E-Book, Englisch, 771 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-6676-6087-5
Verlag: Wildside Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection
'Crow's Nest,' by John M. Floyd [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
'Whom Do You Trust?' by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]
'Winter's Journey,' by R.J. Koreto [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
Smoke of the .45, by Harry Sinclair Drago [novel]
A Certain Dr. Thorndyke, by R. Austin Freeman [novel]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
'All in the Golden Afternoon,' by Marilyn 'Mattie' Brahen [short story]
'Doubled in Brass,' by Lester del Rey [short story]
'The Admiral's Walk,' by Sam Merwin [short story]
'Simple Psiman,' by F.L. Wallace [short story]
'Siren Satellite,' by Arthur K. Barnes [novella]
Autoren/Hrsg.
Weitere Infos & Material
CROW’S NEST,
by John M. Floyd
Amos Garrett had switched off his dashboard radio, ejected Willie Nelson, and plugged in Tammy Wynette when he looked up and saw the little white car pulled over on the grassy shoulder of the road just ahead. He was surprised a bit to see an unfamiliar vehicle on this little backwoods two-lane, especially this late in the day, and surprised more than a bit by the tall brunette in sweater and jeans he saw standing there with both fists on her hips, staring down at her back right tire. Amos pulled over as well, cut his engine, and climbed out of his pickup. Like his truck, Amos had been around awhile—he was pushing seventy-five, and happily married for almost fifty of those years—but he still appreciated an attractive young lady when he saw one. Besides, his mama hadn’t raised him to pass up a damsel in distress. “Flat tire?” he said to her. She gave him a sad smile. “I was told this was a shortcut. Thanks for stopping.” “Name’s Amos Garrett.” He stuck out a hand, and she shook it. “Wendy Lake,” she said. Amos grinned. “You’re serious?” “Sounds like an apartment complex, right? It gets better. Maiden name’s Wendy Valli.” “Like Frankie Valli?” Her eyes widened. “You remember him?” “Sure—The Four Seasons. ‘Big Girls Don’t Cry.’” “Well, this one did, when she got out and saw this tire.” Amos chuckled. “It’s no problem. If you’ll pop the trunk I’ll change it for you.” “Can’t. I don’t have a spare. My no-account brother borrowed it, a month ago.” She stayed quiet a moment, thinking, then said, “Oh well. My cell phone’s in the car, and my insurance includes roadside assistance. I’ll just call them and—” Amos shook his head. “Not out here, you won’t. No reception.” “You’re kidding.” “Nope. It’s the reason my wife and me don’t own cell phones. But we got a landline, and my house is less’n five miles from here. Come on, you can call from there.” She hesitated. “Well… maybe I better wait with my car.” “I wouldn’t do that, missy. Not today.” Amos took off his hat and sighed. “Look, I mean you no harm—but there are folks around who might. I just heard on my radio that two guys named Lee Montana and Victor something—Edwards, I think—just escaped from the state pen and stole a lot of money from a real-estate outfit not far from here.” “Real estate?” “The Blackthorns. It’s a long story. My point is, it’s almost dark, and you don’t need to be out here alone in the middle of nowhere.” She studied him a moment in the last rays of sunlight. “That really is a kind offer.” “It’s my pleasure.” “Think my car’ll be all right here?” “For a while. You can make your call and I’ll bring you back when your tire’s fixed.” “Okay. Thanks.” She fetched her purse from the front seat, locked the car, and followed him to his truck. He got in first, mindful of his bad knee, and cleared a place for her to sit. When they were underway and had gone a few miles she said, “Is that really a cassette-tape player?” “Yep.” “I haven’t seen a lot of those, lately.” “Bet you haven’t seen a lot of those either,” he said, pointing through the windshield. Just ahead was a row of half a dozen mailboxes mounted on a wooden post and a crosspiece like something out of The Andy Griffith Show. He braked to a stop, opened the box that said GARRETT—16 WOODWARD LANE, and took out several letters and a rolled-up magazine. He held them in his lap as they turned onto a dirt road beside the mailboxes and headed north. This road stretched arrow-straight ahead of them for at least three miles. At the very end, high on a wooded hill and tiny in the distance, stood a tall white house. He glanced at her profile as he drove. “Wendy Lake,” he said. “I do like that name.” After a pause he added, “Like Muddy Waters.” “Or Stormy Daniels,” she said. That made both of them laugh aloud. Amos Garrett’s truck roared along the dusty track for several minutes in the glowing twilight before the road angled off to the right, at the foot of the hill below the white house. It circled around through the trees, climbing steadily, and ended in a gravel driveway. Amos parked, looked up at the house, and smiled. “Welcome to my home,” he said. * * * * Mrs. Garrett (call me Betty, she ordered as soon as Amos introduced them) was as sweet and gracious as Wendy had expected. In fact, she seemed to be a shorter and less-sunweathered version of her husband—white-haired, lean, and cheerful. Instead of inviting Wendy inside, though, Betty Garrett immediately steered her toward a group of rocking chairs on the front porch, where the three sat and—for a moment—fell silent. Wendy saw the questioning look Amos gave his wife, and the answer came quickly: “No lights inside,” Betty explained, to both of them. “We lost power a few hours ago. I saw the storm move through, off to the north—it never got here—but it took out our electricity, and the phone lines too.” Wendy’s heart sank. She badly needed a phone. “Any idea when service’ll be restored?” “It usually takes awhile, when this happens,” Amos said. “But you’re welcome to stay the night. We got plenty of food and plenty of candles and flashlights.” “I don’t know, Mr. Garrett. I can’t leave my car there. I’m a paralegal, and I have boxes of files from work—confidential files—in my trunk. I was taking them to Riverdale.” “You want to bring ’em here for the night?” “The files? No, there are too many.” After a moment’s thought Amos said, “How about this? There’s an old deer trail that crosses the road close to where you stopped. If we start your car and drive it, flat tire and all, down that trail about twenty yards into the trees, nobody’d be able to see it from the road.” Wendy nodded. “That sounds good. I hate to trouble you with all that—” “No problem,” he said, rising from his chair. “I’ll do it, and be back in thirty minutes.” “Wait, I’ll go with you.” “I’ll have supper ready when you two get back,” Betty said. “If you don’t mind cold sandwiches.” * * * * As things turned out, moving/hiding the car didn’t even take half an hour. The trees and underbrush shielding the trail was even thicker than Amos remembered, and the path was wide and dry. Wendy appeared to be much relieved that whatever she considered so vital in her trunk would now be safe from whatever jailbirds and thieves might be roaming the area. On the way back to the house she seemed almost in good spirits. “I truly appreciate all you’re doing for me, Mr. Garrett—” “Amos,” he said. “Glad to help out. Betty and me don’t get much company these days anyway—we’re tickled you’re staying with us tonight.” He looked away from his driving long enough to see her smile. “I am too,” she said. Then, after a pause: “That prison break and robbery you said you heard about? I noticed you didn’t mention anything about it to your wife. Was that intentional?” He sighed. “Yeah, Betty tends to worry. We don’t take a paper anymore, and since the power’s out we got no TV news tonight, so I figured I’d let it be. Mr. Montana and Mr. Edwards, whoever they are, will get caught soon enough.” “I see your point,” she said. When they reached the row of mailboxes at the turnoff from the main road, he said, “Tell you something funny. If those important things in your car had been small enough, you coulda hid ’em right there.” “Excuse me?” “There’s six mailboxes on that post, but only five are used. The box on the end, the one that says DANVERS, belonged to a guy who moved out four years ago. You stash something in that box, it’d be safe forever.” He heard her chuckle. “This sure is a different world from what I’m used to,” she said. “But I can see why you like it.” He nodded. “Things are just simpler here. Slower-paced. Besides, I like to hunt and fish.” “Is that where you’ve been, today?” “No, I just drove over to Pine County, for a cattle auction.” “So you own livestock?” “Not anymore. A bad leg made that too hard. I just like auctions.” That sounded stupid, he realized—but it was the truth. “What kind of hunting?” she asked. “Squirrels and rabbits, mostly. Coons, sometimes.” “What kind of guns?” Amos turned to look at her, her face green in the glow of the dashboard lights. “You know guns?” he said. “I do. I collect them.” “You’re kidding.” “Nope. My brother and I do. Old ones, mostly. I found an 1873 Winchester awhile back, octagonal barrel, in great condition.” She paused. “What are you grinning about?” “Nothing. I just got something I want to show you, when we get back.” * * * * The night went well. Wendy and the Garretts had supper on the porch, played cards by candlelight, and turned in early. Her bed in the spare room was as comfortable as her own; she slept like a rock, got up at dawn, and followed a delicious aroma downstairs to find Betty cooking ham and eggs—the electricity was still off but the gas stove worked fine. After breakfast Amos and the new...
