“She sounds well-off.”
“Money’s not the problem, believe me. I’d spend a million just to have her go away for a while. Be worth every penny.”
Colin laughed. “I guess it would get pretty annoying at that.”
“You have no idea.” Clarice used her finger to trace a circle on the back of Colin’s hand. “I’m going to tell you something really terrible, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Sometimes, sometimes I wish the old bag would just push off already, you know? Her health is terrible, she’s got no quality of life. Does that make me a bad person? Saying things like that?”
“Of course not. You can’t control what you’re feeling.” Colin kissed her cheek. “I’ll get your clothes. By the time you finish showering, I’ll be back.”
“What would I do without you?”
“Fortunately, you’re stuck with me.”
“Oh crap! Look at the time.”
“Here I go.”
Opening the garage door, Colin shook his head. Here he’d been ready to skip, just for a car. Insane. Someday Clarice’s mom would shuffle off this mortal coil — if she needed help Colin would lend a hand. Then Clarice would inherit millions. She’d need help managing all that cash. Someone she trusted. All Colin had to do was stick around. When Mom headed for that big buffet in the sky, Clarice and Colin would get married.
Of course, Clarice had issues. If she had an accident? With her medical history, her background of depression and mania? Colin felt sure most people would just shake their heads and say, what a nice girl, it’s such a shame. Colin would be heartbroken.
But he’d get over it.
The Bugatti roared to life. Goddamn, what a car. He was sailing at over 120 down the country road, a half-mile from the junction with Route 140. He could see the semi crossing in front of him when his cell phone rang.
Clarice.
“Yes, honey?” Colin said.
She was screaming something awful, Colin really couldn’t understand a word.
“Dear, take a deep breath.”
“The garage, I forgot to tell you, they need parts for the car.”
“Parts?”
“Yes, dammit, they told me to tell you they’re having trouble getting parts.”
Well, naturally, the car was over twenty years old. Bugatti parts don’t grow on trees.
“What parts?”
Colin heard her scream, “Brakes. They need to replace the brakes.”
The Bugatti’s engine revved as it grabbed some air just before Colin plunged into Route 140 traffic.
The horn didn’t work either.
The Disappearance of Wicked
by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Kristine Kathryn Rusch is one of those versatile writers whom it’s impossible to pigeonhole. She’s probably best known for the science fiction that appears under her real name: She’s prolific in that field and has won Readers Awards from Asimov’s Science Fiction. But she also writes under several pseudonyms: When she has her romance-writing hat on she’s Kristine Grayson; for romantic suspense she’s Kristine Dexter; Dexter; for mystery novels Kris Nelscott. She’s won awards in all of those fields!
First, let me preface my story by telling you that none of us liked Wicked. He was an obnoxious little yappy dog, with long curly white hair that needed trimming and a propensity for peeing on anything vaguely foodlike, from a bag of groceries in the open trunk of a car to the kibble set out for the neighborhood cats. He barked most of the time he was awake. When he wasn’t barking, he was yipping, a sad little high-pitched sound that was twice as annoying as any bark could be.
Even Isabel, the dog he lived with, an elderly female mix about the size of a Lab, hated him. Isabel, who faithfully guarded our neighborhood hilltop for the past thirteen years, would slink away whenever Wicked was outside, as if to say, Don’t look at me. I have nothing to do with that smelly, undisciplined little thing.
None of us had much to do with Wicked, not even his so-called owner, Ike Maize. Ike had inherited the dog from his daughter, Roxy, who was going through a messy divorce. Ike and his wife Stella promised to care for Wicked while Roxy went back to California to move her things to Oregon.
I had assumed Roxy would get an apartment when she got to Oregon. Instead, she showed up with the furniture and a six-month-old no one had told me about. The divorce wiped her out financially, so she moved in with her parents.
And that meant Wicked stayed, too.
I work at home and am usually immune to the neighborhood noise pollution. I’m not the kind of man who investigates each blaring radio or early- morning chain saw. Normally, I play my own stereo so loud that I don’t hear much during the day.
But I could hear Wicked. Nonstop. Barking, barking, yipping, and barking.
By the end of the first day, I wanted to strangle the little thing. By the end of the third day, I spent more time glaring at Wicked than I did working. By the end of the week, I was actively plotting the dog’s death.
I’m an inventive plotter. The critics say that’s one of my (only) strengths as a novelist. In fact, they claim I’ve been on the bestseller list for the past ten years because I can plot better than anyone else in the business.
Outwardly, my home does not reflect the wealth that my plotting skills have brought me. I kept the same footprint — as my realtor likes to say — and built up to make three full stories. It’s quite a redesign, but it fits into the neighborhood — or it pretends to.
And that’s all that matters to me.
Because I don’t want to leave the Crest Hill subdivision. This is the first house I ever bought — and I vowed not to sell it. Back then, it was a simple split level, built in 1972, and not remodeled in twenty years. I pulled up the orange and green shag carpeting, remodeled the kitchen by myself, and turned the free-standing garage into my writing office, which I still use without many modifications.
In fact, the free-standing garage/office is the problem. The walls are thin because here on the temperate Oregon Coast, houses don’t need insulation. I haven’t replaced the cheap windows I put in during my first redesign, which is why I can hear that early morning chain saw and the blaring truck radio.
Normally, I don’t mind.
But that was before Wicked.
It was all before Wicked, who, oddly enough, changed my view of the neighborhood forever.
The Crest Hill subdivision was built on a sandy ridgeline, 700 feet above sea level, several blocks east of the Pacific Ocean. The story of the subdivision is a story of neighbors — common in most places around the country, but extremely uncommon here on the Oregon Coast. In Seavy Village, three out of four houses are vacation rentals or second homes. These houses are full every Fourth of July. Two-thirds are full on Thanksgiving. A third are full during spring break.
Seavy Village has housing for forty thousand people, and hotel rooms for twice that many, but its year-round population is 7,000. Most neighborhoods are entirely empty most of the time or have only one year-round family residing on their quiet streets.
Crest Hill subdivision has always been different. We are a small enclave in a sea of empty houses. All twenty houses in Crest Hill are owner-occupied.
For the most part, we get along. We have an annual barbeque at Dave the plumber’s. When we see each other during the rest of the year, we always wave. If we have time, we stop on the street and chat.
Not a week goes by without a group of us gathered in front of the mailboxes, exchanging the village gossip and catching up on each other’s lives. We watch out for each other as best we can, and sometimes we even babysit each other’s children or feed the pets during the occasional long weekend.