668 by Charles L. Grant

Author:Charles L. Grant [Grant, Charles L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: humor, science fiction
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2017-08-03T00:00:00+00:00

6

Wally Putney, his loving slut of a wife clinging elegantly, and somewhat chastely, to his left arm, strolled up Langford Place in the brisk night air. It was a lovely evening, as an inarguable matter of fact. Those fog patches over there added just the right touch of October mystery, the breeze brought just the right hint of harvest and Halloween, the trees were rustling, the leaves were rustling, the neighborhood dogs and cats except for Puffball were on their nocturnal prowls.

It was wonderful.

“Wally,” Caroline agreed with a sigh and contented squeeze of his arm.

The sight of old, kindly, monumentally ugly Dr. Smith hobbling down his steps, and the sparkling vision of John and Marsha Furst-Laste slipping richly out of their taxi, nearly made him forget, though he could never really forget, the telephone call that threatened to ruin it all.

He shook himself.

That particular bridge would be surveyed, constructed, and crossed when he came to it. For now, there were far more important matters to deal with.

“Did you bring the cards?” he asked.

Caroline patted her spangled purse lovingly.

Good.

Dr. Smith spotted him and waved.

The Putneys returned the wave gaily and moved quickly up the street toward him, noting that for some reason he had decided to bring along his hand-sewn black medical bag. Wally figured it was a sensible precaution against peripheral injuries during the sacrifice and landing; Caroline hoped it wasn’t because Wally’s former spouse formerly thought charred to cinders at the bottom of a ravine had somehow let her intentions be known to more than just Wally.

“Nice night,” Smith said, breathing deeply.

“Beautiful,” Wally agreed, breathing deeply.

Caroline breathed deeply.

“Hello there,” Marsha Furst-Laste called from across the street after the taxi had driven away.

“Hello,” Wally called. “You certainly look lovely tonight.”

Dr. Smith chuckled. “A face like that needs a good ironing.”

Caroline tsked with a giggle.

John Laste, who had never been hyphenated in his life, including Harvard English, waited patiently on the sidewalk, hands clasped before him, hair stirring gently in the breeze without getting mussed. Marsha stood beside him and beckoned the others over.

“Ah well,” sighed Dr. Smith. “Time to get moving, I suppose.”

“Absolutely,” Wally answered with proper solemnity. And as he crossed the street he looked at the shade-darkened windows of Number 668. “It would seem that Mr. Montana has other ideas.” He smiled.

“Let him,” Smith grumbled. “He’s a foreigner. He doesn’t know how things work over here.”

“Well, so was Maclemmon,” Wally pointed out.

“But he’s dead.”

Wally paused with raised eyebrow: “Is he?”

Before Smith could question that enigmatic verbalization, Wally held out his hand and strode to John, who shook the offered hand solemnly.

“Wally.”

“John.”

“Wally, dear.”

“Marsha.”

“Marsha!”

“Caroline.”

“Caroline!”

“John.”

“Evening.”

“Dr. Smith.”

“Kenilworth!”

“Caroline.”

A wolf howled in the distance.

Wally stepped out of the welcoming pack and glanced around the deserted street. The houses were dark, the shadows clumped around the feeble streetlamps and gathered on empty porches. He shivered a little, but steeled himself against the coming ordeal. This was no time to display weakness.

No time at all.

Dr. Kenilworth Smith glared at the way the others greeted each other so familiarly, so correctly, so damn smugly.

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