Hunkered down in the back seat, Rebecca hugged her daughter tight beneath the blanket. The grease-stained blanket smelled of gasoline. She hadn't remembered why it was in the trunk, but was certainly grateful for the discovery.
Even though she'd known better, several times she'd stepped outside, holding her phone in the air like a torch and seeking different angles for a signal. Pointless, really, but at least it made her feel proactive. Anything beat passively freezing by the roadside.
Trying to keep things upbeat, she led Kyra through songs, their breath expelling condensation with each note.
Kyra dropped the current song in mid-verse. "Mommy, what're we gonna do?"
"We're going to wait for help. Or until I get a phone signal."
"When's that gonna be?" Kyra looked up, her head and shoulders shivering.
"Soon, honey." She hoped. Rebecca launched into another song, one Kyra listened to constantly on her iPod. She stopped when something rumbled outside.
"Mommy, what —"
"Shh, honey." Rebecca cracked the back window, tilting her head to listen. From a distance, snow crunched, steady and growing louder. A motor's struggling hum. Headlights swooped past them, a disheartening sight. Then the car stopped and backed up. Rotating lights blinked over the top of the ditch, bathing Rebecca's car in artificial reds and blues.
With her hand shielding her eyes, Rebecca jumped out of the car. "Stay here, honey!"
"But, Mommy, I —"
Kyra's words cut off as Rebecca shut the door behind her. A man's silhouette appeared in front of the headlights, a flashlight held at his center. "You folks all right down there?" The flashlight beam fell on her, then swept toward the damaged car.
"Thank God! My daughter and I … we slid into the tree." Rebecca waved her hand over her eyes, hoping the man would get a clue about his flashlight. Although, honestly, she welcomed the light after the last hour of darkness.
The man stumbled down the ditch, wading through the snow. She noticed the badge pinned to his chest, not a welcome sight these days. Her husband had demolished her trust in law enforcement. Still, she'd only sampled one bad apple. Now she'd accept aid from any orchard.
"Are you okay? Any injuries?"
When the cop gripped her shoulders, she flinched. An instinctual reaction, one that couldn't be helped. "We're fine. But … freezing. Could you call a tow truck? Or —"
"Ma'am, on a night like this, ain't nobody out but you, me … maybe abominable snowmen." He grinned, a good look for him, but she had no tolerance for jokes now. Or flirting. Apparently, he noticed her edginess and adapted a serious cop face. "Okay, tell you what …" He swept the flashlight over the back windshield. Kyra looked out, hands splayed on the window, helpless as a dog locked in a car. "… step into my office for a spell. We'll work something out. Heater's working jus' fine."
The first thing that sounded good to Rebecca all night. With a nod, she turned, the policeman on her heels. Kyra bolted out of the car, practically falling into her arms.
"You okay, sweetheart?" The cop ran the beam up and down her shaking body.
Rebecca struggled to lift Kyra, her arms frozen and numb, ice needles prickling her.
The policeman said, "Let me help." He swooped up Kyra, a more-than-willing passenger. Her daughter flung shaking arms around the cop's neck, no jaded fear of law enforcement in her small world. While Rebecca put on a smile, or at least tried to, her nerves jangled, echoes from her past.
Snow lit in the cop's wavy brown hair, a premature graying illusion. His hair hung over his ears, almost reaching his eyes, definitely not standard length, at least according to her husband's anal-retentive buzz-cut standards. Apparently impervious to the cold, the cop's muscles rippled beneath his short-sleeved uniform. As he dashed by Rebecca, he shot her a self-impressed, admittedly attractive smile. But she'd had more than her fair share of cops with charming, dashing exteriors. Hardly the time to indulge a little rebound fantasy.
Snow enveloped his legs as he trudged up the ditch. Rebecca retrieved her suitcase and followed in his path toward the running cruiser. As she crawled in next to Kyra, the heat embraced Rebecca like a long-lost friend.
Their savior hopped into the car, out of breath, and draped an arm over the bench seat. "I'm Deputy Randy Gurley." He stuck his hand out. Reluctantly, Rebecca accepted it, the least she could do after his efforts. His hand froze in hers, in more ways than one, lingering a little too long. "Okay, let's get it out of the way. I'm Gurley. Go ahead, get it out of your system." Smiling, he waited. Rebecca refused to laugh, or rather, couldn't dredge up the energy. Kyra, on the other hand, giggled, a nice reaffirmation of youth. "The other fellas sure let me have it about my name. Anyway … you are?"
"I'm sorry. I'm Rebecca, and this is my daughter, Kyra."
"Nice to meet you gals. Wish it was under better circumstances. So, what happened? And why're you driving through Hilston in this storm? Didn't recognize your plates."
Rebecca'd never noticed him checking out her plates, unsure of when he could've managed it. And she didn't like all of his questions. A cop's training, she supposed. But Brad always bragged how cops were one big brotherhood (don't worry about the poor suffering sisterhood at home, thank you very much). "The information highway in blue," Brad'd called it. Rebecca worried that "highway" might travel through Hilston. Even though Deputy Gurley seemed like one of the good guys, she thought it best to play it close to the vest. Cop's wives have instincts, too. "We're going to see my sister. In St. Louis. Road trip from Kansas City." She looked at Kyra, waiting for her to object or add anything. But she remained quiet, awestruck by the rifle in the front seat.
"Helluva … ah, excuse me, heckuva night for a road trip, Rebecca."
"I hadn't listened to the forecast. Dumb mistake, I know."
"As a teacher of mine used to say, 'There's no such thing as a dumb mistake'."
Well, yes there is, Rebecca thought. And even though she knew he'd misquoted, she let it ride. The sentiment counted. "Thanks. But it was a dumb mistake. We should've waited another day."
"Don't think the snow's gonna blow over anytime soon. Is your car drivable?"
"There's still life in the engine, but it won't catch. Are you sure you can't get a tow truck out here tonight?"
"Ma'am, I got the unfortunate call to patrol tonight, and believe me, there ain't no one out. We can try in the morning."
With a sigh, Rebecca fell back against the seat. Until they reached St. Louis, every setback amped up her anxiety. "Fine. Whatever. Can you drop us at a hotel?"
"No hotels in Hilston. Sorry. Just a couple bed and breakfasts. I can recommend the Dandy Drop Inn. If for nothing else, you gotta try Dolores's chocolate pecan pie. I can't get enough, myself." He patted a flat stomach, a solid thump. It bothered Rebecca — not necessarily in a bad way — how there didn't appear to be any fat on his frame. Wicked flames licked at her libido as she wondered how those solid abs might look beneath the shirt. Then she doused the flames quickly. Ridiculous.
"Okay, then. The Dandy Drop Inn it is."
He smiled, nodding, his eyes flitting away as if lost in a chocolate pecan pie daydream. "Good. Tell you what. Let me phone this in, take care of a lil business. Then we'll be on our way."
Gurley's radio crackled, the sudden static making Rebecca jump. A woman's voice, mechanical and bored sounding, blurted out some numbers, no doubt codes. Quietly, Randy spoke into the mouthpiece, his lips practically kissing the device.
Kyra tugged on Rebecca's coat sleeve. "Mommy," she whispered, "can we get some pie? I'm hungry." Chocolate, Kyra's kryptonite. Rebecca's, too, actually. Her stomach gurgled, reminding her she hadn't eaten since morning.
"Sure, honey. Let's just get there first, 'kay?"
Deputy Gurley ended his hushed conversation with an assertive "Roger that," then snapped off the radio. With a skillful touch — a man unafraid to drive in snow — he straightened the police car and headed down the highway.
Rebecca leaned forward, gripping the seat. "How far is it, Randy? Kyra's hungry."
"Not far, not far at all." He caught Kyra's gaze in the rearview mirror, his brown eyes solemn even in the darkness. "You hang in there, honey. I'll get you there in no time." He stole a glance at Rebecca's left hand. "Oh. Married, huh?"
Reflexively, Rebecca drew her hand back, running her fingers over the small stone. She'd meant to take off her ring, one last physical embodiment of her pain. But in the midst of their panicked flight, she'd forgotten. She slipped it off, dropped it into her purse, noting a pawn shop would be her first stop once she arrived in St. Louis. "No. Not anymore." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kyra staring at her, obviously confused, probably disappointed. But now wasn't the time for a long discussion. She kept her gaze locked ahead and a hand on Kyra's knee for quiet support. "What about you, Randy? Married?"
"Nope. Guess I just haven't found the right woman. So … you're divorced?"
A moment's hesitation. Then she looked at her daughter. Kyra's eyes had moistened, priming tears. Rebecca squeezed her daughter's knee harder, both for Kyra's benefit and to boost her own courage. "Yes. Divorced." Kyra's knee flinched, just slight enough to notice. Of course, Rebecca wasn't divorced, not legally. In her mind, though, the papers had been signed, dotted, and filed. Saying it added a touch of finality, the last nail in her terrible marriage's coffin.
But, strangely, she kept dwelling on how she'd heard the defeat in Randy's voice when he'd asked about her marital status. More astonishing, she'd asked him right back. For the first time in a while, she felt like a woman, not a punching bag. Desirable, even. She knew this silly, fleeting infatuation with Deputy Gurley would lead nowhere; an unrealistic whimsy kick-started by her awful past. But it gave her hope for the future, for a possible true relationship down the line, one based on love.
A grin tugged her cheekbones high. And, damn, if goose bumps didn't ride across her arms.
"Well, while I'm sorry to hear that, Rebecca, one man's loss is another lucky man's gain. Good-lookin' woman like you won't be single for long."
"Why, Deputy Gurley, that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a while. Thank you." Kyra rolled her eyes and plopped back. Actually a preferable reaction over her earlier sadness. Typical for a young girl who thought her mother's flirting was too much to stomach.
Throwing all caution to the wind, Rebecca added, "You're not so bad yourself, Deputy."
Kyra had grown bored with the chatter, idly staring out the window and sulking a little bit. Rebecca patted her daughter's knee. And she immensely enjoyed the rest of the ride to the Dandy Drop Inn.
* * *
"Yes?" As usual, Rebecca's sister sounded cold, a human refrigerator. Didn't surprise Brad a bit.
Thanks for the warm welcome. Bitch.
"Put Rebecca on the phone, Jill." Two can play at that game. Brad looked at the damage to his home, taking inventory, the way detectives do. Broken mirror, a chair thrown through a window, upended sofa, all of Rebecca's figurines beheaded and smashed into shrapnel. And at his feet, Rebecca's hateful letter, shredded into confetti.
"She's not here, Brad."
"Bullshit. Put her on the goddamn phone. Now." A rustling hiss — probably a hand held over the mouthpiece — then some marble-mouthed mumbling.
Phil — spineless, weak Phil — took over the phone. "Rebecca's not here, Brad. Don't call again." More forceful than Brad had ever heard Phil, but still about as effective as an ant defying a stomping boot.
"Goddammit, Phil, you pussy! Put my damn wife on the phone. And don't give me any more of your bullshit. I know she's there. Bitch doesn't have any friends."
"And I said she's not here. I mean it, don't call again. Even if she was here, she wouldn't want to talk to you." Tough talk from a little man, especially from a safe distance. But Phil's fear played out as gulps issued between his words. Pathetic.
Brad lifted a foot, kicked the wall until his heel broke through the drywall. Their wedding photo dropped off the wall, the glass cracking on the floor. He finished the job, rubbing his heel over Rebecca's smiling face. Her phony smile, the one she faked all those years. "She's my fucking wife, Phil! You can't —"
"If you call again, I'll call the police."
Rage ripped through him. Yellow spirals obscured his vision. Lightheadedness threatened to drop him, but anger propped him up. "You stupid son of a bitch. I am the police. You're not going to keep me from seeing my wife! I paid for her goddamn life, asshole. I'll get her! I'll get you and your goddamn family, too! Asshole!" Of course, he knew Phil had hung up. But things needed to be said, things that had been building.
Clapping the phone shut, he hurled it across the room. Not nearly as satisfying as slamming down a land-line phone or ripping it out of the wall. Sometimes a man has to act out his aggression, the way men are wired to do. Why couldn't she see that?
Pacing the hallway did nothing to alleviate his anger. With each footstep, he recalled things Rebecca had done in the past, things he'd turned a blind eye to. And, as always, he'd forgiven her. Every god-damn time. Unlike her. One slip-up and she bolts.
Bitch.
He wasn't sad she left, not at all. Giving her the heave-ho had been in his plans for some time, but he wanted it to be on his terms. She didn't get to choose. He ran the house, paid for everything, gave her a good life. Did she appreciate it? No. Their wedding vows obviously meant nothing to her.
Bitch. Goddamn, ungrateful bitch.
All he asked from her — all he had ever asked — was for her to cook, keep the house clean, and don't nag him when he came home. She failed on all three counts, three little things that were as natural as breathing. The rare times she managed to serve him a warm meal, it tasted like shit. The house was a pit, Kyra's toys scattered everywhere like debris from a highway accident. And her bitching, constant and irritating. "Brad, let's go out" and "Brad, how about we take a vacation," and worst of all, "Brad, can't you ever come home in a good mood?"
Jesus Christ. A housewife's work isn't hard; it's not even work. Not like his job. The things he saw, the people he had to deal with on a daily basis. She never worked an honest day in her worthless life.
He gave her a daughter, thought that'd make her happy, shut her up. A little living doll she could dress and show off. But nothing satisfied her. Nothing.
Bitch.
His hands slapped at the front door, grabbed hold of it, grasping an anchor to keep his ship from capsizing. He rested his forehead against the door, unsuccessfully trying to stave off his mounting headache. Standing push-ups followed, pointless and futile. His head banged against the door until a Botoxed numbness spread. As a final touch, he heaved his fist through the small window. Sharp, surprising pain triggered more fury, more memories. Blood dripped down onto his lips, salty, bittersweet. Like his joke of a marriage.
"God damn bitch!" Dropping to his knees in the foyer, he bellowed. No words, just raw screams. Dizziness swam up again, a vertiginous tsunami. He collapsed, exhausted, curling up. Humiliated.
No one does this to Brad Stanchfield. No one. Bitch doesn't know who she's messing with. Take the kid, he didn't care. Go live in a trailer park, suit her right. But she needed to pay for his pain. He needed to make her understand, teach her one final lesson.
Across the room, the Hawaii Five-O theme song belted out from his phone. Work calling. Maybe they had news. Earlier, the first thing he'd done was call his partner. Actually, it was the second thing. After a little impromptu home renovation. But he'd told his partner Rebecca had vanished, told him to spread the word. Gave him license plate, make of car, the whole nine yards including a description of her scrawny, worthless ass.
"Stanchfield."
"Hey, Brad, listen, I think I might have something …"
"I'm listening."
"Now, don't lose your shit or anything … It might mean nothing. Rebecca might just —"
"For fuck's sake, Steve, just tell me. You don't need to hold my hand." For a moment, Brad thought something might've happened to Rebecca. He didn't know how he felt about that. Obviously, she deserved punishment. But he damn well better be the one to administer it.
"Okay …" Steve cleared his throat, taking his sweet time. He never did have the balls for this part of the job. "… I just saw something come up over the wire. Rebecca's car was found banged up pretty good in Hilston, Missouri." He paused, waiting for the news to sink in, a trick usually reserved for civilians. "But there was no sign of injury, no blood. Just an empty car. Looks like they slipped off the road and hit a tree. I'm following up —"
"Got it. Keep me posted." While Steve continued to blather on, Brad cut him off. He had everything he needed. He'd driven through Hilston before, knew its location.
But, to add insult to injury, his ingrate of a wife banged up her car, sure to be hell on his insurance rates.
Time to hit the road. And Rebecca. No way she'd made it out of Hilston yet, not without a ride and not in this storm. With his four-wheel drive truck, he could easily make it to Hilston in three hours, even in the snow.
You're about to get a heaping pile of payback, bitch.
* * *
The snow chilled Harold's ears to the burning point. Having forgotten his gloves, he wished he could dig his hands deep into his pockets. But there was no way he'd chance tucking the briefcase of cash beneath his arm, much too flimsy of a hold. He retracted deep into his overcoat, collar up, and quickly released one hand from the briefcase to knock on the door. The overhead light flicked on, a yellow oval spotlighting the drifts at his feet.
The man towered over Harold, large and oval shaped, his girth tucked into a burgundy vest that threatened to snap apart at the buttons. As he nudged his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose, his red cheeks pulled up into a smile. Son of Santa Claus. "Good evening, sir. Come on in out of the cold." With a little bow, he ushered Harold in. Even though Harold saw nothing remotely amusing about his situation, the big man chuckled nonetheless.
"Thanks." In the foyer, Harold unwrapped his scarf. He stomped snow off his feet. The other man grimaced like he'd just discovered a painful tooth. But he quickly recovered with another belly-based chortle.
"I'm Christian, host of the Dandy Drop Inn." Bending down to fit his image inside a hanging mirror, Christian studied himself, no angle left unchecked. Quickly, he dabbed a small tuft of blond hair to the left, apparently didn't care for the results and readjusted it to the right. He straightened, his hands reverentially clasped in front of him. "How may I help you, sir?"
"Well, I was hoping for a room. Kinda got stuck in the storm." Harold hitched a thumb behind him. "You full?"
"Why, no, we're not. Not on a night like this. And what kind of reputation would the Dandy Drop Inn have if we didn't show hospitality during a storm? It's what we're about after all." Again with the annoying laugh. The guy probably laughs at funerals. "We only have one other couple tonight. Here … let me take your coat and scarf." He held his hands out like an infant stumbling toward his mother.
Carefully, Harold set the briefcase between his feet, locking it into place with his knees. The coat slid off, shedding more snow onto the floor. Based on the way Christian pursed his lips, it was something he didn't care for.
Christian held the coat at arm's length like he couldn't stand the stink of it and draped the scarf around his wrist. "And may I help you with your briefcase?"
"No!" Harold swept it up, clutching it against his chest. Until he deposited the money, he wasn't letting go. Might even sleep with it under his pillow. "Ah, no, I can manage. Thanks."
Another half-bow from Christian, complete with closed eyes, ever the obedient genie. "Ah, fine, sir. Any other luggage in the car?"
"This is it. I travel light." Harold hadn't really had time to pack a suitcase. His life meant more to him than his drab, moth-eaten suits. Soon, he'd be decked out in a new wardrobe, something appealing to the ladies. "You take cash?"
His lips moving side-to-side, Christian furrowed his brow and gazed up at the ceiling. Apparently a tough question. "Of course we'll honor cash. It's just … we don't handle many transactions like that these days." He leaned in as if ready to share a dirty joke. "If you know what I mean." Harold didn't, not really, but Christian certainly ladled a hearty spoonful of laughter over his perceived wit. Just as suddenly, he stopped. His cheeks dragged down in a frown. Guy can turn on a dime. "We do, however, require a deposit. Credit cards are the preferred method of payment." He stared unblinkingly at Harold as if he knew his secret, sweating him like a cop.
"Hm? Oh, yeah, sure, whatever." Harold didn't think anyone scoffed at cash, especially in a rinky-dink town like Hilston. But, if the crush-ass insisted on a credit card, what the hell, he could swing it. It's not like Domenick and his thugs even know what a B&B is. He smiled at the image of Domenick, napkin tucked beneath his chin, asking politely, pinky finger extended, for another crumpet. Whatever the hell a crumpet is.
"Fine. Fine. Step this way." This time when Christian bowed, Harold swore he heard the backs of his heels click. Magician-style, the host floated his hand toward a tall counter at the back of what Harold presumed to be a rec room of sorts. A large fireplace centered the room, the stone walls impeccably clean. Incredibly deep-looking sofas and loveseats were strategically placed about the room like giant game pieces facing off against one another. Hardwood floors — the visible parts that weren't devoured by Persian rugs — glimmered like a lake beneath an armada of floor and table lamps. Overhead lights appeared to be extinct at the Dandy Drop Inn. Harold thought it a miracle they even had electricity, buncha backwoods hillbillies. He looked around for a TV, disappointed he couldn't spot one.
"Are you coming, Mister … ah, I'm sorry, sir, I didn't get your name. How impolite of me." For a big man, Christian moved fast and had already reached the back counter.
"Carsten. Harry Carsten."
Christian pushed through a swinging door set into the counter and assumed his position. Like a welcoming bartender, he stretched his arms over the wood. Light caught on his cufflinks, twinkling stars, an accessory Harold hadn't seen in years. Behind the counter, Christian stood tall and commanding, Harold reduced to an accused man waiting for final sentencing before a judge. "Very nice to meet you, Mister Carsten. The deposit is $250.00. We accept MasterCard —"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Here ya go." Harold tossed his battle-worn credit card on the counter. The last time he intended on using it.
"Very good. This should only take a few minutes." Painstakingly, Christian tapped numbers onto a hand-held device. Without glancing up, he asked, "What brings you to these parts, Mister Carsten? Visiting family?"
"No. No family."
"I see. Are you married?" Christian glimpsed up, not so covertly checking out Harold's hands, searching for wedding rings, no doubt. Christ, that's all Harold needed, some love-struck gay guy hitting on him. Time to set him straight. In a manner of speaking.
"No, I'm not married. Got an ex-wife, though." He dropped his voice an octave to emphasize his heterosexuality.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Ah, I mean about your divorce. What line of business are you in?"
What the hell is this? Harold's goodwill had about come to a crashing halt. "I'm in business. I travel." He didn't want to appear too evasive, but no sense in giving out too much info either. "Look, I'm tired. I just want to go to bed."
"Oh, my apologies, Mister Carsten, if I'm being too intrusive. That's not my intent." Chuckles let it rip again. "It's our policy here at the Dandy Drop Inn to make everyone's stay a very memorable — comfortable — event. 'Hospitality is dandy' is our motto. You'll just love the innkeepers. The Dandys own the house, been in their family for years. They renovated it and opened up their home and hearts to the public. Just wait until you try Dolores's muffins. She's the finest cook in Hilston, Missouri." His mouth hung open, his tongue bobbing, practically salivating.
"Sounds good. But I'm tired. Maybe breakfast."
"Breakfast will be between 6:00 a.m. and 9:00 a.m. Tell me, Mister Carsten, do you perchance enjoy antiquing?"
He had to go there. Yanking Harold's trigger. "No, I don't like damned, stupid antiques! I need sleep. What room am I in?"
The color fled the host's face. Red, puckered lips offset his chalky pallor. His gaze lowered as if ashamed. In a quiet voice, a chastened child, he said, "I see. You'll be in …" He ran a finger down an open ledger. "… room three on the second floor." He swiveled and tapped a cabinet. The door sprung open, exposing hanging keys. He pressed a key into Harold's hand, his fingers cold, grotesquely damp. "I'll see you to your room, Mister Carsten."
"I can find it myself."
The big man seemed to deflate even more. Actually, Harold enjoyed the moment immensely. It'd been some time — well, never — since he'd intimidated anyone. Hardly an imposing figure, Harold stood as short and thin as his hair. Except for the slight middle-aged potbelly created by too much fast food. But big money begets big confidence. He'd learned quite a few things already during his new beginning.
"Fine, fine. It's up the stairwell; take a right, second door on the left."
"Got it." Harold tossed the key up for show, actually managing to catch it when it dropped. Didn't even have to look at its trajectory, either. Instead, he kept his eyes glued on Christian, challenging him the way bullies do. Finally, Harold let the host off the hook and turned away.
Before Harold reached the staircase, though, Christian called out to him. The man never knew when to quit.
"What?"
"If you get a chance, would you mind signing the guest register? By the stairwell? It's another Dandy Drop Inn tradition."
Jesus Christ! "Fine, fine, whatever." An open book sat on a standing podium. Harold grabbed the pen, scratching harshly through his name. The pen tip ripped a hole in the page. On the side sat a comments column. With a much lighter touch, he wrote, Antiques can kiss my ass!
Grinning, he hopped up the stairs two at a time, feeling ten years younger.
* * *
His nerves fried, Winston let out a breath of relief once he parked down the street from the Dandy Drop Inn. Quite a walk to the inn, especially in the snow, but keeping his car a comfortable distance away always worked out for the best. Of course, he had phony tags, but one can never be too cautious.
He scratched at his new beard, something he always grew for jobs. Once, with a put-upon grimace, Julie had asked him why he let his facial hair run wild whenever he left town. She likened it to kissing an ape. He explained, "When I'm living the life of a hobo, sleeping in holes in the wall, I might as well look the part." That seemed to satisfy her, although he'd never grown accustomed to beards, itchy and troublesome as all get out.
Again, he checked his cell phone. Still no bars. Earlier, as soon as he'd crossed the Hilston city limit, the signal had dropped. Which concerned him. He'd been instructed (well, ordered) to call Domenick every hour until the job was completed and he had the money in hand. But several hours had passed since their last contact. He imagined Domenick, the world's most impatient mob boss, climbing the walls like a snake in a pit. In the past, Winston had witnessed some of Domenick's snap decisions, and the results frightened him. Definitely not a man to cross. Winston almost pitied his mark. Then again, the foolish accountant made his own decision, time to face the consequences.
Surely the inn would have a phone. Hopefully without curious ears listening in. Shouldn't be a problem in this weather, he imagined. Only fools and murderers out on a night like this. He grimaced at his little joke. He didn't consider himself a murderer, not really. Just a businessman trying to keep his family afloat by whatever means necessary.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Winston. Maybe someday you might actually believe it.
In his wallet, he thumbed through several phony driver's licenses, wondering which of his stock repertory players to put on stage. Dave Harton, insurance salesman operating out of Omaha ("The best steaks on God's green earth. Come on down; you'll taste what I'm talking about."). A bland backstory, a bland job, even blander name. Perfect.
Sort of like Winston's appearance. By no means ugly (at least according to Julie), not quite handsome (as he judged himself), he looked remarkably average (gauged by most everyone's non-reaction). Finally, he'd found an advantage to his dull outer skin. Before he met Julie, he hadn't had much luck with women. He attributed it to his plain looks. But now he'd have it no other way. His wife loved him for who he was. And, should he ever be so unlucky, no one would ever be able to pick him out of a police line-up. He favored suits slightly too large for him — always dull, muted shades — to cover up his muscular physique. Everyone remembers a sharp-dressed man; no one recalls a schlub. He wore current, trendy glasses, the ones with the huge, dark frames that people used to associate with high school outcasts. Not because they were trendy; rather, they covered up a good portion of his face, a huge dark frame obfuscating his features. Between that and the beard, he looked quite different. And still incredibly average.
But the thought of spending the night in the same quarters as his target filled him with apprehension. He'd never taken such a risk before. Actually, calling it risky seemed like a massive understatement.
Headlights brightened his rearview mirror. He dropped down in the car seat, eyes barely above the dash, and killed the engine. Shit. A cop car. Keep on going, keep on going, keep on …
The police car rolled down the road, the tires snapping over the snow with a popcorn crunch. It passed within inches of Winston's car, so close Winston could practically smell the cop's authority. Then the car kept on at an even, steady pace. Finally, it pulled into the Dandy Drop Inn's driveway.
Dammit.
Snow blanketed Winston's windshield. He flipped the key to auxiliary, ran the wipers once. He watched a cop exit the patrol car and escort an attractive woman and a young girl through the knee-deep snow down an invisible sidewalk. Now Winston had an even bigger problem. The girl appeared just slightly younger than Ellie, his youngest daughter. No way would he take Carsten out in the B&B. Absolutely not. The thought of the girl possibly discovering Carsten's body sickened him.
Time for Plan B, probably a better plan anyway. He'd wait for the storm to pass, then leave the inn directly after Carsten. Make his grab for him outside. Or better yet, follow him out of town and flag him down. Not ideal, but improvisation had worked out so far.
Now he just hoped the cop would leave soon and damn near prayed he wasn't there to spend the night with his wife and daughter. Surely he wouldn't take his cruiser to a B&B.
Once the trio entered the inn, Winston turned the car on and cranked the heat. Holding his hands over the heater didn't help; nothing but cold air coughed out. He rubbed his hands together, blew into them. Wished he and his family lived in Arizona, somewhere warm.
Dammit. He'd have to spend the night at the Inn. He had to.
Just as soon as the cop left.
* * *
Heather lay in bed, her head on her husband's chest. She wouldn't exactly categorize herself as relaxing in the afterglow of their marital consummation, not the way she'd heard the other girls talk about it. Rather, she considered — from a fairly clinical viewpoint — what she had just experienced.
Prior to their love making, she had spent a good half hour in the bathroom. "Preparing," she had hollered to Tommy through the closed door. More like procrastinating. She'd looked at her cotton pajamas lying on the sink, then studied the flimsy nightie in her hand. What in the world had possessed her to buy that at the mall anyway? It even had an opening for her private parts, leaving nothing to the imagination. What had she been thinking?
She could hear Tommy growing restless in the bed. Sheets rustled, his weight shifted. A loud sigh, followed by his singing her voice out like a seductive bird call. Marriage was always what she'd wanted; she just wasn't so sure about the sex part. Her folks had always implied sex was a dirty act; a necessary evil for procreation, nothing to be talked about. Which just made her more curious. But now it seemed so terrifying. Yet Tommy didn't frighten her; her prince, patiently waiting for her. They had shared true passion; they had experienced something much more intimate than sex. After the wedding, at her parents' house. Sex probably wouldn't even compare. So, why worry? Taking a chance, she wiggled into the nightie. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Her long hair draped over her bare shoulders, straight and wispy blond. She thought her body looked a little too thin, but maybe not when compared to the bony look models favored today. And her breasts stood small and firm, her nipples erect and visible through the flimsy material. Her "naughty bosom" as Momma used to call it. But she felt empowered, for the first time comfortable in her body. Severing ties with her dominating parents had been all it took.
And severing their heads.
As she left the bathroom, Tommy's expression pleased her. Literally, his mouth hung open. His eyes widened, lechery the culprit. Aimed at her, of all people! When he sat up in bed, the sheet fell to reveal his naked chest, so muscular, so tight. She couldn't help but notice the tent pitched over his groin.
And it hurt, Lord, did it hurt. She didn't know sex would be so painful. Sadly, she hadn't experienced an orgasm; at least she thought not since she had nothing to compare it to. Years ago, she had ruptured her hymen while horseback riding, a pleasant, warm sensation preceding it. At first, the blood had horrified her. When she studied up about women's parts the following day, she felt relief, understanding her body a little better. Then shame took her. She hadn't wanted her first orgasm to be that way. She kept her dirty, dark secret to herself all those years. Until Tommy.
Of course before the wedding, Heather had read about sex, at least as much as the local library had on hand. Someone — she couldn't remember who — had defined the orgasm as "a small death." Now this part of sex truly interested her. Once she'd discovered her hobby years ago, the part she enjoyed most had been the moment of death. She saw the animals' souls leave their carcasses. Nothing flashy, not very noticeable, just a shimmer in the air, a feeling that also reverberated through her body.
That glorious afternoon, the one she'd shared with Tommy, when she'd taken the rock to the stray cat, she'd explained the phenomenon to him. Excited, he jumped in, delivering the death blow — or as she liked to call it, "the soul-saving blow." Curious, Heather asked Tommy if he saw the cat's soul leave its body. With glazed eyes, he smiled and said, "Yeah."
She didn't know whether to believe Tommy or not. He'd never lied to her before. Maybe he could see the souls leave, maybe not. It didn't matter.
While she hadn't achieved an orgasm, her husband certainly had. Of course, he'd been gentle with her, she expected nothing less of him. Several times he'd paused to ask her if she was okay. She'd simply nodded.
But during their love making, she kept her gaze glued on her husband's face, curious if she could see a small part of his soul leave his body at the point of climax. "A little death." Tommy had kept his eyes closed, sweating over her, his face contorting into what looked like discomfort, his brow crinkled and angry looking. How could something that's supposed to feel wonderful look so agonizing? Finally, he shuddered, gasping as if dying. Disappointed, she saw nothing.
And now Tommy slept. If it wasn't for his chest lifting her head up with each slight breath, he appeared dead. His heart thrummed through his chest, beating into her ear, her lifeline to happiness. With a sudden snurk, Tommy's eyelids lifted.
"Hey, babe," he said. "That was great."
Yes and no. "It was."
A lascivious grin teased at his lips. "Wanna go again?"
"No, not now." She couldn't imagine it. Not so soon. She felt sore, dry. With his every thrust, she'd experienced pain, a raw, flesh-tearing pain. "Babe, I'm still sore from earlier. Too much man for me."
His grin bloomed into a broad smile. One thing she'd learned from the locker room girls: boys love to brag about their size. "Aw, sorry, babe. I'd never intentionally hurt ya'."
"I know. You won't next time. Just need to get used to it."
They lay in silence. Heather looked at the room, more like a large apartment. Tommy had splurged for the separate loft above the garage, a beautiful place, nicer than anything she'd ever seen. He'd said, "Nothing's too good for you, babe." A fireplace sat at the foot of the bed, warmth trickling out from the logs' orange glow. Thick, ornately designed burgundy drapes covered the window behind them and the door leading to the lower level. Posts on the bed had rattled during their love making. Posts! Talk about classy. It even had its very own small kitchen, complete with dining table. And the bathroom. The bathtub was big enough for the two of them, something she wasn't quite sure about. Cleanliness seemed like an act of privacy, next only to Godliness.
Tommy hitched up on an elbow. "The Dandys sure seem like a nice, ol' couple."
"That they do."
She could tell something bothered him. He blinked repeatedly, frowning slightly. "They kinda remind me of my folks. Babe?"
"Hmm?"
"Are you sure we have to … you know, send them to their maker like we did your folks?"
When Heather shot up, she made sure to bring the sheet with her, covering herself. Intimacy seemed far from her mind now. "Tommy Goodenow! We talked about this. I thought you understood we're doin' the good Lord's work."
"Yeah, but —"
"No 'buts'!" She struck an iron finger in front of him. "You know darn-tootin' well what we're doin' is for their own benefit. We're helpin' to hasten their departure from this sinful world, sendin' them onto their immortal afterlives. Doin' God's work."
"I know that, babe. It's just … the Dandys seem so nice and —"
"Exactly. And nice folks get their just rewards. I thought you understood all this."
Heather watched realization crack like an egg over Tommy's face. With a smile, the one she liked so much, he gripped her shoulders and playfully brought her back down to bed. "You're right, babe. 'Course you're right. They'll thank us when we get to Heaven. You think … your folks went to Heaven? I mean, after everything you tol' me about 'em?"
"I been kinda thinkin' about that myself, babe. All I know is it's God's plan for us to carry out His work. If we hasten some sinners on their path? It's what God wants. That's why I see souls fly away."
"Yeah. Sinners." Tommy drew a hand down his square jaw. She noticed he didn't mention his ability to see souls. "Kinda like that Christian fella."
"Whaddaya mean?"
"Well … seems kinda obvious to me, Christian, the host … he's one of those … homosexuals." Tommy lowered his voice as if not to offend God.
Heather hadn't really thought about it, having never met a homosexual. At least not that she knew. "You don't think —"
"I do, babe. He's … funny. Speakin' of funny, it's funny he, of all people, has a name like 'Christian'."
Shock nearly bowled Heather over. First sex, now a homosexual. Two things she thought she'd never experience. The world, indeed a wicked place, seemed to be changing all around her. It strengthened her conviction, her mission more urgent than ever. "Well, then, maybe he should be next. After the Dandys."
"I think I'd like that, babe."
"Me, too." She burrowed down on his chest again, breathing in his manly aroma of sweat and heavy cologne. "It sure was nice of him to light the fireplace for us, though."
"Even sinners do nice things on occasion."
"Love you, Mister Goodenow."
"Love you back, Missus Goodenow."
The tingling sensation in her body, the one she'd experienced in the car, returned. She unclenched her legs, discovering a natural lubricant had soothed her privates. Reaching over, she turned off the lamp, and this time made sweet love, definitely not sex, to her husband.