The Smoky Corridor

9

Eddie parked his sporty convertible next to the other car.

He had the ragtop rolled up tight, because he didn’t want anybody to see the dead body slumped beside him in the passenger seat.

Not that there was anybody else tooling around on this backcountry road at nine o’clock at night.

Mr. Timothy Johnson’s bulging eyes looked like bloodshot hard-boiled eggs. There was a hole in the center of his forehead, where the single bullet from Eddie’s pistol had entered.

Eddie stepped out onto the deserted road.

Looked both ways.

He didn’t see any head- or taillights up or down the highway, so he dragged Mr. Johnson from the convertible to his own beat-up used car. He shoved the corpse behind the steering wheel.

“Enjoy the ride, sir,” Eddie said as he reached across the dead man’s legs to twist the key in the ignition.

The car roared to life.

Eddie adjusted the steering wheel till the nose of the vehicle was aimed at a stone wall on the other side of the road.

The Connecticut countryside was famous for its picturesque barriers made out of fieldstones stacked on top of each other. Cars were forever running off the road, slamming into them, occasionally blowing up.

Eddie jammed one end of the dead dowser’s divining rod under his right knee and braced the pointy tip against the gas pedal, pressing it all the way down to the floor.

When the car burned up, so would the stick.

So would Mr. Johnson’s body.

Even the lead ball in his brain would melt.

“Sir,” said Eddie, “it gives me great pleasure to bid you a fond farewell.”

He reached through the open window and tapped the transmission into drive.

The car blasted off.

Flew across the roadway.

Smashed into the wall.

Exploded.

Eddie’s cell phone rang. He snapped it open.

“How may I be of assistance?”

It was the boss.

“Yes. Mr. Johnson just had his accident. Terrible tragedy. Where? Very well. I am on my way.”

He snapped the clamshell shut.

Eddie now had to drive to a small town called Lily Dale, New York, where, apparently, all the citizens were spiritualists, clairvoyants, or psychics.

He was to pick up a medium named Madame Marie, whom the boss had recently hired in case Mr. Timothy Johnson failed to find what they were searching for.

Eddie grinned.

If Madame Marie could not help them, he would need to locate another stone wall for her to have an accident with.