Dread and Breakfast

by Stuart R. West

  *

  Harold’s heart threatened to explode, a warning from his body to take better care of it. From beneath the stairwell, cloaked in shadows, he watched as the gay host escorted Domenick’s nephew outside by the throat.

  They found me. Good God, they found me!

  As he rushed back down the hallway, he rattled each doorknob, all of them unmoving. The final door, the woman’s room, opened. When he jumped inside, a lamp popped on, sending his heart into overdrive. The rugrat sat up, blinking at him like Santa’d just entered her damn dreams.

  “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  “Shut up, little girl.” He forced a harsh whisper, not an easy thing to do without volume. He searched the room, spilling cosmetics off the dresser. Yet he had no idea what he hoped to find. A solution to his problem, a way to stay alive. All the money he carried hardly mattered. Then he reconsidered. Hell, yes, it mattered.

  “I’m telling Mommy.” The girl’s threat rang hollow. She appeared indifferent at best. “What’re you lookin’ for?”

  Gunfire ripped in the distance. Three shots, a commonplace happening in Domenick’s world. Not so much Harold’s, and he preferred to keep it that way.

  “What was that?” Now fully awake, she bounced off the bed.

  “Shut up.” Jealousy struck him as he looked inside the bathroom, an amenity not afforded him; always destined, it seemed, to be traveling second class. He saw nothing of use, although a pair of the woman’s underwear momentarily distracted him. But he had to focus. He turned to the girl and said, “Gunfire,” hoping to shock her into silence.

  Still no emotion. Obviously, another kid weaned on the teat of TV, murder reduced to entertainment in their boob-tube world.

  Then her eyes widened. “Really?” She scuttled toward the door, the back ends of her slippers slapping at the floor. Her grubby little paw reached for the knob.

  “No! Stop, dammit!” He raced across the room and wrenched her hand away.

  “Ow! That hurt!” She shook her hand, exaggerating it the way kids do. “And you shouldn’t cuss!”

  Exasperated, he deliberated who he’d rather try his luck with, the kid or the mobsters. The kid inched ahead, just by a runny nose. “And you know what you should do? If you know what’s good for you? Go lay down in the tub. Wait there. And shut up.”

  “Don’t wanna. You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “Little girl, there’re men out there with guns. Shooting them. You know what a gun can do? Tear your body apart. Rip your arm off and —”

  Shit. Tears. Something Harold felt vastly inadequate to deal with. With a deep breath, he tried to bring his anxiety down a notch. “Look, that won’t happen if you just go lay in the tub, okay?” He’d try it her way, folding her reality into the situation. “It works in the movies. You’ll be safe there.” And blessedly quiet.

  “No. I’m not gonna get in the tub. I already had a bath. Only Mommy can —”

  “Fine. Have it your way. Just please shut the hell up.”

  This, of course, unleashed more tears. Worse than a baby, all he needed. “Sorry, sorry, shit, sorry …” Everything he said just poured gas on her fire, the brat’s tantrum rising. Maybe he better leave before her bawling gave up his location. On the other hand, he could hide out here. Domenick would probably just check his room upstairs, not look down here. He fiddled with the knob, searching for a lock. Nothing.

  The kid settled down long enough to string together a few coherent words. “Where is my mommy?”

  Harold sat on the bed and mopped sweat from his forehead. “I dunno, little girl. I’m sure she’s all right. But outside here?” He gestured toward the door. “There’re evil guys. With guns. Wanting to kill us. So you’ve gotta be quiet. ‘Cause that’s the only way out of this hell house. And I —”

  “It’s not the only way out.”

  “Say that again?”

  She stood in front of him, now more angelic than a Christmas tree topper. “I know a secret way.”

  He didn’t believe her. Kid games and all that crap. Still, desperation loosens ears sometimes, wishful thinking abides. “Show me.”

  “Only if you help me find Mommy.”

  Great. A deal with the devil. Of course, he knew contracts were made to be broken. “Fine. Where’s this other way out?” He used finger quotes, the sarcastic nature lost on the kid.

  “You promise?”

  “Yeah, fine, promise, pinky swear, all that.”

  Her little face scrunched up as she studied him, a miniature gargoyle. Finally, she must’ve deemed him worthy. She hurried across the room, her long gown billowing behind her. An open expanse of wall sat next to the bathroom, no hangings, no furniture in front of it. Which struck Harold odd, as cute crap overloaded every little nook and cranny in the damn house. The girl felt the wall, running her fingers along it. When she gave the wall a solid fist thunk, a hidden door popped open. Unbelievable. He never would’ve seen it. The paisley wallpaper had been perfectly plastered over it, no seams visible.

  Harold wasted no time. He poked his head inside and grimaced. Webs hung down, draping like broken chandeliers. The passageway looked narrow, barely enough room for a slender man to clear. Planks of rotted wood lay across the floor, green and moldy bracing at the top, none of it too sturdy looking. And dark, so dark he couldn’t see but a foot down the length. A servant’s entrance, a leftover from the days of slaves condemned to less-than-human accommodations. The way he felt most of the time; a fitting escape tunnel to his new life.

  He reached inside. To the right, his fingers thumped against a wall. On the left side, he wagged his arm about, feeling a cold breeze.

  “Where’s it go, little girl?”

  “Not sure. Haven’t explored it all yet. But I know one door comes out by Christian’s desk.”

  That didn’t suit Harold’s needs, not one bit. If at all possible, he wanted to avoid everyone at this point. He certainly didn’t need to end up back in the center of the action. He needed to find a way out of the house. Should be easy enough; just follow the draft. The servants probably had their own outside entrance. Somewhere. “Got a flashlight, little girl?”

  “No! Why would I have a flashlight?”

  Yeah, stupid question, Harold thought. Back when he was a kid, flashlights were considered fun. Whatever. Darkness bothered him; another less-than-fond memory from his childhood. He’d have to make do with the light from his phone. Not ideal, but it offered something at least. He just had to remember paradise waited at the end of the dark tunnel. A light, sunny paradise with days so long, nights seemed like God’s afterthought.

  “Okay, gotta go.”

  He ducked, sticking one leg inside, the briefcase banging against the wall. Little fingers clutched his arm. “Wait! You promised me you’d find Mommy!”

  “Might be dangerous for you, little girl. Just go lie down in the tub, best place for you.” Then she coiled her hands into fists, tightening up like a flexing bodybuilder. Ready to blast off a scream. Good God. “Fine. Whatever, little girl, just … be quiet.”

  Quite the actress, she immediately changed face. “Okay. But I’m not a little girl. My name’s Kyra.”

  Harold groaned. Everything the girl did amped up the drama. Just like his ex-wife, Barb. They start training ‘em earlier and earlier. “What did I say about shutting up?”

  With an excited grin, she twisted an imaginary lock on her lips and pitched the key. Too bad it wouldn’t take for good. It might not all be a loss, though. He’d use her as a scout, find their path through the darkness. Hell, she knew the passageway already. If they stumbled onto her mom, fine. But he wouldn’t go out of his way to look for her. To his car and gone, his immediate goal, done in one. His mother always told him he needed to set goals in life. Too bad she spent so much time acting as a goalie by blocking his progress.

  Harold considered what to do with the girl once they reached the safety of outside. Maybe he’d drop her off with a neighbors or som
ething. But in the meantime, he needed her.

  “Fine, Kyra-sabee, you act as my guide.” Clearly, she didn’t understand his reference. What did these kids know these days? “You’re leading.” Which seemed to suit her just fine. In less than a minute, she slipped into her coat.

  With Kyra in the lead, Harold popped his cell phone on, using the meager light to navigate the dark path.

  Chapter Seven

  Well, hell, on a night like this, Deputy Randy Gurley didn’t want to venture out. Colder than a nunnery and whiter than his hind end, the storm looked even worse than it did last night. The sheriff’s office felt nice and cozy. His feet were quite comfortable kicked up on the desk, a space heater warming his back. Truth be told, he wasn’t exactly patrolling last night when he stumbled across the Stansfield woman. He’d been on his way home, playing hooky more or less. With the sheriff out of town and even crime taking a break during the storm, it seemed pointless to patrol.

  But he couldn’t ignore a damsel in distress. Particularly a hottie like Rebecca.

  As he nibbled a pencil, he thought about her. Hadn’t given her much consideration earlier because he knew he’d never see her again. But there’d been a moment where he had second thoughts, nearly asking her to come to his place. He thought she just might, too; he could be pretty irresistible at times. But it wouldn’t have been very professional of him, not at all. If a man doesn’t take his livelihood seriously, then he’s not a man worthy of respect.

  Of course, Rebecca’s husband showing up changed everything. Nosing around like a bloodhound, looking for his wife. Tempestuous fella, too. Rebecca didn’t need to tell him about her husband; between the clues she let slip and the way the guy acted on the phone, Gurley immediately had his number. Wife beater. Very uncool. Gurley halfway hoped he’d succeeded in taunting the asshole into coming down to the station. Lock him up in the drunk tank for a while. Let him cool down. But, nope, sounded like he didn’t plan on giving up.

  A wrench in the works. Soon enough, things at the Dandy Drop Inn might go belly up. Course it also meant he might get to spend a little more time with Rebecca.

  While he hated leaving the office’s warmth, body heat sounded mighty nice as well. He launched the pencil up. The sharp point lodged into the dropped ceiling with a thump. White particles floated down. Deputy Gurley couldn’t escape the snow, indoors or outdoors.

  He took a few more minutes, enough time to finish a rancid cup of coffee, then he swept his boots to the floor, donned his hat, tipped it until it felt just right, and left for the inn.

  *

  Jesus Christ and what a night, Brad thought.

  He couldn’t believe what he saw, couldn’t be absolutely certain either. He’d give his right nut now for a pair of night-vision goggles. Parked a half-block away, the relentless snow made things hard to see. The moon and stars had packed up as well, so he couldn’t trust his eyes, not entirely. What he thought he saw, though? A huge guy breaking the neck of the rifle-carrying guy. No doubt about the rifle; he’d heard the shots, watched three flashes. Then the shorter guy, the dapper one from the Humvee, took a shovel to the head.

  The night’s events gave him a toasty holiday feeling, one of sheer joy and anticipation. Not so much for Rebecca, of course. But a plan bubbled in his mind, a real beaut. Obviously, there’s some bad shit going on at the Dandy Drop Inn. Why not use it to his advantage? He’d witnessed, what, two deaths? Why not add Rebecca to the pile up? Kyra, too. They both deserved it. And he’d just been handed a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  Honestly, when he set off earlier, he didn’t think he planned on killing them. Just teach ‘em a lesson or two, one they wouldn’t forget. At least that’s how hindsight saw it. But that was beside the point. Once he saw his so-called “wife” with the other bastard, that’s when it clicked. As sure as a gun hammer clicks when pulled back. He just hadn’t been sure how to pull the trigger at the time. Now he’d been handed a golden opportunity, one he’d be foolish to ignore. It’s like God or whatever handed him the murder weapon and was telling him, “Go ahead, Brad. Bitch deserves it.”

  Even better? How ‘bout he swoops in, takes the bad guys out, too? Might get a commendation. Press would be all over it, too. Grieving Hero Brings Wife’s Murderers to Justice. Absolutely beautiful in its irony.

  And he couldn’t believe how his night just kept improving. A figure struggled his way, attempting to run through the snow with a sideways kicking gesture. But he recognized the way those hips moved, snowstorm or not. Rebecca. And she had the gall to wear her lover’s coat, way too big for her, clenched beneath her chin with whorish hands.

  Yes, sir, things were looking up.

  She didn’t even look his way when she passed, her gaze glued to her path. He gave it a few minutes, then quietly slipped out of the car, his gun leading him to his prey.

  *

  The minute Rebecca stepped outside, she wanted to turn right around. To hell with what Dave had said, she needed to save Kyra. From whom she had no clue; only her daughter’s safety mattered. Reason overruled her mother’s instinct, though. With a gun and a car, they could get away. But trudging through the snow felt like wading through cement, a nightmare where she couldn’t will her legs to move fast enough.

  Hold on, baby, Mommy’s coming for you.

  Behind her, she heard a vehicle crunching over the snow. A Humvee slowly pulled away from the inn, the red taillights blinking in the falling snow. The men with the guns? Again, she thought about going back in. Especially if they’d left. But she knew, absolutely so, she’d better not go back in unprotected.

  And she meant what she’d said about having a talk with Dave. Obviously, he’d been withholding the truth from her. He appeared to know these gun-wielding men, hardly the company an insurance salesman keeps.

  She unburied a leg, stepped high, and plunged it down again. Rinse, wash, repeat. Getting nowhere. Her anxiety booted into the stratosphere.

  The snow overlaying the land acted as a sonic amplifier, every sound intensified, every frozen branch cracking like knuckles. She listened, half-expecting a scream from Kyra, more gunfire. Wind blew snow into her face, slipping down inside the loose-fitting coat. By necessity, she kept her head down, watching her feet. She alternated hands, keeping one in the pocket, one holding the coat closed. Even though she knew she hadn’t yet traveled a block-and-a-half, she pressed the key fob often, pointing it at random cars. More like misshapen snowmen, mounds of snow covering every inch of the automobiles. Why the hell did Dave park so far away anyway? She saw plenty of open parking spots closer to the inn. He had a lot to answer for.

  Snow soaked through her jeans legs, cold and chafing. She took to the street, hoping plows had cleared a path. No such luck. A recent tire rut — possibly from the Humvee — provided a faster, albeit narrow, passageway. She picked up speed, constantly clicking the fob.

  A muffled horn bleated. She pressed the fob again. Several cars down, a hint of light powered through the snow. Victory.

  Once she reached the car, she swept snow from the headlights, then cleared an opening over the windshield. Snow drifts leaned up against the car. She kicked some of it away, hoping the car could power through the remains of the miniature wall. Her hand found the handle. She groaned when it didn’t open. Using her hip, she bumped into the door, loosening it. Every little thing seemed to detain her, every detail of her short trip agonizing. As she struggled with the door, awful scenarios of Kyra’s fate ran scattershot through her mind, bleak and violent images.

  The door wrenched open. Elated, she slid in. The car sputtered at first, dwindling along with her hope. She closed her eyes, tossed off a speed prayer, and twisted the key again. The engine turned over. Cold air roared out of the heater. She rolled down the window, scraping away snow. A dusting blew in, alighting on her face. Her teeth chattered like maracas. Quickly she rolled the window back up.

  She dropped the gear into first and prepared to gun out.

  The window next t
o her shattered. Glass shards showered her. Instinctively, she hunkered down, shoulders bunched to her ears.

  “Hey, baby, miss me?”

  Her pulse tripled, her heart leaping a beat. A scream lodged in her chest. Hunched over like an ape, Brad stood outside, a tire iron in one hand, a gun in the other. Smiling ear to ear.

  Rebecca cranked the steering wheel, stepped on the gas. Quick as a jack rabbit, Brad snaked an arm in, knocking her back. He snagged the keys from the ignition and hurled them. The keys turned in the air, a weak lamp catching the silver. They dropped silently into the snow.

  “Leave us the hell alone, Brad!” She slid across the seat, knowing she couldn’t overpower him. Her knees bumped into the glovebox. The cover slipped down, exposing Dave’s gun.

  Brad leaned back in, his gun aimed at her chest. “Don’t think so, bitch.” His words sounded calm, more restrained than usual. Yet the fury in his eyes she’d seen before. Just not at this level. “I’m gonna make you pay for what you did. I’m —”

  “What the hell did I ever do to you?”

  “You know what you did, bitch. Don’t lie. Too late for lies. When I’m done with you, I’m gonna get that bitch of a daughter of yours and —”

  The threat against Kyra ramrodded her into action. She yanked the gun out, pulled back the hammer. The gun training Brad had subjected her to — back in the early, “good” days — was about to pay off. In buckets of blood.

  She didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Neither did Brad.

  Two shots disturbed the snow-silenced night.

  *

  Before Winston left the kitchen, he found a knife, long-bladed and dull. Perfect for chopping vegetables, maybe, but hardly a worthy defense against guns. Better than nothing.

  Years of practice taught him how to move. Using fast, quiet strides, he stopped at the stairwell and looked around the corner. The door behind Christian’s counter stood ajar, orange light trickling out. A constant drumbeat accompanied Christian’s diminishing humming. Thump, thump, thump. No, not a drum beat. Calvin’s body dragged down wooden stairs.