LITMIR.BIZ

      Savannah could practically see the dollar bills flying out the tailpipe of Dirk’s old Buick Skylark as they chugged up the steep foothills that framed the eastern side of San Carmelita. The ancient bomber was big, comfortable, practically indestructible, and got a whole whopping nine miles to the gallon.

      “When are you going to trade this tanker in on something more energy efficient, something less polluting, something kinder to Mother Earth?” she asked him as she sipped her free coffee and helped herself to one of the only slightly mashed cookies from his pocket.

      “I’ll trade it in when you get rid of the Scarlet Pony, Miss Treehugger Environmentalist. That jalopy of yours guzzles just as much gas as this thing does.”

      He had her there. Her ’65 Mustang with its Holley carburetor was hardly a “green machine.” She kicked herself for starting an argument she couldn’t win. Until…

      “My ‘jalopy’ can go from zero to one-twenty lickety-split. This thing can’t go over ninety downhill with a stiff wind behind it.”

      “It don’t need to go over ninety.”

      She gave him a sideways glance. Even by the dim light of a half-moon and the Buick’s dash lights, she could see he was stung.

      She grinned. Touché.

      Rolling down the car window, she breathed in the moist night air, scented with orange blossoms and eucalyptus and wild sage. Ah, life was, indeed, worth living.

      As they traveled farther from town, higher into the foothills, the fewer houses they saw. Although there were developments here and there, some of them exclusive, gated communities, overall, the countryside had a lonely, almost haunting quality about it.

      Dark, gnarled oaks and patches of desert scrub and prickly pear cacti provided the only greenery. Occasionally, through the trees, a creek could be seen, running parallel to the winding two-lane road. Its rocky bed was usually dry or held only a trickle at best. But the spring rains had been abundant so far this year, and as a result, the rivers, streams, and creeks of Southern California actually contained water.

      “What do you think about this house we’re going to?” she asked.

      “It’s not a house; it’s a hacienda,” he snapped.

      Still pissy about the car comment, I see, she thought. Someday she’d learn not to bait him. He pouted for so long afterward that it was hardly worth it.

      “I know it’s a hacienda, as in, big fancy Spanish house. I meant, what do you think about the stories about it being haunted?”

      “I think it’s bullshit. And anybody stupid enough to believe in that kind of crap is nuts.”

      Boy, still really pissy, she thought.

      She cleared her throat. “Okay. Next time I talk to Granny Reid, I’ll be sure to tell her that you think she’s nuts.”

      “She believes in ghosts?”

      “Big time. Calls ’em ‘haunts.’ Don’t ever get her started about the time Great-Granny Robinson came to visit her from the other side of the grave. That story will stand your hairs on end.”

      He didn’t reply right away, but she could tell he was dying to ask.

      Finally, he gave a little. “Wasn’t your great-grandma an Indian or something?”

      “Full-blooded Cherokee.”

      Again, a long silence.

      “Okay!” he snapped. “What happened?”

      “Well, one night, about a month after she died, Great-Grandma came to Gran in a dream. She warned her about a giant black cat that was stalking the—”

      He snorted. “Probably one of those fleabags of yours, Di or Cleo. The way you feed those things, they’re the size of lions.”

      Savannah shot him a deadly look. “Do you want to hear this story or not? It’s my family folklore. This is deep, serious, spiritual stuff that I’m sharing with you here.”

      “Yeah, okay. In a dream, a giant pussycat. Go—”

      “Great-Grandma Robinson told Gran, ‘Beware the Spirit of the Black Leopard who roams the woods here ’bouts and—’”

      “Hair boats? What’s that?”

      Savannah bristled. “Once more, buddy, and you ain’t hearing the end of this story.” She drew a deep breath and dropped her voice an octave before continuing. “Grandma Robinson told Granny that under no circumstances was she to wander near the woods after sundown for the next ten days…until the moon had reached full and then waned. Because if she did the demon spirit that was inhabitin’ that black leopard would not only rip her throat out but also steal the soul clean outta her.”

      “Yeah. Right. I hate it when that happens.”

      “Laugh it up, fuzz ball. But even though Granny Reid warned everybody in town about her dream, old Angus Carmody went out drinking that next Friday night and got lost on his way home. And when they found him, two days later, he was in the woods, facedown, all scratched to kingdom come, deader than an aged side o’ beef.”

      “Throat ripped out, I suppose?”

      “Naw, his throat was all right. But still, all those scratches. Deep, ugly, nasty gashes and tears. Hundreds of them. All over his body. What a sight! Folks in them parts still talk about it.”

      They rounded several more curves before Savannah added, “’Course, the scratches might have come from that patch of blackberry briars they found him in.”

      Dirk gave her one quick, sideways look and a slap on the thigh.

      They both laughed.

      “And,” he said, “I suppose ol’ Angus Carmody had the soul sucked clean outta him, too.”

      “Well, let’s just say nobody’s expecting to meet up with him on heaven’s golden streets after Judgment Day.”

      Dirk rounded a curve and slowed the car as they approached a gated driveway on the right side of the road.

      “You know,” he said, “one of these days you’re going to pull my leg one time too many, and you’re going to be a very sorry lady.”

      “I’m worried plum sick to death.”

      “Live in fear, woman. Live in fear.”

      “Yeah, yeah. I sleep with my eyes open all night long and a butcher knife under my pillow.”

      “You’d better. I could come for you any time.”

      “I’d turn Diamante and Cleopatra loose on you, boy. They’d scratch and bite the tar outta you.”

      “And suck my soul out?”

      “Damn tootin’.”

      “Eh, those two would never attack me. I’m the guy who gives them belly rubs and tuna treats.”

      “True. They’ve got you well-trained.”

      As they turned onto the gravel road, she saw an ornately painted sign above the gate that identified the property as “Rancho Rodriguez.”

      “This is it, huh?” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about this place, but I’ve never been here.”

      “Me neither. I make a habit of staying away from weird, haunted places. It’s a personal standard I have.”

      “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

      “Doesn’t mean I’d go out of my way to run into one.”

      Savannah recalled the television interviews with the snooty blonde who called anyone with even a few extra pounds a lazy “tub-o.” She thought

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