Pulphouse Fiction Magazine Issue #36 by Dean Wesley Smith

Author:Dean Wesley Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: WMG Publishing

She smiled, and I saw the reflection of the twinklin’ lights in the whites of her eyes.

Flappin’ an arm toward the gifts under the tree, she said, “Forget the wrapped presents. Too big, too hard to carry. Here’s my father’s real treasure, anyway. Pocket-sized.”

She crossed to a cabinet and fetched a key from a china pitcher shaped like a rooster. My own granny used to have one similar. Unlockin’ a drawer, she pulled it wide and showed me a wonder—dark blue velvet filled with little nooks and crannies, each one aglimmer with gold or silver.

I swallowed hard. Even better than what I come for.

Scooping up a handful of the coins, she shoved them into my pocket, and I helped by taking the rest.

Then she seized my hand and fastened her eye on me. “This isn’t even the best of it,” she said. “He keeps the cream of his collection in a coffer inside his bedroom closet.”

I shook off her hand. “No, please and thank you,” I told her. “This’ll do just fine. And to all, a good night.”

I was fixed to leave out the way I come, but she pressed herself against me, hip to hip, her hand wandering once more along my thigh.

“One coin from the coffer upstairs is worth everything you have here, and more. And should my father wake,” she said, fingering the jackknife folded tight in my pocket, “you have the means to take care of the problem.”

And now, I knew she was crazy. Unbalanced. Cuckoo. A queer shiver worked down my spine like a crawling hand, making me cold all over.

I wanted outta that house in the worst way, but before I could shake loose, we heard a creak and footsteps on the floor above and my heart cranked into overdrive.

“Cara, is that you downstairs?”

Her fingers bit into my arm as she pushed me behind the sofa. “Yes,” she called. “Guilty. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Crouching down with my cheek pressed up against cold leather, I heard her father come down the rest of the steps. I held my breath, wishing I’d a got out while the gettin’ out was good.

“No, you didn’t wake me. I couldn’t sleep either. Why don’t you make us some cocoa?”

“Sure thing, Dad.”

After a moment, I heard the rattle of a kettle in the kitchen and knew I was alone in the room with her old man. Panic welled up in me and I fought a daft itchin’ to make a run for the window and damn the cost of my foolish actions.

Faint scufflin’ and poppin’ noises told me he was doin’ something over by the cabinet and I prayed he wouldn’t open the blue velvet drawer and raise a hue and cry. When the crackle of an old LP filled the room with Bing Crosby singing White Christmas, I near fell over with relief.

I heard a rustle as the man settled into what I could only guess was his favorite armchair. Cowering against the smoothness of leather, I listened hard until Bing took up with God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.

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