“Haven’t seen her. My gun fired outside. An accident. No damage. But please get us out of here. Something’s going on at the Dandys. They —”
“Whoa, slow down, little lady.” Rebecca abhorred being called “little lady.” So condescending, so belittling, designating her to a stature one step below helpless. Yet, somehow, Randy pulled it off. Charm counts. But now wasn’t the time for deep brown eyes to sideswipe her from the bigger picture. “Y’all look a little rough. Let’s get you in the car and hash it all out.”
Rebecca doubted Randy would take the news about the Dandys lightly. Might not even believe her. Clearly, he’s on good terms with them. But she had to report what she knew. Which wasn’t much. Just hearsay. Still, if the Dandys are killing people, they needed to be stopped. “Randy, listen to me. The Dandys are taking people hostage. Maybe even —”
“Here, let me just take this before you shoot someone’s foot off.” As soon as he touched the gun’s barrel, Rebecca flinched. Kyra clung onto her arm as they twisted away.
“I’d rather keep it.” Rebecca held her ground. She gripped the butt, careful not to wrap her finger around the trigger.
Randy’s hold tightened, two fingers turning into five. His permanent grin strained a bit. “Come on, now. Any gun fired in my town, I have to take. Just for a little while ‘til we get everything straightened out. You’ll get it back. Is it your gun?”
She wouldn’t tell him about Dave, she didn’t break promises. “It’s, ah … it was my husband’s. Think I told you he’s a detective.” At the mention of her father, Kyra’s head lifted. Of course, Rebecca would have to tell the police she shot Brad. But not now, not like this, a hell of a way for Kyra to find out her father was dead. When the time was right, Rebecca would have a serious one-on-one with her daughter, no outsiders allowed. But that dreaded encounter needed to wait. Right now she just wanted to get somewhere safe; the next town over, the police station, anywhere but this damn snow-covered street with killers, mobsters, who knew what running amok. “Fine. Here’s the gun. But I need it back.”
“Sure you do.” Randy grinned. But not the charming, flirtatious grin Rebecca had previously found so inviting. It looked more like a smirk, a withheld private joke. Suddenly she didn’t feel so safe under the protection of Deputy Randy Gurley. After all she’d been through, surely she’d earned the right to be wary of everyone. “Come on, now. It’s freezing out here.”
Randy stuck the gun into the back of his pants, his fingerprints all over it. Not exactly the way Brad told her police confiscated weapons. Of course, Randy probably never had the need to confiscate a gun before.
When Randy snaked his arm around Rebecca, she jumped at his touch. Much too chummy under the circumstances.
Is he really hitting on me now?
He scuttled them toward the backseat, staying close. When he thunked the door shut, Rebecca realized it was a different cruiser than the one they’d been in previously. A fence separated them from the front seat. Her hand swept across the door, searching for a handle. The hardware had been removed, not exactly the most comforting thought.
Randy slid into the front seat, started the car. Rebecca’s gut kicked like a bronco when he snapped off his police radio. “Nice and quiet so you can tell me what in the world’s goin’ on.” Said with his typical devil-may-care nonchalance, heavy on the devil. “Now what were y’all doing out here in the storm? You said something about the Dandys?” He turned around, flashing a smile. A toothpick worked between his white teeth.
Anxiety nurtured Rebecca’s growing dread. Randy seemed off; his movements appeared calculated, his actions not those of a seasoned policeman. But she needed to keep it together. Don’t show fear, figure out if her suspicions were accurate. “Randy, you’re going to need backup. Reinforcements.” Rebecca knew police officers never tackled a call solo. Even in a small town.
Randy answered with a shrug, his go-to move for everything. “Only one on duty.” He dropped the gear shift into reverse and pulled a U-turn in the street. “‘Fraid you’re stuck with me.”
Rebecca wrapped a protective arm around Kyra. “Fine. Take us to the police station, please. I’ll fill out a report there.”
He charged up the snow-packed hill with a race-car driver’s reckless confidence. “Say, I think I got a call earlier from your husband. Not a very friendly fella.” Again, Kyra’s eyes shot up. Rebecca couldn’t meet her questioning gaze. Instead, she dragged Kyra closer, trying to love her daughter’s future pain away. “Did he come around? That what this is all about?”
The lump in Rebecca’s throat thickened. When she’d killed Brad, she hadn’t had time to consider Kyra’s torment. Everything seemed to be catching up to her, nothing adding up, all of it confusing. “No, I haven’t seen him.” An extra squeeze to Kyra’s shoulder.
Dear God, please let Kyra forgive me.
“‘Spose that’s good.” As he manipulated the toothpick between his teeth, he glanced in the rearview mirror. “Now what’s all this about the Dandys?”
Kyra blurted out, “They had a girl in the basement. And Christian killed some —”
“Shoooot, Kyra,” he brayed, a redneck squeal. “Now I know you’re messin’ with me. The Dandys wouldn’t —”
“It’s true! It is! I’m not lyin’!” Kyra’s hands grappled at Rebecca’s arm, clawing for conviction. “Mommy, I’m tellin’ the truth! Tell him!”
Randy took off his hat, tossed it to the passenger side. He said nothing, but his burst of laughter shook Rebecca’s bones.
“Shh, honey. Randy … I’m not comfortable with any of this. Stop the car. Now. Call for backup. Let us out until they get here.”
“What? I ain’t about to put two beautiful gals out in the storm.” At the top of the hill, he turned left.
“Dammit, Randy. I mean it. Stop the damn car.” Her fingers slid through the links, rattling the fence. “Let us out!”
“Sorry, ain’t gonna happen. As an officer of the law, it’s my duty to see things done right.” The Dandy Drop Inn rose in front of them, an imposing glacier in the storm. “We’ll just go straighten all this out with the Dandys.”
“You bastard! Turn —”
“Mommy, I’m scared!” Kyra’s shriek filled the car. Randy drove with one hand while ruffling through his hair with the other.
The cruiser crunched into the driveway.
“Goddamn it, we’re not going back in there! They’re crazy! Get us —”
“Come on now, gals, shush.” He stopped at the head of the drive. “Just hush now.” The horn beeped three times. “We’re gonna straighten everything out.”
“You son of a bitch! What’re you doing? You can’t —”
“Really shouldn’t talk that way in front of your daughter, ‘Becca.” He ducked and dodged, looking at himself in the rearview mirror, finger combing his locks.
Rebecca’s door wrenched open with a rusty cry.
Jim Dandy, axe perched on his shoulder, extended a welcome. “Glad y’all could drop back by.”
Rebecca’s scream overtook her daughter’s. Falling on deaf ears.
*
More of Kyra’s head-shattering screams, the same hellish lullaby Brad had passed out to, stirred him awake. But this time, Rebecca joined in the screeching. Christ, he wanted to kill them just to shut them up.
A cop cruiser sat in the drive. He watched the old man he’d seen earlier carry Kyra inside the inn. Behind him, a cop struggled with his faithless wife. Probably another lover. Slut. Time to worry about that later. Brad needed to pull it together. Get ‘er done as they say at the station.
Sleep had refreshed his mind; his body not so much. Fire burned at his side. He swore he felt the flesh around his wound pulsing like a heartbeat. But “tough as leather tits” is how the rest of the precinct described him. Accurate, forget about flattering. A single bullet couldn’t drop him. Not when he had a score to settle. Several scores, actually.
He checked his glock. Fourteen rou
nds left. More than enough to rid his life of leeches, plenty to take out witnesses. If the cop got in his way, so be it. His brotherhood didn’t extend this far over the Kansas border. Besides, from where he was sitting, the yokel cop didn’t act or look like good police anyway. Might even be the prick who tried to punk him earlier.
Excitement rejuvenated him. Hell yes, his wound raged. Even more so once he stumbled into the storm. But he wore it like a badge of honor, a painful symbol of how he’d been wronged.
No plan, no need for one. He intended to go in guns blazing, no pussyfooting around.
Show time. He couldn’t wait for the curtain to rise, but more importantly, he couldn’t wait for it to fall.
*
Idiot. Foolish damn idiot.
As they trudged up the hill, Harold couldn’t believe the stupid task he’d agreed to. Especially after he’d suffered a mini-stroke, a taste of heart attacks to come. That’s what it’d been, no doubt about it. Heart conditions ran through his family like rushing water. His mother certainly had regaled him with tales over the years of her body’s failures. Another reason to thank his mother. Maybe drop her a bitchy postcard from the Caribbean.
He struggled up the steep, snow-packed sidewalk. Breathing like a broken vacuum pump. Following a mobster who had his money, ready to drop him with a bullet.
Stupid.
Yet, he felt revitalized. Not for the reasons Harton spouted back at the damned antique store, painfully evident in his manipulation attempts. Harold understood it, felt it, abhorred it. Shaming him into helping the little girl. Pathetic, really.
Harold felt no shame in his actions, never had, never would. Oddly enough, it was the things he hadn’t done in his life that struck a chord in him. Strummed him like a banjo. The chance to play hero didn’t come along often. Admittedly, he’d rather not see any harm done to the little girl, little what’s-her-name. As far as kids go, she was tolerable enough, he supposed. And she seemed to actually care for Harold, something different, something he didn’t experience in his world of solitary bookkeeping. Never thought he’d see the day. Harold Carsten, friend and protector of children. Of course, the grand prize for heroism lay in the kid’s mother. Once he saved her kid, she’d slather him with kisses, caress his body with well-imagined favors.
Even with a clearly jacked-up foot, Harton still had a hundred feet or so on him. Dragging his peg leg through the snow. The briefcase banged against his leg like a loosened, wind-tossed house shutter. During their impossible journey, Harold’s gaze never left the briefcase, his focal point. So close, so out of reach. Classic case of a carrot leading a horse. His carrot, his golden carrot.
Altruism’s one thing. But always a realist, somewhat of a cynic, his eye never wavered from the ultimate prize. Crossing the finish line. Screw it. The briefcase outweighed even the hot woman. Rebecca was the champion horse, but the briefcase was the trophy.
Then again, it’s not like Harold had been given a choice, not really. Harton made it clear he’d take Harold out if he didn’t comply. Typical. Bullying never stops, no matter what they teach in high school. And it seemed damn clear Harton wanted Rebecca as well. The way big-muscled, hairy-assed cavemen always win women. With a big stick. But not if Harold beat him to the prize first. His life, his cash, his woman. Naturally, he didn’t carry as big a stick as Harton. But Harold’s I.Q. certainly soared above his opponent’s. He suspected Harton’s intellectual growth stunted somewhere in his early stages, his gun a phallic extension of his manhood. In spite of the storm, his fears, his health, and his misery in general, Harold chuckled.
He had a plan. Find a weapon, an entire arsenal if necessary. Save the girl, win the woman, overpower Harton (shouldn’t be that tough since he’s basically operating on one leg), swoop up the money. Blow town. So simple.
This, of course, was all contingent upon his surviving the upcoming confrontation. Something he tried not to think about too hard. Simply couldn’t. He had no idea what awaited him. Hell, he had no idea where reality stopped and started any longer. Murderers, hostages, goddamn antiques. Too much for his number-crunching world.
Harold’s enthusiasm lost air, fizzling down to earth.
Dear God, what have I got myself into?
As if divinely answered, the briefcase’s buckle glinted beneath the light of a dying streetlamp. A real hallelujah moment.
Thank you, God.
*
Dear God, what’s happening to us?
Rebecca’s mind twisted, thoughts colliding. Nothing aligned, everything chaotic. The inn — the inn she’d earlier found so charming — jarred and jumped as Randy carried her toward it. Closer, closer. Jim Dandy had already rushed Kyra inside. Carrying her, stroking her back, whispering into her ear.
Kyra. No … no …
Randy’s hand, secured over her mouth, smelled of cheap cologne. Handcuffs jangled at his waist. His arm wrapped around her stomach, pinning her arms to her sides. He pushed through the snow, easily hauling her with short, staccato steps. Rebecca’s feet kicked above the ground. Something prodded into her thigh. An erection?
His hand muffled her scream. But the screams inside her head felt like a brain hemorrhage. Loud and terrible and unheard, threatening to break the thin ice of her sanity.
Bastard. Dear God … not another one!
Two things tethered her to reality. Kyra. And killing Randy.
“Now, now, Rebecca. That ain’t no way to be.” His whisper heated her ear like toxic gas. “Ol’ Randy Gurley will see you done up right and well. Show you what a real man’s like. Bet you’d like that. Hmm?”
He loosened a finger from her mouth, stroked her cheek. Then brushed the side of her breast. Rebecca drew her legs up, impotently trying to kick back.
The door opened. Dolores greeted them with an axe, slapping the flat blade into a palm. Her features scrunched up, half the size of her usual friendly visage. She stood aside, directing them in. Quickly, Rebecca craned her head, searching for her daughter. No sign.
“Let the woman speak, Deputy. But hold her tight.”
Randy straightened. Rebecca’s feet hit the floor, numb and dead. The way her brain felt. He removed his hand from her mouth but kept a firm grip around her belly, just below her breasts. Enjoying it.
A sudden choke hold cut her new scream in half. Another vile whisper. “Rebecca, if I was you, I’d shut your yap.” His tongue ran up her cheek. She uttered a gasp, her throat constricted.
“Gurley, none of that crap in our house! Don’t want you doin’ what you did with the last one!” Dolores stepped toward them, axe waving like a nun’s finger. Shadows peeled away from her face, revealing a blotchy and patched complexion. The flesh around her eyes appeared swollen from crying.
“Sorry, Dolores. Your house, your rules.” Randy sounded properly admonished, no doubt another act. His chin dropped onto Rebecca’s shoulder, both arms wrapped around her stomach now. Randy swayed, dragging Rebecca with him, the way lovers marvel at the world.
“Best keep that in mind.” Dolores’s flats swished across the wooden floor until she reached Rebecca. Rebecca met her gaze, challenging her. She wouldn’t flinch, give her any satisfaction. She’d had plenty past experience internalizing her fear.
Don’t scream. Look for a way out. All that matters, saving Kyra.
“Why’d you kill my son?” Each word rose to a bitter crescendo.
“I … if you’re talking about … Christian, I didn’t. I wasn’t even there.” She forced the tremors out of her voice, keeping it steady and even.
Dolores rubbed her mouth. Between her fingers, she exposed receding gums. “Who did? And don’t you dare lie to me!”
“I’m … I think the newlywed girl did. That’s what I was told.” And the lucky murderer who got away. The ultimate irony.
The old woman’s head bobbed, each time dipping lower. Her shoulders pinched up like a vulture’s. Then the sobbing began.
Rebecca saw vulnerability, decided to massage it. “Dolor
es … I’m sorry. Really, I am. Sorry for your —”
“He was like a son to me,” she wailed. Unexpectedly her hands gripped Rebecca’s shoulders. Her head fell on Rebecca’s chest. Rebecca stared down at the old woman’s thinning hair, her white, dry scalp.
“I’m a parent, too, Dolores. I can’t even imagine how horrible it’d be to lose a child. You have my sympathy. You really —” Rebecca yelped, stunned. Son-of-a-bitch Randy gave her ass an ugly pinch.
Dolores raised her head, tears dried, suspicion renewed.
Rebecca continued. “I’m sorry. But Kyra and I had nothing to do with it. Nothing. As one mother to another … can’t you just let us go? Please?”
Randy snorted. Then Dolores released a single laugh, the most mirth-free, unnerving laugh Rebecca’d ever heard. “Oh, Rebecca. I should’ve known you wouldn’t have it in you to do something like that to my … my Christian.” For a second, she wavered, teetering on the edge of sadness again. But she snapped back like a rubber band. “No, girl. Your place … Kyra’s place … is with us now.”
“What … no. Dolores, please! I just want to give Kyra a good life. She’s already been through —”
“Why, young lady, that’s exactly what we’re going to give you and your precious daughter. A good life.” All smiles and sunshine, her woes forgotten, Dolores patted Rebecca’s shoulder with a parental touch.
“No! Kyra’s my daughter! For God’s sake, Dolores, please —”
“Honey, I long ago learned … God ain’t got a thing to do with it. Now I’m gonna go see how Poppa’s doin’. Deputy, take Rebecca to the basement.”
“Don’t do this, Dolores! Don’t —”
“More than happy to, Dolores.” With Randy’s chin still imprinted on her shoulder, Rebecca felt his jaw tighten into a smile. “Just make sure I get my monthly cash stipend.”
“You’ll get your damn money, Gurley. You always do.”
“Dolores, please, please let Kyra go. Why … tell me why …”
Dolores strolled away, a casual saunter. “Me and Poppa’ll be down in a bit to talk to you, Rebecca. After we see how Kyra’s adjusting.” She hauled herself up the stairwell, clutching the railing, both feet shuffling on a step before moving on.
Dread and Breakfast Page 20
