Night Blood

By James M. Thompson

A TASTE FOR BLOOD
Maine, 1820. Lost in a blizzard, a young woodcutter seeks refuge in an isolated cabin, never suspecting that the recluse who lives there is not what he appears to be—or that the strange-tasting brew he’s offered isn’t tea. Too late, the woodcutter realizes that he is doomed to wander the earth, consumed by a raging thirst that can only be sated with human blood.

A THIRST FOR MORE
Houston, Present Day. For more than a century, he has hunted for fresh prey to feed his inhuman need. Now, his immortality threatened by a deadly blood disease raging across the globe—and pulsing in his own veins—he brilliantly reinvents himself as a world-renowned doctor, racing against time to find the cure that will save him.

A HUNGER FOR DEATH
As death shadows the infected doctor, ER Physician Matthew Carter and forensic pathologist Samantha Scott are in their own desperate race to find a vicious serial killer who leaves his victims’ bodies horrifically drained of blood. A killer who is poised to strike again . . . and is closer than they think.

“If you read one horror book this year, read this one!” —William W. Johnstone

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyrical Press
• Release date: Jan 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781516104062

James M. Thompson

Dr. James M. Thompson received his medical degree from Baylor College of medicine and has been in practice for over forty years. He is the author of Elijah Pike Vampire Chronicles, and the thrillers Anthrax Protocol and Dust to Dust. He lives in south Texas.

Book preview

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Prologue

A shimmering, ghostly mist rose off the sluggish waters of the Houston Ship Channel and mingled with ever-present fog swirling around the dock area. I stood at the rail of my converted freighter, the Nightrunner, and listened to distant fog horns moan their lonely songs. The dank night air, fish smell, and darkness closed around me like a shroud and crept within my flesh to chill my bones. I longed for the warmth of sunlight, a dimly remembered pleasure, but such was not to be for me and my kind—never again. I sighed and strolled into the interior of the ship, trying to enjoy the night and the fog. Darkness has been, after all, my domain for the past two hundred years.

Entering the captain’s quarters, I spun a dial on a safe mounted in a wall over my antique writing desk. The combination was the year of my birth—1-8-0-1. I swung the door of the safe open and took out a large leather-bound journal. I sat at the desk running my hands over ancient leather, tracing a fine cobweb of cracks and wrinkles in the material with my fingers, reveling in the feel of this journal of my life. Finally, with another sigh I opened the book. The date at the top of the first page was faded but legible. June 24, 1870, had been written with a quill pen and india ink. I smiled with nostalgia as I reread the page . . .

It has now been fifty years since my conversion and I am finally becoming at ease with my new powers, and with my new limitations. I miss the sun terribly, and long to feel its warmth on my face. Not aging is a mixed blessing, for I have had to become expert at the art of using grease paint and chalk dust to appear to age normally. Close personal relationships are impossible, both due to my lack of aging and my inability to venture out in the daylight hours.

I have arranged several alternate refuges and stocked them with supplies in case my secret is found out, and have been acquiring what wealth I am able in order to be prepared for whatever may happen in the future.

I am still troubled by what I have come to call the Hunger—my unending lust for human blood—and the fact that my survival depends on the life force of others. I have compromised with my conscience as best I could by endeavoring to take only the very worst of society and to try to control the Hunger until such people can be safely acquired, and fed on, in small amounts without causing their deaths. My mental abilities allow me to wipe the terror of my assault from their minds and prevent them from alerting others to their ordeal. So far, there is no dearth of the baser elements and I have had no problem feeding almost without risk. Of all the animals on earth, surely humans are the easiest prey.

I will keep this journal, putting nothing in it that could compromise my identity, as I try to solve the mystery of what has happened to me. I hope that I may be able to find a way to reverse what has happened. I pray to God that when that time comes, I will still WANT to reverse it.

I quickly flipped through the remaining pages, stopping here and there to reread some passages that had special meaning or brought back pleasant memories. Finally, I was at the end of the journal, where I had made my last entry many months previously. As I read those words, I marveled at my previous naïveté. . . .

It is becoming more and more difficult to feed safely. As the Sickness becomes more widespread, danger of inadvertent infection becomes more acute. The lower stratum of society is so rife with the Sickness that it would be virtual suicide to feed on them randomly. Therefore, I have managed to tap into the hospital computer in order to have a list of people recently checked for Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, known in medical circles as CJD, and found to be free of infection. However, I fear I may have learned of the Sickness too late to save myself. There is a possibility I may have already acquired the deadly particle that causes the illness, a prion. It is difficult to know with certainty in my kind, for the symptoms appear much later than in the Others.

There is another danger to my survival besides the Sickness. The people on my list of safe victims are from a higher stratum of society, and possess more intelligence and sophistication. That makes approaching and isolating them for a successful nonlethal feed much more difficult. Because of this difficulty and the additional time between feedings, I have trouble controlling the Hunger enough to stop before they die or even to hide the manner of their death.

This may lead the authorities to become aware of the pattern of killings by exsanguination. I fear it is only a matter of time before investigators discover my trail of victims and their computers narrow the hunt to those who have access to my list. I am at a crucial point in my research into finding a cure for the Sickness, and an investigation into the deaths of my victims cannot be tolerated.

In all of my two hundred years, I have managed to keep my existence a secret, and so, for the most part, have the other Hunters that exist throughout the world. Now, I have to make a choice whether to leave this area and abandon my research or whether to intervene and try to sidetrack the investigation.

I shook my head, amazed at the innocence that had inspired those words, the faith that somehow the horror of my existence could be reversed. Well, the time for such faith is almost over and I will try now to write the complete truth, with no hiding of my identity or the terribleness of my actions. Ready for this night’s entry, I took out quill pen and india ink and began to write my final entry.

In my current identity, I am a doctor, and with a physician’s career-long attention to detail in writing careful patient histories in medical charts, I’m transcribing this as a record of what has happened—to me. If found, this journal and the tales of the events within will sound too unbelievable, too incredible to be accepted by my medical peers or anyone else. I believe I may be suffering from CJD, the so-called Sickness, but not as an innocent victim as one might expect. I contracted the prion, a Proteinaceous Infective Organism, by virtue of what I am, not because of my profession. There was no careless accident involving tainted blood or dirty needle. I am a well-trained doctor. I know how to handle infected blood samples and I understand the consequences of a mistake. In order to understand what has taken place you must first know some things about me, about who or what I am, and what I became. I’ll ask you to suspend your disbelief just long enough to hear my entire story, my history. What I am about to tell you is medical fact. Granted, little is known about my condition by the general public, but it is true, verifiable in medical textbooks.

I am now, through no fault or wish of my own, a member of a race descended from a small group of gypsies from a mountain area in Europe called the Carpathian region—actual geography does not matter now. Over a period of hundreds of years, due to inbreeding, some mutant gene arose in my racial ancestors, causing a rare disease known as Erythropoietic Uroporphyria. Symptoms of this genetic birth defect are pale skin that blisters and burns upon exposure to sunlight, phosphorescent teeth that glow in the dark due to abnormally high accumulations of phosphorus in tooth enamel, and a congenital hemolysis or rupture of red blood cells causing red, bloodstained eyes and bloody tears from tear ducts, along with progressive anemia. Over time, these people learned to control this anemia by feeding infants whole blood mixed with milk. Other apparent genetic traits seem to have been second sight or precognition, even mind-reading capabilities. As genetic selection took place, the average age of my race’s gypsy ancestors rose to over one hundred and fifty years, or longer.

At some time during this period, an infection of bacteriophage became common, a microscopic viruslike particle transferring genetic material from one cell to another. In this part of the world, those affected with the strange glowing teeth and red eyes became known as Vampyri. And with their lengthened life spans came a mixture of folklore and fact including the belief that they lived so long because of their consumption of human blood. These gypsies have survived as an almost secret race due to increased intelligence and psychic abilities, living in relative obscurity after being hunted down and almost exterminated because of strange practices, such as drinking human blood and rituals having to do with a form of gypsy religion. From the Carpathian mountain race of gypsies has arisen a dark folk legend renaming them vampires, attributing many absurd characteristics to these gypsy descendants, such as the ability to turn into bats. To people who show physical signs of being infected by Erythropoietic Uroporphyria, some of these tales are easy to believe. Their appearance can be frightening, their abilities astounding. Yet, my race’s ancestors do indeed drink human blood. Among my people, it is called the Hunger.

With the infection of bacteriophage and its ability to transfer genetic information, Erythropoietic Uroporphyria and the other genetic traits of the gypsies did not have to be inherited at birth, but could be passed to another in a ritual named the Transformation. Merely by being forced to drink the blood of one of the Vampyri, a human could be infected and, if he survived, would become one of the new race, with all of their characteristics and abilities, along with their never-ending curse of being forever dependent on human blood to survive.

This is what befell me in 1820. Forced by a blizzard to spend the night in a cabin in the Maine woods, I was drugged and induced to drink the blood of one of the Vampyri, thus becoming a monster in my own right. This happened not because of any wish of mine, nor through any moral depravity on my part. Like many of my later victims, I was cursed simply by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

When I tell you everything, you will find it difficult to feel compassion for me. I became, and am now, a despicable creature unworthy of sympathy. After many years of fighting the Hunger and endeavoring to feed without killing, I began to try to find ways to reverse the curse of my becoming a vampire. I researched and traced the beginnings of the race in hopes of finding some clue, some way to retrace my path back to humanity. In order to find the means to do this, I used my gift of long life to train many times over in many different institutions as a medical doctor, a man of science. My training instilled in me a regard for the sanctity of human life. I learned to save lives, treating the sick, a savior of sorts, or so I let myself believe until the Hunger would come and grow within me like a monstrous tumor in my brain. Then, within a short while, in spite of my desperate desire to resist, I would begin . . . to feed.

At times I could control the Hunger and only take what I needed to survive, leaving my victims stunned and violated, but alive. Sometimes, however, blood alone was not enough to satisfy the Hunger—it needed more, much more. It needed to destroy, to rend, to tear, to show its complete mastery over me by causing me to do the very thing I had sworn an oath not to do—to kill another being. Afterward, in the dark aftermath of one of my killing sprees, blood-soaked and despairing, I remained behind closed doors. The image I saw in a mirror was too horrible to contemplate and I soon rid myself of all mirrors. I despaired and thought of suicide, while a stronger urge kept me alive with a desire, a craving, a desperate need for human blood. During the time of the Hunger, my physical appearance would change . . . my canine teeth became elongated until they became like grotesquely shaped pinpoints, my tongue would grow and sharpen, like that of a terrible serpent, and my face would change. My features shifted like melting wax until I no longer resembled anything human but looked like a gargoyle from hell feasting on sinners’ souls. Except, my prey weren’t sinners, but victims of random chance, of the luck of the draw so to speak. Their only fault was being there when the Hunger took ascendancy over my soul.

The Hunger is overpowering. It consumes every other thought, all rational cognitive processes within my brain, and now it pervades my waking hours, even my sleep.

Thus, when the genetics and heredity of my enforced infection gave me no other choice, I began to feed on human blood. No, I am not schizophrenic, nor openly psychotic, nor am I merely imagining this. The Hunger is as real as fever or septicemia or any other physical ailment. I have succumbed to a black legacy handed down by my assailant in 1820, as perhaps it was handed down to him. I became one of the Vampyri, a vampire. I killed innocent people to drink their blood.

The genetic mutation infecting the race of the Vampyri had never been exposed to an infection like that of the prion, so powerful it could not be stopped by internally produced antibodies. Perhaps, long ago, they encountered blood-borne viruses and adapted genetically, across many generations, to accommodate them, to survive them. I do not claim to know all the secrets of the long lives and immunity of the Vampyri, only that they must be beheaded to truly die and not return as I did, from the dead. In some way, unknown to me, the combination of genetic mutations and infection by bacteriophage has made the Vampyri immune to most diseases and our recuperative power after bodily injury is so rapid as to be almost instantaneous. I do, however, know from experiments on other Vampyri who have acquired CJD that its effect on us is devastating. Though it does not kill us as it does the Others—our immune response is too strong for that—it does cause progressively worsening deterioration of the brain and progressive dementia until we become insane beyond all redemption. By that time, most of us would count death as a blessing were it to be offered.

But more about that later. My fear is that I may soon suffer a similar fate. Traditional blood tests for CJD infection are worthless in Vampyri, and we do not know if we have CJD until the dementia begins to grow in our minds like flowers after a spring rain. If such is my fate, I will surely choose death over the lingering torture of wasting away, mind and spirit eaten by the voracious prion until there is nothing left that can still be called me.

As I described earlier, one manifestation of my Carpathian genes is second sight, or precognition. I sense someone is closing in on me now, on the brink of discovering who and what I am. Before I am exposed I feel compelled to tell my story.

I do not expect your understanding or your sympathy.

Save your sympathies for my victims....

One

Hunger was an insatiable beast, living within my body gnawing at my guts. Slowly at first, it would course through me, gaining ascendancy until it occupied the center of my being, driving all rational thought from my mind with an undeniable command for blood—blood at any cost.

One night, early in August, the Hunger compelled me to leave my sanctuary, a refitted tramp steamer called the Nightrunner—the only place on earth where I felt completely safe from prying eyes and the unjust judgments of Others, the race of humans. They have never understood my curse, my affliction that causes me at times to violate their most closely held commandment, Thou shalt not kill.

My need, my Hunger was still mild, yet building with every tick of my grandfather clock; its golden pendulum swung back and forth slowly as it had for the two hundred years I had owned it. I wished with all my being I could stop it, and perhaps with that simple action stop the Hunger, but the Hunger was not so easily defeated. And only one thing could appease it.

With a sigh of resignation, as I had more times than I could remember, I got ready for a hunt. Dressed in black Sergio Valente jeans, a navy blue T-shirt, and black Nike tennis shoes, I set an alarm on my door and left, pulling my Mercedes sedan out into Houston traffic.

I timed my departure so the after-work crowd had dispersed, having already arrived at homes with welcoming spouses and children—a pleasure forever denied me. I drove randomly, with no particular destination in mind, but with a need to be around people, to reaffirm in some small way what was left of my humanity.

Soon I came to a large neon sign, blinking in garish pink letters ten feet high,

RICK’S PLACE.

I smiled to myself, thinking of Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, and Adolph Menjou. But this wasn’t Casablanca, it was Houston, Texas, and Rick’s Place was what was euphemistically called a gentleman’s club. A place where humans went to stare in sweaty fascination at breasts and buttocks and dream of sexual conquest. My mission was different, though no less urgent.

Rick’s parking lot was almost full of late-model, expensive cars. Perfect. A yuppie hangout. Intent only on their own pleasures, these horny men would never notice an interloper in their midst. I parked my Mercedes at an edge of the nightclub’s parking lot, placed for a quick exit should the need arise.

Entering the nightclub, I looked around, my nostrils dilating at the stench of smoke in a dimly lit room. Standing in the doorway, I extended my senses, searching for possible danger. As I closed my eyes to accentuate my power, smells and noises disappeared. A sea of emotions washed over me, waves crashing and churning against the breakers of my mind. I searched the room mentally, like a shark testing sea currents for any trace of blood. I found only boredom, lust, and hostility; nothing to endanger my quest. Reassured, I mingled with the race to which I was born but no longer belonged.

I am of medium height and have a slim build with a face that is in no way unusual. Although I looked no different from many others in the club, I knew I exuded a subtle air of menace the way some animals secrete musk. As I walked to the bar, threading my way through the crowd, people eased out of my way, glancing away as if by not looking at me they somehow avoided what they sensed but did not understand. It had been this way forever, or so it seemed, and was one of the reasons I was destined to be ever alone, even in a crowd. Though I was used to this, it bothered me. Like the mark of Cain, it kept me from even pretending to still be human. At that moment, I would have given my soul, if I still had one, to trade places with any of those poor, pitiful, weak creatures.

At the bar, a man was leaning over an empty stool, talking earnestly to an uninterested prostitute. I squeezed between them and straddled the chair, my back to the bar. The man, evidently too drunk to sense my power, started to protest and went so far as to put his hand on my shoulder. When I turned and glared at him, he reacted as if he had been slapped in the face. He sat there, hunched over, staring at his drink for a moment; then he shook his head as if awakening from a nightmare. With a sudden motion he emptied his beer glass in one convulsive swallow and stumbled from the club, sweat beading his forehead.

I motioned to the bartender, ordered a glass of Martel brandy, then swiveled on my bar stool to watch the stage.

I closed my eyes and concentrated my powers on the area backstage. In my mind’s eye, I could see one of the dancers, Salee Jensen, blotting her face with a soiled towel. The heat in her unair-conditioned dressing room was making her sweat, melting her pancake makeup. She looked over at one of the other girls in a mirror and said, Jeez, you’d think that prick manager could at least put a fan back here.

The other dancer paused while putting on her mascara. At least you’re going out there where there’s air-conditioning to dance. She leaned back toward the mirror. Me, I’ve got another hour to sit here and bake before I go on.

Salee shook her head. Yeah, sit here and bake, or go out there and suffocate in the smoke. She dusted more powder on her face, trying to dry her makeup.

Mick Jagger began to scream Jumpin’ Jack Flash through huge speakers flanking the stage. Salee looked over her shoulder and shrugged. Well, it’s time to go to work. She popped a stick of Juicy Fruit into her mouth and stepped through the curtains.

As she came into view, I opened my eyes to look at her for the first time. She was wearing a gauzy see-through top and a G-string. The beat of the music began to throb as she discarded her top and started to dance. She moved, bumping and grinding and swinging her breasts, all the while chewing her wad of fruity gum.

I stared at her as she danced. My gaze never wavered, not even when the bartender tapped me on the shoulder and set my drink down on the bar. I paid with a twenty-dollar bill. I could sense the barman shiver as our hands brushed, as if he were touching a corpse. I took the brandy and swirled it under my nose, inhaling its musty bouquet.

Staring at Salee, noticing how her pulse throbbed in her throat and how small beads of sweat lined her upper lip, I felt a momentary twinge of disgust for what I was about to do. It had always been this way. There was within me a constant battle being waged. The Hunger forced me to kill in order to live, while the remnants of my humanity cried out that what I was doing was vile and despicable. There was, however, never a doubt as to which of the forces at war within me would emerge victorious.

I focused my thoughts and dampened the voice of what remained of my conscience, letting my lust build as I sipped my drink.

Salee danced with closed eyes, avoiding looking at the men in the audience. I could feel her embarrassment, having to perform like this. Her skin began to turn red and splotchy, as if the very intensity of my gaze were making it burn and itch.

Mick Jagger ceased his howling and Salee stooped to pick up her top, leaving the stage to desultory clapping. A few minutes later she reappeared from behind the curtain, wearing her gauze top and a short skirt covering her G-string. She picked up her tray and started to wait tables, as all the girls did between sets.

As Salee walked by my stool, she shuddered. Putting a hand to her head, she turned. Our eyes met and locked. She began to back away, then stopped and smiled. She walked to me.

Hi, I didn’t recognize you at first. After she stared into the pits of my eyes for a moment, she cocked her head to the side. I also didn’t know you came to places like this.

I took a drink of my brandy and slowly studied her body, taking my time. I don’t, usually. I came to see you.

Although the room was filled with the buzz of conversation, the tinkling of glasses, and the blare of the music, she had no trouble understanding me. It was as if my voice, low, husky, hypnotic, had bypassed her ears and invaded her mind.

She flushed as I caressed her with my eyes. Her pupils dilated and focused on mine. My irises were black as death, shot through with tiny golden motes that swirled and moved as I stared at her. She moaned softly, and I sensed her lust. I knew when she became wet, as if I had touched her sex.

She swayed, but before she could fall I got up and took her by the arm. From that moment, she was mine. Her destiny was sealed. I laid her tray on a table and escorted her from the club. As we stepped through the door, the manager followed us and grabbed me by my shoulder. He attempted to whirl me around, but he quickly discovered it was like trying to move rock.

Hey, asshole. She can’t leave yet, her shift’s not over for another four hours.

I did not break stride as I reached back and took him by the neck with one hand, lifting him up until his feet dangled in the air. I stepped out of the light and into the gloom of the alley as I brought his purpling face close to mine and snarled, Did you call me an asshole? I can’t abide rudeness, even in the Others.

The manager’s eyes bulged with fear and pain as he tried to answer, but his voice could not get beyond my iron grip on his throat. I leaned close, listening to his soft gurgles and squeaks. I sighed. I thought so. I spread my left hand over the top of his head and slowly squeezed until I heard a crack, then effortlessly tossed his quivering body back into the darkness of the alley. Salee stood alongside me, a vacant look in her eyes.

As we approached my car, I made a discreet wave of my hand and the door opened. I guided her into the passenger seat, then went around to the driver’s side and slid in beside her.

I drove to a secluded stretch of road in a warehouse district of downtown Houston and parked the car. Salee flinched and seemed to come out of her trance as my hand, holding a chilled glass of red wine, appeared in front of her face. My voice was husky, sounding as if my mouth had filled with dust and cobwebs. I know it’s a sin to chill red wine, but I thought after the heat of the club you would prefer something cold.

She took the wine, examining me with gimlet eyes as I offered it.

She smiled, tentatively at first, more broadly as I returned her smile. You are very handsome, she murmured, lowering her eyes.

Thank you, I replied, embarrassed at the ease with which her mind was manipulated. This Hunt was almost too easy, taking some of the pleasure out of the chase.

I poured wine for myself, touching our glasses in a toast, making them ring like church bells at a funeral. She took a small sip, then drank the scarlet liquid down in a single swallow. I stared at the motion of her throat, my Hunger building rapidly now, almost out of control.

Holding her glass out for more, she whispered in a voice hoarse with lust, When I first met you I didn’t realize how attractive you were. You look different at work.

The ends of my mouth turned up in an ironic smile, revealing my small, pointed teeth glowing in the gloom surrounding us. I am different at work.

I slipped my arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to me. She peered out the windows at ground fog enveloping the car. I sensed her fear of our isolation in the darkness. It was as if we were alone in the world, encased in billowing swirls of smoke hiding the stars from view.

As she drank, she rested her head on my shoulder, quickly looking up as she caught a whiff of my musk, the scent of my Hunger. Just for a moment, a smell of decay, of moldering flesh, pervaded the car. Her nose wrinkled, but as the alcohol hit her bloodstream and made her slightly giddy, she relaxed.

I squeezed her shoulder with my right arm as I slipped my left hand into the front of her blouse. I pulled it down, exposing her breasts. Her nipples rose and puckered. She leaned forward and buried her face in my neck, nuzzling me with her tongue. I lightly caressed the soft, rounded flesh of her breast, bending my head to take her left nipple in my mouth. As I suckled it, my hand slipped under her skirt and up into her pubic hair.

She became wet and trembled with passion. I continued to suck her breast and stroke her wetness until she moaned and lay back, closing her eyes while spreading her legs. My fingers entered her, just as I grasped her nipple between my front teeth and bit hard enough to draw blood. My senses swam with the heady taste. She didn’t seem to mind. Not now . . . not yet.

She reached out and explored my lap, grasping my penis in her hand. It was huge, turgid, throbbing. A twinge of fear made her hesitate before she ceased to think at all as I eased on top of her.

She was in the first throes of her orgasm when I put the head of my organ against her opening and paused. She opened her eyes to look at my face as I entered her. Suddenly, her moans turned to screams as the flesh of my face began to ripple and change. My bloodless lips drew back over fangs that lengthened and I drooled, even as she watched. My tongue grew and became pointed. In an obscene gesture it began to flick in and out, licking her lips and mouth like an amorous serpent. She shook her head from side to side and tried to scream, but fear had closed her throat and rendered her silent.

My lips, hungry for more of her delicious blood, curled back in a grotesque caricature of a grin, and I thrust my penis forward, ripping into Salee and splitting her open. She reached up and began to scratch at my face, beating me feebly, until I took both her arms in one huge claw and bent them back over her head. Her pain was unbearable, yet I fed on it, becoming even more frenzied as I pushed and pumped and ground myself deeper into her. Now the sounds came and she screamed as never before. I turned my face to one side and opened my mouth wider, panting with anticipation. She continued to scream for some time as, all vestiges of humanity obliterated, I lowered my head and began to feed.

Two

Dr. Matt Carter, associate professor of emergency medicine at Baylor College of Medicine, grinned as he accelerated up a parking ramp of the Methodist Hospital garage. The throaty roar of twin side pipes on his ’65 Corvette convertible was like music to his ears. He’d spent the entire day tuning and setting the ignition system on his classic car until the 327-cubic-inch engine purred like a big jungle cat. All in all, Matt felt it was well worth the skinned knuckles and aching lower back his hours of work had caused.

Harry, a security guard at the parking garage, gave him a thumbs-up, smiling in appreciation at the sight of Matt’s bright red sports car as it passed his booth. Matt waved back. Harry, a stock car racing enthusiast, had told Matt many stories of long-ago days in Houston when famous racers like A. J. Foyt used to race their beat-up, dented stock cars at the Houston Speedway. Matt loved the tales of sweating men pushing a ton and a half of metal to the breaking point, risking life and limb for a few bucks