Free Castleview by Gene Wolfe

came to the window. Tiny drops of water on his lashes gleamed like diamonds in the dash lights. “Now just let it roll slow, okay? Park it off out of the way.”
    “We could coast! Seth, we can coast to the bottom of this hill. Get in!”
    He shook his head impatiently. “I wouldn’t want to try it—it’s got power steering and power brakes. Get it over to the side like I told you, and I’ll see if I can find out what’s the matter with the engine.”
    It was a bit easier to steer with the car rolling forward, but Mercedes had to force down the pedal with both feet to stop.
    Seth called, “A little more off to the side.”
    She edged the Olds over until both right wheels were well out upon the road’s soft, narrow shoulder, wondering whether it would not be stuck there even if Seth got the engine running.
    “Okay!”
    Thankfully, she put the transmission into Park and set the parking brake.
    “Fine,” Seth called. “Pull out the hood release.”
    She had to look for it, but it was not hard to find, a knob with a picture of a car with its hood up.
    “Turn off the lights.”
    Mercedes did, and left the car. There was a small light on the underside of the hood; Seth bent over the engine, prodding here and there. Long mumbled, “Could be the distributor’s wet,” and wandered away.
    Seth glanced up at Mercedes, shaking his head. “This has a solid-state distributor. He’s out of it.”
    She smiled sympathetically. “He’s probably used to working on old cars like his.”
    “Sure.” Seth had turned back to the engine too quickly to catch the smile.
    The night was dark and wet, and there was nothing to do but watch Seth. Mercedes got back into the Olds and looked for
her Coke. It had spilled on the floormat, its paper cup crushed by Long’s feet; she cleaned up the mess as well as she could in the dark.
    Seth called, “Slide over onto the driver’s side, will you? I want you to crank it for me.”
    She guessed that meant she was to turn on the starter. She did, producing a feeble groan.
    “Again. Pump the gas.”
    The grinding of the starter trailed away to silence.
    As though lit by lightning, the road and the mist, even the black trees, sprang back into existence. A car was coming down from the scenic view, a silent old sedan with a single headlight, though at that moment that headlight seemed like the sun.
    Seth jumped into the road in front of it, waving his arms. It slowed and stopped. Mercedes knew there was only one car it could be before she heard Long’s voice. “Got mine runnin’,” he said. “Hop in. Boys in front, girls in back.”
    Seth exclaimed, “Great!” He opened the front door and got in, presumably beside Long. “Come on, Mercedes.”
    Slowly, she left Seth’s car, thinking about Seth and Seth’s dead father; she wanted her own father as badly as Seth no doubt wanted his, wanted his hand on her shoulder, wanted very badly to hear him sing his crazy Irish song.
    She opened the rear door of the rusted-out sedan. Viviane Morgan was a faint sheen in its cavernous, musty interior. “Sit down,” she said. “There is plenty of room.”
    Mercedes did, reluctantly, shutting the door; she did not intend to speak, but she said, “You know, the other time, when Mr. Long opened the door of this car, that light up there came on.”
    “Indeed?” Ms. Morgan sounded amused. “But I was not here then, was I?”
    With a clank from the universal joint, the old car lurched ahead.
    “No, you weren’t. This is a setup, isn’t it? Some kind of a setup. This car would always run.”
    Ms. Morgan laughed.
    “Who sabotaged Seth’s car while we were talking to you?”
    Ms. Morgan had a soft laugh, a truly attractive laugh; and it was accompanied by breath that seemed perfumed, as a garden does after a warm rain. It continued for so long that Mercedes grew uneasy, and at last frightened. Ms. Morgan’s hand was on her thigh, stroking its soft flesh through the threadbare blue denim. A seam had