Free Fugly by K Z Snow

toward me. I walked more briskly and kept my peripheral vision trained on him. My breathing was sharp and shallow now. The flee-or-fight moment had almost arrived.
    And then I heard a surprisingly mellow “Hello. I hope I didn’t scare you.”
    My head jerked to the right as my hand tightened on the keychain. I stared.
    Somewhere in the near distance, a drip-drip-drip of moisture matched the beating of my heart.
    It was the tall man, the one I’d been looking for. One word came out of my mouth:

    “You.” It sounded cracked in the middle.
    “What about me?”
    A car alarm went off at the far north end of the parking lot. The man’s gaze didn’t leave my face for a second.
    “We had to come into town this weekend,” he said, maybe giving me a chance to gather my wits and find my voice. “Well, my husband had to. He’s working on a project for the university’s history department.” As relaxed as an old friend, he leaned against my car and smiled. “I came along because I figured you might want to talk to me.”
    Shadows cast by a scraggly sapling shifted over the man’s striking features. His nose seemed to have been broken at least once. “What made you think that?” I asked, nearly mesmerized.
    He smiled, creasing his cheeks. “You know why. What you don’t know is how much I sympathize with your concern.”
    “How…how did you know where to find me? You don’t even know my name.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry.” He took a step forward and extended his hand. “We never did introduce ourselves. I’m Jackson Spey.”
    Only vaguely did I realize he hadn’t answered my question. I took his hand—it was large and cool and slightly rough, like the rest of him—and, as his grip tightened, a tremor crawled up my arm. Softly, my breath caught.
    “David Ocho,” I managed to say. “What did you do to my friends?”
    There. The question was out. No preface, no delicate snuffling around to get a better sense of him, no careful broaching of subjects like voodoo and witchcraft. I simply, suddenly, certainly knew he’d somehow engineered what had befallen the Hunt Club.
    “What is it you think I did?” Jackson leaned against my car again, hands in pockets and long legs crossed, as a breeze stirred his hair.
    Briefly, my eyes moved up to it. He had remarkably pretty hair for such an intimidating man with such a husky voice. It was wavy and collar-length, with subtle, variegated highlights running through the dominant bronze-brown.
    “I think you—” I stopped myself. A good way to determine if he was in fact behind this would be to let him tell me what was wrong. “No,” I said. “I want to hear it from you.
    For all I know, your being here tonight is nothing more than coincidence. Maybe you’ve seen my friends over the past month, or your husband has, and that’s how you know what’s going on with them. Maybe, when you spotted me, you decided to embark on some sick, vicious ego-trip by pretending you’re responsible for—”
    “David,” Jackson said in a measured voice. After studying me for a moment, he slowly shook his head. “This isn’t a game. I haven’t seen your friends. Nobody I know has seen your friends.”
    I fancied he was inviting the light to cling to his leather jacket, as if its soft gleam meant I should pay close attention to him. “Why should I believe you? I don’t know you from Adam.”
    Sighing, he scratched at his forehead. “Because I’m telling the truth. I haven’t seen the rash. Nobody’s told me about it.” He slipped his hand back in his pocket. “But I know it’s there. And I know most people can’t see it. And I know who can see it.”
    The concrete seemed to dissolve beneath my feet. I didn’t exactly feel dizzy, but my head felt more liquid than solid. “How?” I whispered.
    “There’s no point in going into it. You wouldn’t understand. Not in the time we have. Contact a man named Helmut Auerbach if you’re genuinely interested. He lives