Smoke in Mirrors

me.”
    “Free.”
    Now he knew there was a catch. “I don’t believe it.”
    “Well, there is one little favor I’d like you to do for me,” the stranger said.
    “What favor?”
    “Swallow this and then we’ll discuss it.”
    Brett hesitated. But it was just too easy. He could already hear himself telling his friends about this tomorrow. You’ll never believe it. Met a guy on the footpath last night. Gave me S and M. The real stuff. For free.
    He swallowed the powder. It tasted bitter.
    “About that favor,” the stranger said.
    “What?” Brett squinted through the fog, trying to get a better look at the stranger’s eyes. Something weird about those eyes.
    “You’re going to kill a monster for me.”
    “You’re crazy, man.” Brett chuckled. He was feeling better already. Kind of excited. “No monsters around here.”
    “You’re wrong. There’s one coming along the path right now. He’ll be on the footbridge in a few minutes.” The stranger handed him a long object that was weighted at the end. “Take this. You’ll need it.”
    Brett looked down at the golf club the stranger had put in his hand. “Huh?”
    Something was really wrong here. He wanted to asksome more questions. But the hallucinations started in and he saw the monster in the fog.

    Some of the heavy satisfaction that had come over Thomas after the truly memorable sex started to fade. In its place he felt the familiar stirring sensation. Maybe that deliberately provocative good-night kiss hadn’t been such a good idea. He was going to be the one who spent the night thinking deeply unsettling thoughts.
    The sound of a jogger’s footfalls behind him warned him that there were still a few diehards out ruining their knees, even at this late hour. He moved to the edge of the path, giving the runner plenty of room.
    The echo of the pounding steps got louder. A moment later a young man galloped past. A nearby lamp gleamed briefly on his running shoes and lower legs. The rest of his body was in darkness.
    Thomas wondered if he should warn the kid that if he kept up the running his knees would probably be shot by the time he was forty. He decided not to mention it. Why give the competition an edge? Things were tough enough at forty. Besides, young guys didn’t want to hear about bad knees. They planned on living forever and being in great shape the whole time.
    The young man vanished into the night. The sound of his footfalls faded into nothingness. Silence flowed back, swirling together with the fog.
    He reached the footbridge and started across. From here he could see his own porch light in the trees on the hillside. Wrench would be waiting up for him. Nice to know your dog was always there for you.
    Footfalls sounded behind him. Another jogger, one who had decided to cheat and take the shortcut to the other side of the cove. The thud-thud s were heavier, notquite in sync, as if the guy was struggling to keep the rhythm going. Maybe his knees hurt.
    Thomas became aware of the runner’s heavy breathing. He could hear audible gulps of air. As he listened, the pattern of the footfalls altered. They were more closely spaced. Picking up speed.
    Closing the distance.
    Don’t look back. Something may be gaining on you.
    The thuds were coming very swiftly now. The runner was really sucking air, preparing for an even greater burst of speed. Working himself up for a major push. This guy sounded as if he was calling on all of his resources to make it past an invisible finish line.
    The runner was almost upon him.
    The hell with it. The only thing worse than looking nervous was looking like a victim.
    Thomas stopped, turned and stepped back toward the rail, giving the runner plenty of room. He kept his right hand in the pocket of his jacket. His fingers tightened around the handle of the wrench.
    A dark shadow exploded out of the fog. There was something wrong with his posture. Both arms were raised in an unnatural manner. He clutched a long object.
    The runner grunted, an incoherent cry, and swung the object downward the way a butcher swings a cleaver.
    Thomas yanked the wrench out of his pocket. He raised it, simultaneously shifting sideways along the railing.
    The runner’s club struck the wrench instead of Thomas’s head. The jarring impact sent shudders through the wooden span beneath Thomas’s feet.
    The runner, propelled by his own momentum, kept going for a few paces before pulling up abruptly. He spun around, sucked in more air