[Oxrun Station] The Last Call Of Mourning - Plot & Excerpts
Its color had once been a midnight green, but sun and, winter had faded the shade to a patchy pale grey; stains of rust edged the wheel wells, crept up the passenger doors, stitched across the low, slightly humped roof. There had been an ornament on the hood at some time in its past, and too many years ago it had been removed, the gap in the metal unfilled and spreading. The chrome bumpers were dull, pitted, and as she moved slowly down the steps shaking her head in disbelief she could see that the rear one was wired to the chassis. She looked around the front lawn and saw no one, shaded her eyes against the glare of the intermittent sun and peered into the front seat where nothing lay but a cheap plaid cushion by the steering wheel, and a thick manila folder whose papers were dangerously close to spilling onto the floorboard. Curiosity made her circle the car, searching for a nameplate, trying to remember if the bulbous hood and almost pointed grille was a mark of a 40s Pontiac or an early 50s Buick.
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