Witches' Bane
““Where?”“Back up. I’ll show you.”“Must be an old wreck.” He put the truck in reverse and backed along the wide gravel shoulder. “I didn’t see any skid marks.”I reached into the glove compartment for McQuaid’s bin- oculars. “I don’t think so,” I said as he stopped. “Looks like a fresh burn.” I jumped out and trained the binoculars on the wreckage. The car, a convertible, had landed wheels-down on the ledge, the crumpled hood pointed uphill. The rear end was blackened and scorched. There were thr...ee or four vultures working eagerly on something in the driver’s seat, others on the ground and the car, impatiently waiting their turn.My mouth was suddenly dry. “Jesus, McQuaid, the driver’s still down there!”McQuaid snatched the binoculars. “Not moving. Listen, China. You take the truck and bust ass to that Fina station up the road. Call the D.P.S. Tell them we’ve got a red Mustang down here and that the driver—-”“A red Mustang?” I grabbed the binoculars back and refocused them on the buzzards feasting on the huddled shape in the front seat.MoreLess
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