evening!”
He went running out the door, leaving Angel trying to remember why he’d felt the urge to swallow and imagining sitting in the front of the truck while Tucker drove, windows down and breeze ruffling his imaginary hair.
The Shape of the Thing
“TUCKER HENDERSON?” The guy in the truck was a burly forty-fiveish, with graying brown hair, weathered lines at his eyes, and battered knuckles. He was dressed in faded jeans and a clean T-shirt that read Straight but not Narrow.
“Josh Greenaway?”
“Yessir, pleastameetya. I understand you’re looking for a truck.” He grinned, revealing a slightly crowded if pleasing smile, and Tucker found himself liking the guy on sight.
Tucker backed up and walked around the truck, taking in the buffed-out dents under the primer and Bondo and listening to the purr of the thing in idle. A Chevy half-ton, the online ad had boasted power steering, power brakes, AC, and a newly refurbished transmission, and Tucker didn’t see a rust spot or untreated flaw in the body, which had originally been painted electric blue.
Yeah, it had been battered and even bruised, but it wasn’t broken.
Tucker grinned back at Josh. “Looks great! How’s it drive?”
Josh winked, unhooked his suicide-closure lap belt, and scooted to his right. “Hop in and see. Anywhere you need to go?”
“The hardware store,” Tucker said. “But I was going to wait until I bought the truck.”
“Forgetaboutit. Sit down, let’s take her for a ride, run your errand, and you can see how you like it. I told the missus I’d be gone until lunch. As long as I bring sandwiches home at one, I am doing no harm to anybody, right?”
“Not a soul,” Tucker said, nodding. This guy elicited no tug in his gut, no karmic pull, and Tucker breathed a small sigh of relief. For a morning, anyway, he could have a friend.
A friend who didn’t float in midair and try to tell him how this supernatural gig worked.
He shoved away his irritation at Angel—and his curiosity too, for that matter. He was getting out of that spirit mausoleum and spending some of his inheritance, a thing he didn’t do often, actually.
He slid behind the wheel, remembering the power of driving a car, soft and comfy like a handknit pair of socks. His father had taught him before he and Tucker’s mother passed away, back before Tucker had figured out that life really wasn’t fucking fair.
But he’d learned to drive in his dad’s modest Toyota sedan, and this? This was a truck! Tucker was higher off the road and in charge of a metal behemoth, and backing the thing out of the driveway proved that the steering wheel was as sensitive as a baby’s tickle spot. He swung the thing around and stomped on the gas, and the V-6 roared into action. He let a low, evil chuckle of joy escape.
“Oh man. This thing is like driving a jetliner! I’m getting chills. Why, oh why are you letting this baby out of your sight?”
Josh laughed in delight. “Well, we’re selling her because our oldest son needs something that gets better gas mileage so he can drive down the hill to go to college. It’s a helluva commute—this thing sucks gas like water. I’ve got a smaller truck for everyday stuff, and my wife has the minivan for the other three kids, so Brutus here is the one to go. And it’s a good thing you like driving it because you just turned toward the forest and away from town. There’s a turnout in about half a mile—it does a loop around your property, actually, if you want to take that way. You’ll end up about a mile from town.”
Tucker giggled. “Well, I wanted to know more about the place.” He enjoyed driving for a moment, keeping the window rolled down and smelling the pine and red-dirt dust and enjoying being someplace besides the city. Josh kept up a steady stream of commentary on the truck and his kid and how Josh needed his kid to get out of Foresthill so the boy could find a boyfriend and leave his mom and dad alone. Tucker nodded in understanding and studied the road ahead—and the property to his left. He’d just noticed that the tree line was drastically different in the property around Daisy Place than it was for the whole rest of the area when he spotted the turnout, right before Sugar Pine National Forest.
“Why is Daisy Place all willow and oak instead of pine?” he asked, thinking it