The Girls With Games of Blood Read Online Free PDF Page A

teen. “Course not. But Daddy won’t mind if you’re on the porch.”

 
     

CHAPTER 3
     
    J EB C RABTREE S TRUGGLED to open the barn door, which hung by one rust-seized hinge. As he dragged its edge across the ground, a swarm of disturbed yellow jackets boiled up and around him. “God dang it!” he said, swatting and waddling back a few steps.
    Zginski stepped forward, easily lifted the door, and pushed it flat against the wall. The insects did not approach him.
    Crabtree finished slapping away the wasps, verified none had actually stung him, and said, “Thank you, son. Any of ’em get you?”
    “No,” Zginski said.
    “That’s good. Saw a fella who was allergic get swarmed once. Swole up like a beach ball. Died that afternoon.”
    Crabtree led the way into the barn. Sunlight filtered through spaces between the wallboards and gaps in the tin roof, illuminating dry air heavy with dust. Junked farm machinery filled the building like the skeletons of great monsters. In the center was an automobile covered by a water-stained tarpaulin. “This-here’s your baby. Just like the ad said, less than two thousand miles and not a scratch on her.”
    “I believe the term is ‘cherry,’ is it not?” Zginski said.
    “That’s true enough. She ain’t been up over sixty on the highway, so her cherry’s still there for you.” Crabtree waved in the air until his fingers found the light string. “So where you from again, boy?”
    “Eastern Europe,” Zginski said deferentially. “Near Rumania.”
    “A
Commie,
” the man said in wonder, as if he’d seen some rare animal at the zoo. “A real Commie, here in my barn. How’d you end up in the U.S. of A., anyway?”
    “I am a political refugee.”
    “Did you go over the Berlin Wall?”
    “No, I hid myself in a cargo container.” It was close to the truth: while locked in an iron coffin, a golden dagger impaled in his lifeless heart, his corpse had been shipped from England to the United States.
    Crabtree whistled. “Have to admire that, for sure. Lots of Americans take freedom for granted these days. I served two years in Korea, and believe me, I appreciate what we got here.” He took hold of the tarpaulin. “Well, welcome to the Land of the Free, then!”
    With a flourish he whipped the cover aside. “Ta-da!” he said with a grin, then spit tobacco juice at the ground. “Ain’t she a beaut? A 1973 Mach 1 Ford Mustang.”
    The vehicle was indeed in pristine shape, chrome gleaming and glass spotless. Zginski touched the shiny yellow hood with reverent fingertips, careful not to smear the waxed shine. He knew that under it waited an eight-cylinder 351 Windsor engine designed for no other purpose than speed. He could barely contain himself. “Eleanor,” he whispered reverently.
    “ ’Scuse me?” Crabtree said as he stuffed the cover between two bales of hay.
    “Nothing.”
    “Oh, right, this is the car from that movie, ain’t it? Where the fella steals all them other cars.”
    “
Gone in 60 Seconds
,” Zginski said. He had decided, afterviewing
Vanishing Point, Death Race 2000
, and
The Seven-Ups,
that cinema existed for no other reason than to showcase the automobile.
    “They show American movies over in Russia?” Crabtree asked in surprise.
    “No, I saw it here.” He knelt and examined the tires, running his fingers along their road surfaces. The tread was deep and sharp-edged, and the little rubber whiskers had not yet worn away. He had no experience evaluating cars, but had pored over stacks of automotive magazines with the glee of a virginal young caliph on his first night in the harem. He sensed that Crabtree thought this one a jewel, and saw nothing to contradict that.
    Zginski stood, brushed his hands on his jeans, and said, “You must tell me how you acquired this.”
    “I don’t reckon that’s any of your business, son,” Crabtree said coolly. “She ain’t stole, if that’s what you’re worried about. I got all the paperwork on