V

While I’m no track star, and I was working around an injured ankle, I made it to the truck in under sixty seconds. All the while, I kept a tight focus on my goal, being frankly afraid to look back. During our brief encounter, the thing hadn’t struck me as being especially fleet of foot. Still, anything as weird-looking as it had been probably had a nasty surprise of two built in.

I reached the side of the truck and fumbled around the statue, which seemed to have grown inexplicably heavier. The driver’s side door briefly stuck, then finally jerked open with sufficient force that I nearly took a spill. It had to be imagination, but it almost felt as if the toboda was doing everything it could to twist out of my already tenuous grasp.

I piled inside, rudely tossed the statue to the far side of the seat, stomped on the clutch pedal, and turned the key. The engine grudgingly coughed to life, encircling the ancient truck in an acrid cloud of white smoke. Without allowing the engine a decent amount of time to warm up, I jammed the pick-up into gear and took off.

I was at a distinct disadvantage. It had been a long time since I was last in the neighborhood, and that time I’d stuck to the main streets. The narrow side streets, some badly rutted and spotting the occasional upthrust paving brick, were consequently a profound mystery to me. Adding into to that, I had only the vaguest idea of where I was headed.

Southward, I figured. Frankly, I wasn’t even too sure of that. The spotty illumination of the irregularly spaced street lights was more of sullen glow that more obscured than revealed my surroundings. Evidently the local kids had elevated the art of smashing them to Olympic levels, and the city had either elected to divert their tax dollars elsewhere or had simply given up running needed maintenance after numerous attempts to rectify the situation.

In the end, I decided to turn left at the next intersection, go a couple of blocks, then turn left again. That should theoretically put me back on the main drag. Only it didn’t. The second turn landed me in a cul-de-sac. I slowed to make a u-turn, figuring I’d guessed right about the thing in the shop being tied to a fixed location.

Not that I knew a lot about hell spawn, but it sounded like something the Professor might have chattily revealed, if the topic of guardian demons had come up. I turned to back to the curb in preparation for the maneuver, I shot a wary glance at the toboda and got a distinct shock.

Maybe it was an illusion of the pale moonlight coming in through the truck’s windows, but the lavender stone seemed to have acquired a faint glow. It was more of a faint halo, and the color was so close to that of the statue that I decided it was just a quirky reflection.

But then again, had I tossed the toboda into that exact position? I’d have sworn the bloated face had been turned away, but now I saw that the statue had shifted to face me. I wasn’t up to any more weirdness, so I opted for the logical explanation. The thing was just a relic I’d been hired to acquire, no more. The streets here were a mine field for tires. No doubt one of the jolts the truck had taken had caused it to change position. I steeled myself and headed back to the cross street.

A block along, I ran into a particularly wide and deep hole blocked off which I’d barely circumvented before. It was ringed by a few sagging sawhorses and a rusted sign on a bent pole that read ‘ROAD CLOSED.” Caught off guard by its sudden appearance, as I’d been watching the road behind in the rearview mirror, I jammed on the brakes. The sudden deceleration pitched the toboda forward, and I just caught it with a restraining arm before it hit the dashboard. I immediately came near dropping it and only just managed to juggle it back onto the seat.

Damn! The thing was almost red hot. As it ricocheted between the seat back and the door, I noticed the woven fabric seat back sported a darkened, singed spot that I hadn’t noticed before. I thought I detected a faint wisp of smoke drifting up from this, before the statue flopped back to obscuring it.

I regarded the thing warily for a few moments. Common sense told me to get out, find something heavy to put on the accelerator pedal, and send the truck into the excavation. I could probably fabricate some tale for my client that would place the blame for my non-delivery elsewhere and still allow me to keep the up-front money.

I’d need it to soothe the aged truck owner’s nerves, s it was showing indications of being near to chugging off to automotive Valhalla.

The way I figured it, the truck couldn’t have possibly cost him more than a ‘c’ note. With a little encouragement, I might be able to talk him into seeking out a more modest ride.

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Well, sitting there wasn’t doing me or my nerves any favors. I shifted into reverse.

I’d have to go back the way I’d come, and I’d better get to it. That meant passing the antique shop to get to the main throughfare. I only hoped I wouldn’t see a familiar hunched shape as I passed the alley behind Javanovik’s shop.

I hugged the far curb so tightly as I passed the antique shop that it probably cost the tires on that side a quarter inch of rubber. Thankfully, there wasn’t much to see. The back door was some way down the darkened alley, and with no interior lighting from the back room it was impossible to say if it was still open. I gathered that Javanovik hadn’t been notified of my intrusion. Which was probably just as well for him. I know my reaction to being rudely wakened by a demon from the nether darkness would be less than pleasant.

When I wheeled around the corner and headed away from the shop’s ornate façade, I risked a final quick glance back. The front window was similarly dark. I’d have heaved a profound sigh of relief if it hadn’t been for the ugly chunk of stone now visibly simmering away beside me.

A mile along, in a better part of the city, I was faced with another problem. How could I manage to deliver the toboda to my client without burning my hands. I grinned in spite of myself. I had a new and distinctive definition of the term ‘hot property.’ Well, I decided, assuming I could scrape off a little profit beyond the price of replacing the truck, I could always replace a burned jacket. Maybe I could even spring for a full suit, once the issue of the back rent was settles. Things were starting to look up, once I got past the disturbing supernatural trappings.

That was when the truck gave an unexpected sideways lurch. What the devil had I clipped? The street ahead had been deserted, and I hadn’t noticed even hint of street trach beyond a blowing newspaper.

My foot had slipped off the gas pedal at the impact, but I immediately shifted it back so as not to lose momentum. It had taken considerable effort to coax the venerable truck up to forty in the first place, and I suspected that whatever suspension it had left might not react kindly to another surge of speed. The last thing I needed was for the A frame to give up the ghost.

For the moment, I forgot about the sudden shimmying of the truck. I shouldn’t have, but I know that now in blessed retrospect. Now that I had my bearings, I figured it was another six minutes to the client’s hotel. I wanted to get rid of the statue as quickly as I could and go somewhere where there were people. Lots of people and lots of noise. I had in mind the Amber Note, a small all-night jazz club where I sat in every third Friday night. Moe Schwartz, the manager, was a Grade A talker with a vast list of imagined illnesses he never tired of elaborating on. Right now, I could use three or four hours of verbose company and a few stiff drinks, even if the discussion would involve Moe’s other pet hobby -- fine cuisine. Which was funny, since Moe once frankly admitted that he couldn’t boil water.

The moonlight shining through the rear window was suddenly eclipsed. It had briefly dimmed at intervals as I moved from one street light to another, but this was different It was as if something large and very solid had suddenly appeared directly behind my neck. I risked a quick look in the mirror, dreading what I’d see.

Evidently the Professor’ summation of the toboda as the Al Capone of the demonic world had been accurate. My cherished fantasy that the thing in the antique shop had remained inside instantly evaporated. It was half-squatting not six inches away, trying to offset the lurching of the truck with wide-spread feet, its presumably fetid breath fogging the glass. One massive hand raised, poised like some fat, evil snake about to strike. I got a flashing glimpse of a stub that might have been a thumb and three fingers that were easily two inches thick and sported sharp, black talons.

I’d like to think I meant to suddenly veer toward the sidewalk. The maneuver was probably in the back of my mind, but if I’m honest my right leg kicked out spasmodically and I lost my grip on the wheel as I stared back at the thing. The truck took it from there. I had just enough time to half-turn and register the lamp post coming up fast before the truck struck and jumped the curb. That brought me up short as the front end of the pick-up began to accordion.

Lucky me. The steering wheel broke my forward plunge, so at least I didn’t go through the windshield. It felt like half the ribs on my left side were suddenly rearranged, then bounced back into place. I probably should have been glad they did snap back instead of splintering, but thinking clearly was beyond me at the moment.

Looking back, I don’t clearly recall getting the door open, tearing off my jacket, and wrapping the toboda in it. If I’d been thinking rationally, I’d have just hot footed it and left the statue behind. Maybe that would have distracted thing in the back. Just then, though, it was a toss of the coin whether it wanted to return the little horror to the shop or tear my head off and dribble it down the street.

I weaved down the street, driven by some idiotic idea that the thing couldn’t hit a moving target, and totally heedless to the fact that the continual switchbacks were cutting back on my putting real distance between myself and the wrecked truck. I thought I could hear cadenced pattering some distance behind me, but that could have been my imagination or the night wind kicking up street trash. If they were footfalls, they were considerably softer than the demon’s bulk would have suggested.

Thinking clearer now, I adjusted my course to hug what little illumination the street lights could afford as I took in my surroundings. The only thing I had going for me was that address my client had given me was now only a block ahead. I’d feel better once I was inside the lobby. It would be well-lit and there might be people there. It was barely possible one fact or the other might deter my pursuer. For now, I just had to hold onto what was probably a very short lead.