Packard Lane

No one ever seemed to wander down the end of Packard Lane, where it veered off the highway and turned into a caliche path. The path led to a house, delapadated by years of unrest and neglect. My cousin, Iris, was fascinated by the place. She was the only person in Lobo who dared to venture down that road, till Felix came along.

The house sat in a small clearing at the end of that road, its porch sagging down and overhang drooping like a big, furrowed brow. The door hung from a single hinge, beaten and grey with age, windows broken out. I don't believe there was a single pane of glass left in that house.

During the day, light poured through and, if you were brave enough, you could see the broken pieces of furniture old Mr. Watt had left in a hurry the night he killed his family. A pecan tree shot straight through the roof of the house and allowed that light in, as if God had planted it there to show the world what James Watt had done.

I only know this because I ventured down there in search of my cousin a few times. Iris is a good girl, but not always afraid enough. She never started trouble, but it found her more than once.

The last time I went down there, Tommy Chalk had just been killed. No one knew for sure, though a few of us had a sneaking suspicion of who killed him. Only one person could have held enough ire for the man to hurt him, and he'd just shown his face in Lobo for the first time in three years. Bobby Thurston was a wicked man who had a lust for two things: drink, and my cousin, Iris Dean. Anyone who got in his way of either was a target.

Uncle Jack sent me out one morning looking for Iris when he hadn't heard from her. No one in town could find Bobby Thurston, and we were all more than worried. The Watt House was the first place I thought of, unfortunately. I drove my Biscayne down that road, under arching oak trees and Spanish moss, streams of sunlight glinting off the hood. My heart nearly beat out of my chest.

As the car crept down the road, rocks and clay crunching beneath white wall tires, I begged God to let me find that Iris was alright. The fear of seeing her in the same state as poor Tommy Chalk left me breathless, and my heart pounded faster. I wanted to be sick... but not in the car.

I stopped at the edge of the circular drive that swung toward the sagging porch, shutting the engine off and taking the keys. Knowing Bobby Thurston, if he could get his hands on that car, he'd take it. I could hear a few mourning doves in the distance, and rustling in the scrub trees nearby. I was paralyzed in fear...

...And then I heard Iris laughing. The laughter came from around back of the house, at the other side of the porch, where age had not torn it down. I heard a man's voice and prayed... God please don't let that man be near her!

I wasn't sure if I should call out to her or not. If Bobby was with her, would he do something stupid? Would he try to keep her captive and away from me? But, what if it wasn't Bobby? Who else would be with her?

The sunlight glinted through the broken roof, and through a shattered window, I saw him. It was Felix Truman, sitting next to my cousin, smiling and blushing like a school boy. I began to breathe again, lifting the back of my hand to wipe away a bead of sweat from my brow. I tumbled back into the Biscayne, and drove back to Jack's shop, happy to tell him I'd found Iris safe, and happy to be away from that road no one wanted to travel.