With the new Cole Wright novel Hard Ground due out on December 20th, it’s time once again to release a short story here on the website for a few days (at least up until Hard Ground’s release, and then maybe through the holidays for a little while.

---

Much Too Familiar

Cole Wright finds too many evenings in his tiny cul-de-sac apartment shattered by rumbling engines and squealing tires.

His neighbors miss their sleep.

Cole needs to do something about it.

Unless someone else does something about it first.

A Cole Wright story that asks the question ‘can we make a difference?’

---

Chapter One

From out on the road came the too-familiar sound of tires squealing as tearaway kids spun their too-fast, souped-up cars in tight circles around the cul-de-sac’s keyhole.

Cole Wright lay back in his comfortable bed, stretching out, watching the flicker of light on the ceiling. It was a warm night. As far as nights Spokane went at this time of year.

He had a quilt drawn up. It was patchwork and light and surprisingly comfortable. It had come with the apartment. Fully-furnished meant fully furnished, right down to hand-stitched cushions on the living room sofa, crockery and cutlery in the kitchen, and a filled bottle of laundry detergent for the machine.

He’d taken a three month lease. Quiet part of town. Had seemed like a good idea at the time.

A pity about Saturday nights, when the wannabe driver’s arrived at random times into the small hours, for burnouts. And Fridays. And Thursdays.

Even other days.

The apartment was in back of a two story home. A nice place, for sure, though Wright had never seen the inside rest of the house.

The first floor was occupied by a double garage, a foyer and mudroom beside that, with the stairs to the second floor where Daphne Fletcher lived. Well into her eighties, she was still spry and sharp and quick to explain to the guy who cut the lawns and trimmed her hedges exactly the parts he’d missed.

Not the kind of person you’d want to cross.

Still, she was taking care of him. Not just the furnishings, but she would ask if he’d eaten right and if he was getting enough sleep.

Some mornings he would wake and find a plastic-wrapped plate of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies, and a silvery bag of coffee waiting on the back step.

The apartment was a simple thing in the corner behind Daphne’s foyer, facing out into her manicured yard filled with stone fruit trees bursting with green leaves. The apartment had a combined living room, kitchen and dining space, a small bedroom and a tiny bathroom.

Plenty adequate for him.

On the walls were pieces of art, some of which Daphne had painted herself. Sunrises over dark canyons, rivers running wild, horses on the open prairie.

She’d been quite the painter, and had made a good living for many years from it. She’d even had a private gallery in Santa Fe.

“In my good years,” she’d said. “While I was able to keep up with the younger ones.”

Years back, Wright had been to Santa Fe. It was a fascinating place. Nestled up in the mountains. The adobe style of the buildings was the first thing you noticed really. Especially when it was a gas station or fast food place devoid of its livery save for a small sign.

Almost as if the companies had had to battle the city building ordinances to get even that bolted to the side of their traditional construction.

Next thing was the tourists. Hordes of them. Or herds, as they seemed to move in groups from gallery to gallery.

And that was the other thing. The galleries. It had seemed as if every second business in town was selling art.

Wright glanced at the bedside clock. It was a little, simple electronic thing with red LED showing blocky numbers representing the time.

02:44.

The bottom of the two central dots flashed, indicating that it was into the second half of the minute.

The squeals came again. Followed by  snapping, tearing sound.

Shouts.

Wright sat up.

A long time since he’d been a cop, but that instinct was still there.

More shouting.

Wright reached over the edge of the low bed and grabbed his jeans. He was still wearing a tee shirt and underwear.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the jeans on. Pulled on socks.

More shouts. Two, three people. Something banged.

He stuffed his feet into his hiking boots. He’d bought a good pair of Surtsey boots. Icelandic, but less expensive than he’d expected. He did plenty of walking, so a good pair of boots was a must.

It was three steps to the door. It let out into Daphne’s back yard, filled with the scent of fruit and flowers. A little haven.

At least it should be.

Wright strode around the side of the house and out onto the driveway.

There were lights on in a couple of houses. Most of them were like Daphne’s—two storied with established trees and well-cared for yards. Most of them had an SUV or two parked out front of closed garage doors.

A silvery Subaru wagon was parked near the center of the keyhole.

Daphne’s house was on the left side, at about three o’clock on the circle.

A six o’clock, the access out to Mayberry Street, there was a man holding a golf club.

The Subaru was facing him.

The Subaru’s engine revved.

Chapter Two

A breeze ran through the big trees around the cul-de-sac, making the leaves rustle. A bird twittered. Perhaps roused from its sleep by the wind, having slept through the tire squeals and shouting.

Wright walked along Daphne’s concrete driveway. She’d had it waterblasted recently and it practically gleamed in the light from the streetlamps.

The Subaru was an older model. Ten, maybe fifteen years old. It had fancy spoked wheels with thin tires. Perhaps an inch of sidewall on each. The bodywork sat practically right on the tires themselves, as if every bump the vehicle crossed would have the metal edge shaving strips of rubber off.

The engine grumbled.

The man with the golf club was wearing a dressing gown. Red tartan, with long, tasseled ties. He had black slippers on his feet.

Norton or Nathan or something. Wright had spoken with him a couple of times. The man lived at number six, not far from where he was standing. He had a magnolia tree that bloomed fabulously twice a year, but come fall would dump truckloads of stiff leaves. Wright had yet to see either.

Morton. That was it. Morton Sellars. He ran a car wash at the edge of the city. In his fifties and doing just okay. The car wash was neither a cash cow, nor a drain. It ticked over, was how Morton had put it.

Wright reached the curb and stepped down. He kept walking. Heading for a point equidistant between Morton and the Subaru.

There were other people out on their driveways.

The Sandersons. They had a couple of preschoolers and a cousin who was apparently quite a good author.

A woman Wright had only spoken to once. Tall slim, originally from Florida, but said she preferred the cooler climate here in Spokane. She was dressed in black slacks, a white shirt and a black jacket, as if she was already up and preparing for a day at the office.

“Morton,” Wright said. “I didn’t know you played golf.”

Wright was about fifteen yards now, from Morton. A few yards ahead of the Subaru, and off to the side. A triangle between them, like the tall sail on a racing yacht.

“I don’t play golf,” Morton said. “Sally plays golf.”

“Sally? I don’t know Sally.”

“My ex. She took the Mercedes, the original parts store, and the goldfish. She did leave behind her golf clubs.”

About a yard back from the line between the Subaru and Morton, Wright stopped and crouched. He tied his boot laces. Gave them a good yank to hold them firm.

If it came to running, or balancing or anything like that, he needed to keep them on his feet.

“Didn’t your ex call around for them sometime?” Wright said.

Morton laughed. “That whole situation, she ain’t going to call around. Not ever. She thinks I’m the devil, I believe.”

“How about that? You’ve always seemed pretty reasonable and friendly to me.”

“Exactly.”

The Subaru’s engine revved.

Wright took a look over. He was on the passenger’s side, the right.

The  side windows were tinted, but the front windshield was clear. Hard to see inside with light from the overhead lamps glinting from it.

Wright glanced again at Morton.

He was standing right in the center of the street. The highest point in the curve of it.

At that point, the tarmac was probably only about ten yards across, curb to curb.

The Subaru’s driver had a choice here.

Drive either side of Morton and risk getting panels and paint dinged up by a middle-aged maniac wielding a heavy-headed golf club.

Wright didn’t know much about golf, but he figured this was a wood. It probably had a number. A 3 wood or something.

But it was the hefty kind of club. Used for driving a golf ball three hundred yards or something. Not for the subtle work of chipping a ball out of the rough, nor for tapping it across the green into a hole.

A club like that could do a lot of damage to the bodywork on any car built after about 1975.

Another choice the driver had was to just straight-line it and trust that Morton would leap out of the way in time. That he would drop the club in the process, and the car could flee without repercussion.

Perhaps the driver might try to run up one of the driveway entries, mount the sidewalk and skirt around the maniac that way.

There were trash bins and fences and two streetlamp poles to consider in that scenario.

“You’re up pretty early in the morning here, Morton,” Wright said. “Trouble sleeping?”

“You know it. I was on Ambien for a while after Sally departed, and that helped, but I didn’t want to become dependent. I tapered off about a year ago.”

“Smart thinking.”

“Sure, but my sleep’s not as good as it was then.”

“Life is a series of trade-offs.”

“Like now, you mean?” Morton said, slapping the handle of the club. He had the club held across his body, both hands on it, the head hanging down on his left.

“Like,” he went on, “do I smash up this kid’s hot rod, or go back to bed and deal with the same thing tomorrow night, and next Thursday and on out until they wheel me off in a box?”

“Better than they wheel you off in a box tonight.”

The Subaru’s engine revved.

Hard and long.

It jumped forward with squeal, coming to a stop almost immediately.

The driver knew their vehicle.

Wright looked again, angling his head for a better view.

The driver had a baseball cap on backwards. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

She winked at Wright.

Revved the engine again.

Chapter Three

At the street end of the cul-de-sac, out on Mayberry, a garbage truck rumbled by, loud and booming. They started early, but surely before three AM was taking it a bit too far.

The Subaru’s engine revved.

Morton slapped the club again.

“Let him do it!” the tall slim woman from Florida called out. Alexa, that was her name. She was an accountant, on her way to starting her own practice. She’d been very forthcoming in the one conversation Wright had had with her.

“Come on,” Mr. Sanderson called. Wright couldn’t recall his first name. “Let’s get this done and we can all get some sleep.”

“How are you doing there Morton?” Wright said. “Ready to go back to bed?”

“Absolutely.”

Morton swung the club out to his right. He gave it a little looping swing, like an egg beater, and swung it back to his left, deftly changing hands and stepping as he went.

Very clear that the car wouldn’t get by without making contact.

“How about I talk to her?” Wright said.

“Would you?” Morton said, brightening and smiling. “Well, that’s all very reasonable.”

“Don’t talk to her!” Alexa said. “Go get another club and pound on the car all night.”

“Good point,” Morton said. “Alexa, my house is open and the clubs are by the door.”

“On my way.” Alexa started across the road. She was wearing heels that were practically stilettos. Completely incongruous next to Morton’s slippers and dressing gown.

“While Alexa’s getting another club,” Wright said, “I’m going to talk to the driver.”

“Fine. Go talk to her.”

Wright took a step. It put him almost in line with the Subaru’s potential trajectory.

The driver revved and jumped the car forward again. Now she was just a few yards from him.

And Wright had a choice. He could step back and go around behind the car, thereby reducing the risk.

Or, he could go in front.

That would put him between the car and Morton. And that reduced the risk for Morton.

Wright stepped in front of the car.

Chapter Four

From far in the distance came the vague sound of sirens. Could be something else. Could be someone in actual real danger, like a domestic incident. Or perhaps something with guns.

A kid in a car and an angry middle-aged guy with a golf club sat down the list.

Over in their driveway, the Sandersons looked on. Mrs. Sanderson had a phone to her ear. She nodded and said occasional words.

Possibly on the line to police dispatch.

Wright took another step.

Now he was directly in line with the car’s center. The stars of the Subaru logo on the grill glinted at him.

Just a few yards back.

Wright angled his course, heading for the left hand headlamp.

The car revved.

From the corner of his eye, Wright saw Alexa appear with a golf club. Looked like a wedge or something. Whatever they were called. The head was smaller than Morton’s, and metal rather than polished wood.

Probably easier to swing.

Wright kept going.

The driver watched him. She seemed so young.

Wright rounded the headlamp and followed along the front fender. When he reached the side, he couldn’t see into the car. The filming on the windows was real dark.

With his knuckles, he knocked on the glass.

No response.

He knocked again.

The engine revved.

Wright looked around the roof pillar so he could see inside. He made a rotary motion with his hand and mouthed, Wind down the window.

She gave a little shake of her head.

She was crying. Glistening tears in her eyes.

Chapter Five

Wright looked back around the cul-de-sac. There were more lights on in houses now, but no more people had come down their driveways.

Some were peering into the night from narrow gaps in curtains or the side of blinds.

Wright knocked on the Subaru’s windshield. He made the winding motion with his hand again.

“Open,” he said.

She revved the engine once more. The stink of exhaust wafted around.

“Now!”

Wright stepped back and stood by the window.

He didn’t do anything else. Just stood.

Just waited.

She revved the engine again.

Alexa made it back onto the road. She went and stood next to Morton. The pair of them with the golf clubs. They were going to end up braining each other.

“Don’t hit me with that thing,” Morton said, as if reading Wright’s thoughts.

The driver’s window made a quiet pop sound, and moved down a half an inch. Just cracked open.

“Further,” Wright said. “I need to see your face.”

The car’s engine puttered at idle. Deep and throaty.

Wright waited.

“I didn’t do anything,” she said from inside the car. She’d glanced up at him. He could just see her eyes and the strap from the ball cap.

“Open up further.” He said.

“You’ll just grab me.”

“Wouldn’t dare. Assault of a minor. And you know what happens to ex-cops on the inside.”

“You’re a cop?”

“Was a cop. Not anymore.”

“Right. But if you did go inside, they’d send you to that special cop prison.”

“Would they now? Where is that?”

“Besides,” she said, moving on, “I’m not a minor.”

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

Wright didn’t bother to correct her. She was well and truly a minor.

Shouldn’t even be behind the wheel.

“Open up further,” he said.

The mechanism clunked and the gap grew wider. She sniffed. Stared straight ahead.

“What’s your name?” Wright said.

“I’m not telling you my name.”

“I’m Wright. Cole Wright.”

“I’m not telling you my name.”

“You see what’s the trouble here?” Wright said. “Middle of the night. You’ve woken up these people. They’re upset. It’s not the first time. They’re feeling like they’re going to take the law into their own hands.”

Another sniff.

“If there’s a scratch on the car,” she said, “Zack’s gonna kill… he’s gonna be real mad with me.”

She glanced at Wright. Faced ahead again. She sat there, staring at Morton and Alexa.

“Who is Zack?” Wright said.

“My brother.”

“Does he know you’ve got his car?”

“Why do you think it’s his car?”

Wright tried not to smile. She’d practically told him.

But he stayed quiet.

Waited for her.

She leaned back against the headrest. Sniffed again.

“Things have been bad since Zara moved in,” she said, quietly. Barely audible above the sound of the engine.

“Zara?”

“Zack and Zara, right? Of course they were going to hit it off, you know? Of course she was going to come in with her pretty eyes and sweet tongue to distract him.”

“Zack.”

“Yes.”

“Your brother?” Wright was starting to piece it together a little. “What about your parents?”

“Dead. Yeah. Dead. All right? Gone.” She swore quietly.

“Long?”

“Six months.” She swallowed. Looked away through the passenger’s window.

“Zack’s your guardian?” Wright said.

“They thought it was a good idea. He was twenty. No other family. No mention that he was a dope head just like nice old Mom and Dad.”

“They“ being Child Protection Services?”

“The court, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t remember much of that. Listen, mister, I don’t know why I’m giving you my life’s story. Why don’t you go talk to those dickheads with the golf bats to get out of the way and I’ll go home.”

“How about this?” Wright said. “Why don’t we all go and see Zack? They can bring their golf clubs.”

“You want to go beat up Zack?” she said. “He has friends.”

“What I want to do,” Wright said, “is see that you’re safe, and encourage you to avoid returning here. Also, you shouldn’t be driving, so one of us would drive.”

“And you want to bring them because you can’t be alone with a child? Don’t you trust me? Think I might report you?”

“I don’t think you would, but, well, you did steal your brother’s car. You are out in the suburbs at three AM tearing up the street.”

She nodded. “I’m Mel.”

“Wright.”

“Yeah, you said.”

Wright smiled. “Sounds like you’ve had things pretty tough.”

She shrugged.

“Maybe there’s something I could do to help? Maybe get you into another home?” Even as he said it, it seemed weak. She didn’t seem like the right kind of kid for the foster system.

“You?” she said. “You mean like come around and beat up Zack?”

“No. I mean to look at options for you until you can go out on your own.”

“All right. I’ll…” she trailed off as headlights appeared. Turning from Mayberry into the cul-de-sac.

Chapter Six

The sound of sirens was still far off. There were more houses around the cul-de-sac with lights in the windows. People looking out. It seemed like Daphne’s, above Wright’s little apartment, was the only one still dark.

A black cat with a white bib strolled along the sidewalk out front, unperturbed by the human angst playing out in the street.

“That’s Zack,” Mel said. She shuffled down even lower in the Subaru’s driver’s seat.

The other car had come to a stop. Parked right at the entry. Right in the middle of the street.

“Why do you think it’s Zack?” Wright said. “Could be someone who lives here.”

“That’s Zara’s car. Double headlights with the blue lights in the grill.”

In the glare, it just looked like headlights to Wright. He couldn’t see any blue in the grill.

Mel spat a filthy epithet, questioning her brother’s parentage.

“He’s tracked me with my phone,” she said. She called him more names.

“Maybe I go talk to them,” Wright said. “Like I talked to you. We were making good progress.”

“We were?”

“Yes. Wait here. Shut off the engine.”

“I’m not shutting off the engine. You go tell your friends to go back to the fairway.”

Wright smiled. “A golf joke. That’s good.”

The slightest of smiles crossed her face, but she just kept staring straight ahead.

“Wait here,” Wright said. “I won’t be long.”

He headed away from the car.

Headed for the new arrival.

Chapter Seven

Wright slowed as he approached Morton and Alexa. They still stood, an unlikely pair, near the middle of the street. Both holding golf clubs.

Maybe three minutes had passed since Wright had first come to speak with Morton.

“You should go home to bed,” Wright said. “Both of you. Smashing up someone’s car isn’t going to stop them from coming. Only now they’ll be coming, and mad. They’ll come more often. More of them.”

“Wrong,” Morton said.

“Nothing else will work,” Alexa said.

“No,” Wright said. “I’m not wrong. Let me spell it out. “You dent the car with your golf club, then the police get involved. You get charged with willful damage. Then you’ve got court dates and all the associated costs. Not so much for you, Morton, but for you Alexa, say your boss gets wind of it. Doesn’t look good for the firm to have a felon on the staff, even if you’re still awaiting trial, or whichever direction it goes. So say then they just let you go. Furlough you because times are tight.”

“Times aren’t tight,” Alexa said. “They need me.”

“I’d hope so, because getting to court could take a while. Both of you go home to bed. Let’s not make this worse.”

Wright stepped around them and continued on toward the new arrival. Zara’s car, according to Mel

The engine revved. Long and hard.

As if it was like some mating call between vehicles. As if the occupants had to establish their territory.

Wright walked straight at the car.

As he drew closer, he saw that it did indeed have blue lights in the grill. It was lowered too, and older, but still from this century.

When Wright’s father had been around, they’d gone to some hotrod shows. Cars from the fifties and earlier, modified a little, or a lot—some almost beyond recognition—but they had nice lines and interesting shapes and features. Metallic paint jobs and chopped roofs.

Hotrod culture was a whole different thing now. For people beyond middle-age, trying to recapture something perhaps.

The kids now drove cars that were originally meant for grabbing the groceries and taking the family around various soccer and ball games on a Saturday. Hatchbacks and station wagons. Lowered suspensions and gigantic exhausts.

If the kids liked them, well fine, but these vehicles didn’t have the elegance of their predecessors.

Wright began angling for the driver’s side.

He didn’t look back, but he had the sense that Morton and Alexa hadn’t budged. Probably one had turned to face him, while the other stayed facing Mel’s Subaru.

The car was a Nissan, but a model Wright didn’t recognize. More at the sports-car end of the spectrum. Longer hood and two doors, with just a token back seat.

The side windows were tinted.

A woman sat behind the wheel. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the car.

Wright made the same winding motion with his hand, attempting to suggest that she bring down the window. It seemed archaic. Most vehicles now were crammed with electric motors doing all the jobs. Adjusting the mirrors and winding down the windows. Maybe even closing the trunk. No vehicle from the last couple of decades required anyone to physically turn a winder.

She gave him a nod, but didn’t bring down the window.

Wright reached the door and he knocked. Same as he’d done on Mel’s window. Like that one, this window was tinted.

The door clunked and pushed open a fraction.

“Window’s busted,” the woman said from inside. She didn’t open the door more than a couple of inches.

“Are you Zara?” Wright said.

“Who’s asking?” As good as a ’yes’.

“I’m Cole Wright,” he said. “I was talking to Mel back there. Sounds as if Zack upset her.”

“Big surprise there.”

“She knows it was wrong to take his car. She’s just young and impetuous. She wants to apologize and say it’ll never happen again.”

“She said that, huh?”

“No, but I figure deep down, that’s how she feels.”

“Really. I think that deep down she’d just as happily put a hunting knife through his ribs.”

It was always good to get another person’s point of view.

Zara pushed the door wider. Wright stepped back, and she got out.

She was tiny, but clearly older than Mel. Maybe in her late twenties. She was wearing a black jacket with fur lining, stovepipe jeans and Dr Martens boots. Her hair was thick and dark.

“Not,” she said, “that he doesn’t deserve a knife through the ribs.”

Chapter Eight

A tingle ran up Wright’s spine.

Zara had suggested a knife into Zack’s ribs.

Right away that set off alarm bells. All that old training. You had to take someone seriously when they started talking like that. They might mean it metaphorically, or even might have thought that they were just joking around.

Trouble was, when they weren’t.

When they were serious about it. When they had a plan.

The sound of the sirens still seemed a long way off. Blocks and blocks.

“Do you have a knife?” Wright said, staring at Zara.

She stared right back at him.

“Sure I do,” she said. “Kitchen knives. Who doesn’t?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t have a kitchen knife?”

“I’m renting. Fully furnished. I don’t own any knives.”

“Huh. How about that? But really you’re talking about a technicality. You don’t own knives, but you’re leasing the place. I guess you live around here? The place you’re leasing. You could hop right on over there now and get one of the knives you’re leasing and, well, I don’t know. Cut up an apple?”

“Fair point,” Wright said. “So are you planning harming Zack?”

“No! What?” Zara frowned. “You a cop? Night off? That’s a cop question.”

“Used to be a cop. I can’t arrest you anymore.”

“Couldn’t arrest me then, either. The words would have to be very specific. All I said was ’not that he doesn’t deserve a knife through the ribs. You’d write it in your little notebook, and even a public defender would destroy your testimony.”

Wright inclined his head, listening to the sirens.

“Sure,” he said. “You’re right. What I’m interested in is, getting Mel out of here safely. Encouraging her to not come back, and letting the golfing buddies get back to sleep.”

Or not, in Alexa’s case. Who knew why she was up and dressed at this time? It wasn’t as if the accountants’ place ran on overlapping shifts.

“Golf!” Zara said. “That’s what they’re…” she trailed off as loud car turned onto Mayberry a few blocks down.

Zara stepped away from the car. Looked.

“Zack,” she said.

“Really?”

“Yeah. That’s Todd’s car. Not good for Zack to be behind the wheel in his state.”

The engine noise grew louder. Coming fast along Mayberry. The lights flickered across the trees along the sidewalk, and the cars parked at the curb.

“What state?” Wright said.

“Angry and high.”

Chapter Nine

The black cat with the white bib galloped across the cul-de-sac and plunged into some shrubs at the front of number four. Another cat howled and took off across number four’s front yard, the first cat racing along right behind.

Todd’s car continued speeding along Mayberry. Had to be hitting fifty already.

The sirens were perhaps a little closer.

“This is gonna be a mess,” Zara said, getting back into her car.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Wright said.

Todd’s car was maybe a block away.

Zara had her hand on her door handle. “Figure I’m going to park right here at the side of the road. Watch and wait.”

“Good plan.” Wright stepped back.

The door closed. The engine roared. The car moved. Pulled to the right, easing up to the curb.

“What’s going on now?” Alexa said.

She was still brandishing the club.

“More new arrivals,” Wright said.

The sirens were growing closer. Todd’s car was about at the corner. Possibly Zack at the wheel.

Mel’s brother. Zara’s boyfriend, presumably.

As Wright walked toward Morton and Alexa, tires squealed from behind. All show.

Headlights panned across the scene.

Across Wright. Across Morton and Alexa. Across Mel in Zack’s car.

On across Zara’s car parked at the curb.

Wright tensed. The car came to a stop. Parked right about where Zara had been.

She got out of her car.

Wright stopped. Turned.

The new arrival was a black Camaro. Hard top. It had the slot of a wide, low air-intake on the hood. Perhaps after-market.

Two people inside.

“Todd’s driving,” Zara said, standing by her driver’s door. “Don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

From along Mayberry came the reflection of red and blue flashers. The cops. Very close now.

The Camaro’s engine revved.

“Todd works?” Wright said. “That’s a pricey vehicle right there.”

“Todd’s a dealer,” Zara said. “Zack’s a customer. And does some dealing too. You know, to fund being a customer.”

“You a customer too?”

“Was. Not any more.”

“Good to hear.”

“Settled. Got a job. A few hours back I dumped Zack. I can’t be in that environment. Looks like he didn’t take it very well.”

“Apparently not.”

“I tried to do something for him,” Zara said. “He’s out of reach. Wish I could do something for Mel, though.”

“Huh. Maybe you can.”

“Really?”

“Let’s see.”

The Camaro revved again.

Wright took a step toward them.

“Morton,” he called. “Alexa. The cops will be here any moment. Now would be a good time have your hands empty. Toss the clubs.”

“Toss the clubs?” Morton said.

“Exactly. Toss them into your yard.”

Behind the Camaro’s wheel, Todd was hunched forward. He was wearing aviator sunglasses and had a trimmed, blonde mustache.

Zack sat next to him, mouth downcast. He looked bleary and exhausted.

As the cops came around the corner onto Mayberry, the sound of the sirens leapt in volume, and the light from the roof-mounted flashers flared.

A single car.

Todd revved the Camaro’s engine again. Zara pressed herself back against the side of her car.

From Morton’s yard came the rustle of bushes. Just audible. Hopefully he and Alexa had tossed the clubs.

Wright took a step toward the Camaro.

The cops arrived. The cruiser’s hood dipped as it braked hard. The vehicle parked across the entry to the cul-de-sac. Perhaps a judicious driver could ease a car by at either end without mounting the curb.

It was clear, though, that neither Todd nor Mel were judicious drivers.

Todd perked up. He looked in the rearview mirror, as if just realizing that the cops had arrived.

He muttered something inaudible. Clearly an epithet.

He put the car in gear and revved it again.

“Off the street,” Wright said. “Everyone! Off the street!”

The Camaro surged forward.

Chapter Ten

From the cop car at the Mayberry end of the cul-de-sac, someone shouted.

Wright had already turned.

He ran.

Glad that he’d tied his boots.

Morton and Alexa were still standing in the middle of the street. Dumbfounded.

Wright kept running.

The pair jerked into action. They ran for their own sides of the street.

Wright angled for the sidewalk. Right hand side.

The Camaro was right behind him.

In a standing race between someone on foot and a car, the car will always win. No question.

Wright, on his best day, in his best year, might have run a hundred yards in twelve seconds.

Something like twenty miles an hour.

Of course, that’s a flat out sprint. Unsustainable.

The Camaro probably did zero to sixty in four point eight seconds, or three point two seconds or something like that. That seemed to be one of the specs that car enthusiasts liked to know. Yeah, but what’s its acceleration like?

The distinction here was practically immaterial.

If Todd was behind the wheel of some old farm pickup, maybe Wright could outrun him over a short distance, but driving anything else, Todd could catch him easily.

Wright got onto the sidewalk.

The Sandersons were still standing in their driveway. Perhaps all of four minutes had passed since they’d gotten up. They weren’t losing that much sleep.

The soles of Wright’s boots slapped on the concrete.

The Camaro surged by him. Zack looked at Wright through the untinted side window.

Then the Camaro was gone. Speeding into the cul-de-sac.

Heading right for Mel in the Subaru.

Chapter Eleven

The police were shouting. A woman.

Familiar voice too.

Wright knew some of the cops on the Spokane force. Some good people.

He kept running.

The Camaro rounded the Subaru, tires squealing. The Sandersons scurried back along their driveway.

The Camaro pulled in right beside the Subaru. Mel in the driver’s seat, next to Todd in the Camaro’s driver’s side.

Wright slowed. He came to a stop in front of the cars. To the left of the Camaro, but still on the curb. Just where it began curving away into the keyhole.

The black cat with the white bib appeared. It leapt onto the low white fence separating the Sandersons’ place from their neighbors’. The cat sat on a post and began washing its head.

The driver’s window on the Subaru slid down.

Mel said something.

Wright stayed where he was.

Zack leaned across to look at Mel. Talking. Wright couldn’t hear what he was saying.

The engines on both cars were still running.

“Hey,” someone said, coming up next to Wright.

Lieutenant Ione Anders, from the Spokane PD. Slim and about his height, close to his age. Her gun was holstered, but she had her right hand on the grip.

“Hi,” Wright said. “You’re on nights?”

“Covering. You know how it is.”

“Yes I do.”

“What do we have?”

“Fourteen year old kid stole her brother’s car.” Wright gave a rundown on what had happened and what he’d seen.

He left out the part about Morton and Alexa with the golf clubs. He could tell her about that another time. No sense in clouding things now.

“We know that car,” Anders said. “The Camaro.”

“I am unsurprised.”

“Me, I’d think that a dealer would go for something less ostentatious. You know. A Corolla. Something to keep under the radar. Car like that gets attention.”

“Not how they think. They want to show off.”

“Yes they do.” Anders took a step forward away from Wright. “What are you thinking?”

“Me?” Wright said. “I’m just a bystander. These guys woke me up. I came out to make sure no one got hurt or anything.”

“That’s you all over.”

“I suppose it is. I’m worried about the young woman. Mel. Her brother’s in the car with the dealer.”

“You said. Customer? Or associate?”

“From the look of him, and what Zara had said, a customer.”

“Zara being?”

“Girlfriend over there.” Wright pointed at the parked Nissan

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t want her going back under the guy’s care. Not unless he gets clean.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Anders said. “What’s your interest here? You know her?”

“Sure.”

“How long?”

“Six minutes,” Wright said. “More or less.”

Anders shook her head and sighed. She took another step. Went down from the curb.

Todd, the driver, was staring at her. If his head had been transparent, Wright would have been able to see the cogs spinning fast. Clearly trying to figure out his next move.

How to get out of the cul-de-sac.

How to get away from the cops.

Wright glanced back and saw the Anders’s cruiser easing forward into the straight part of the cul-de-sac. Slow. Her partner at the wheel.

The spotlight shone into the Camaro’s interior. The light glinted from Todd’s aviators.

Zack had his hand up, shielding his eyes.

Then Zack was out of the car. Standing.

He zipped around the hood.

Grabbed at the Subaru’s door handle.

Mel yelped.

Wright moved.

Ran by Anders.

Chapter Twelve

The Camaro’s engine roared. But the car didn’t move.

The police cruiser turned, angling across the street again. Blocking it.

Mostly.

The Camaro’s revs dropped again, before rising once more. Louder this time.

“Wright!” Anders shouted.

Zack was screaming at Mel now. He punched at her through the window.

The window was winding up.

“Get away!” Mel shouted.

Wright ran as if he was heading for the gap between the cars.

At the last moment, he broke right. Headed straight for the Camaro’s driver’s door.

It would be unlocked. Zack had just gotten out. The passenger’s door was still open.

Todd watched Wright coming. Realized too late what was going on.

Wright grabbed the handle.

He ripped the door open.

Just as Todd was swiping to lock it.

“Out!” Wright said.

It wasn’t hard, really. In going for the lock Todd was off balance.

He practically fell out of the car.

“On the ground,” Wright said. That old police voice right there. Ready for anytime he needed it.

Zack yelped. Wailed. His arm was jammed in the Subaru’s almost-closed window.

Todd was on his hands and knees. But he wasn’t going to stay down.

Wright took a step back.

Todd scrambled to his feet. He eyed Wright, considering his chances of taking Wright down.

But then Anders was there.

Now she had her weapon out. Both hands. Standing five feet back.

“Back on the ground!” she said.

Zack continued to wail.

The far door on the Subaru opened.

“Kneeling,” Anders said. “Hands on your head. Fingers interlocked.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Todd said. “Been here before.”

He got onto his knees.

Zack kept wailing. Plaintive and panicked.

Mel emerged from the other side of the Subaru. She stopped a moment. Stared at Zack.

She made eye contact with Wright.

“Try to do a buddy a favor,” Todd said. “Look what happens.” He swore.

“You should look after your friend,” Wright said.

The other officer was approaching.

Wright backed away. Space for them to do their job.

“Todd Spach,” Anders said. “You are under arrest.”

She read him his rights.

“Blah, blah, blah,” Todd said as she recited. “I know all this.”

Mel looked back and forth along the cul-de-sac. She took in the cop car. Zara standing by the little Nissan. The lights in the houses. The Sandersons still watching.

Mel came back to Wright.

She looked as if she might take off.

“Zara,” Wright called, going back around Anders and the other officer as they cuffed Todd.

“Still here,” Zara said. “I’m both amused and horrified by Zack’s predicament.”

Zack continued to wail, his arm pinned in the Subaru’s window.

“Likewise,” Wright said. He kept Mel in his peripheral vision.

She still looked as if she was going to bolt.

Uncertain.

He didn’t want to look at her in case it triggered flight.

“What did we talk about?” Wright called to Zara. “Getting her into a decent home?”

“With me,” Zara said. “Was that what we talked about?”

“Something like that.” Wright smiled as he walked toward her. Smart woman. Right away able to take in what was going on and to improvise with him.

None of it set in stone, but if it got Mel to stay close, then it was worth it.

Otherwise, she might take off. Become just another runaway.

Things didn’t go well for runaway teenage girls. Even in Spokane.

“You could take her home now?” Wright kept walking toward Zara. “If she wanted to go.”

“Sure,” Zara said. “I’m still unboxing, but there’s space. Up to her, of course.”

Now Wright looked back.

Mel was standing two yards from the Subaru now. Staring at Wright and Zara.

Mel looked over at Zack. His wails had subsided. He was attempting to work his arm free from the window. He wasn’t in much of a state to free anything from anything.

Mel shifted her gaze to Anders and the other officer. They were hauling Todd toward the cruiser.

There were more sirens coming. Not far off.

“Mel,” Wright said. “What do you say? Want to go hang with Zara for a few days? See how it goes?”

She just stared.

“Tell you what,” Wright said. “I’m going to come help your brother out of is jam there. He might be losing circulation.”

“My fingers are numb!” Zack wailed.

No surprise.

Wright took a step.

Mel stayed right where she was.

“Come on, hon’,” Zara said.

“You wouldn’t want me,” Mel said. “I’m trouble.”

“Well, maybe we can figure out how to stay out of trouble together.”

Thirteen

Two days later, with the morning sun striking its way through the blinds by Wright’s apartment’s sink bench, there was a knock on the door.

The coffeemaker hummed to itself, sending the strong fragrance through the air, and the toaster ticked, the case heating up as the bread toasted.

Wright was up and dressed in jeans and tee shirt. He was planning a walk maybe head to the library, and maybe go see a movie. He would see what the day brought.

He opened the door and it took him a moment to recognize the young woman standing there.

Zara.

“I had to ask around to figure out where you lived.” she said. She was dressed in leggings and a black skirt, with a plain shirt and a black jacket on top. She looked just about ready to go to a job interview.

“I have friendly neighbors,” he said.

“Except for the two who bring out golf clubs in the middle of the night.”

Wright smiled. “Mostly they’re all right too.”

“Sure. I guess. I just wanted to stop by with Mel so she could thank you. And me. I wanted to thank you too.”

“Thank me? I didn’t do anything really.”

“You were there. You didn’t have golf clubs. You just talked.”

“Sure.” Wright nodded. “You want a coffee?”

“That’s all right. We’re just stopping by. We’re heading for Oregon. I’ve got a sister who lives there. Near the coast. Near the California state line.”

“Quite a move.”

“Had to be done. Need the break. Zack’s not in a good space. We’ll come up and see him. Trying to get him into a program.”

“Good plan.”

“Anyway, thank you.” Zara held out her hand to shake.

Wright took it and her grip was firm and sure.

“Mel!” Zara called as they released. “Come on.”

Wright looked out through the door. Mel was standing against the corner of the house, by the walk that led to the street.

She was wearing ripped jeans and football jacket with a big S on the left side.

She gave him a half smile and headed along toward him.

Wright held out his hand, but she ignored it and just grabbed him into a hug.

Wright hugged her back.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You be good,” he told her.

She released and stepped back and looked him in the eye.

“You bet,” she said, with a little smile.

And he could see under that that she meant, You bet, but not too good.

And that was fine.

---

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed the story, feel free to let me know.  Go ahead and check out the other Cole Wright stories on the Cole Wright Thrillers page.

Remember the new Cole Wright thriller, Hard Ground is out on December 20th. Can’t wait? As a thanks for visiting here, and reading the story (you’re here at the bottom of the page, so I assume you read and enjoyed it), you can get the new novel half price here on the Sean Monaghan shopify page. $2.99. Enter the code “Hard Ground” at checkout to get the discount.

Thanks again for reading. Have a great Christmas and New Year.

Cheers

Sean