Dread and Breakfast

by Stuart R. West

  Still, a pro inside and out, he intended on reclaiming the money and dealing with Carsten. Hopefully fix this mess. Make it good with Domenick and save his own family. Assuming he’d live long enough.

  Unintentionally, the descent hastened their trek. Going down proved unsteady for Winston, especially on an unreliable foot. Every time his bad foot came down, it gave a little twist, splaying out to the side. More out of control than a car on an icy bridge. But if he stopped now, he’d tumble head first from the speed he’d accrued. Rebecca reached the bottom first, surefooted in her landing. Behind him, he heard a thump, followed by Carsten grunting. The accountant sat in the snow, briefcase held over his head.

  “Get up,” Winston whispered. He thought about ripping the case out of the accountant’s hands. And, now that he’s vulnerable, a simple bullet to the head would expedite matters. But he had witnesses. And he wouldn’t pull the trigger in front of a young girl, just couldn’t do it. Besides, Rebecca ruled the gun now, unwilling to relinquish it. He’d get it later. Win her trust somehow. Talk about an uphill battle.

  Clearly humbled, Carsten groused while he crawled to his feet. Like a ghost, Heather drifted closer, her skin pale and blue from the reflecting snow.

  Winston caught up to Rebecca. Her impatience obvious, she repeatedly tamped the snow down with her foot. “Where to now?”

  Down the street, double-storied brick buildings sat on both sides, all of them dark except for a few stray window lights peeping out from behind curtained upper levels. A mountain of snow represented a solitary truck parked at a slant. Christmas decorations and banners drooped between streetlamps, ice tears dripping from them.

  The stores promised warmth — blessed warmth! — and dryness. As a security man — and how he wished he’d never ventured beyond those origins — he knew how to spot alarms.

  At the crest of the hill, thunder rumbled. No, not thunder. A deep, angry engine. Headlights poked up, then swept down as a pick-up truck plummeted down the street.

  “Jesus. Go. Go.” Winston pointed toward an alley behind the stores and gave Rebecca a kick-starter shove. Once she took off, she never looked back. The damned accountant stood still, seemingly paralyzed, staring up the hill at the careening truck. Winston grabbed his collar, considered taking the case instead. But he might need him later. To prove his innocence to Domenick. Multiple scenarios raced through Winston’s head, jockeying for lead, all within seconds. “Go, Carsten, dammit!”

  As if awakening from a nap, Carsten snapped to, pushing his legs harder. Not fast enough. Even with Winston’s bad ankle, he pulled ahead of the accountant. His ankle caught, turned, pain knifing up his leg. But he forced it to move. Even if he broke it, he couldn’t tell, not in the cold.

  The truck’s engine growled. Headlights splashed over the area they’d fled, snow flittering like a swarm of gnats in the lamps. Rebecca had vanished down the alley.

  “Christ, Carsten, move your ass!” Again, Winston grabbed him by the collar. Prodding turned into dragging. They reached the alley just as the truck bounced onto the level street. Tires slid like skis. Brakes squealed.

  Still grasping Carsten by the neck, Winston hurried down the dark alley. The snow at his feet had turned to slush, melted by the buildings’ barrier of warmth. No sign of Rebecca or Kyra. And he’d long lost sight of Heather. Deserving or not, she’d have to fend for herself. If the Dandys nabbed her, it might just save their lives, a sacrifice for their survival.

  “In here.” The whisper jolted Winston. Rebecca.

  An afterimage of the truck’s high beams burned his retinas. Next to impossible to see, he stopped, hands groping the brick walls. But he heard the truck on the other side of the stores clear as day. Idling, engine chugging. Light opened up overhead, spraying the sky, sweeping back and forth. A portable floodlight?

  Winston’s eyes adjusted. Rebecca stepped out of a garbage nook, Kyra still wrapped against her chest. “Now what?”

  They had to get somewhere warm. Their only chance. One sneeze away from hypothermia. And getting captured. Winston released Carsten, frankly unaware he’d still been wrangling him by the collar. Like it or not, his lifeline.

  He debated, took the chance, and flicked his lighter on. Using the torch, he found a store’s back door, one in the middle of the block. Better odds. People searching for something will generally start at one end or the other, never in the middle. Assuming this also applied to psychopaths hunting for victims.

  Three steps led up to the back door. He looked for tell-tale signs: tiny holes drilled into the framework, wires running down inside. No decals or other indications of security alarms. Hardly conclusive evidence, but he doubted the store was wired. Part intuition, part stereotype — a need for high security in a burg like this seemed doubtful, crime a rarity. Then again, after tonight’s events, anything goes.

  Better to take a chance. Out here, they were targets. If the Dandys didn’t get them, then the storm surely would. He needed his coat for protection to pop out the door’s bottom glass panel. But he also knew asking Rebecca for it might result in a bullet to the head. He’d prefer a glass cut over death any day. With his elbow pulled back, he let it fly. Glass tinkled inside, much louder than he’d like. The smallest of sounds could give them away.

  On the other side of the building, he heard the truck door open. Footsteps crunched through snow, a long stride. Quite possibly Jim Dandy.

  Winston reached through the hole. Glass shards caught his shirt sleeve. His fingers crawled up, found the chain lock. An easy slide, a twist of the knob. A heart-stopping lock click. The door opened.

  *

  Harold powered past the woman, past his neighbor, Harton, into the store. Warmth caressed him, his body thankful, thawing.

  He couldn’t have lasted much longer outside. And why again was he on the run? At this point he no longer knew. Just following the crowd, the same old story. But from what he pieced together, Domenick was now only one of his problems. Maybe he should cut his losses, go it alone. The Dandys were after the others, not him. For once, being excluded sounded like a lovely option.

  “Everyone be quiet. Stay low.” With his back against the wall, Harton slid down to the floor, stretching his legs out. No one followed his lead. Harton — the alpha male, the one he hated upon first meeting — was trying to boss around the woman. Stupid thing to do when the woman’s holding a gun.

  “Now, tell me what the hell’s going on here, Dave. And where’s Heather?” Harold knew Rebecca was pissed at Harton, could hear it in her strained whisper. Which sort of pleased him.

  “We lost her. Sit down. You need rest.”

  Scant light filtered in through the front windows. The air smelled musty and old, an odor Harold immediately associated with his past shopping tours with his ex-wife.

  Antiques. Why in the hell does it have to be antiques?

  Once his vision adjusted to the darkness, he saw the cutesy crap packing the store. Stand-up desks inexplicably given their own made-up titles: secretaries. Doilies. What kind of adult would even buy something called a doily? Ghastly furniture with flowered upholstery only a grandmother could love. Smiling, glass-faced dolls. Metal what’s-its. Rusted lunch boxes, old records, moldy books. Statues of animals wearing clothing performing human activities. Fishing, a goddamn fishing frog. It didn’t even make sense.

  He’d entered hell. More reason to take his leave. Especially while the others were blathering on.

  Harton said, “Rebecca, you should sit —”

  “And you should quit telling me what to do!”

  The little girl slid out of her mother’s coat, her feet dropping to the hardwood floor with soft thumps. She rubbed her eyes, everything about her nearly too precious to stomach. Then she smiled at Harold. Actually smiled. Christ, not exactly the time to play big brother to a snot-nosed brat.

  “Tell me what you know. Don’t leave anything out,” continued Rebecca.

  Harton sighed. “The woman, Heather, was chained up
. She says the Dandys did it.”

  “You already told me this. I want to know why.”

  “I don’t know, really, I don’t. I’m not even sure if she’s telling the truth. She —”

  “Like someone else I know.”

  Harold had no idea why she’d said that to Harton. But it concerned him. As did something else, something that’d just happened. Like a half-grasped dream, though, he felt the memory flying away.

  “Look, Rebecca, you want the truth? I’ll tell you what I know. Just give me a chance.”

  “I’m listening.” With a look that could freeze water, she grabbed her daughter and sat across from Harton. Harold, too, contemplated sitting. His legs hurt, the slow thaw jabbing needles into them. But he needed to be ready to rabbit at a moment’s notice. For him, sitting didn’t exactly provide a runner’s starting block.

  “Christian tried to kill me. He also killed one of the gunmen.”

  “Old news. You still haven’t told me why this is happening.”

  “If I knew, Rebecca, I’d tell you. Something sick’s going on. The people at the inn aren’t right. They…”

  Blah, blah, blah. Harold knew all this, already heard it. Nothing new. Antsy, he crept toward the front window. The truck sat outside, headlights on, the driver’s door open. The truck’s tires were tall, nearly as tall as Kyra. Snow swirled around the monster truck as if it’d kicked up a dust trail. But he couldn’t see the driver. Domenick never left home without his precious Humvee. Had to be one of the Dandys searching for them, no doubt about it. Best not leave through the front door.

  “For God’s sake, Carsten, get away from the window.”

  Harold whirled, nearly tripping over a birdhouse. A fist clenched his heart and squeezed. Anxiety trickled down from his brain to his bladder. He recalled what had bothered him. Harold had never told Harton his last name.

  He gripped the briefcase’s handle, tight, tighter until his knuckles turned white. Ready to use it as a weapon, if necessary. Quickly, Harold sought sanctuary and lowered himself next to the woman. They had a common enemy now. And, of course, she had the gun. Time to turn the tables on his pursuer.

  “I never …” Harold’s words faltered. After clearing his throat, he spoke louder. “I never told you my last name!”

  The way Harton sputtered, Harold knew he’d tripped up on his lies. “I read … I read your name on the inn’s ledger. Everyone’s a potential sales —”

  “Bullshit.” The little girl gasped, but Harold felt a rush of confidence. Manly, even, especially in front of Rebecca. “I know what you are, Harton. If that’s your real name.”

  Rebecca raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. “Oh, really. I think Howard’s —”

  “Harold,” he interjected, but the woman clearly didn’t hear him.

  “… right. I know you’re not an insurance salesman. And you knew the gunmen. Tell me what you’ve dragged my daughter into!”

  “Yeah, Harton, we’re all ears.” Too easy. Just too easy. Harold’s big chance to play the hero, win the babe. After all, he’d already saved her daughter. He smiled, hugging his case and snuggling in against the wall, ready for story time. The little girl shot him another smile. Gave him the creeps. Nonetheless, he felt empowered. And, this time, he couldn’t attribute money as the source of his power. “Please do tell what you’ve been up to.” Sure it might be risky if Harton exposed what he’d done with Domenick’s cash. But Rebecca already knew Harton to be a liar. Too damn easy.

  Harton ran a hand through his hair. His full head of hair, one more reason to loathe him. Finally, he said, “Fine. Our friend, Harold here, stole money that didn’t belong to him. Took it from a powerful, dangerous man —”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Rebecca waved the gun with every “whoa.” Harold flinched every time. A stray bullet he didn’t need. “We’re talking, what … the mob?”

  “Mommy, what’s the —”

  “Quiet, honey. Grown-ups are talking.” She dropped an arm around the little girl’s shoulders, her hand covering one of her ears. Keeping the world’s dark secrets from her. Yeah, right. Better kids learn now so they don’t get burned later. “And you’re with the mob?”

  “No. I just … do some work for them on occasion. An independent contractor. I was sent to bring the money back.”

  Harton’s eyes fell on Harold’s briefcase. Harold slid it beneath him, sitting on it, guarding it with his body. Hearing the truth made him realize the seriousness of the game he put into play. Time to start back-pedaling. “I didn’t steal the money. Domenick owed it to me. It’s mine and —”

  “Now who’s talking bullshit? Why don’t you just slide the briefcase over —”

  “No! You’re not taking it.”

  “Dammit.” Rebecca jumped up. Her daughter gasped, appearing ready to say something. Then she clammed up, a first time for everything. “You guys done? I don’t give a damn about any money. I just want to know who’s who and what’s what in this … this nightmare!”

  “That’s the truth, Rebecca. All I know.”

  “Except for his lies. The money’s always been mine. I —” Harold shut up when Rebecca looked ready to smack him with the butt of the gun. He crawled a little more inside himself, the briefcase planting him into the earth.

  “And this has nothing to do with the Dandys?” She directed her inquiry toward Harton, her interest in Harold obviously dwindling.

  He shook his head. “As far as I know, no.”

  “As far as you know?”

  “Okay, I know it doesn’t.”

  Rebecca throttled her hands, apparently strangling stress. She paced the floor between the two men, her gun waving wildly about. Kyra took it all in matter-of-factly as if watching her beloved television. “So … you’re a hit man —”

  “I’m not a hit man.”

  “Shut up. Howard’s a criminal —”

  “Harold. And I’m not —”

  “I mean it, the next one who says a damn word gets shot! Meanwhile, the Dandys are chaining people up, killing them … Jesus. Where’s Heather fit into this? And how did you lose her?”

  “Rebecca, calm down. I don’t know if Heather’s involved. But I don’t trust her. I don’t know where she went. I couldn’t save everyone.”

  “‘Save?’ This is your fault.” Rebecca’s pace picked up, growls flying with every turn. “Fine. You want to be the big savior? Get us the hell —”

  Something shuffled above them. Too heavy for rats. Rebecca froze. A clatter, footfalls bounding down a stairwell. Closer, louder. Harton sprang to his feet, disappearing faster than Harold could rise. Next to Kyra, a door opened. A gun barrel pointed out. An old woman in pajamas followed.

  “What the hell’re you doin’ in my shop?” Like a skeet shooter, she waved the barrel around, shifting back and forth between Harold and Rebecca. “Get out.”

  “Ma’am, we’re not going to rob you.” Although Rebecca hid the gun by her side, her hand trembled. Not a good sign. “We’re in trouble. If you could call —”

  With one eye shut, the old woman shifted the barrel about the store at a dizzying pace. “Don’t give a rat’s ass about your troubles, girl. I want you outta here ‘fore I plug each and every one of you.” She stepped forward, her gun gravitating toward Rebecca. Harold threw his hands around his head, waiting for the inevitable gun blast. Duck and cover as they taught him in school. Maybe not so much for gun fights.

  “I swear we’ll leave if you call the police. We don’t mean any harm. Something’s going on at the Dandy Drop Inn. We just —”

  “You came from the Dandys’?” Her gun lowered, just for an instant. Close enough for Harold to grab the barrel. But he’d learned early on, heroes die noble deaths. Instead, he practiced what he knew best. Blend into the woodwork.

  The woman raised her voice along with the gun. “I want no part of this. Get on outta here. Now, dammit. I mean it. And don’t you tell no one you was here. Go.”

  Harold nearly shrieked
when a shadow dropped over him. Harton. The hitman lunged forward, one hand clamping the woman’s mouth shut, the other forcing the barrel up. The wall behind Harold rattled at the gun blast. Plaster floated down. Smoke twisted from the barrel. The woman struggled. With a clatter, the gun fell. Harton’s arm went around her neck. Wrinkled hands tugged at Harton’s hold until they dropped.

  “Don’t kill her,” Rebecca shouted. Next to Harold, Kyra brought her fists up, cranking up a scream. Harold scooted over, pulling her to him, pushing her face into his chest. Smothering the scream.

  The woman went limp in Harton’s arms. Gently, he lowered her to the floor. “She’s not dead. Just out,” he said.

  The front door knob rattled, fate tossing the dice. Harold knew his number was up — snake eyes. His heart pounded out a manic drum solo, impossibly fast and violent. Painful. Sensation left his arm, tingles zipping up to his shoulder. A face appeared at the window, hands cupped over eyes. Jim Dandy. Very much not to the rescue.

  Dandy’s flashlight spotlighted Harold. Dying in the corner and shuddering on the floor. Surrounded by antiques.

  Why’d it have to be antiques?

  Chapter Nine

  From behind the snow-covered hedgerow, Heather watched the truck slalom down the hill. Although she couldn’t see the driver clearly, she had no doubt who commandeered the vehicle. The figure hunkered down behind the wheel, shoulders bunched up, too tall for the truck’s roof. Her sinful tormentor, Jim Dandy.

  After the others had left her behind, she hoped Dandy would capture them, chain them up like he’d done with her. At least the two men. She still wanted to shepherd the woman and daughter into Hell. Her God-given right. Maybe she’d still get her chance. But she needed relief from the cold, the storm. Clothing, food, enrichment of the spirit and body.