By Victor Gischler
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Additional resources for The Deputy
The car still sat out there. I didn’t want to go outside. “Well, I guess I’d better get a move on. ” The freckled girl waved without looking up. She was back at her magazine. I went outside, kept the Ford in my peripheral vision all the way back to the Nova. I half expected it to crank up with fire in the headlights like devil eyes. I forced myself to move slow, put on the seatbelt, stick the key into the ignition. The hell if I was going to spook myself with crap about a devil car. My imagination was fucking with me.
That sobered them a little. The chief liked things nice and quiet and everybody knew it. “We’re sorry,” said the driver. It sounded almost sincere this time. “Don’t be sorry. ” They drove away. I lit the Marlboro, smoked it. Stood there. Shit. I walked back down to Luke Jordan’s pickup truck, locked it, closed the doors. I looked around again as if the body might have crawled back on its own. I still couldn’t believe it. I climbed in the Chevy Nova and started driving south on State Road Six toward the Interstate.
Two minutes later I hit the area near my home, a sorry little hamburger joint called Sam’s, a gas station, and an outof-business used car lot. Once or twice a month, some folks used the old car lot to set up a flea market. Two hundred yards later, I turned into the park entrance, a dingy collection of twenty trailers all waiting for a twister to come along and put them out of their misery. I pulled in next to Doris’s old, yellow Monte Carlo. I let the Nova run, flipped around the radio dial until I heard a Garbage song and left it.