Page 56 of Forever Dead
It had to be.
“Damn it.”
He turned the wheel hard, intending to continue past the house and take the next road back toward town.
The Buick sputtered.
“No.”
The engine coughed twice, shuddered through the steering column and died.
“Come on. Come on.”
Curtis pumped the accelerator and turned the key.
The starter whined.
Nothing.
He tried again.
The sheriff’s door opened.
“Perfect.”
Curtis turned the key one more time. The Buick gave him a dry clicking sound.
Boots approached along the roadside gravel.
Curtis sat back and lowered the window.
The sheriff stopped beside the car.
He was around Curtis’s age, maybe a little younger. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. The sort of man who probably had people move out of his way without having to ask.
“Curtis Halle, I presume?”
Curtis swallowed. “Yes, Sheriff. What can I do for you?”
The sheriff looked toward the angle of the Buick and then back at him.
“You weren’t trying to run there by any chance, were you?”
“No, Sheriff,” Curtis said. “I was just trying to turn around because I forgot to get some milk.”
The sheriff smiled.
It was not much of a smile.
“Can I have a word for a moment?” he asked.
“Sure.”
The sheriff stared at the house. “Okay. Best go inside.”
*
Curtis liked the house the way it was.
