Black Oak 5 by Charles L. Grant

Author:Charles L. Grant [Grant, Charles L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: paranormal, occult
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2016-03-02T00:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

Taz stood in the motel room and said, “I don’t know why I bothered to take a shower.”

A towel flew through the door on his right, landing on his face.

“Rain,” Vivian called from her room, “is good for you. It’s pure, it7s soft—”

“It’s cold,” he yelled back, vigorously drying his hair. “I’m gonna catch pneumonia, just like my mother warned me.”

“Then get a haircut.”

He scowled. It was the same thing his mother kept ragging him about. But he liked his long wavy hair. He liked his long lashes. He figured, if his family was any indication, he would eventually end up looking like Doc, so he wanted to hang on to what he had for as long as he could.

As he worked the towel through his hair and over his face, he watched Proctor, who had shoved the table aside and sat at the window. The drizzle was now a full rain, and without lights in the room, shadow-reflections of the storm moved down the man’s face.

He didn’t move, barely seemed to breathe.

Didn’t blink when distant lightning brightened the room for an instant.

“Taz.”

He looked across his shoulder. Vivian beckoned with a finger, and he nodded, mimed getting a dry shirt, and did so as quietly at he could.

He knew the boss better than to try to talk to him. He had witnessed these pensive moments before. If he spoke, Proctor would ignore him; if he insisted, Proctor would give him one of those looks, the ones that reached inside and pulled out parts of you you didn’t know you had. Lana was the only one who could boss him around, and even she wasn’t immune when he got like this.

He crossed into the adjoining room, buttoning his dry shirt. She sat at the desk, a gesture over her shoulder telling him to take a chair. In front of her was a small notepad, and he waited patiently as she wrote. That was something he would have to do later too—make his own notes on everything he had done and said and seen tonight.

“So what do you think?” she said without turning around, her voice slightly deep, not quite husky.

He kept his own voice down, as if there were a patient in the next room. “We got six, seven possible hits. I think that’s a pretty good sign. Except for those ladies who wanted to know why I wanted to find the Devil’s daughter.” He laughed. “They don’t think much of witches down here, do they.”

Vivian placed her pen on the desk and in a motion too smooth and rapid to follow clearly, reversed position in the chair, arms folded over the back, chin resting on her arms.

“You think it’s Tackett?”

He nodded. “Yep.”

A faint frown at his tone. “You don’t like it?”

“Nope.”

“Why not? It’s what we came for.”

He pulled idly at his shirt. Rubbed a finger under his nose. Wished he were back in Jersey, slamming his thumb with a dumb hammer.

“You’ve been with him,” he said. “You know what happens.”

“That’s not always the case.

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