BOOK EXCERPTS

Devils

       Uncle’s garage appeared vacant when the children arrived. What shall we do now? Mehdi wondered, his heart sinking as he hurried up to the window. But from his perch atop a bucket, he soon spotted his uncle reclined in a chair across the shop, his back to the door, his feet propped up on his desk. He was twisting a screwdriver into a lump of machinery he held in his hand, and Mehdi tapped on the cracked glass.
       “Huh, what’s this?” Uncle asked as the children filed in, Mehdi dragging his bicycle behind him. “Don’t you know the first horn has sounded?”
       “My bicycle…it’s broken,” Mehdi began, depositing the vehicle at the man’s feet.
       Uncle listened to the boy’s story with feigned gravity, occasionally stealing a wink at his niece, who was already squatted on the floor beside her brother, poking a finger at a wayward beetle.
       “Ah, so it is…yes, I see. And Kafja, how is little Kafja doing?” he asked, bending over. “Now don’t you go and frighten my little friend. You know it’s bad luck to frighten a beetle. Well, come on over to the bench. We’ll have it fixed good as new before you know it.”

An August Colloquy

       But like all things, that too had passed, and I sighed and wondered if I might just be getting old as I fumbled to lock the door of my laboratory behind me. As esteemed as I had become, I couldn’t seem to fit the little key into the yet littler keyhole, and it was then that I first had the feeling I was not alone. The hairs on my neck were already standing up when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Whirling around, I found myself face to face with a man I shall never forget.
       Other than his eyes, which darted over me like those of a frightened animal, he remained motionless, providing me a moment to catch my breath, and behold what had given me such a start. He was a few inches taller than I, perhaps six feet or so, with broad shoulders and a pale, drawn face. Though clad in the collared white shirt and loose, dark trousers of a spiritual wayfarer, this fellow’s britches were hiked awkwardly up on his frame, where a belt gathered a shirt so stiff with starch that it looked as if it might tear at the waist if he suddenly turned. But it was his eyes that struck me most: Lively and grey, they dominated his face, overshadowing a thin, regular nose with sharply flaring nostrils and a delicate, almost feminine mouth that was turned up at the corners in an apologetic smile.
       “Doctor Winborn?” he asked in an uncertain voice.
       “Yes?”
       “Do you…do you think you could spare me a few minutes of your time, Doctor?”
       Even though the man looked innocuous enough, I had long grown wary of strangers who asked for my time, and I pursed my lips, glancing down for a briefcase. “Well, now is not a very good time,” I replied, checking my watch. “Perhaps in the morning—”
       “I come a awful long way, Doctor,” he broke in, searching my face. “Please, jus’ a few minutes?”

The Baptism of Billy Ray Sikes

       A gate slammed at the far end of the corridor, and Billy Ray drew in a long breath, opened his eyes. From beneath the cot a cockroach was feeling its way into the light. Billy Ray watched in silence, tapping out his last cigarette as the bug paused a few inches from his left heel, turned, scurried across the concrete and disappeared in a crack along the wall.
       “Just can’t seem to get rid of ’em,” a voice drawled through the wire screen.
       Billy Ray looked up and smiled.
       Delmas Smith, who had risen from his chair by the screen, slowly stretched and yawned, his yellow teeth bared like those of a tired old cat. He had seen it all before; besides, another hour and his shift would be done. He nodded at the table against the wall. “Sure you don’t need anything, Billy Ray? Coffee? Soda?”
       “Naw, I’m all right,” Billy Ray replied, dragging a hand up his calf. Like the top of his head, it had been shaved the night before. The thought of what it was for was enough to send a shiver down his spine, yet for some reason he felt drawn, even compelled every now and then to feel the fresh stubble.

The Mutiny of Harby Stone

       It was in this sort of atmosphere when Mr. Prickles called me into his office late one afternoon. He appeared nervous, and quietly shut the door as I took a seat.
       “I can trust you, can’t I, Miles?” he asked mistrustfully.
       “Why, yes, sir,” I replied, slightly taken aback.
       “Good...good,” he sighed, sinking uneasily in his chair and mopping his forehead. “Because—just between you and me, now, just between you and me—it’s getting where I can’t trust anyone around here anymore. What with the cutbacks and all, the crew has gotten to be more than I can handle. Every last one of them itching to turn on me—just you wait and see, Miles. And to think, just to think of all I’ve done for them...”
       His breathing was labored and, after an awkward pause, he stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket and cleared his throat. “But I’ll come right to the point,” he said. “It’s...it’s Stone,” and without further ado he unfolded a letter and shoved it across the mahogany desk. It was addressed to him, and beneath a brief introductory paragraph, included a rather lengthy list of names.
       “I got it the day before yesterday. It’s there... fourth from the bottom, second column.”
       My gaze remained fixed to the paper for some time, and whether he deduced from this that I doubted his word, I’m not in a position to say. All I can say is that from the instant I realized what it was I was looking at, my heart was in my throat, and I quite naturally, if not instinctively, took the liberty of running a finger or two down the list for my own humble name. Satisfied I had been spared, and somewhat repentant of the momentary lapse, I mumbled, “Ah, yes, Stone—there it is...poor fellow...what a shame.”
       Oblivious to the cruel fright he had given me, Mr. Prickles simply shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s all coming to a head now, Miles,” he said. “All coming to a head, and I’ll need a...a witness...someone to corroborate my story,” and, so speaking, he pulled open a drawer and laid a pistol on the desk.
       “Mr. Prickles!” I gasped, staring at the weapon.