Healing Stones by Stephen Arterburn, Nancy Rue

for rent there, with no one else leasing the other two bays, but a camping trailer out back, which at first pass seemed livable, came with it. He was tired of motels, and this had—character. He’d be working on the Impala during the day anyway, when he wasn’t doing legwork for Ethan Kaye.
    There was no way he couldn’t. Not after he told Ethan he’d bought the car and that he’d be staying in town for a while. Not after he heard the unspoken need in Ethan’s voice, the need for someone to walk him through this, help him find out what he was dealing with.
    â€œCome over and see her when she arrives,” Sully said about the Impala. “And we can talk strategy.”
    â€œStrategy,” Ethan said.
    â€œFor finding out what old man Estes and the Saint Bernard are up to, before they strike again. Uncle Wyatt is a control freak, I found out that much. He’s not gon’ let this die.”
    Ethan chuckled into the phone. Sully knew he’d get him with the Tennessee accent.
    â€œWhen’s she coming?” Ethan said.
    â€œThey’re delivering her first thing tomorrow.”
    â€œYou two bond for a while,” Ethan said, voice dry. “I’ll stop by after I leave the office.”
    â€œPick up some sandwiches on your way over,” Sully said.
    â€œBy all means. Please don’t cook.”
    The Impala looked even better being lowered from the tow truck than she had amid the riffraff of Edith Allen Estes’s golf carts and patio furniture. It was as if she knew she was about to be transformed back into the stunner she once was. Sully was sure he heard a longsuffering sigh when the driver set her down on the blocks Sully had carefully placed for her.
    â€œWe’ll get you new shoes, babe,” he told her. “Soon as you’re well enough to stand up.”
    â€œThis thing’s in great shape for as old as it is,” the tow truck guy said. He resituated the chew tucked in his cheek. “Some of the electrical still works.”
    â€œNo way,” Sully said.
    â€œDude, check this out. Go stand behind it.”
    Sully moved behind her —this person obviously had no understanding of what he was in the presence of—while the guy slid into the front seat. The Impala’s trio of brake lights on each side shuddered to life, blinking beneath the film of dust on her red covers.
    â€œCan you believe that?” the driver shouted back.
    The lights flashed. Six red taillights. Again. Yet again.
    Sully blinked, opened his mouth to tell him to stop. Couldn’t.
    They flashed again—in alarm—a panicked pounding of red through the dark.
    â€œStop! No—stop—something’s wrong!”
    The lights went out but the screaming went on and the darkness swallowed the rest of her up. Sully hurled himself forward.
    â€œOkay—dude—I stopped.”
    Sully heard the last of his own shouts and stared down at his hands clenching the back bumper. He jerked his chin up. The tow truck driver stood at the Impala’s hip, face whitening between scruffy tufts of beard. The taillights were out, the Impala was still, and Sully shook.
    â€œDid that freak you out?” the guy said.
    Sully forced his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, man, who knew she’d still have it in her?”
    â€œYeah. Seriously.”
    The driver eyed Sully and took a step backward. Sully attempted a grin he knew didn’t cover the trembling in his lips.
    â€œHate to see what I’m going to do when I get her running,” Sully said. “So—what do I owe you?”
    The guy took the money and ran, though he did pause as he climbed into his truck and said, “I’ve seen guys get into these old cars before, but, dude, you take it to a whole new level.”
    Sully made himself go back to her tail. He fingered the lights, plowing through the greasy dust until the red glass shone clearer. She was this car, not that