better of her. “You’re goddamn right it is!” she told him. “We had a date for dinner tonight, and that bastard didn’t show up! He was supposed to pick me up after work!”

Smith, if that was really his name, nodded. “I’m not surprised. Look, I really need to talk to you. I’ve got some things to tell you, but it’s going to be really hard to explain, and hard for you to believe. I don’t want to do it here, like this.”

“You want me to get in the car with you?”

“Or I could meet you someplace – someplace public, if you’re worried about me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have a car. And I’m not about to walk back to the bus stop and wait – I’m not even sure there are any more buses tonight.”

“Well, then climb in, and we can talk.”

She didn’t say anything, just stared at him.

“Yeah, I know, you don’t get in cars with strange men. Look,” he said. He paused, groped for something, found it, and picked it up.

It was a crowbar, a blue-painted one with a U-shaped curve at one end. It looked brand-new; in fact, she thought she could still see a price sticker on one end.

He held it out to her.

“Look, you can take this, and just hang onto it, and if I try anything, hit me with it. I really need to just talk to you.”

She looked at the crowbar, stepped cautiously toward it, then stopped.

She’d never heard of a rapist or pervert giving his victim a weapon like that, but what if he had an even better weapon, like a gun? “Oh, what the hell,” she said. She walked over and gingerly took the crowbar from him.

It weighed at least a couple of pounds, she thought, hefting it, and the curved end would hit really hard. At close range, it would have to be just about as dangerous as a gun – easier to use, harder to miss with.

“Okay,” she said.

He smiled, and opened the door, and she got in, the crowbar ready in her hand.