Dread and Breakfast

by Stuart R. West

  She didn’t need the others. God protected her, this she knew. Invulnerability coursed through her, stoking her fire. Everything she’d been through tonight, she’d survived. God loves the righteous.

  Long after Dandy braked, the truck kept sliding. Once it skidded to a stop, he left the truck, splashing a floodlight around the buildings. Her hatred for him spiked, everything he stood for. The way he and his loathsome wife had laughed at her beliefs, chaining her like an animal. More than ever, she had to get back to the inn and finish her work. Nothing, not even Satan himself, would stop her.

  She studied the house behind her. A porch light burned dimly; all interior lights were off. One car sat in the driveway, buried in snow. A Christmas wreath with fake birds wired into it decorated the door, the kind her grandmother used to love. An elderly woman’s house. Perfect.

  The front door tempted her. But Heather knew the dangers of temptation. Dandy was too close, why take unnecessary risks? She pushed through the snow, her legs freezing. Her flats dragged like ice blocks glued to her feet. Suffering, just like Jesus had.

  She stepped onto the back porch, pulled open the screen door and knocked. She kept knocking — quietly, but more determined than a woodpecker — until the skin broke over her knuckles. Splotches of blood froze on the wood. But she wouldn’t give up, not now, not ever.

  A light above the door blinked on, painting the snow the color of jaundice. The door pulled back, brought to a sudden halt by a chain. An eye, enlarged by bifocals, peered out.

  Heather slipped on a mask of panic. “Please, let me in … some men want to hurt me. They want to —”

  “Oh.”

  That was all it took. The woman’s eye bugged before she closed the door. Inside, the chain scraped free. Once the door opened, Heather fell into frail arms.

  “What happened to you, sweetie?” She stroked Heather’s hair, the way Heather used to stroke dead animals. “Come in ‘fore you catch your death of cold.”

  Heather looked around the living room. Folded throws lay over a sofa. Plastic sheeting unrolled a trail across the floor. Everything clean, immaculate. No children, no signs of a husband. God provides.

  The woman took Heather’s hand. On the way to the kitchen, she picked up a throw and wrapped it around Heather’s shoulders, tightening it with a smile. She gestured toward the kitchen table, then fanned her face as if hot. “Now, sit. I’ll start the tea while you tell me what happened.”

  “Does your phone work?”

  “‘Fraid not. The storm done knocked down the phone lines.”

  “Oh … oh, no.” Good.

  “What happened, honey?” She ran water into a kettle, switched the stove on.

  “Some men … attacked me. Took me in their car. They tried … they tried to defile me!” The crocodile tears came easy. Not hard to do when she thought of Tommy, of the indignation she’d been through tonight. But she thought it best to leave the Dandys out of her story. More than anything, she wanted to return to the inn, wrap things up with a Heavenly bow. Police would just hinder her work.

  “Oh, honey … you okay? Shall I phone for an ambulance? Might take a while in this storm.” She sat next to Heather, her hands on her knees.

  “No … I’m fine. Just … shaken up.”

  “Land’s sake. How horrible for you. You from around these parts?”

  “No. My car broke down in the storm. I didn’t know what else to do …” She scaled her voice down, each note dropping dramatically. God blessed her with a beautiful singing voice.

  “Shhh … hush now, honey, everything’s gonna be just fine. What’s your name?”

  “Heather,” she sniffed.

  “I’m Mabel. I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you.”

  “I’m sorry … if I woke you. Or your family.”

  She waved the notion away. “Pfft. Just been me in this ol’ house for several years. Kids moved out long ago. And God took Kent a few years back.”

  Heather brightened. Possibly too much. But it couldn’t be helped. Finding a Christian in this Godless city sounded celestial trumpets in her mind. “Kent … was your husband?”

  “Ayup.” She leaned back, her eyes capturing a faraway memory. “God took him with the cancer. But he’s in a better place now, honey, I just know it.”

  Jubilation coursed through Heather like rushing rapids. Mabel’s soul shone brightly. Releasing her would be a joyous occasion.

  The kettle whistled, jostling Mabel out of her reverie. “Some nice warm tea. Always good for the soul.” With a slight hunch to her back, Mabel walked toward the stove.

  Heather followed. “I know something that’s even better for the soul.”

  Mabel turned. Her jaw bobbled, her top denture loose. “My, you startled me.” A hand flew to her breast, patting her heart.

  “Mabel, thank you for opening your Christian heart to me.”

  A beatific smile spread across the old woman’s lips. Her eyes sparkled. Heather realized Mabel knew what came next and fully embraced it. “Why, honey, it’s as you said. It’s all a Christian can do.”

  Heather gripped the shorter woman’s shoulders. “Would you like to be reunited with your husband?”

  Mabel blinked, speedy bird-wing flutters. Confusion stripped her angelic outer shell. “Of course I do. But —”

  “Praise him!” Heather reached for the knife block on the counter behind Mabel. Her fingers fell on the largest handle. Big and sharp and shiny; much better than the one she’d used on the queer. “Let me hasten your Heavenly arrival.”

  It surprised Heather, it truly did. Honestly, she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. Mabel didn’t join Heather in praying as she carried out her work.

  *

  Jim Dandy banged on the store window with a knife, his face twisted with rage. Screaming. Rebecca couldn’t hear his words, but his intent was clear.

  Dear God, he’s found us!

  Kyra folded her knees to her chest, wide eyes peering over them. Next to her, Harold trembled, hyperventilating. Even in the wan light, he looked pale.

  “Use the gun,” yelled Dave. “Rebecca, if you won’t shoot, give it to me!” He thrust a hand out, on the offense, a tiger waiting to pounce.

  Rebecca froze, panic flushing away reason. Thoughts flurried through her head like the ongoing storm, relentless and terrible. The strange blond girl had said Jim killed Tommy, her husband. But she couldn’t shoot the old man, not in cold blood, not without proof. She brought the gun up, holding it at arm’s length. Alarm jangled her, indecision holding her back. Should she shoot Dandy? Dave? Use the gun as leverage to escape? But where could she and Kyra go in the storm?

  Dave continued yelling, something Rebecca vaguely registered, no more effective than elevator music.

  Everything had happened in the blink of an eye, so unreal and disjointed. The woman with the rifle. Dave choking her. The accountant falling to the floor. Now Dandy. No time to think, no time to plan, no clear course of action. Nowhere to run.

  Harold’s gasping slowed, tempered to an occasional wheeze. He tried climbing to his feet, fell back, his chest heaving great breaths.

  Jim Dandy continued shrieking, raging against the blizzard. The knife tapped out a Morse code on the window.

  “Mommy, do something!”

  Kyra’s panic slapped Rebecca into action. She pointed the gun toward the window, arm locked. Jim’s features sharpened, carved out of furious creases.

  Then the colors of the flag flashed outside. An all-American hallucination. Blue froze Dandy’s scowl, red heated his frustration, the tints alternating. He stopped pounding and squinted down the street. The light show grew brighter. Dandy saddled up in his truck and rumbled out of sight. Fast, too fast for such a storm.

  Seconds later, a cop cruiser stopped outside the store, red and blue cherries spinning.

  Rebecca cradled the gun, something she intended on keeping, police or not.

  Kyra pounced up, yanking on her mother’s sleeve.
“Mommy, it’s the police.”

  Dave retreated into the darkness, something he had an unsettling knack for doing. The accountant’s breathing regulated, the calm after his storm.

  A silhouette peered through the front window. Rebecca recognized the outline of the hat, a trooper’s hat. Not good enough. But when she heard his voice, she relaxed.

  “Hello!” Deputy Gurley cupped his hands around his eyes, his nose pressed against the glass. “Everything all right in there?”

  The gun nearly slipped from Rebecca’s sweat-drenched palm. She inhaled deeply, let it out. Her heart settled. She drew Kyra toward her, unwilling to let go. “It’s gonna be all right, now, baby. It’s our friend, Deputy Gurley.”

  Kyra still felt tense, rigid as steel.

  From the shadows, Dave said, “You’ll be all right now, Rebecca. Go.”

  Rebecca couldn’t see Dave. Not that it mattered. She still had no idea who he really was. Good enough reason for him not to make their plans. “We’ll all go.”

  “I can’t do that. Neither can Carsten.”

  “What? Don’t pull this martyr crap on me, Dave. Help’s here. And Harold needs medical attention.”

  A cough came from the floor. “No … he’s right. No cops.” The accountant sounded weak but unwavering in his decision. “Leave me here.”

  The tapping at the window stopped. A flashlight strobed through the store. When the light licked at Dave’s shoes, he vanished further into the darkness.

  “Rebecca, you and Kyra are safe now. Just go.”

  “Harold needs a damn doctor.”

  When the beam licked at Rebecca, she shielded her eyes against the intense brightness.

  “Rebecca?” called Gurley. “That you? You and Kyra all right?”

  “I’ll take care of Harold.” Dave said it matter-of-factly, all business.

  And it left Rebecca with no doubt what he meant. But she was sick of playing cloak-and-dagger games, her daughter’s life in constant danger. Through no fault of her own. “Fine. Whatever. I quit. You boys go ahead and compare size, battle it out. Have fun. Shoot one another for all I care. But I’m done.” She stormed toward the door. Gurley’s face lit up, his smile welcoming.

  “Rebecca.” Dave raised his voice barely above a whisper.

  “What?”

  “The gun. Give me back my gun.”

  She looked at the weapon, considered it. Frankly, she’d be more than happy to relinquish it, having had her share of shooting. Didn’t need it now anyway, not with Randy outside. But she knew, as soon as she left, what Dave would do with it. Although she felt hardened, toughened by the night, she wasn’t heartless. Hastening Harold’s death wouldn’t be on her. “No can do.” She gestured toward Harold. “Don’t want your little game ending too soon, do we?” Her bitterness surprised her, something she usually didn’t vocalize.

  Dave sighed, obviously recognizing he’d lost the battle. “Fine. But don’t tell the police about us. We were never here.”

  That much she supposed she could do. Even though Dave was skeevy, possibly a hitman, he’d tried to help. At least that’s the way he’d presented himself. No matter, no skin off her back. Whatever. “Have it your way.”

  Gurley waited as Rebecca fumbled with the lock. Behind her, she heard Dave dragging Harold to the back of the store, possibly to his death. No longer her problem.

  But before she opened the door, Kyra turned back. “Bye, Dave. Bye, Harold,” she whispered to the living ghosts in her life.

  *

  Winston slumped the accountant, a pile of human laundry, against the back door. Carsten had not once released the briefcase, dragging it across the floor like Jesus with his cross.

  Pity, really, Carsten hadn’t fallen to a heart attack. Certainly looked like a sure bet there for a while. Could’ve cleared up some things, particularly Winston’s conscience. But against all odds, the accountant pulled through. Amazing. So relaxed now, he’d fallen asleep. His chest rose and fell like a tide, his even breath a sea breeze. He wasn’t going anywhere. More damn lives than a cat.

  Something ate at Winston, though. The whole thing with the cop. Rebecca knew him, vouched for him. Sure, he harbored a natural antagonism toward cops, purely instinctual like the never-ending animosity between cats and dogs. But there was more to it. Old man Dandy had taken his time leaving the scene of the crime. Not the way a killer would react. Winston had first-hand knowledge of a killer’s mindset.

  Outside, the cop’s lights still rotated. Carefully sidestepping the artifacts scattered around the floor, Winston crept toward the window. On his knees, he looked out. The cop hung an arm around Rebecca’s shoulders, more than just “Officer Friendly.” With slow movements, he pinched at the gun in Rebecca’s hand. She appeared hesitant, uncertain. Her shoulders twitched as she abruptly turned from the policeman. He came back strong. One hand clamped down on Rebecca’s wrist, the other tugging the gun from her grasp. Rebecca stumbled back, Kyra her small shadow. He tucked the gun into the back of his pants. Curious. Even stranger? Once the cop escorted them to the back seat of the cruiser, he didn’t consult his radio. Simply got in the car and drove away. These days cops don’t sneeze without calling for backup, touching base, filling out paperwork. Then again, it’s a small town.

  But that small bit of reasoning felt like a lie to Winston. Lying to himself was a dead-end exercise, one he wanted to put behind him. An early New Year’s resolution.

  “Carsten … Carsten, wake up.” He shook the accountant, gently slapped his face. Actually, he would’ve enjoyed smacking him harder but restrained himself.

  Carsten stirred, muttering like a nap-disturbed toddler, then nodded off again. Winston knew the accountant’s caffeine. One quick yank and the briefcase released.

  As expected, Carsten’s eyelids snapped open. “Give that back, Harton! It’s mine.” His feeble attempt at grabbing for it ended with his hands falling to his lap.

  “Ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Dammit, give it —”

  “Shut up, Carsten. You’re not getting the money.” He plopped down in front of the accountant, two buddies having a heart-to-heart. “You awake now?” Carsten nodded. “I’m gonna level with you. It’s true Domenick sent me to get his cash back and take care of you.”

  “Kill me, you mean.” Carsten abandoned his scrappiness, appearing resigned to his fate. But Winston had something else in mind.

  “Semantics. I’m willing to make you a deal. You wanna deal?” A very weak nod from the accountant. His already nonexistent chin dovetailed into his neck. “Thought as much. We’re going back to the Dandy Drop —”

  “No. Absolutely not. You’re goddamned crazy if you think —”

  “What about ‘shut up’ don’t you understand? We’re going back. I think something’s off about the cop. I could be wrong. I’m usually not. But my gut’s telling me the cop’s taking them straight back into that hellhole. You help me and —”

  “Why in the hell would I help you? It’s insane going back there. You’re —”

  “Christ, Carsten, no wonder you’re divorced. You talk to your ex that way?” A low blow, but at least he had the accountant’s full attention.

  “How … how’d you know —”

  Winston slapped a hand on Carsten’s shoulder, a good-natured buddy shake followed with a smile. “Part of the job. Why would you help me? So I don’t kill you.” He let the thought simmer for a bit. It worked. Mental quicksand overtook Carsten, one agonizing granule at a time. He said nothing, just looked helpless. Winston almost felt sorry for him. “But I won’t kill you if you help me save Rebecca and the girl.”

  “Jesus Christ … Jesus …” Carsten repeatedly stroked a strand of hair, the end result a clown’s poof. “This is insane. Why even save them?”

  Winston shrugged. “I like the little girl. And I suspect you have a soft spot for her as well.” He waited a beat, then applied the final touch to his sales pitch. “You see how she smiled at you when she said go
odbye? So for once … why not be a hero?”

  The color drained from Carsten’s face. Fear swelled in his eyes like a balloon. Then Winston saw a spark in the accountant’s eyes, a tiny one, but a start. Redemption, a powerful motivator. Winston would know. Truth be told, he sought a little redemption as well.

  “Hero talk coming from a hit man.” Carsten fought a grin, lost the battle. “We save the girl … you’ll let me go?”

  “Man of my word.” Winston prodded a finger toward him. The accountant’s eyes crossed while he followed the tip. “But you have to disappear. Leave the country. Soon as this is over. Got it?”

  “Can I have the money? How am I gonna travel without —”

  “Jesus. No, you can’t have the money.”

  “Just a little bit. Come on —”

  “Don’t press your luck, Carsten.”

  The accountant shut up after Winston thumped him in the chest. Winston needed quiet to think, possibly reconsider his foolish rescue mission. Really, he should take Carsten, steal a car, head home. Make friendly with Domenick, a good laugh had by all, break out the cigars. End of story. But if ever he felt compelled to do something, it was saving Kyra. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t at least try. And, truthfully, he knew Carsten wouldn’t be much help. But a needed distraction? Carsten could fill that role with his eyes shut. Sometimes small sacrifices need to be made. Still, Winston had an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach, something nasty rotting inside. No gun. A bad ankle. A simpering accountant with a failing heart as his ally.

  Time to go.

  He knocked on the floor three times before he climbed to his feet.

  *

  “Rebecca, you and Kyra okay?” Randy’s eyes widened, his concern calming. Finally an island of safety in the ocean of insanity. Gently, he rubbed Rebecca’s shoulders as he looked down into her eyes.

  “We’re fine. Just … let’s get in the car. The Dandys —”

  “Hang on, hang on.” His gaze switched to Kyra, then stayed on the gun. She hadn’t thought to hide it, didn’t think it necessary. “One of the shopkeepers called the station. Said he heard a shot fired.” He squinted, looking into the store window. “Madge okay? She lives above her store.”