Have Spacecat, Will Travel: And Other Tails by John Hartness (top ebook reader .TXT) 📕

“Y’all alright down there?” I called.

“We fine, Lila Grace,” Clyde hollered up without turning around. “You wouldn’t know how to run the controls on a rollback, would you?”

“I don’t, but I reckon it can’t be that hard. What do you want me to do?”

“I’ve got her hooked up. I just need you to go over to the side of the truck and run the winch for me.”

“Why don’t you come up here and do it?” I asked, looking dubiously over my shoulder at the tow truck.

“I need to stay with the vehicle and make sure nothing comes unhooked. Sheriff says it’ll mess up his crime scene even more if it falls down in here again.”

“Crime scene?”

“Yeah,” Willis called up. “The driver’s still in the car. He didn’t make it.”

“Well, damn,” I muttered, looking around. No newly-minted ghost yet, but that didn’t mean anything. Not everybody sticks around after they’re dead, and even the ones that do linger don’t always appear where they died. Sometimes they stay in a place they loved, or near someone they cared for. Then sometimes it just takes them a while to show up, like they hadn’t made up their mind if they were coming or going. “Alright, Clyde,” I called down to them. “What am I doing?”

“It’s easy,” he said. “Just go over to the side of the tow truck and look at the box with three handles on it. You ain’t gonna be able to read the labels, not with all the grease and mud caked on ‘em, but the one closest to the back of the truck runs the winch. Grab that handle and pull it down real slow. You oughta be able to hear the cable tighten, if it’s too dark to see.”

“I can see fine,” I said. “Leon’s got it lit up like Christmas up here.”

“Okay, good. All you gotta do is push that handle down and hold it ‘til the car comes up the bank. Don’t try to pull it all the way up. We gotta let the rescue squad get the driver out first.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“I can’t see enough to know, but I feel like I know the car.”

“It’s a late model Camry, Clyde,” Willis said. “It’s one of the most popular cars in America. It’s going to look familiar.”

“Oh yeah.” Clyde deflated a little, his CSI Hillbilly moment deflated by the big bad sheriff. I turned back to the tow truck, glad that the men down in the gully couldn’t see me smile from that far away. I grabbed the handle Clyde described and pulled it down. I heard the whine of a motor and watched as the steel cable laying across the back of the tow truck pulled taut. The motor sound changed, and other sounds, like branches breaking, came from over the hill as the winch started working in earnest. It took a solid two minutes, but then the battered Toyota crested the hill and crashed to the shoulder of the highway like a giant dead metal whale or something.

A few seconds later, Willis and Clyde came into view over the edge, Clyde scrambling with hands and knees, and Willis pushing on the skinny man’s rump. The little wrecker driver sprawled onto the grass and rolled over on his back, panting. “Looking back on it, going down there might not have been the best idea I’ve ever had.”

“How’d you get down there anyway, Clyde?” I asked, taking in his lack of fancy climbing gear or even a rope.

“I put the winch in free spool and hung on to the hook. Then I just kinda slid down, following the track the car made. It wasn’t too bad going down.”

“Yeah, down’s always the easy part,” Willis said, standing bent over with his hands on his knees. He gave me a lopsided grin. “I might call Tommy and beg off the rock climbing tomorrow.”

I scowled at him. “Good idea.”

An hour later, the poor man who rolled his car down the embankment was identified as Peter Smalls, and Officer Ferber was off to make the notification to his family, since he lived across the line into York County. Clyde was all loaded up and rolled off, Leon and his couple of bored volunteers had shut down all their lights and headed home, and Robert from the rescue squad had poor Mr. Smalls’s body loaded up into the back of his ambulance and was headed up the road. Willis and I were in his little Prius and he had just got the car turned around when I saw something out of the corner of my eye.

“Stop the car, Willis,” I said, reaching out to grab his arm. He did as I asked without question, the mark of a man that has come to understand that his significant other (I refuse to be referred to as a “girlfriend” despite my referring to Willis as my boyfriend. And yes, I realize the innate hypocrisy in my stance. It remains unchanged.) is wont to make some truly odd demands from time to time.

“What is it, Lila Grace?” he asked, looking at me with worry on his face. “Did you cut yourself on something at the scene?”

“No, but I think Peter Smalls is standing on the side of the road looking very confused.” I pointed out into the night, but I knew full well Willis could no more see the ghost than I could dunk a basketball.

I got out of the car and walked over to the man. I hadn’t gotten much of a look at him as they loaded his body into the ambulance. Despite the fact that I literally talk to ghosts every day, I have never had a fascination with dead bodies. I’ve seen more than my fair share, but I don’t have any desire to ogle the empty vessels the ghosts I see come from. To be honest, I don’t even like open casket visitations, much less funerals. I think it’s