Dread and Breakfast

by Stuart R. West

  At the bottom of the stairwell, Dolores and Jim stood with their arms around one another, grinning like proud parents on prom night. No taller than Jim’s kneecaps, Kyra, so tiny and fragile, yawned. Rebecca wondered how much they’d seen, hoping not too much. Based on Kyra’s dog-tired indifference, probably not a lot. Still the Dandys’ twin grins held a knowing look, the kind that said, “We know your secret.”

  “Just seeing Deputy Gurley out,” she mumbled as she scurried toward them, head down.

  “That’s nice,” said Dolores as if having witnessed anything but “nice.” “We’re just showing Kyra to your room. You’ll be staying in room number one, the best in the house. Has a personal fireplace and bathroom, too.”

  “Sounds wonderful.” Aggravated with herself, Rebecca slapped her hands down against her jeans. She hadn’t been as gracious to the kind couple as she should’ve been. They’d been knocking themselves out to accommodate her, while she’d been oscillating between a harried drama queen to a stupidly smitten schoolgirl. Time to pull up her big girl panties. “You both have been so nice to us. I truly appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem, child.” At first, when Dolores raised her hand, Rebecca thought it the precursor to another hug. Frankly, she felt flat hugged out at this point. But Dolores chopped the air with finality. “We’d do it for anyone. Besides, we have a gentleman on the second floor. Wouldn’t be proper to have two young ladies sharing a bathroom with him.”

  “No, sir. Mother’s right, jes’ wouldn’t be proper. Now if you’ll follow us, your room awaits. I ‘spect you’re plumb tuckered.”

  “Plumb tuckered,” parroted Kyra, rubbing her eyes.

  Behind the stairwell lay a hallway Rebecca hadn’t seen earlier. Electronic sconces lit portions of the walls, yellow circles dissipating into darkness. Paintings lined the hardwood walls, most of them pastoral vistas. At the end of the hall, a painting of a grim man glowered at them. His suit looked too tight, his hair sticking out like a mad clown’s. Kyra shrunk into Rebecca’s arm, the painting too much for her. Rebecca couldn’t say she blamed her.

  Jim rattled a key in the lock and pushed the door open. As if Kyra’d just received her second wind, she rocketed toward the king-sized bed. She hopped onto it, bouncing animatedly, the effects of late-night sugar.

  “I’m sorry there’s only one bed in the room, but we thought you wouldn’t mind,” said Dolores. “‘Specially with what y’all have been through tonight.”

  Preach it, sister. Honestly, Rebecca didn’t want Kyra out of her sight. She just hoped it wouldn’t be a long-lasting issue, transforming her into one of those overprotective parents who just can’t let go. But tonight? She’d fall asleep, arms wrapped around her daughter.

  “It’s perfect, Dolores.”

  “Bathroom’s over yonder.” Jim jabbed his finger around the room like a man on a hunting expedition. “Pitcher of water on the bed stand. If y’all need anything else, ring the bell.” As if prompted, Kyra clutched the bell, pulling it back for a good thrash.

  “Kyra, no. Put it down.”

  Kyra looked disappointed, pouting, but complied nonetheless. Of course, the Dandys found her behavior the most precious thing in the world and showed their appreciation with a round of chuckles. Rewarding discourteous behavior. But it was late, too late to run parental damage control. Besides, Rebecca didn’t want to hurt the Dandys’ feelings. Like most grandparents, they meant well.

  “Christian will come a-runnin’ at the sound of the bell. Boy has ears like a rabbit. Anyhow, anyhoo, reckon we’ll say good night.”

  “Night. Thank you, again. I mean it.”

  “Ain’t no thing.” When he left, Jim left the door slightly ajar. Although the light was weak, Rebecca thought she saw a shadow, a black smudge, shift beneath the door. Someone standing just outside the room. Quietly, Rebecca padded toward the door. Bending down, she peeked through the keyhole and saw nothing but blackness. Suddenly the darkness lifted. Muted orange light replaced it. Startled, she fell back. She pushed the door closed until she heard a reassuring click. Footsteps receded down the carpeted hallway.

  Another chill scurried through her, causing her hands to tremor. There wasn’t an internal lock on the door plate.

  She knew the Dandys meant no harm to her or Kyra. Knew it in her heart. But her heart had failed her in the past. Lifting a chair away from the desk, she wedged it beneath the doorknob. It didn’t seem too steady, yet it always worked in the movies.

  Perched on the bed, Kyra watched her, obviously loaded with questions. But before her daughter could begin her interrogation, Rebecca fell into bed, fully clothed, out faster than a weak-jawed boxer.

  *

  The harder Brad pushed through the snow, the more his head pounded. An equation of sorts, the kind any good detective looks for. He’d damn near demolished the bottle of baby aspirin riding shotgun next to his pistol. Baby aspirin! How many times had he asked Rebecca to buy adult aspirin? Like Kyra was the only one in the house susceptible to headaches.

  That was the deal. He didn’t know when it happened. Seemed like overnight. But he’d been pushed out. Once the brat came along, he’d been bounced to the curb. Kyra, Kyra, everything Kyra. Maybe his daughter deserved punishment for his misery as well. Sure, she’s just a kid, probably not entirely her fault, but she needed to be reprimanded. For once. His damn wife always let her get away with murder, making excuses for her unacceptable behavior.

  He ratcheted against the steering wheel until his arms hurt. His hand deadened when he smacked the windshield, but not his internal pain. Why didn’t that bitch, Rebecca, appreciate his hard efforts? His sacrifices? All she cared about was her daughter.

  Tapping the bottle into his mouth, he chewed the last four aspirin. They left a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth, a taste similar to his blood he’d tasted earlier.

  “Goddamn bitch!”

  He hadn’t turned on the radio. Definitely kept the police radio off. He didn’t need other voices rattling around in his head. Plenty crowded in there already with Rebecca’s whining and Kyra’s crying playing on an endless loop. They were even pushing him out of his own head. Couldn’t get peace of mind anywhere.

  He swigged his fourth Red Bull and crushed the can before tossing it to the floorboard. Red Bull and baby aspirin, about the only damn thing to consume in his house. How hard is it to keep food in the refrigerator?

  The snow pummeled down, taunting him with its relentlessness. He’d severely underestimated the storm, believing the trip would be over by now. Instead, he’d been on the road for over three hours, slow going and getting nowhere. Damn road crews too lazy to get off their asses and do their jobs. Whatever happened to a good work ethic?

  Not that Rebecca’d ever given two shits about work.

  Three hours behind him and only halfway to Hilston. Shit. At this rate, he wouldn’t make it ‘til dawn. Several times he considered pulling over, catching an hour of shut-eye. But he wouldn’t let nature beat him down. Hell, he was a force of nature, one to be reckoned with. He could conquer this goddamn storm. Yes, sir, Hurricane Brad’s coming to Hilston, Missouri. God help anyone who gets in his path.

  Her note had stabbed like a knife in his gut and dragged up to his heart.

  Brad, we’re gone. You know why. I don’t want anything from you, I don’t expect anything from you. Just leave us alone. Rebecca

  Or some such shit. He couldn’t remember it all. Just the letter’s extreme hatefulness. It didn’t make sense either. He tried to put the pieces together, struggled to understand it. Too much work, too much self-torture.

  You know why.

  What the hell did that mean? Was she referring to the tap he gave Kyra? Crybaby. It didn’t hurt her. Hell, he’d been holding back. Mustn’t harm the precious little princess. Besides, she deserved worse. Running around the house, screaming for attention. Daddy, Daddy, watch this! Daddy, look at me! Just like her mother, needier than the homeless. Then she spilled his beer, icing on th
e cake. All he’d wanted was to be left alone for the night. Why couldn’t they get that?

  He’d make Rebecca understand. His daughter, too. No matter what.

  As he cracked open his last Red Bull, Brad howled, releasing his rage to the world, but mostly to his “loving” wife.

  *

  Well, obviously there was a party raging downstairs. At first, Harold could only hear mumbled voices. Until the old woman launched into the first of many high-pitched screaming jags, the only way she apparently knew how to communicate. Worse than an adolescent yodeler, she reminded him of his ex-wife when she’d hoot at the TV.

  Dealing with the host, Christian, had been bad enough. He hoped not to see anyone else for his safety. Honestly, he’d never had much use for other people. Living life like a hermit had its rewards, fully preparing him for a life on the run. It’s just his bladder disagreed with this arrangement.

  It throbbed, full and angry.

  An hour ago, he’d been ready to trip down to the john, but he heard footsteps coming up the stairwell. Two men chatting. He recognized Christian’s effete voice. The other man kept his voice low, how most people should speak. When they walked by his room, his heart sped up. The way Christian had been all over him earlier, he thought he might invite him for a game of pinochle or something ludicrous. But they passed his room. A door across the hall opened with a mousey squeak, then closed. Other than the slight sound of bedsprings settling, he hadn’t heard a peep since. Probably asleep, a respectful neighbor.

  He listened. After a loud rallying at the bottom of the stairwell, the voices finally died down. Nice and quiet, conditions that appealed to his bladder. He scuttled off the bed. With his hand on the doorknob, he remembered his traveling companion. Couldn’t believe he nearly forgot it. Snatching the briefcase from beneath the pillow, he raced toward the door.

  Hold on S.S. Bladder, you’re about to come into dry dock.

  He opened the door a crack, peered out. No one in sight. The lamps on the wall had been muted, nothing more than a firefly’s weak glow. Even though he took extra care to tread lightly, he may as well have been stomping. Every time he lifted a foot up, the floorboards beneath him groaned. Not even the hall-length runner softened the sound. Damn old houses.

  To his right, a door clicked open. A vertical line of light dropped over the paisley patterned carpet, expanding across the floor and the wall. Harold’s throat dried up, his bladder clenching like a fist. Backlight splashed off a man’s silhouette.

  He stared at the figure, silent, frozen. Finally, the man stepped out into the hallway, his hand reaching for Harold. “Oh, sorry, guy. Didn’t mean to startle you. Name’s Harton. Dave Harton.”

  Harold fumbled the briefcase into his left hand and offered his neighbor a clammy-handed shake. “I’m Harry. Hope I didn’t wake you. Just, ah, going to the john.”

  “Oh, right. Won’t hold you up then.” He looked at Harold, stone-faced, waiting, damn near challenging him to say something else. Social amenities and all.

  For an instant, Harold forgot his mission. Until his bladder urged him on. He clenched his groin muscles, gritted his teeth. Yet he noticed Harton staring at his briefcase. Feeling it necessary to offer up an explanation — not everyone takes their briefcase to the bathroom — Harold offered, “Um, brought my own toiletries.” An inspired lie.

  Harton nodded, an “aha” look on his face. “Well … ‘night.” His door closed, light peeping out beneath it. Then a shadow darkened the middle section.

  Jesus. Harold stood still for another moment, his heart tripping, looking at the door at the end of the hall, his endgame. So close, yet so far. Forgoing stealth, he lifted his feet, running, the briefcase bouncing against his leg. He slammed the door open, flailing around for a light switch. His thigh muscles squeezed involuntarily just as the light blinked on. No time to undo his belt, just unzip the fly. Then his bladder locked up again, a petulant baby throwing a fit.

  Jumping Jesus!

  He supposed he should’ve expected it. His bladder had always been shy and the hallway encounter sent it fleeing for cover. With his johnson in hand, he leaned over the toilet, resting his head against the cool wall. Come on, come on …

  Something about the guy bugged him. First, what was he doing at a bed and breakfast? By himself? Harold hadn’t heard any other voices, hadn’t seen anyone behind him in his room. A romantic night for one can easily happen at home; God only knew Harold had plenty of practice. Then again, maybe the storm forced Harton to suck it up, seek shelter, just like it had Harold.

  The guy looked strange, though. A wanna-be hipster, one of those too-cool-for-school guys who hang out at coffee shops and unemployment lines. A beard fringed his face, his designer glasses screaming pretentiousness. He was only missing a stocking cap and a guitar strapped to his back. Yet he seemed too old for that look, his suit at odds with his appearance. Maybe it’s a Missouri thing.

  Twisting the knob in the sink to full blast, Harold waited for the washing sound to influence his bladder. A false start, a single drop plopping into the bowl, made him groan.

  And had Harton taken a particular interest in his briefcase? The man gaped at it like it was Harold’s third leg. Which reminded Harold to give his “third leg” another couple of shakes.

  On the other hand, Harold might find it odd if he saw someone lugging a briefcase to the toilet, too. Dammit. Seeing ghosts where there weren’t any hauntings, something his mother used to say. Still, it pays to be aware, on guard at all times. Pays a helluva lot, actually. The proof lay at his feet. Might be best to keep an eye on Dave Harton.

  But for now? Nothing mattered but sweet, sweet relief. Time for another tactic, one that rarely failed him. He dropped trou, lowered the lid and sat, tucking his penis into the opening. When he grabbed the briefcase, he clutched it to his chest. A relaxing, calm swept through him, coddling his bladder, telling it to “Release. Just … let it go.” In a woman’s sexy, alluring voice, natch.

  The gates opened, the torrent flowed. When he thought he’d finished, round two fired up. A sense of serenity relaxed Harold, the first time since he’d left Kansas City. He patted his briefcase, a fine anti-anxiety medication.

  *

  Hardly the luck of the Irish. Not only did Winston now reside across the hall from his mark, but they shared the same bathroom. Not an ideal situation. Roommates in a dormitory of death, a crappy horror movie title if he’d ever heard one. To top it off, the host had told him the inn’s phone was out. “Not uncommon during a storm like this,” he’d said with a laugh. Winston met his merriment with a stone face. Pissing off Domenick hardly seemed like a laughing matter.

  Running into Carsten had shaken him up. He thought he’d bounced back gracefully enough during their encounter, but it felt like bumping into an old girlfriend, a relationship where things had ended poorly. Their conversation hadn’t amounted to much of anything. Yet it filled him with guilt, possibly even a little melancholy. “Melancholy” didn’t quite seem like the right word, though; as he’d told his wife earlier, “a poet I ain’t.” But instead of considering Harold Carsten a cipher to dispose of, Winston now knew enough about the accountant to see him as a person, flaws and all.

  On-the-job training had honed Winston’s analytical skills. Based on their brief meeting, he pegged Carsten as neurotic, fastidious, lacking in social graces, possibly anal-retentive. And worried for his life. Not exactly someone he’d go out of his way to have a beer with. But someone recognizable, all too human.

  Which made his impending job tough. A cannonball of trepidation loaded into his gut. And he’d have to fire it even if the enemy waved a white flag.

  Giving himself a mental slap, he reminded himself Carsten was a crook. Something that made his work a little more tolerable.

  The grumbling in his stomach required immediate attention, though; actually a nice respite from his mental gymnastics. The host, Christian, had told him the innkeepers always kept a selection of cookies and muffin
s available. Not the healthiest of food choices, but he hadn’t eaten since this morning. Besides, his stomach wouldn’t know the difference.

  He waited until Carsten finished in the bathroom; then he gave it an extra half-hour. At 2:00 a.m., quiet had settled, the inn having tucked everyone in for the night. Safe for him to make a covert grab and gobble.

  Still wearing his suit, minus the jacket, he left the room. He’d abandoned his traditional work shoes — the leather ones — at home in lieu of loafers. Much quieter, but shit in a snow storm as he’d found out the hard way. In his room, he had laid them over the vent, trying to dry them. Now they felt stiff, unyielding. But nice and toasty.

  With his hand riding the stairwell railing, he took the steps at a fast clip, descending quietly. Already, he’d logged a mental blueprint of the inn’s layout — at least the parts he’d seen — usually the first thing he did in an unfamiliar environment, so the darkness didn’t bother him. Counting down the steps, he reached the first floor. A single sconce, lonely in the night, illuminated a partial path to the kitchen.

  Beyond the swinging door, a lamp burned dully above the kitchen sink. Not until he’d tread halfway through the kitchen did he notice he had company. He stopped, staring at the girl sitting at the table. The same girl he’d seen outside the inn earlier. Chocolate blemished her cheeks, the tip of her nose. She lapped at an empty plate, scrounging for leftovers.

  Winston swallowed the lump in his throat. While her eyes never left him, her priority clearly remained the plate. She watched him like a wary dog hovering over food.

  Too late to back out now. If the girl was wired anything like his daughters, her intuition could prove problematic, bringing more attention his way. Casual small talk and non-threatening body language, the best way to diffuse the situation.