The Nightcrawler by Mick Ridgewell Page A

toes reaching for the ceiling to shake off the sleep. The cotton hem of the T-shirt climbed enticingly high on her thighs. When she settled back into an “at ease” stance, she grinned and asked, “Sounds cool. Do I have time for a shower?”
    “Sure take your time.”  
    Her youthful exuberance and tone had extinguished his erotic interest and his attention returned to the computer. Ashley turned back toward the shower then stopped and looked back over her shoulder.  
    “Hey mister, you were in such a crap mood in the car last night, you didn’t tell me your name.”
    “Sorry I guess between the mad batter and the killer headache my manners took a break. The name’s Scott.”
    She beamed like a child being offered ice cream, “Pleased to meet you Scott,” then she disappeared behind the bathroom door.
    When Scott heard the water running in the shower he put on a pair of pleated shorts and a slightly wrinkled shirt. He pulled on ankle length white socks and a pair of white runners. He repacked his small suitcase excluding his carry-on bag and laptop and took them out to the car.
    It had rained overnight and the wet pavement surrounding the Best Western sparkled in the floodlights mounted on the side of the building. The air was refreshing compared to the heat of the previous day. It smelled of nightcrawlers and the damp decaying mulch piled high around the landscaped grounds of the hotel. A particularly large worm had caught Scott’s eye. It slithered across the parking lot just behind the Charger. Nearly a foot long, it left a trail of mucous that ran all the way back to where the lamp light faded into the night. Scott stood watching, wondering why they always came up on the pavement when it rained. If they didn’t get underground before the sun got too warm they would dry up and die. If the birds got them, the end would be quicker. Yet there they were, all over the parking lot heading for what?
    His wonderings about the worms came to an abrupt end with the sudden bang of a car-trunk being shut. About thirty feet to his right a man stood behind a black Lincoln. He was just standing there, looking at Scott. Scott could only make out a silhouette against the streetlight behind him. The posture was eerily familiar. He began to make his way toward the Charger. His gait was unmistakable. It was him, Scott was sure of it; it was the bum from Detroit. He must have stolen a car. God knows he couldn’t afford a Lincoln. Scott locked his stare on the man’s eyes. When he stepped under the full glow of the mercury-vapor lamp overhead the light revealed his face.  
    “That’s a real nice car you got there, son.” His friendly voice had an undertone of envy.  
    Scott looked at him with relief. It wasn’t the bum. A tall and slender man between fifty and sixty ogled the Charger like a child in a toy store. The top of his head was completely bald and the hair on the sides mostly gray. The gentleman was well-dressed, clean-shaven, and he had a smooth gliding stride. As he approached, Scott got a thick whiff of English Leather that overpowered the smells brought on by the rain.
    Scott didn’t reply. His pulse had spiked at the sight of the man’s approach, and he was feeling a bit jittery. While he took a moment to settle his nerves, the stranger continued.
    “Yes sir. My first car out of college was just like this one. It was a 68 though. If I’d waited six more months I could’ve gotten the 69. This one’s the same color mine was.”  
    He walked around the car. He didn’t seem to care whether Scott had no interest in his rambling or that he was there at all.
    “Would you like to look under the hood?” Scott asked, fully recovered from his jitters.
    “Would you mind?”
    “Not at all,” Scott said reaching under the hood. He pulled the latch to release it. With a clunk the hood popped up and he raised it as far as it would open. Beneath the light overhead and the two bulbs Thomas had installed in the hood,