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 h
urled 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 goddamn 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 unblink
ingly 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?”
Dread and Breakfast Page 3
