Dread and Breakfast

by Stuart R. West

  Briefly, his thoughts wandered to the girl, Kyra. Maybe he shouldn’t’ve left her. Although he’d done his duty, showed her the way out. Gone way beyond duty, in fact. But when he heard the footsteps approaching, it was time to beat feet. No doubt Domenick ready to blast him away. Or someone else, it didn’t matter. Definitely weird shit he didn’t want to wade through. Much better to wade through snow.

  With a deep breath that turned into several (a favorite procrastination tool), Harold hunkered down. His knees worked like scissors, cutting a path, a tiresome and slow method. The briefcase above his head weighed heavy after a while, more like gold than paper.

  He chuckled at his earlier fears. Domenick wouldn’t hide. Damn Neanderthal didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  He straightened and tossed his shoulders back. Decided to walk like a man, his head held high. With high steps, almost a march, he paraded through the yard.

  From a distance, the little girl’s screams broke the silence. He tore off, willing his cold legs to move faster. But like so many people in his life, his legs wouldn’t cooperate. Slow, tedious, little progress. Side to side, he moved. Kicking proved to be another colossal waste of time. But the car drew nearer.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  The girl’s screams didn’t stop. Maybe he should go back. Nah, screw it. She had the creepy chick with her. And whoever the mystery person had been. What if it’d been Domenick? If so, there probably would’ve been a fireworks tent worth of explosions.

  He pulled it together the best he could. No more guessing games, just couldn’t think that way. Not with the car a few feet away.

  His briefcase slammed onto the car roof. A safe haven for his cash while he cleared snow from the windows. Behind him, he heard something. Feet tramping through the snow, running down the street.

  Then the sexy woman’s shaky voice. “Kyra? Kyra!”

  What the hell’s going on here tonight?

  He snatched the briefcase and dropped into a squat, not even sure why. The woman wouldn’t hurt him. Other things she might do tempted him. But, after all the new developments, it was time to cut his losses and run.

  When he looked again, the woman had fled the street, her shadow cutting through a neighbor’s yard.

  On aching legs, he duck walked to the driver’s side, his ass cold and wet and trailing tracks behind him. Then he saw another path someone had made. Snow had been cleared from his tires. His two Goddamn flat tires.

  He shot to his feet. Out of ideas, his immediate escape plan blown to hell. He thought about riding the damn wheel rims. In the snow, wouldn’t it be pretty much like a sled? But it wouldn’t get him far. The inn’s other occupants had cars. Just needed to get the keys. His ordeal felt like some damn surrealistic film that was all the rage in the 60s — he just couldn’t get out of this hellhole.

  With a weary sigh, he trudged after the woman, staying out of sight. Following the girl’s screams.

  *

  When she heard Kyra, all thoughts of Brad vanished. Sheer adrenaline plowed the snow more than her legs. A knife of fear penetrated her heart. She pushed herself, faster, harder. And still Kyra screamed.

  Please, God, let her be all right, just let her be safe.

  After everything they’d been through with Brad, to have something happen to Kyra now seemed unspeakable. And that bastard, Dave. He swore he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. Swore it. But Kyra was still alive, though, her screams the proof. Small comfort, just not enough. Rebecca’d never heard her daughter let loose a shriek like that. Not once. Not even when Brad had hit her.

  Hold on, baby, I’m coming. Just keep screaming. Let me know you’re alive. I’ll find you.

  Rebecca withheld tears. Her gut demanded action. She swallowed the lump in her throat, time for hysterics later. A blubbering mess can’t fight. She tread on. Her coat flapped open. Hands jacked at her sides, propelling her faster. Kyra’s screams rose, coming from the back of the inn. She considered making a vow to God, a desperate woman’s last resort. Or a pact with the devil. But no time for contracts.

  Her finger played over the gun’s trigger, ready and armed. Five bullets left by her count. And she planned on making each bullet matter.

  Falling snow blinded her as a wind gust ripped by. Her cheeks numbed. When she turned the corner of the inn, she dropped into a squat, gun raised and steady.

  It took a minute for her mental synapses to process the scene before her. And she still didn’t understand. But she saw her daughter. Alive.

  “Kyra!”

  Like a needle yanked off a record, Kyra abruptly hushed. “Mommy!” Slowly, she pushed through the snow with a wind-up toy’s lumbering steps.

  “Wait there, baby, I’ll come to you.” With the gun raised — safe enough to run with, close enough to use — she struggled toward her daughter. Dave stood behind Kyra, his shoulders heaving as if out of breath. Next to him she saw the blonde newlywed wearing nothing but a slip of a dress. A tea kettle’s worth of steam billowed from her mouth. The knife in the woman’s hand and dark-stained dress drove Rebecca harder.

  She swooped Kyra into her free arm. Kyra curled up in a fetal position, warm and comforting against Rebecca’s chest. She rested her chin on Kyra’s head and wrapped her inside Dave’s jacket, protecting her in a human cocoon. From a cursory glance, Kyra seemed unharmed — physically, at least. But Rebecca knew — the way all mother’s know — the cold didn’t cause her daughter’s shudders.

  She stopped six feet from Dave, well out of reach. Her gun arm locked rigid, showing Dave and the woman she was in charge. “What happened?” she hissed.

  Dave came toward her, arms tossed up. “I’m not sure —”

  “Stay there. I mean it.” Another gun gesture, this time split between Dave and the woman. “What happened to Kyra?”

  “She’s all right.” With a tired sigh, he lowered his hands. “I found Kyra in the basement. She was helping her …” He nodded toward the woman. “… escape. We’ve got to go. I’ll tell you —”

  “Seems like you’re damn good at postponing the truth. Give me answers. What was she escaping from? And why does she have a knife?”

  “It was my knife. She … took care of Christian.”

  It made no sense. None of it. Everything had been whispered, harsh and urgent, rat-tat-tat, too fast to put together the puzzle pieces. But now Rebecca understood the stains on the woman’s dress. She swiveled, her gun leveled at the blonde. “God … she stabbed him?”

  “The sinner deserved it!” At the sound of the woman’s voice, Kyra clung tighter to Rebecca.

  With her gaze and gun locked on the woman, Rebecca said, “Explain.”

  Dave patted the air. Given the circumstances, his calmness infuriated Rebecca. “Lower your voice. Christian tried to kill me.” Clearly, he’d given up candy coating his words around Kyra. Not that it mattered. Rebecca suspected Kyra’d witnessed far worse tonight than unsettling words. But she demanded answers now.

  “She saved me,” Dave continued. “And … Christian killed one of the gunmen.”

  He stuck his hand out, finger pointing toward a large mass. The snow had nearly buried Christian’s body. Funny how, after seeing Brad’s corpse, it didn’t faze Rebecca.

  “And the Dandys … they killed Tommy … chained me up,” said the newlywed. “Left me to die. They’re crazy.”

  Much like you, Rebecca thought. Frankly, it all sounded crazy. The Dandys as killers? But she’d sort everything out later. She sensed Dave’s urgency, had seen more than enough to justify getting the hell out of there. Impossible to do without a car, though. Maybe she needed the religious zealot after all.

  “Fine. Let’s go. But we need a ride. And I’m keeping the gun. Anyone who tries anything gets a bullet.”

  “Rebecca, I —”

  “Shut up, Dave. And you …” Again she pointed the gun at the woman. “… if you’re going with us, lose the knife. Now.”

  She smirked, a corner of her mouth twist
ed. At arm’s length, she dropped the knife like a microphone.

  “Better. Dave, we need a car. Your keys are gone. Which —”

  “Jesus Christ.” When he ran his hands through his hair, Rebecca noticed his glasses were missing. Made him look different, strangely more natural. “What happened?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You … where’s your car?”

  “My name’s Heather. Our car’s in the carriage house’s driveway. But Tommy has the keys. Wherever his mortal remains are.” With folded hands, she looked skyward. Tears fell, her demeanor as heartfelt as a singing telegram. Definitely one to watch.

  “We gotta go, even on foot. Away from here. Get out of the storm,” said Dave.

  Rebecca noticed calling the cops didn’t seem high on Dave’s itinerary. She couldn’t trust any of them. “Let’s go. Ladies and mystery men first.” She waved them past her, using the gun like a traffic cop’s baton. The blonde snarled, but strode through the snow. Dave hobbled by her, favoring one leg over the other. But in this weather, they’d all be hobbling. Three adults, two coats, one child, one gun. Rebecca liked the odds. She’d just enjoyed target practice with Brad after all.

  “Um, do you mind if I join you?”

  Rebecca whirled at the voice behind her. The odd man from breakfast wormed his way out of the shadows, his briefcase held in front of him.

  Rebecca said, “Depends on if you have a car.”

  “Someone sliced my tires.”

  Kyra popped out from undercover. “He’s my friend, Mommy. He helped me.”

  Rebecca hesitated. She didn’t know this man. Even though Kyra vouched for him, a six year old’s judgment couldn’t be trusted. Not with everything going on. Still, safety in numbers. “Any weapons? Knives, guns? Seems everyone else is packing.”

  “What? No. Of course not.” He appeared flustered, a little insulted, the way she imagined he always did. Too real to be a put on.

  “Fine. In front with the rest. Move.”

  Dave buried his hands in his pockets, his shoulders shaking from the cold. Rebecca considered giving him his coat back. Then thought not.

  “All right, Dave, tell us where you had in mind.”

  “As far as we can get. Shopping district’s two blocks away. Might provide cover. Maybe a workable phone.”

  Rebecca dreaded the trek through the storm. But she’d fought hard for her and Kyra’s freedom. It wouldn’t end at a bed and breakfast. “Fine. Lead the way.”

  Dave stopped at the porch, flattening against the railing. Carefully, he scanned the area, then waved them on with a military gesture. Much too polished for an insurance salesman. Even though she didn’t trust him, Rebecca’d rather have him on her team.

  Down the yard they trudged, staying low, Dave carving a path before them.

  “The street’s easier,” said Rebecca.

  Dave hesitated. “Okay. But you see any headlights, we take to the trees.”

  The house next door appeared dark. Dark enough to provide sanctuary. But Rebecca tossed out the notion. She remembered the Dandys saying how important they were in the town. A neighbor might not believe them about the Dandys. Frankly, she didn’t know if she believed it. The nice old couple holding the blonde hostage. Killing people. Why, exactly? Still, with Kyra’s life at stake, it left no room for gambling.

  As if reading her mind, Dave said, “Not a neighbor’s. Too close.”

  Behind them, a muffled voice cried out. Rebecca squinted, tenting her eyes with a hand. Frantically, Jim Dandy ran across his porch, slashing the air with a knife. Kyra folded, clutching Rebecca’s sweatshirt.

  A blood-curdling scream followed, colder than any blizzard. Dolores. Rebecca heard her anguish, mournful and soul shredding, the sound a mother who’d lost a child might make. She had no doubt Dolores had just discovered Christian’s body.

  “Run!”

  *

  In the street, Brad sat up, shaking off snow. The pain in his side wouldn’t stop, sharp and biting. His fingers found blood and swollen, raw skin surrounding the bullet wound. Painful as hell, like a rat gnawing his innards.

  Bitch shot me.

  His first thought, his most recent memory. Took him a minute to remember what led up to it. She’d tried to kill him. Him! He couldn’t believe it. But he knew he’d live to see his wife and daughter die. Just needed a little TLC, that’s all.

  As painful as the wound felt, his headache unleashed a world of agony. The girl’s incessant screaming intensified it. Kyra. Damn pissant wouldn’t shut up. Sure, he wanted to make her pay along with his unfaithful wife, but if someone else got to her first, more power to him. Just leave him a piece. The game wasn’t over, not by a long shot. Call it extra innings. He had another shot at bat.

  First things first, though. Stop the bleeding. Worry about getting the bullet out when he called for an ambulance later. Only room for him onboard, of course.

  He tried rolling over on his wounded side. Bad move. But he’d been through worse on the job, he’d muster through. Getting on his knees via his wound-free side proved a comparable snap. With a hand over the wound, he crawled toward the car his wife had been in. He clawed his way up, the car his mountain to scale. His fingers groped for the side mirror, a perfect handhold. Now the hard part. He bit down, bracing himself, then hopped upright. Lightning coursed through his body, striking nerve endings. It gave him a needed surge, slapping him into coherency.

  He staggered toward his car. Once he slid in, he fell back, hyperventilating, shutting his eyes. Just for a moment. No, the worst thing he could do. He sat up straight and punched open the glove box. Everything he needed at his disposal. Couple of ballpoint pens, a knife, a lighter. Proof positive he was still in it to win it.

  But he’d been wrong about one thing. He still had to face the worst part.

  Every movement hurt. He couldn’t think about what he had to do. Instead, his preparations took over, on autopilot. As natural as pissing. Hatred for Rebecca propelled him, his gold medal to strive for. What she’d done to him. Shot him. Leaving him to die in the snow. Bitch actually fucking shot him!

  She’ll pay. By God, she’ll pay.

  He rolled one of the pen’s halves over the lighter’s flame. Nice and sterilized. And red-hot. Like the fire he felt within.

  She actually shot me! Tried to kill me! Her plan all along!

  With the knife, he cut a strip of his shirt away, making sure it hadn’t been tainted by blood or snow. He bit down on his leather wallet. His hands shook when he wrapped the rag around the heated tube.

  Shot me! I’ll do far worse than that. Destroy her face first. Cut it. Make sure she feels every …

  Imagery of ripping Rebecca apart gave him something to live for. With a preemptive scream, he jammed the rag-covered pen into his wound.

  The pain. God, the pain!

  Legs stiffened, his feet slamming against the floorboard. His back arched. His breathing doubled, tripled. He couldn’t get enough air, the torture nearly suffocating him. The wallet fell from his mouth. With his last bit of strength, he yanked the tube out, the rag staying put. Slowing the bleeding. One last, agonizing step. He pulled out his lighter. Chomped down on his wallet again. Held the flame over his wound, cauterizing it. He screamed, focusing his pain, his torture of his wife.

  Goddamn bitch!

  The pain was her fault. All her fault. Every blistered, raw nerve end.

  Somewhere along the way, Kyra’d quit screaming. No matter. He knew it, felt it in his throbbing wound, he’d have his vengeance.

  His eyes closed. Before he passed out, he thought about the things he’d do to his wife and daughter. Maybe even jam pens into their bullet wounds, see how they liked it.

  Probably the most restful sleep he’d had in a while.

  *

  Winston shot a look over his shoulder. The old man jumped off the porch and ran around the house, hurrying toward his moaning wife. A diversion they desperately needed.

  Running had no discernible effec
t, the snow hindering their speed. Yet for once, he was grateful for the storm. Sometime during his battle with Christian, he’d twisted his ankle. The snow acted as a cold compress, dulling the pain. The problem was everything else felt numb as well.

  He thought he heard the old woman howl out Christian’s name, a coyote baying at the moon. Then the old man joined her, shouting, blubbering. Indistinctive sounds, animalistic in nature. Absolutely chilling.

  As they neared the end of the first block, his injured ankle felt heavier than a bag of sand, increasingly hard to move. With Kyra in her arms, Rebecca had taken the lead, apparently no longer worried about having them follow her. The accountant followed closely behind him. Far in the back, the blonde crept along, leaping through drifts like a timid jack rabbit. Although he’d rather keep her where he could see her, he doubted she’d catch up any time soon. She appeared to be taking her time, enjoying a leisurely stroll. Sure, she’d saved his life, but Winston suspected she hadn’t done it out of any favor to him. Something about her made the hairs on his neck stand up.

  To the left, a street led to the shopping district, all downhill. Hopefully easier to navigate, but no doubt slippery. Rebecca kept her daughter hidden in his coat, only a tuft of her hair visible. A joey in a kangaroo’s pouch. Rebecca looked tired, her arms straining.

  “Rebecca,” he whispered, “how ‘bout I carry Kyra for a while?”

  “No.” She turned her bundle away from him, spitting her answer through clenched teeth. “You’re not touching her.”

  Can’t say he blamed her, not really. He knew she wanted answers, a determined woman. But out of necessity, their journey had to be quiet. The time would come soon, though, for explanations. He wouldn’t tell her the entire truth, at least not about himself, no reason for it. Bigger fish to fry, as they say.

  And what the hell kind of fish was in the pan, anyway? The blonde, Heather, had been chained in the Dandys’ cellar, purportedly by their hands. The host had killed Calvin, hid his body. And Christian’d meant to kill Winston. Clearly, they had more to worry about than Domenick, wherever he might be.

  Behind him, Carsten struggled through the snow, adopting a haphazard half-run, half-walk down the hill. All the while sheltering the briefcase like a baby. The damn briefcase. He wished he’d never taken this job. Then again, Domenick wouldn’t have accepted “no” as an answer. Hazards of the trade. But a murderous B&B was more than he’d signed on for.