“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 G
od 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.
Chapter Three
For a moment, as Rebecca walked up the steps of the mammoth southern-looking abode, she felt swept into the past. Only the snow diluted the fantasy. Impeccably kept and restored with an artist’s eye, the inn — a quaint gothic-styled, three-story domicile — stood tall and solid, a sentinel against the storm. A sprawling porch, supported by pillars, wrapped around the house, an architectural napkin. Green shutters, fresh and newly painted, flattened against the walls. Through thin curtains, light filtered out of the windows on the lower two floors, a nice welcome on a wintry night. Only the top floor’s two windows lay shrouded in darkness. Each story grew progressively smaller as they climbed, reminding Rebecca of something Kyra might build with her blocks. Barren bushes surrounded the porch, branches poking out of the snow like skeletal fingers. Rebecca imagined the inn would be even lovelier in the Spring or Fall. Perhaps she’d visit again. And maybe look up Deputy Randy Gurley when she did.
Dread and Breakfast Page 4
