“Why you flailin’ like a chicken, HP? I can’t hardly see the road.”
“Slow down or stop.”
“We’re losin’ time. Gotta get back to the highway.”
“Stop!”
Perhaps it was the shrill note in his voice-Howard pulled over and smoothed the car into a halt at the end of a block. “What’s got your goat now, huh?”
“Look, Bob. See that sedan?”
Howard could see many sedans, all black, but the one Lovecraft indicated was unmistakable. At first he thought it might be his eyes, and yet any amount of squinting or blinking made no difference there was something about the blackness of the car that made it seem to be devouring the light around it, leaving a subtle aura in its periphery where all colors collided into that unnatural blackness.
“You see it,” said Lovecraft.
“Yeah. And you don’t have to say nothin’.”
In the black sedan sat two figures. Howard found it impossible to think of them as men although they had human silhouettes. The figure in the driver’s seat was more visible than the other; it wore a black suit with tight lapels and, underneath, a white shirt with a black tie. Its face, by all measures, should have been visible, but what Howard saw there was a mask of strangely unfocused features; the only things that stood out, with an ominous clarity, were the two eyes. Odd, Howard thought. He wouldn’t have been surprised if there had been several. Even without corroboration from Lovecraft, he knew that this was the odd man on the bus. There was no mistaking it, no way to confuse these creatures with people, even if they had precisely the same outward appearance.
The second figure in the car seemed more human for some reason. Howard intuitively knew this was because it had been among people for a longer time, gathering experience, doing the bidding of some ungodly power. The thing sat in the passenger seat exuding a palpable authority, and as Howard’s gaze touched it, it turned its head without seeming to move. Suddenly the shifting features were where the back of its head had been, and it was staring at him through those ghastly clear eyes. Why hadn’t Lovecraft mentioned the eyes?
“Lovecraft…” Howard began.
“It’s the odd man from the bus,” said Lovecraft, unconsciously fingering the Artifact in his pocket, “and now he has an accomplice.”
“I wouldn’ta believed it about the face. Thought it was your imagination.”
“The detail is far too strange to be fiction, Bob.”
“Well, whataya aim on doin’ now? They’ve been on our trail, obviously. ”
“I hate to interrupt your brooding, but I am at a loss at the moment. I believe they were already at the station when we arrived.” He winced in pain as the Artifact throbbed.
“What?” said Howard.
The black sedan pulled slowly forward, and now it was alongside Glory, who still stood at the entrance of the terminal. Through the open passenger-side window, the odd man from the bus had angled his head to speak and his intention, even from that distance, had the force of an intimate whisper. Glory walked innocently up to the open window and leaned forward.
“We’ve got to go back,” said Howard. “They know she was with us.”
Glory must not have noticed the man’s strange appearance, because she stood in rapt dialogue with him, smiling, then looking oddly placid as he said something to her. She motioned back toward her suitcase, but then her arm seemed to fall limp, and she straightened to move toward the back of the car.
“Bob!” said Lovecraft, to voice his alarm, but Howard had already put the Chevy in reverse and stepped on the gas. The car kicked up two gouts of dust and pebbles and careened backward, causing passersby to curse and shield their eyes. Howard steered expertly in reverse, his eyes on the street, his right arm draped across the seat back. Two approaching cars veered out of the way, sounding their annoyance on their Klaxons, but Howard was too intent to notice. Just as it seemed he would collide with the dead black sedan, he slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop, the Chevy’s bumper a scant inch from the other car, and as Lovecraft trembled in his seat, trying to regain his wits, Howard leaped out and grabbed Glory just as her limp hand closed on the handle of the door.
“No!” cried Howard. He wheeled her around and saw the blankness in her eyes flare suddenly into a wide expression of rage. She snarled at him and brought her other hand around, fingers curled, to claw at his face. Howard ducked like an expert boxer and brought his shoulder into her midriff, lifting her up in a fireman’s carry as he rose again, and while she kicked and flailed at him, he picked up her suitcase and strode back to his car.
Several people had gathered by now to watch the excitement. Lovecraft, in his calmest tones, announced to them that it was merely a lover’s quarrel, but his appearance didn’t seem to lend him much credibility.
“Let me go, you bastard!” said Glory. “Put me down!”
“We’ll take you to Vegas, okay? We’re going that way anyways.”
“I said put me down!”
Past Howard and his uncooperative load, Lovecraft saw the front door of the black sedan open. The odd man seemed to flow out of the car like a dark cloud and re-form himself on the sidewalk. He straightened his elegant, timeless clothes and stepped forward. “Bob!” he called.
“What?” said Howard, turning around, puzzled to hear Lovecraft’s voice from behind him.
The odd man’s face did a strange thing. Part of it solidified momentarily into a mouth and a smile. The lips moved very deliberately, as if forming sounds alien to its speaker. “Give. Us. The. Woman.” As he spoke the odd man drew open one side of his jacket and revealed a long, serpentine blade hanging where an inner pocket would normally have been. He drew the blade, very calmly, as if he did not care if the gathered people could see it. “Give. Her. To. Us. And. We. Shall. Kill. You. ”
Howard paused, trying to understand the logic of the threat. Some hypnotic quality in the voice overlay its imitation of Lovecraft’s tones. He felt himself becoming relaxed even when part of his mind had begun to feel an instinctive terror and repulsion.
The odd man drew closer, so close that the arcane symbols on the blade became distinct. They were not serpentine, but something else, something more tentacle-like, something that despite the abstractness of the etching exuded a feeling of disgusting wetness like a slug’s mucus trail.
“The hell with you,” said Howard, reaching toward his belt with his free hand. He paused and looked alarmed not to find his pistol there.
The odd man didn’t quite move the blade; it simply seemed to appear elsewhere, his arm attached to it. As he stepped forward, the aura around his body didn’t quite keep pace, and the air around him rippled as if it were distorted by waves of heat. Howard stepped backwards, clenching his free fist. He was frightened at the thought of what that blade could do-materialize suddenly in his gut or fly with imperceptible speed across his throat-but he was willing to make a fight of it. He prepared to put Glory and her bag down, wondering why she was suddenly so limp. “Lovecraft!” he called. “Where the blue blazes are you?”
“Bob!” The voice came from behind him, but Howard didn’t dare turn his head to see.
“Bob!” echoed the odd man, drawing closer.
“Bob! I have officers of the law here!”
“Officers,” echoed the odd man, pausing where he stood. The blade made one of its odd movements again and was gone. The odd man stood casually and yet with an inappropriate formality, as if he were posing for a portrait.