Wolf Moon Rising (26 page)

“Really? When?”

“I think to night. I heard them talkin’ about using the library.”

“And you’re saying you’re like me— you don’t trust him?”

“I just think it doesn’t look good for Mr. Barnabas. I think

he needs to come back and take care of things.”

“Okay. If I see him, I’ll be sure to tell him.”

“Yeah, and you know what, Mr. David. Maybe you’re the

one to get to the bottom of what’s going on.”

“I’ll try.”

Willie went back under the hood and began to tinker again.

David was silent for a moment, thinking about what Willie had

just said. He was the one to unearth the Collins secrets. No one

else was going to do it.

“So, give me an answer, Willie. What if you found a truck,

left out there for years, what would you do fi rst?”

Willie voice was garbled beneath the hood. “Not much chance

of startin’ a car left to rot,” he said, breathing hard. “Everything would be frozen.”

“Frozen?”

“With, you know, rust and grime.”

“But if it wasn’t.”

Willie lifted back out, a spark plug in his hand. “For sure

you’d have a dead battery.”

“And . . . how would you replace it?”

“You’d take off the negative and positive wires with a wrench

and be sure you get them back in the right place.”

David felt a rush of excitement. He reached under the hood.

“Th

ose things, right?”

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“Yeah. Th

en, the cylinders might be frozen ’cause the rings

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rust and stick to the walls.”

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“Oh, then you couldn’t get it running, right.”

“Naaah, you could pour some kerosene and oil in there—

that’ll break through the rust.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Th

at should do it.”

Gathering his courage, David stood in the shadowy stable in

awe of the beautiful roadster. Its shiny green enamel seemed

to vibrate in the sun motes, egging him on. Th

e white- walled tires

gleamed. He wondered what the hood ornament represented—a

long Art Deco arrow shaped like a modernistic bird, or maybe

an angel— as he turned the cap slowly, lifted it, and peered in-

side with his fl ashlight, hoping to fi nd the radiator dry. No wa-

ter at all. He guessed that was good. He brought the hose over

and turned on the spigot. Going in, the water made a gurgling

sound that changed in timber as the tank fi lled. When he

screwed the cap back on, he saw the golden ea gle emblem under-

neath that read
Duesenberg
. He had missed that the fi rst time.

He had found the red metal gas can next to the snowmobile

with at least a gallon of gas inside. Th

e car’s gas cap was pretty

obvious, round and chromed and sticking out of the back fender.

It popped off as if it were brand new. Th

e nozzle slipped in, and

he poured the gas. As he stood over the car inhaling the fumes,

he felt light- headed, but he thought it must be from anticipa-

tion. Another guzzling sound as the liquid hit the bottom of the

aluminum tank.

And now the battery. By wheedling and cajoling and com-

plimenting Willie, he had managed to get him to off er a few

more instructions concerning this hypothetical abandoned truck.

“If it’s older than 1950 or so, you’d need a 6 volt battery,” he said, and “Before you try to start it, you could prime it. Take off the

air fi lter and splash a teaspoon of gas in the carburetor.” At least he did know what a carburetor was. But when he opened the

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hood cover and took a look at the engine, enameled in shiny

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Lara Parker

emerald green just like the car, with all chrome fi ttings, he

wasn’t sure. As for earlier than 1950, he knew the Bentley was

built in 1948. Close enough in age.

It took him and hour to fi nd the right wrench, rummaging

around in the tool shed behind Rose Cottage and turning up

nothing until he remembered the Bentley had its own set of

tools stored in the middle of the spare. Th

ere was a fi ne wrench

just the right size.

He loosened the clamps on the battery posts and pulled the

wires off the terminals. Th

en he lifted the battery out of its

bracket. It was heavier than he had imagined, and, trembling

with excitement, he carried it over to the Duesenberg. He stood

beside the car with the weight until he realized he had no idea

where it went, so he set it down on the fl oor. And there was an-

other problem. Next to the steering wheel there was a keyhole.

He needed the own er’s manual and the key. Where was he go-

ing to fi nd either one? It was impossible, and he was done for.

Until he noticed two fat wires protruding from underneath

the front seat. He got down on his knees to look and saw that

there was a large empty space beneath. Th

e battery had been re-

moved, but here were the terminals. It took a few tries but he

was fi nally able to slide the new battery under the seat and con-

nect the top bolts.

He opened the door of the car and eased into the tan leather

interior. Trying not to be dazzled by the dials and gauges, he

closed his eyes and imagined the key, the battery, the manual

drifting through space, swirling in a slow moving circle, and

coming to rest— but where? Manuals were always kept in the

glove compartment, but it, too, had a lock, and there was only a

small drawer that pulled out and must have been . . . an ashtray!

Sure enough, the drawer was fi lled with cigarette stubs, hard-

ened to a tobacco mash, the paper browned and crumbling, and

he dug around on the off chance that . . . nothing. He remem-

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bered that Jackie had found a dress in the suitcase strapped to

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the boot, and he climbed back out. Th

e case contained several

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pieces of clothing, the pleated dress, silk underwear and shoes,

but no key. Th

en he caught a glimpse of something black on the

fl oor of the backseat. A jacket, perhaps for the driver. Could it be?

His heart racing, he dug the jacket out and holding it up he

could see that it was a chauff eur’s uniform coat. Beneath the

jacket was a billed cap. Feeling foolish, he tugged the jacket on

over his sweater and dug his hands into the pockets. His fi ngers

found something on a chain, something sharp and hard.

He was about to insert the key in the ignition when he

remembered Willie’s admonition to prime the carburetor.

He climbed back out and twisted the handle on the bonnet. Th

e

hinges creaked a little as he lifted it up and over, and he gazed

lovingly at the enormous engine gleaming with chrome. What a

sad misfortune it would be if this luxurious machine had not

withstood all those years of neglect. It had been well wrapped

in its canvas covers, covered up in a protective shroud, and there

was hardly any dust, as if it had been preserved in a sarcopha-

gus. He removed the air fi lter in an almost reverential manner,

muttering to himself:
It’s perfect, it’s magical, and it has to start.

Positioning himself behind the wheel, the jacket buttoned

now and the cap on his head for good luck, he slipped the key

into the ignition. He closed his eyes and took a breath, and then

another. He put one foot on the clutch and turned the key.

All the lights came on! Th

e headlights fl ared in the gloom

with an almost ethereal glow, and tinkly, rollicking piano music

blasted out of the speaker, what he thought was jelly roll blues,

Ain’t she sweet . . . See her walkin’ down the street
. . . Th e dash-board lit up in a collection of golden glimmers as the taillights,

the interior lights, and even those of the radio in the center of

the dash all glowed. Although the radio was a minor miracle, he

found the dial and turned it down because he wanted to be able to

hear the engine if anything happened.

When David stepped on the gas, there was a ticking sound,

a rhythmic wheeze, and, unbelievably, the engine lumbered to

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life. It roared a few seconds, then sputtered out. But it was

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Lara Parker

enough to speed up his heart. He tried again. Th

is time it ran

steadily for one, two, three seconds, and the sound of the engine

was not like he had imagined. It was quieter, smoother, and

deeper because the car barely vibrated. He sat for a long time in

the golden pool of light that stopped just short of the barn walls

listening to the beautiful noise before it conked out.

Could he drive it? He was shaking all over with excitement,

and a reckless impulse was galloping through him. He climbed

out of the car and unlatched the gate, then tried to push the wide

barn door open. He had to lift it to get it to move and he remem-

bered that one sometimes possessed superhuman strength in

moments of overwhelming need. He tugged with all his strength,

thinking of Heracles killing the lion of Nemea with his bare

hands. Th

e wooden portal slid a little. Th

e twin headlights

poured light out onto the snow and what was there surprised

him as much as the car starting.

Jackie was standing only a few feet away, very still, as if she

were in a trance, her arms stiff by her sides, her silver eyes re-

fl ecting the glow.

“My God, Jackie! What are you doing here?”

She looked around in a daze. “I— I don’t know.”

David ran to her, afraid that something had happened.

“Didn’t you go to school?”

“No, I ditched. I mean, I started to go but something stopped

me.”

“Won’t your mom be mad?”

“I hate that place. I wanted to fi nd you.” She looked small in

her dark coat and her face was pinched. “I didn’t know where

you were, and then I thought maybe—”

“I got it going.”

“Really?” Her eyes lit up.

“Yeah, come see.”

Th

en she was sitting beside him looking at him, waiting

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and not expecting much, he could see that, but when he reached

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down and turned the key, and the engine rumbled into life, she

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grinned and covered her mouth with her hand, then leaned

back and grabbed the door as if she expected the car to leave the

ground. Her eyes were dancing, but he could tell she was scared.

“You’re not going to drive it, are you?”

He pushed in on the clutch and, one foot on the brake,

grabbed the gearshift and eased it into fi rst; then he gave it some gas as he slowly let the clutch out. Th

e car jumped violently,

lurched forward, and then died.

Jackie shrieked, then rolled her eyes at him in fake distress.

He put the gears back in neutral.

“Th

e gears aren’t synchronized,” he explained, feeling de-

fl ated, but still determined. “I think I have to double clutch.”

“But it started . . .”

He pumped the clutch again, then gave the car more gas.

Th

is time the gears made a horrible grinding sound before the

car bucked, then coughed to a stop.

Jackie laughed. “You’re doing something wrong,” she said.

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll break it?”

David sighed and sat back, disappointed. Jackie looked at him.

“Who is that man with Quentin?” she said.

“What man?”

“I went to Collinwood to fi nd you and I looked in the win-

dow of the library. Th

ey were sitting across from one another at

a table with a bunch of candles.”

“What did it look like they were doing?

“Some kind of ceremony, maybe. A séance?”

“It’s probably that Dr. Blair. He’s searching for a vampire.”

And he laughed, giving her a knowing look. But she didn’t say

anything.

David started the car again, pumping the gas pedal, and

this time it sputtered, then roared. He grimaced as there was a

huge clunking, and the car jerked further forward before it slid

to a stop, the engine still running.

“It sounds like it’s coming apart!” cried Jackie, but he could

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tell she was thrilled.

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Miraculously the valiant automobile inched ahead and

picked up a little speed, the engine racing, and he shifted again.

Bumping furiously over the snow outside the barn door, the car

took off and made it to the road just as the tail pipe belched and backfi red, and David jammed on the brakes. Th

e engine died.

She was laughing, holding on to the door handle. “Are you

sure you know how to drive this thing?” she said, and she grinned