Driving Mr. Dead

“How can you tell?”



“He’s twisting his wedding ring around his finger as he bobs his knee at a hundred miles an hour. We’re in the heart of fly-fishing country. He’s sunburned something awful, except right around the eyes, probably from fishing or boating with sunglasses on. A woman would remind her husband to put on sunscreen, whereas a bunch of other guys wouldn’t care. And he’s been looking at his cell phone as if he thinks it’s going to bite him. He’s waiting for her to call and ask where he is and why the hell he isn’t home yet.”



“You’re just guessing,” he said, smirking derisively.



“It’s all just guessing. That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”



As if on cue, the cell phone rang, and the man started stuttering apologies and “Now, honey’s.” I beamed at Mr. Sutherland and popped another fry into my mouth.



“You’re really very good at that,” he said, equally confused and awed.



“Try not to sound so amazed,” I chided. “I do have some skill sets.”



“Yes, cage fighting and impeccable deductive reasoning.”



“I’ve never been in a cage. Where are you getting a cage?” I laughed.



He smirked at me, and I could just make out a hint of a dimple in his cheek. “It’s far more interesting in my head if there’s a cage.”



“That’s a psychological clue that I’m not willing to explore.” I took a bite of my sandwich and took a moment to appreciate the ambrosial combination of turkey, melted cheese, and bacon. “So, Collin Sutherland, Revolutionary War soldier,” I said, lowering my voice so the patrons at the other tables didn’t hear. “You’re a vampire. Why are you afraid to fly?”



“Did no one ever teach you how to make polite conversation?” he grumbled, stirring the coffee he was using as a “blending-in” prop.



“You would be so bored with me right now if someone had.”



“Have you ever read the statistics regarding accidents in air travel?” he asked.



“Yes, they’re lower than the rates of accidents while driving. And you’re pretty much indestructible, as long as you fly at night.”



He frowned. “Well, once one has survived one plane crash, tempting fate again seems ill advised.”



“You’ve survived a plane crash?”



“In the 1940s, when air travel for passengers was very new,” he said. “Kicking your way out of a crumpled fuselage rather ruins the thrill of vacationing.”



“And you never tried flying again?”



“I haven’t left the area immediately surrounding my house since 1948.”



I spluttered, “H-how? Wh-why?”



“Delivery services. An understanding undead business manager who was willing to handle many of life’s little details for me. Friends who were willing to bring human donors to the house. And there’s a ready supply of wildlife in the area if I wanted to vary my diet.”



“But how do you make a living?”



“Until my withdrawal from society, I made my living in the antiques business.”



“You had a store?”



“It was a speculative venture,” he said, his tone hedging.



“The fact that you don’t seem to want to explain that cryptic remark is going to make me ask you lots more questions,” I promised him.



He sighed and explained, “Say I was sitting in a tavern, and I just happened to sense that a fellow’s brother was about to gamble the family fortune away or that a man’s favorite daughter was about to elope with the help, causing a disastrous scandal. If I just happened to befriend that fellow and be there for him when his tragedy struck, offering my discreet monetary help in return for a few family knickknacks, who would be the wiser? Of course, I offered a reduced price for those knickknacks, and the families were so grateful for aid in their times of distress that they didn’t question my offer.”



“But that’s so mercenary!”



“On the contrary, the families I did business with desperately needed the money I offered them. I was helping them.”



“You were helping yourself!”



“I was using the tools I was provided with to make my way in the world. I was raised in a fine house with carefully chosen furnishings. And although I didn’t stand to inherit any of it, I was taught their history, their value. I can’t be faulted for using that knowledge.”



“And the fact that you believe that is what is so very troubling.”



Eyebrows raised, I glanced at the case securely wedged against his side in the booth. That certainly changed my guesses about the case’s contents. Crown jewels? Priceless art? Ancient coins?



That would be sort of exciting, to know that I was helping complete some Council project or bringing scary-ass Ophelia, the forever-teenage head of the local Council branch, her personal art collection. Maybe that would make her more lenient when I inevitably ran afoul of the local vampires.



“Why live out in the middle of nowhere?” I asked.



“I’ve never been much of a joiner. And as technology has improved, I’ve felt less and less alone. Thanks to the telephone, color television, the Internet, I’ve been able to keep up with current events, terminology. I’m not left entirely out of the loop.”



“Why haven’t you left your house in so long? Is it because you were traumatized in the crash? Do you have PTSD?”



He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. That was an interesting change in role. “Not exactly.”



The tone of his voice didn’t invite further questions, so in the interest of the progress we’d made so far, I chose to shut up. He glanced down, as if he could see my carefully bandaged hand through the table, despite the fact that I’d kept it folded in my lap and out of his sight. It seemed rude, otherwise, like waving a Twinkie in front of someone on Atkins.



“What’s happened to your hand?” he asked. “Why are you being so careful with it?”



“Nothing,” I said, tucking the injured hand under my jeans-clad leg.



His lips twitched in disapproval as he leaned forward, his voice sultry and persuasive. And I had to clamp my thighs together, because that was just unfair. “Miss Puckett, do you honestly think I can’t sense fresh blood? Even in an environment as foul as this, I can smell it on you. Frankly, its pleasant distraction is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind in this crowded restaurant. Now, be a good girl and show me your hand.”



“Are you trying to hypnotize me?” I asked, my eye narrowed. “Vampires can do that, right? Control people like puppets? Are you going to make me cluck like a chicken in this foul, crowded restaurant?”



For the first time, he gave me a true, sincere smile. It was as if the clouds parted, the room lit up, and I was able to see what Mr. Sutherland looked like when he was human. Well, human and in a really good mood.



“No, I don’t have that particular gift. I am merely concerned about any tendencies you may have to injure yourself while I’m asleep. Will I wake up tomorrow night to find you have knocked yourself unconscious against the steering wheel and veered into a river?”



“That won’t happen,” I grumbled. “Again.”



His jaw dropped.



“I’m kidding!” I exclaimed, laughing as I held up my hand. “I caught my fingertip in the lock of a bathroom stall. It sort of snipped the tiniest bit of the fingertip off.”



“That cannot possibly be true.”



I held the finger up for his inspection. “There’s a reason we carry a suitcase-sized first-aid kit in the backseat. I manage to injure myself in increasingly inventive ways. I’ve been burned by a peanut salesman with bad aim at a Cubs game. I got a jellyfish stuck in my bikini top in Jamaica, which required some interesting ointment placement. Once my fian—a friend was opening a bottle of champagne in the next room, and the cork ricocheted around a corner, off the ceiling, and hit me right in the eye. I had a shiner for a week. My neighbor slipped brochures for a women’s shelter under my door.”



“You’re exaggerating,” he said.



“Would you like me to show you the scars?”



He grinned. “Where exactly are these scars?”



Was I suffering from a French-fry-induced high, or was Mr. Sutherland flirting with me?



I grinned cheekily, trailing my (uninjured) fingertips along the buttons of my blouse, as if I was considering loosening them. His blue eyes tracked the motion of my hand, up and down, up and down. I stopped abruptly, and he shook his head, as if clearing it from some fog.



“On second thought, a lady needs to keep a bit of mystery about her,” I said, lifting my sandwich from the plate and taking a bite.



Mr. Sutherland seemed deflated at my sudden change in course, which was a balm for my ego. He sighed, toying with a packet of Splenda. “Oh, trust me, Miss Puckett, you are an enigma.”



We came so close to having a pleasant evening. Mr. Sutherland even managed to restrain his comments when I ordered a slice of lemon meringue pie, although I’m sure it smelled awful to him. I stopped badgering him with questions and made light conversation about our schedule for the next night. We walked out of the diner, and he actually opened the door for me with a little smile on his face.



“Isn’t that heavy to cart around with you everywhere we go?” I asked, nudging the silver briefcase with my fingers.



He gently spanked my hand away. “What did we say about touching the case?”



“Did we say, ‘If you smack my hand again, I will wedgie you until your underwear comes up over your head’?”



He gave me an arch look.



“I would try,” I muttered.



I’d parked on the far side of the parking lot, beyond the truckers’ area, because I wanted to give us some space if Mr. Sutherland needed to do something vampire-y. Also, the last thing I needed to do was ding some tourist’s car. But as we walked to the car, I could see from a distance that was the least of my concerns. There was something on the hood. Weird, circular shapes with—



“Oh, for the love of Pete!” I cried.



Someone had spray-painted a pair of neon pink breasts on the hood of the car. Big, round, obscenely realistic breasts that were most likely visible from space. I glanced around the parking lot and saw that ours was not the only vehicle to receive a makeover. A Ryder moving truck, a tractor-trailer, and a minivan were all decorated with twin sets of their very own. I noticed that each was parked in a dimly lit area of the lot, giving the vandals the cover of darkness. I scanned the lot for signs of the kids—please, Lord, let this be the work of teenagers and not grown men—but couldn’t see so much as a mist of spray paint. The phantom graffiti artists were long gone.



“Fuck a duck!” I exclaimed.



“Language,” Mr. Sutherland admonished weakly. He was stricken, trying like hell, but failing, to avoid looking at the “art.” “Was it like this before we went into the diner?”



“No, I would have remembered our car having boobs,” I said, staring down at the Batmobile’s generous triple-Z cups. We were transfixed, caught in the thrall of trompe l’oeil cleavage. That was a first for me.



Several awkward, silent moments passed. As I snapped shots of the hood for Iris’s insurance agent—and Mr. Sutherland’s face, for posterity—I considered several options. Calling Iris and telling her she would need to send the National Guard to retrieve Mr. Sutherland. Going back into the diner to inquire whether they served hard liquor. Attempting to paint over the boobs with black nail polish.



Hey, it worked when I scratched my mom’s car in high school.



I realized that Mr. Sutherland had moved on from staring at the car to watching me intently. “Are you waiting for me to know what to do here? Because this was not covered during my orientation.”