Tales from the Crypt - Demon Knight Read Online Free PDF Page A

classic Stetson. The heels of his snakeskin boots gleamed like oiled glass as he walked. In one hand he held a small case of some sort, perhaps his toilet items if he needed to stop and freshen up before continuing to hike the remaining five-hundred miles across the desert toward Mexico.
    Bob Martel, who had been drowsing, perked up. “Naw, it ain’t him,” he said after a beat. “Maybe it’s the other one.”
    Tupper had no idea which was supposed to be which, but flashed the overhead light bar on and off a couple times anyway. The man stopped and turned. Tupper idled up and rolled his window down a few more inches. “How do,” he said by way of greeting when the dust had settled.
    “Have you seen him?” the man asked immediately. He had a long, somewhat triangular face, dark hair, generic eyes, no apparent criminal intent—just another tall guy wearing eight-hundred bucks worth of cowboy clothes, hiking through the night on the outskirts of Wormwood. Happened all the time.
    “Seen who?” Tupper ventured.
    Bob Martel perked up again. “It is you,” he said, leaning across the seat and sticking his face an inch away from Tupper’s ear. “You, except . . . where’d you get the clothes?”
    Sheriff Tupper and the stranger made eye contact again. Silent agreement ensued: the deputy was bonkers. Tupper pushed Martel back with a shove of his elbow. “Let me do this,” he snapped. To the stranger: “Did you witness a car wreck about a half hour ago? Out on the highway?”
    He nodded. “I did.”
    “Did you see anyone jump out at the last minute?”
    He nodded again. “That would be the man I’m looking for.”
    “You saw this man jump out? You were close enough to see?”
    The stranger put a hand on the top of the car and began to drum his fingers there, thumpa-thumpa-thumpa. “Of course I was. I was in the Cadillac.”
    Tupper looked at Martel, who was gnawing on a fingernail now, and back to the cowboy. “You came out of that explosion alive?”
    “That would be impossible. I was able to get out before the gas tanks exploded.”
    “But your car was totaled. Worse than totaled.”
    “I explained this to your partner already. Rather than ask me why I’m not as dead as you’d like, ask me why I have to find Brayker, and find him tonight.”
    Tupper blinked. “Baker?”
    “Brayker. B-R-A-Y-K-E-R.”
    “Yeah, okay, I got it.” Tupper ran a hand over his face, feeling worse than he had when Mavis rang his telephone to fire the starter-gun for this stupid night. “Hop on in, we can clear this up in town.”
    The stranger opened the back door and climbed in. Bob Martel turned and eyed him up and down, mumbling to himself, until Tupper poked a finger hard against his thigh and mouthed a couple shutups.
    The stranger leaned forward to speak to the back of Tupper’s head as the sheriff gave gas for the last leg to Wormwood. “He’s a very dangerous man, Brayker is,” he said. “He’s a murderer and a thief.”
    Tupper ducked a little as he drove. The man’s breath wafting around his head smelled a lot like burnt rubber. Eight hundred bucks worth of clothes, Tupper thought, and he can’t afford a breath mint. “Please don’t be telling me you’re a cop,” Tupper groaned. “Please don’t tell me you’re some kind of New York detective chasing the Mafia into Diamond County.”
    “Actually, I’m just a salesman.”
    “Salesman, eh? Okay, Mister Salesman, what drove you all the way from the east coast into New Mexico?” And if he says “My Cadillac drove me”, Tupper thought darkly, I will be forced to arrest him.
    “Mr. Brayker stole something of great value,” he said instead. “A valuable antique that is worth an enormous amount to me, and if he is anywhere near one of your quaint little towns, bad things will begin to happen. Dangerous things.”
    Tupper let his eyes drift shut for a moment. Thieves, murderers, salesmen—what’s the difference?
    A voice squawked on the police