Creep Magnet
A mass begins at the front of the church. A gray-haired priest stands in front of the altar, speaking to a dozen scattered parishioners. I drop a coin in the offering box, light a candle, say a wordless prayer, cross myself the way I’ve seen in movies. Maybe, if I act normal, everything strange will disappear.
I watch the driver out of the corner of my eye. He’s not a monster—not at first glance, anyway. He’s in his fifties or early sixties, with receding white hair, a ponytail, a close-cropped beard. His eyes are calm and intelligent. He’s wearing linen slacks, a white peasant shirt, leather moccasins. He could be the meditation leader at a Buddhist retreat, a jewelry teacher at a community college, an old session musician who gives guitar lessons to students. I’ve seen thi
