Dread and Breakfast

by Stuart R. West

  “I don’t wanna hear your redneck, Mayberry feel-good shit! Why don’t you get your head out of your ass and —”

  “No need to be that way, Detective. I told you what I know. Listen, I was on duty last night. I would’ve either seen something come up on the wire or at least heard about it.”

  It made no sense. His partner didn’t lie, wouldn’t lie. Unless … the bitch ran off with him. No. She was capable of doing it, but Steve would never betray him, not his partner. Maybe Rebecca somehow staged the accident to throw him off the trail. Blew town with a lover. Sure as hell would explain a lot. But that didn’t track either. Idiot wife wasn’t that smart, and she didn’t have the connections to pull a disappearing act. More than likely, Hilston’s finest screwed up. Incompetent idiots.

  “Listen, dumb ass, after I find the car, after I find her, I’m gonna —”

  “Sounds like a threat to me. We don’t cotton very kindly to threats in these parts.”

  Cotton? What the hell’s that even mean? “What’s your name? ‘Shit for brains?’ I’m gonna report you to your sheriff and anyone else who’ll listen in this Podunk town!”

  The cop laughed, lazy and smarmy, completely condescending. “Go right ahead. But you won’t be able to reach him. Off on a hunting trip. But, sure, you can have my name, no problem. Gurley. Deputy Randy Gurley. And I’m anything but. Girly, that is. Be glad to prove it to ya, if you’re man enough to meet me.”

  *

  “Kyra, honey, there’s no reason to be scared.”

  Yet, truthfully, Rebecca thought Kyra’s fear might be merited. Something seemed off about the Goodenows. She’d met plenty of religious people in the past, some of them her neighbors. But not to this frightening extreme. The Goodenow girl’s words had been strong, but her demeanor — her unwavering conviction — seemed to imply a threat more than any soul-saving venture. But no sense in sharing these thoughts with her daughter. “Sometimes very religious people want to share their opinions with others, that’s all. Don’t pay Missus Goodenow any mind.”

  Kyra looked up at Rebecca, her cheeks damp from tears. “Mommy, are we religious? Do you believe in God?”

  Rebecca contemplated her answer, formulating something a good mother might say. “Yes. I think there’s a God. Don’t you?” Kyra’s head bobbed up and down. “Then you just keep on believing. And keep on your nightly prayers. Then God will look out for us.”

  “I always do.” Reinforcement of a benevolent God perked Kyra up. Instantly, she transformed from a frightened child to a carefree innocent, the way kids should be entitled to live. Damn Brad for stealing away much of Kyra’s childhood.

  Rebecca laid a lingering kiss on her daughter’s cheek. Kyra scrabbled to escape Rebecca’s bear hug, exaggeratedly fussing. Even though Kyra’s nose wrinkled, her giggling indicated she didn’t object too much, just part of the game. “Stop it, Mommy!”

  “Never!” Rebecca finished with a raspberry blown onto her daughter’s cheek.

  “Gross.” On the bed, Kyra kicked her feet into the air. Rebecca joined her, still hosting the effects of the mimosas. She thought they must’ve looked quite the sight, mother and daughter laughing, bicycling their legs into the air. And Rebecca thought she’d remember this moment forever, her first worthwhile snapshot of their new life.

  Once their giddiness settled, Kyra asked, “Mommy, can I go play in the snow?”

  “Kyra, I don’t —”

  “Please, Mommy? There’s nothing else to do.”

  Rebecca knew she was right, absolutely so. Kids need exercise, fresh air. She had niggling doubts, but she also realized they had to quit living cooped up, captives beneath Brad’s lingering specter. A nap had sounded like a wonderful idea, but she wouldn’t be able to batten down Kyra’s hatches long enough, not now. Maybe later.

  “All right. Just for a little bit. But only under two conditions.” She held up two fingers; Kyra’s eyes were glued to them, awaiting instruction. “One, you bundle up properly. I mean it. Zipped-up coat, boots, hat, gloves.” Kyra looked like she debated the idea for a bit, then gave a thoughtful nod. “Two, you stay in my sight at all times.” Which meant she’d have to go downstairs and keep watch from the front window, something that hadn’t been in her itinerary. But parents sacrifice.

  Already off the bed before Rebecca finished issuing her second demand, Kyra bolted for the suitcase and wriggled into her boots. “Okay, Mommy.”

  Six years old, the girl should be out playing in the snow. So why did Rebecca feel so hesitant to let her daughter go? Kyra had several storms of experience under her belt, suffering no mishaps, a perfect record. In fact, her first injury had been at Brad’s hand the other night. And they’d left Brad behind in a cloud of dust. Well, snow.

  So why did her protective instincts clang like a fire alarm?

  Because of the people, not the storm. Sure, the Dandys were wonderful, and Christian couldn’t help but charm. But she couldn’t shake the newlywed couple. The woman looked fragile enough to blow away in a wind gust, though; hardly the type to venture out into the snow. And the new man … Henry, Harley, something … the way he’d looked at her, he may as well’ve been sizing her up for dinner. My, what big teeth you have, Harley. And he loved exposing those teeth when he grinned. Yellow corn kernels, the incisors pointed like a vampire’s.

  Rebecca sighed and shook her head. Whatever. A meek vampire. She’d be seeing ghosts next. Time for a reality check. She rolled out of bed, hating to leave its comforting warmth, and slipped into her shoes. Then she and Kyra raced toward the door; to the victor, the spoils.

  *

  So cold his teeth felt numb, Winston bunched up his shoulders, dropped his chin to his chest. The smoke weighed heavy, yet calming in his lungs. As he expelled a long drag, it kept on going and going, the smoke indistinguishable from his frozen breath. The nicotine buzz started small, then grew, a tingling sensation creeping down from his brain. A welcome sensation. Propped up against a gazebo post, he thought he better sit before dizziness dropped him.

  Actually, he’d kicked the cigarette habit after he’d graduated college. It hadn’t been that hard, not really. Of course, he put on thirty pounds, but he shed that soon enough. Not until he took on his extracurricular work did he pick up the habit again. And only when he was actually on the job. He looked at it as a reward, plus it helped settle his nerves. Or so he told himself. A psychiatrist, on the other hand, probably would’ve had a completely different take on the scenario. Maybe they’d look at it as punishment — killing himself slowly — for killing people.

  Regardless, the nicotine tasted fine, the deadly smoke in his lungs fulfilling. Hardly a good substitute for a meal, though; particularly one of Julie’s wonderful suppers. He’d been existing on a non-stop diet of protein bars, which he’d been sensible enough to pack as soon as he’d heard about the impending storm. Still, the smell of food had wound its way upstairs earlier, practically seeking out his olfactory senses like a missile. More than once, he nearly caved, ready to burst into the kitchen, making like Oliver Twist pleading for porridge. But common sense held him captive. Once he heard the accountant going downstairs, presumably toward the kitchen, he snuck outside. Not only for a smoke, but to escape the tempting odors.

  And he was still without a phone. Just like the inn. He hoped Lenny, his right-hand man, would call Domenick, explain Winston’s situation. But that seemed unlikely. Brilliant guy, but Lenny lacked the motivation to take on anything less than a direct order. Perhaps Winston had been stupid not taking his laptop with him on assignments, but these days he could acquire all of his needs easily enough on his phone. A condensed computer, pocket-sized and tailor made for hired killers. Until they didn’t work.

  He looked at the back of the house, the southern side, the only side missing the wrap-around porch. He spotted a cellar entrance, the two closed doors set into the ground presumably leading underground. Strangely devoid of snow coverage. Maybe it’s where Christian kept the firewood, nice
and dry. Even stranger, though, was the lack of a back door. Nothing but a massive white-paneled wall with very few windows, all of them tightly shuttered.

  As he inhaled slowly, a sudden chuff sounded overhead. Snow sprinkled into the gazebo. A silenced gun, his first instinct. He dove to the snow-dusted cement, the cigarette still between his lips. The butt snuffed out. He thrust a hand behind him, patting down the small of his back. No gun, still in the car.

  Then, like a twittering bird, shrill laughter echoed across the snow. A white projectile whizzed through the gazebo above him.

  “Are you scared of snow?” Kyra yelled while packing another snowball between her gloves.

  Once his heart settled, he stood and brushed himself off. Bundled up, the little girl pushed stiffly through the snow toward him. Quickly, he tossed the broken cigarette out into the snow. Kind of silly, he thought, but he didn’t want her seeing him smoke. Nasty habit and all.

  “Guess I am. You almost got me.”

  “I play softball,” she said, as if that explained everything. With the snow nearly to her waist, her coat ballooned out, and with her stocking cap pitching a point, she resembled a garden gnome. She hitched a leg up, took a giant leap, repeating her slow process one step at a time.

  “Keep at it then, Kyra. Your mother know you’re out here? Wouldn’t want you getting buried in an avalanche or anything.”

  She looked around. “No mountains.”

  “Yep, you’re about the biggest mountain around these parts.” She giggled, and Winston couldn’t get enough. Thoughts of home, his daughters, tugged at him. “Again, is your mother in the know?”

  “Uh-huh.” Finally, she reached the gazebo and climbed the steps like a swimmer exiting a pool. When Winston sat on the bench, she plopped down next to him. Her feet kicked, one after the other. An icy cloud of breath expelled from her scarf-covered mouth.

  “Well, good. So we don’t have to play secret buddies anymore.” Which meant, sooner or later, Kyra’s mother would find out about him. Of course she probably already knew about his presence — the host was certainly chatty enough about the other lodgers — but she hadn’t seen him yet. He hoped to keep it that way.

  And whenever he started thinking nothing else could happen, it usually did. Funny how he never used to be superstitious. Not before the jobs started.

  “Secret buddies about what?” Kyra’s mother stood behind them, wrapped in only a sweater, her arms folded, shivering like a detoxing junkie.

  *

  Naked and kneeling, Heather and Tommy prayed before their makeshift altar. They’d pinned a sheet up to the wall. A crucifix hung over the sheet, Jesus staring at them in beautifully excruciating agony. Heather hoped the tacks wouldn’t scar the room’s walls too much. It’d be a real shame.

  “And thank you, God, for bringing new life into my womb.” Heather stopped, a couldn’t-be-helped grin breaking over her lips. With one eye open, she peeked at her husband. She’d thought about the proper way to break the news to him. It seemed only fitting God should be their witness.

  “Babe … is it true?” Heather thought a cat could’ve crawled into his gaping mouth.

  “Mm-hm.” She wanted to elaborate, but, honestly, no words could properly convey her joy.

  “I can’t believe it! I’m … we’re gonna be parents!” As he hugged her, cheek to cheek, he suddenly tensed. Bracing her by the shoulders, he pushed back to look into her eyes. “But … how is this possible? I mean … we … did you miss your, um, time of the month or whatever?”

  She giggled at his naivety. Not too long ago she thought no one knew less about the female body than she did. And unlike Tommy, she wore one. “Babe, it don’t work like that.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “The Lord showed me through a sighting. I saw our baby’s soul enter my womb.”

  “That’s fantastic, babe.” He smashed his lips onto hers, the way old 50s matinee idols used to do to in the movies. Heather always thought it looked painful. But she now knew pain and pleasures commingle, can’t have one without the other.

  “I know, right?” They fell down onto the plastic tarp they had spread before the altar. The material crinkled, pinching up beneath their entwined bodies. “And I can’t think of a better way to give our thanks than to begin our work tonight.”

  “I’m with ya, babe.”

  “The Dandys are set to come over at eight o’clock, just after supper.”

  “Mm-hm. To play Spinner Dominoes.”

  Heather sat up, clawing fingers through her hair like a comb. “Babe, what if they want to gamble? On the game?”

  “I won’t let ‘em, babe.” He pulled her back down. She fell onto his chest, her arms a barrier between them.

  “I know you won’t. It’s just …”

  “What’s on your mind, babe?”

  “I can’t wait to usher on that Godless woman and her unholy offspring.”

  “Me, too. Lookin’ forward to it.”

  “The way she looked at us this morn, like we was crazy or somethin’. Telling us her beliefs are none of our business. Won’t she be surprised to find out we’re working for God, with God. Ain’t got a clue. I’m especially gonna enjoy sending her on to her immortal fate. And I think we both know where that’s gonna be.”

  “Sure do.” His male part grew, reaching out toward Heather. She squeezed it, no longer afraid of his naughty parts. In fact, nothing frightened her anymore.

  Chapter Five

  They’d been in the Humvee for nearly eleven hours. Calvin drove worse than a little old lady with cataracts, stopping only once to let Domenick piss on the side of the road. Unsanitary, sure, but Domenick preferred it over using a public john. The germs that lurked in public facilities terrified him, a fate worse than death. His hands stung after he swiped them in the snow. The sanitizer burned even more. But the resulting redness at least looked clean, a newborn’s skin.

  Every time Calvin mounted a sneeze, Domenick cringed. His nephew’s incessant snuffling grated like fingernails on a chalkboard. Even Domenick’s favorite big band music couldn’t soothe his anxiety.

  It took forever and a day, but he’d finally tracked down Winston Ashford’s assistant, some slacker kid named Lenny. Getting him on the phone shouldn’t have been that difficult. After all, the kid was on his payroll.

  “Mister Domenick, I’m sure Winston didn’t take your money. He’s not like that.” The kid kept whining, saying the same thing over and over, trying to build a case for Ashford’s innocence. Instead, it shoved Domenick the other way. No doubt the kid was on the take as well.

  “Goddammit, you’re not listenin’ to me! I know for a fact he’s got my money! Haven’t heard from him in almost twenty-four hours. He’s supposed to call every hour.”

  “I don’t think he has a signal. Or his battery died.”

  “Excuses, excuses. That’s all I’m hearin’. Wi-Fi’s everywhere. You in on it, too?”

  After a satisfying moment of silence, the kid said, “I swear I’m not, Mister Domenick. Neither is Winston. Let’s just be calm and reason through this. Please.”

  Lately, Domenick’s wife had been shoveling all kinds of New Age crap on him. She told him he needed to be an open book, expose his emotions for people to read. Use the important “I” statements — “I think,” “I feel,” blah, blah, blah. He knew it was stupid, but he thought he’d give it a spin. “Listen, Lenny, I feel … you should shut the fuck up.”

  As he hung up on the kid, Domenick felt marginally better. Maybe his wife’s sensitivity classes had paid off after all.

  His nephew looked at him, his blue surgeon’s mask sucking in with every breath. No doubt waiting to hear what the kid had said, but too afraid to ask. Cowards everywhere.

  “Kid’s in on it, too,” said Domenick with a sigh. “Covering for Ashford. He’ll be our first stop when we get back to K.C.”

  Calvin nodded. One of his eyes twitched, clearly nervous about the job ahead of him. But at leas
t he quit trying to defend Ashford. No denying proof.

  “But we got a location on the accountant. The kid better not be lyin’, that’s all I’ll say. Or our ‘meeting’s’ gonna be extra painful.” Again, Calvin gave a weak nod. Followed by a sneeze.

  “Dammit, Calvin! Swear to God, if I get sick, you’re goin’ on my list.”

  “Sorry, Mister Dom. Think it’s just allergies. I don’t think allergies are contagious. That’s all I’ll say.”

  Domenick groaned. He hated when his nephew copied his catch phrase, never an original thought in his empty head. Idiots. Surrounded by backstabbers and fools.

  Not trusting his nephew to do the job right, Domenick checked out the bed and breakfast on his phone. “Got the address. Some shithole called ‘The Dandy Drop Inn’.”

  “We’re only ‘bout thirty miles from Hilston now.”

  “Good. Can’t wait to get some payback.”

  “Me, too, Mister Dom … ah-choo.”

  Jesus Christ.

  *

  “Mommy, what’re you doing out here?” Kyra rocked, swinging her arms, her tell that she’d broken the rules.

  “Freezing. You left from where I could see you.” Rebecca’s teeth chattered. A wind gust blasted her, needles shooting into her bones. She hadn’t grabbed her coat, no time. One minute Kyra had been there, the next, gone. Every mother’s nightmare. “I want to know about this ‘secret buddy club’. I’m Rebecca. I see you’ve met Kyra. And you are …?”

  The man stood, extending a gloved hand. “Sorry, sorry. Ah … Dave Harton, insurance salesman.”

  The handshake was short lived as Rebecca’s hands folded back into her sleeves for cover. Warily, she stepped up onto the gazebo, sizing up the stranger. The stranger who’d been talking to her daughter without her knowledge. Kyra appeared fine, nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Guess I need to explain why Kyra and I are secret pals.” He rubbed the back of his neck, gave a sheepish smile, a shamefaced, “Aw, shucks” look. Rebecca didn’t buy it, not for a minute. Strangers with secrets are not a good thing. “Well, I have to confess … Kyra and I shared some pie late last night. I reckon after you went to sleep. I promised your daughter I’d keep her secret.”