“Hi there. You’re up late.”
She nodded, finally dropping her relentless gaze. She lowered the plate, wiping her index finger around the rim. Sticking the chocolate-tipped digit into her mouth, she pulled it out with a pop.
“What’s good to eat around here?”
“Pie.”
“Save a piece for me?”
She grinned, perched somewhere between mischief and sincerity. Chocolate darkened parts of her teeth. “Two pieces left.”
“Sounds great. How ‘bout if I have one … and if you don’t tell your mother, I’ll give you the other?” He made his way to the counter, his heart settling to a normal beat.
Her smile widened. “‘Kay.” Carrying her plate, she skittered his way. “But remember, don’t tell my mommy.”
With a finger pressed to his lips, Winston made a shushing sound. “Our secret.”
She bounced up and down on bare feet, plate outstretched. He didn’t keep her waiting. One bite in and Winston thought he might end up licking the plate as well. Still warm — a culinary mystery given the late hour — the pie slid down fast and tasted nearly as fulfilling as Julie’s pumpkin pie. The girl watched him carefully as if wanting to hear his food review.
“Wish there was more,” he said, coming up for air.
“Me, too.”
“What’s your name?”
“Kyra. What’s yours?”
“Dave. Just Dave to you since we’re secret, late-night kitchen pals.”
She giggled, sing-songy and worry-free, the way his youngest daughter carried on. He marveled at children’s abilities to find joy in the smallest things. Before the world clubbed them with a good dose of adult anxiety.
“Anyway, does your mom know you’re down here?”
“Uh-uh. She’s asleep.”
“We wouldn’t want to wake her, would we?”
She shook her head and opened her eyes wide, crazy wide for two in the morning.
“Part of our secret.” Holding out a fist, Winston waited for her to bump it. “Don’t leave me hangin’, Kyra.”
Winston nearly laughed at the way she scrutinized him. But he remained solemnly quiet. To gain a child’s trust, you take everything seriously. One of her eyebrows lifted, the other eye narrowed. Her lips tightened with doubt. Apparently, she’d learned to be suspicious of adults at an early age. Smart girl.
Finally, she popped his fist with hers, both of them shedding imaginary shrapnel with wiggling fingers. “Why’re you and your mother here?”
“We’re going to see Aunt Jilly.” Her chin dropped to her chest, her eyes searching the floor. She had a secret. Seemed everyone had a secret at the Dandy Drop Inn tonight. She looked up and added, “Stupid storm.”
“Stupid storm is right. That’s why I’m here, too. No one should be out driving in this mess.”
A roll of her eyes spoke volumes; a master of sarcasm at an early age. “Tell me about it. Mommy wrecked.”
“Aw, that’s too bad. You guys okay?”
“Uh-huh. The car’s broke.”
With a shrug, Winston said, “That stuff happens. I’m sure your mom’s a careful driver.”
“I guess.”
Hitching up his trousers a bit, Winston knelt. Speak to children on their level, figuratively and literally. “We both should get back to our rooms now. It was really nice talking with you, Kyra. And becoming secret buddies.”
She giggled as she shook his proffered hand. He imagined no one treated her in such a mature fashion. Her chin bobbed along with her “one-two-three-and-out” shake. “Nice to meet you.”
Winston blinked, rubbing his beard as if deep in thought. “Say, Kyra, if we’re secret buddies, I’m not supposed to tell anyone you were down here. Especially eating two pieces of pie, right?” Again with big eyes and a bigger nod. “Well … then you probably better not tell anyone you ran into me. Right? ‘Cause then they might wonder where we’d met. Am I right?”
“Mm-hmm.” She held her finger to her lips and shushed, mimicking Winston’s earlier move. “Secret buddies.”
“Okay, good girl.” As he straightened, he forced a smile. Not because Kyra didn’t charm him; she did, right down to his core. But he’d used her, making her complicit in keeping his presence on the down-low all for a slice of pie. Heavenly pie, though, so maybe that counted for something in the afterlife. “‘Night.”
He watched her scamper off, her feet smacking the tiled floor. The door nearly caught her blond hair before she sailed through it.
What was he thinking? Flitting around like a social butterfly with his target, then a young girl. Stupid, but both incidences couldn’t be avoided. Unless Karma chose tonight for some payback.
Winston’s night couldn’t possibly get any worse. He told himself this a lot during jobs, superstitiously so. Whenever he thought this, as if by magic, somehow his nights never did get any worse. A stupid fallacy, no doubt, but why tempt fate?
Doubling down, he knocked on the wood cabinet three times before going to bed.
*
This time Heather experienced what she’d hoped for. The tiny death. Her heart had raced. Her body tightened to unfathomable heights, shaking uncontrollably. And her private parts absolutely quivered, impossibly so, building to a crescendo, climbing, climbing. The intensity frightened her. She didn’t know what to expect, how it would end. But it ended. Just as she thought it couldn’t get any better, any more extreme. And she swore — bona fide knew — a little part of her soul fluttered away. The proof hovered above Tommy’s sweating back. Shimmering and dancing. Then she reclaimed it.
Just a smidgeon of how death must feel. She ballooned with pride when she thought of how God had singled her out to bring this beautiful gift to people.
Tommy rolled over, one arm splayed over his head, huffing out deep breaths in his sleep. Exhausted. Yet she wouldn’t let sleep claim her, not tonight. She had a message to spread, one she couldn’t wait to continue. After years of searching, she’d finally found her lot in life. More exciting than waiting for Santa Claus.
They’d agreed to start with the lovely older couple, the Dandys. So sweet, so ready for Heaven’s touch. Heather couldn’t wait. Tomorrow night, though. Their reservations ran through the following morning, after all.
She smiled at her husband, gently wiping a matted brown lock of hair away from his forehead.
Aside from seeing a part of her soul earlier, she’d also learned something else. Knew it as Gospel as sure as the sun would rise in the morning. Her very own secret. One she looked forward to sharing with Tommy. He’d impregnated her tonight. She felt it, witnessed it. Just as God had gifted her with the ability to see life depart, He must’ve likewise blessed her with the power to see a life created. When Tommy had finished, she saw a small light sparkle next to her. Unlike a passing soul — sort of sad in a fading, falling-apart-at-the-seams way — the light had danced, entering her, nesting in her womb.
Rubbing her hands over her belly, she closed her eyes and prayed. The luckiest girl in the world. Miracles followed her, surrounded her. She couldn’t, wouldn’t deny them.
Thank you, God. We’ll continue your work tomorrow night.
Chapter Four
When Calvin sneezed, spittle flung onto the windshield.
“Jesus Christ! Cover your mouth!” Domenick grabbed the can of disinfectant from the glove compartment and gave his idiot nephew a spray. For good measure, he hit him with it again.
Calvin swatted around his head as if fending off a wasp attack. “Uncle Dom, what’re you —”
“How many times I tell you not to call me ‘Uncle’ when we’re workin’? It’s unprofessional. How many?”
Slumping back in the driver’s seat, Calvin sighed. “I dunno. Lots?”
Dumb ass. Domenick should never have hired the boy, always best to keep family separate from business. But his sister just wouldn’t let up. “Yeah. ‘Lots’. You got a real good head for math, Calvin.”
Calvin bri
ghtened, obviously eating up Domenick’s derision as a compliment. “Thanks, Unc … Mister Domenick.”
“Better not be catching a cold, that’s all I’m sayin’. Keep your germs to yourself.” Fast as a whip, Domenick shed his leather gloves, then stripped off the underlying skin-tight rubber ones. Using his glove to grip the glove compartment lever, he popped it open and snatched a bottle of sanitizer. Like a prepping surgeon, he slathered it on his upraised hands thoroughly, then shook them until they dried. He unrolled a new pair of rubber gloves over his hands, then followed those with his leather set. A tedious process, but in today’s disease-ridden world, why take chances?
“Don’t have a cold,” mumbled his nephew.
The Humvee rolled over something in the road, pitching them up and dropping them back into the snow. Domenick’s hat crunched on the ceiling. “Dammit, watch out.”
“Sorry, Mister Domenick, can’t see much of anything.”
At least the moron got that part right. The snow hammered down with no relief in sight. Last night, Domenick thought the storm would’ve moved on by now. Kansas City storms rarely stuck around for longer than twelve hours. But this doozy just wouldn’t leave, kind of like a woman who wants to cuddle after sex. He knew he should’ve set off last night, should’ve listened to his gut. But, no, his wife scolded him, telling him, “Your business can wait.” She might’ve had a different opinion if she knew three-quarters of a million bucks of his — well, “their” — earnings were at stake.
Domenick pulled out a stack of paper surgeon’s masks and tossed one to Calvin. “Put that on.”
Calvin grumbled like a surly schoolboy, then complied. Looked ridiculous as hell, too. But good hygiene was important.
“It itches.”
“Man up, Calvin. And shut up.”
“You really think Winston’s joined up with the accountant? He seems like a pretty stand-up guy. I don’t think —”
“No, you don’t! I don’t pay you to think, so stop thinking.” As far as what Domenick thought? Hell, yes, Winston had gone rogue with the accountant. Sure, maybe it didn’t start that way, but that’s a lot of dough, enough to turn any man’s head. He probably offed the accountant, then fled with the cash. How the hell else do you explain his not contacting him?
He hadn’t heard from Winston since yesterday. When he’d called with Harold’s location. Or general location. Hilston, Godforsaken Missouri. What the hell would all that money buy there? Goddammit. Winston’s probably halfway across the world by now.
Whatever happened to honesty making the man? Loyalty? Hired help’s not what it used to be. Probably have better luck advertising on the damn internet for a trustworthy killer.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t given both men a shot, offering them more money than they’d ever see in a lifetime. And this is how they paid him back? By ripping him off?
Sons of bitches. Wait and see what kind of “shot” he had in mind for them now.
The snow caked the windshield like icing. Calvin — slow on the uptake, as usual — took forever to kick the wipers into fast speed.
His anger simmering, Domenick wanted to smack the dash. Repeatedly. Throw a tantrum. But then he might rip his gloves. Count to ten, find his center, all that yoga crap his wife ranted on about. Yeah, well, yoga wouldn’t return his hard-earned cash, now, would it?
So, since Winston and Carsten had disrespected him, he’d play the game their way. Show them payback. True payback. They’d set the rules, he’d win the game, always did. As soon as they reached Hilston.
From behind the mask, Calvin loosened a sneeze, wet and disgusting sounding.
With a sigh, Domenick cracked his window, his lips sucking in the cold, fresh, germ-free air.
*
Rebecca woke tired. She’d slept through the night — what little there’d been left — a rare event. Mercifully, she’d had no dreams, the usual ones of Brad on a violent tear. Scratch that; not dreams, all-too-real nightmares.
She stretched across the bed until her muscles drew taut. Her ankles cracked. Sludge muddied her head, similar to a hangover. Darkness outside the west-facing window disoriented her.
Kyra lay next to her, curled up. By morbid instinct, Rebecca held her hand in front of her daughter’s nose. Reassuring breath warmed her fingers. But something dark clung to her daughter’s cheek. Blood? Rebecca leaned closer, studied it. Chocolate? Another splotch on her pajama top betrayed Kyra’s late-night dessert jaunt. Even though Rebecca didn’t approve — for many reasons — she couldn’t help but admire her daughter’s incorrigible spirit. Not that she’d ever let Kyra know that, of course. But she’d go easy on her.
As Rebecca rolled out of bed, she braced herself against the morning cold. Outside the window, endless white blanketed the countryside. Cars lay buried, large whiteheads on the face of the street. Same old, same old, nothing but endless snow. The sky captured an almost nausea-inducing gray uneasiness. In many ways, much worse than the previous night’s crushing darkness. Just as Randy had told her, they weren’t getting out of here anytime soon. Defeated, she trudged back to bed. She bounced onto the bed, hard, sighing loud enough to wake the dead.
Her tactic worked. Kyra stirred, stepping through her usual wake-up routine: an eye rub, a jaw-dropping yawn, arms stretching. “Morning, Mommy.”
“Morning yourself, sleepyhead. ‘Bout time you got up.” She wiggled her fingers the way Brad used to do on his rare good days. “Tickle alert!”
Kyra rolled over, clutching her belly, giggling. “No, Mommy! Don’t! Gotta potty!”
Rebecca surrendered. “Okay, no tickling.” She swabbed at Kyra’s cheek as if just discovering the chocolate. “Hmm, what’s this? Kyra? Did you go back to the kitchen for more pie last night?”
Kyra’s grin drifted away. “Uh-huh.” With her knees drawn up, she anchored her chin between them, looking properly chastised.
“You know you shouldn’t have done that, right?” A small nod. “It’s not our house. Also, I don’t want you wandering in a stranger’s house.”
“But, Mommy, they’re not strangers.”
A tough argument, the way Kyra always challenged her. “Technically, no, I suppose they’re not. But it’s a strange house. Just don’t do it again, alright?” Another bob of the head. “If you’re truly hungry, let me know.”
“But you were asleep. I didn’t wanna wake you.”
“Doesn’t matter. I won’t get angry if you wake me.” She jumped out of bed, mustering false energy. As if sleepwalking, her body was present, but her brain had a hard time tracking. “Let’s go. Time’s a-wastin’. You want some breakfast? If you’re not too sick from chocolate?”
“Yeah.” Kyra scurried to the bathroom, fire on her tail. Even though she’d had even less sleep than Rebecca, nothing slowed her down.
Rebecca grabbed her phone from the nightstand. 6:44, a lot earlier than she’d initially believed. Her heart bottomed out a little more at the sight of no service bars. She’d use the inn’s phone, find out the status of her car, then let her sister know why they were late.
But breakfast sounded good, her taste buds practically begging. Baby steps, an encouraging thought. First her appetite, then maybe she could reclaim her self-worth in time.
She gave her sweater a quick sniff, pulled it on, then stepped into a clean pair of jeans. Her undergarments could wait until later, squeezing in a nice hot shower to boot. Maybe she’d even indulge herself with a bath. Why not? Like it or not, they were on a forced vacation.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she grimaced. Dark crescents hung beneath her eyes, making her appear older than thirty-two. A quick touch of make-up, a brush-through of her hair, and she felt reasonably presentable to rejoin the human race.
The chair beneath the doorknob hadn’t moved, both a reassuring sight and one that seemed somewhat silly now. Of course, she had nothing to fear from the Dandys. Thoughts of Brad had her jumping at her own shadows.
Rebecca wrenched at the chair, bu
t it stuck, wedged in tight. With another mighty tug, the chair loosened and flew back. How in the world could Kyra have jammed that in so tight? Her upper body strength hadn’t yet developed fully. And as a general rule, Kyra stank at trying to cover up her misdeeds, lacking a seasoned criminal’s eye for detail.
“Kyra? Kyra, honey?”
Kyra rushed out of the bathroom wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and an ear-to-ear smile. Ready to take on the world, just not dressed for it. But her daughter’s youthful optimism warmed Rebecca. Having forgotten about the chair already, she folded Kyra into her arms. “Love you so much.”
“Me too, Mommy. Let’s eat!”
Voices rose from behind the kitchen door, the Dandys’ laughter unmistakable.
“Why good morning, Rebecca, Kyra,” said Dolores. She turned back to the stove, flipped something with a spatula. The pan hissed. Smoke curled up, twisting to the ceiling. The smell of bacon filled Rebecca’s nose, hunger pangs on high alert. “How’d you sleep?” Dolores held the spatula high like a baton.
“Fine, thanks.”
Jim tossed a wave and an eager “howdy-do,” while the young couple seated across from him stared at her, emotionless. Rebecca filtered it all through a sleepy haze, half lucid and definitely not up for socializing.
The handsome young man jumped to his feet and swiped a hand alongside his jeans. As he stuck his hand out, his t-shirt tightened across his muscular arm, so tight it looked like it could cut off his circulation. Rebecca wondered why cold weather never seemed to affect youth.
“Tommy Goodenow, ma’am.” His intense handshake pumped some vicarious life into Rebecca. “This here’s my wife, Heather.” Pretty in a quiet, non-flashy way, the blond girl pressed her lips into a bare smile as if it hurt. Her hair hung down, long and straight, no doubt the results of a flat-iron marathon. Her gaze shifted to Kyra.
“Oh, look at you. Aren’t you beautiful?” The girl held her hands out to Kyra. With a little nudge, Rebecca steered Kyra toward the girl. Hesitantly, Kyra tucked her hand into the blonde’s. “One of God’s precious gifts. I’m sure he broke the mold when he made you.”
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