Chapter 8--

I didn't ask where Charles got the blue sedan from or where he managed to find a pair of fuzzy dice to hang from the mirror, I just sat in the seat and tried my best to breath steadily.

 

The door closed behind him and Charles turned the ignition, the response was a low purring and soon we were cruisng down the highway towards the hell-mouth known as Chicago's O'hare airport.

 

A mass of jostling bodies and bad vibes, people in transistion, saying good-bye to lives unfullfilled or embracing loved ones trying their hardest not to show dissapointment in how little they changed.

 

I looked out the window at the cold city, long sheets of rain falling from gutters and pooling over clogged sewer grates, my head still swam from the morphine and I smiled at the way the rain raced down the window, illuminated by neon signs and bright white head-lights.

 

Charles looked over at me and then concentrated on the road,

"Remember, when we get to Holand we have a job to do. I won't have time to go crawling through brothels trying to find you and the last thing you need is to get ambushed while doing a rail of blow off a hookers back."

 

I carressed the leather cover of my book and nodded,

"Right, no hookers, no blow."

 

Charles shook his head and mumbled under his breath.

 

The rain and the car reminded me of an earlier time, before our group of friends died, or drifted away. Riding in a truck through the Maine country side, me and Charles and all the rest of us investigating a haunting. No one was taking it seriously and I was just along because I was nailing Josephine, this little black haired girl that I swear was psychic. Those were good days, nothing could stop us and everyone was reckless, it turned out to be a minor poltergiest and I accidently burned down the house due to being too stoned to stop myself.

But those times were gone and all those people were either buried or might as well be.

 

Flashing yellow lights caught my attention and I looked up at the tow truck ahead of us, it was pulling a white SUV with no front tires, the light in front of that was red and my palms began to tingle.

 

I looked at the circular scars and shook my head to clear the morphine butterflies,

"Someone's doing something Chuck, think fast."

 

I never asked Charles what he did before I met him in Brazil and he never asked me just how old I really was, but his reaction time always astounded me. Grabbing the lever next to his seat he wrenched it back and he fell flat against the back-seat, the windshield shattered and a metal spike lodged itself in the rear window. I took a second to admire the beauty of the cracked glass and the way the bright lights played over the wet spider web design. Another metal rod flew through the windshield and I blinked as it missed my face by a few inches.

 

"Do something, god-damnit!"

 

I collected myself and let the world slip into the slow dream like state that always precipitated magic, my palms felt like they were dipped into boiling wax and the pain in my chest was lifted for a few wonderful moments. The white SUV ahead of us had it's back door open and there was a pile of steel rebar, each bar seemed to glow with an internal blue light. Someone had enchanted them, the truck behind us sputtered and died, we were trapped.

 

The rain fell up and I put my hand on the buckled windshield, a swirling dome stopped the next projectile and the one after that but the pain was returning in my chest and I knew my concentration could hold for only so long. Get me on LsD and I can change the fabric of being, but dope me up on morphine and you're lucky to get a rabbit out of a hat.

 

But like my uncle taught me, if you can't stop something from happening, tweak the odds and let something else do it for you. People in Chicago are notoriously reckless drivers and when it's raining and the roads are slick...

 

There is few things in the world that sound as frightening as a car crash, the squealing of brakes, the collison of metal, the screams of observers and the way everything seems to stop for just a few seconds, like the gods themselves are rubber necking.

 

Sitting up Charles squinted through the useless windshield and whistled at the tow truck and the city bus that seemed to tear it in half, long pieces of rebar lay scattered in the road, the bus was up on the sidewalk mostly undamaged. Whoever was driving the tow truck was either dead or gone before the collision because nobody stirred in the mass of twisted steel and the one pathetic yellow light spun around a final time before dying.

 

Unbuckling my seat belt I stumbled out of the car, my hospital gown soaked and ripped, I shuddered in the cold and looked up at the black clouds and the sliver of a moon.

 

"You know, I don't think anyone has every tried this hard to kill you before."

 

I turned and stumbled back, I smiled in the cold rain and smelled the spilled gasoline while ignoring the oncoming sirens.

"Me? Hey I'm just along for the ride. Speaking of which, we walking now?"

 

Charles nodded, wet trenchcoat hanging heavily on his tall frame, brown and blonde hair looked black in the rain, wavering smile that always seemed to be a few centimeters from a frown cut through his long face under a sharp nose that looked like it had been broken and set badly a long long time ago. 

 

Stepping past me and jumping on the sidewalk he ran his tattooed hand through his wet hair and tried to dry his face off,

"Get some clothes, you look ridiculous."

 

I caught up with him and looked at my paper dress as the rain soaked through it, the first strong wind and I knew it would rip off, leaving me naked and cold.

 

Stopping a gawker that looked to be my height I politely asked him for his clothes.

Charles waited while I stripped and dressed in front of the business man as he looked at me in astonishment. I left him his boxers and socks.

"Ridiculous? Look who's talking, Dick Tracy."

 

We shared a laugh but I was wondering who had tried to snuff us just then, the hard look on his face told me Charles was thinking on the same thing.

 

I wasn't quite as cold in my new threads and I looked less like an escapee from an aslylum but the rain still made me cross my hands over my chest holding the thick book to my chest in some futile attempt for warmth. O'hare was still a ways away and I hoped we could make the trip on foot without any more excitement.

 

Hope in one hand, s**t in the other. See which one fills up first.