A split second. Risky as hell.
Rebecca jerked Heather forward, dodging left. She tossed her body weight back, Heather tumbling with her. And twisted. The knife cut across Rebecca’s shoulder as Heather retracted her arm. Rebecca bounced off the bed to the floor. Heather fell into a bedside table, teetering for balance. She dropped, the table overturning on her. Her arms crawled up the wall, bloated, pale slugs.
From somewhere, a soft lullaby began playing.
Rebecca picked up the table, raised it over her head. A tablecloth slid off, falling to the floor. Heather ripped at the air with empty claws, the knife lost in the clutter. One of her eyes crossed, rolled up, a white eggshell. Rebecca cracked the eggshell with the table. Heather’s arms flopped down. So did Rebecca’s adrenaline spike. Her muscles ached beneath the table’s weight, her shoulder burning from the knife wound. She lifted the table again. Six inches above Heather, the last of her strength spent, the table crunched down.
But Heather hadn’t given up yet. She coughed, licked her lips. Spewing gibberish, threats spoken in tongue. Her one good eye fixed on Rebecca, sharper than a knife. Everything Rebecca needed to know.
Rebecca collapsed, her knees pinning the girl. The air left Heather with a rush. And still she struggled. Rebecca swung her fist into Heather’s face. Her knuckles slashed Heather’s cheek. A tooth popped out; a trickle of blood traced Heather’s cheekbone to her neck. Rebecca hit her again.
“Kill you and your little bitch! I’ll —”
“Why don’t you just … die!” Rebecca didn’t know how many times she hit her. Her arm throbbed, her hand felt like it’d fallen asleep, needles prickling nerve endings. Skin tore back on her knuckles, leaving them raw and bloodied. Heather looked worse, her face a mass of blood, teeth, and muscle.
Repulsed, Rebecca stood. She wobbled, steadying herself against the wall. Kyra stopped screaming and ran to her.
Down the hall, footsteps pounded the stairs.
Get it together, Rebecca.
“Kyra … we gotta go.”
Kyra nodded, yanking on Rebecca’s arm. “This way, Mommy.”
Half-dizzy, Rebecca let Kyra lead her by the hand. To where, she had no idea. Her brain hadn’t yet caught up to her body. But Kyra seemed confident. The best defense either one had at the moment.
The footfalls banged down the hallway.
“Come on, Mommy.” Kyra pulled a mass of hanging dolls back like drapes, shoving Rebecca into the inanimate mob. Her daughter’s foot raised and kicked the wall. A door, invisible at first glance, snapped open.
Rebecca shook her head, took a breath, chased away her stupor. And followed her daughter into the dim corridor. As soon as they closed the door behind them, they heard Jim Dandy tear into the room, cursing like a land-locked sailor.
Chapter Eleven
Kyra hurried down the black corridor, fleet-footed and assured. Like she knew the rat maze by heart. Rebecca thought she probably did, too. A minor blessing brought about by bratty behavior. She led Rebecca by the hand, no clear vision, no verbal communication. Kyra, like Rebecca, must’ve understood any sound could give them away. And she hated that her daughter had to fear for her life; she was too young to have such fears.
Bastards.
Beating two people senseless (maybe to death, in Heather’s case) had taken its toll on Rebecca. Frankly, she never knew she had it in her. It surprised her, made her wonder what would’ve happened had she stood up for herself instead of being Brad’s punching bag. Still, inside, she felt tense, a coil waiting to spring; outside, she ached as if she’d been on the receiving end of the beatings. Her hand had swollen, possibly a broken bone or two. Raw knuckles bled, the hallway’s dampness intensifying the pain. Every muscle screamed for relief, a time-out. Something she couldn’t risk.
Suddenly, Kyra stopped at the end of the narrow passage.
“We gotta go down,” she whispered. Kyra descended slowly, carefully attending to her mother. Which hurt. Rebecca should be the one leading her daughter to safety, not the other way around. Since the nightmare began, Rebecca hadn’t had a moment to gather her thoughts, think things through. Pin some semblance of reality on the night. And it wouldn’t happen anytime soon, either.
Behind them, Jim Dandy howled through the hidden bedroom door. “We ain’t gonna hurt ya! No damn way to treat your kin!” Then he entered the third-floor corridor above them. His footsteps crashed, rumbling like thunder, his pace fast with long strides. Wouldn’t take long for him to catch up.
“Go, Kyra.” Her daughter kept their hand bond sealed as they ran down the stairs. Rebecca’s toe hooked on a step, almost landing her atop Kyra. She forced a shoulder against the rotted wood, grabbed the railing, and straightened.
“You’re just makin’ this harder on yourself! You’re not goin’ nowhere!” From above, Jim Dandy’s voice boomed like a giant’s. And Rebecca felt as helpless as Jack at the bottom of a bean stalk. But even Jack persevered.
Kyra stopped on the second flight of steps. A strip of light trickled out from beneath a door. “Mommy, that goes to Christian’s room.”
Rebecca took a step toward it, stopped. Their way out. And she could grab Brad’s gun from beneath the couch. But Brad’s body lay in there, bloody, contorted on the floor. After everything else Kyra’d seen, Rebecca wouldn’t have her daughter discovering her father’s corpse. “What’s downstairs?”
“The cellar. And a way outside.”
“Go.”
They coasted down the stairs, swiveled to the final flight. A dark figure stood at the bottom, backlit by wan light. Short, squat, unwavering. One foot perched on a step, a hand raised.
“Now you gals just stop right there,” said Dolores. “The very idea. No way to start your new lives.”
The step groaned as Dolores lifted herself up. At their backs, Jim approached, slowing, closer. So close, Rebecca heard him hyperventilating. She felt his body warmth at her back, smelled rank sweat rolling off him.
Rebecca cradled Kyra’s chin, drew her in. “Please. For God’s sake, Dolores. Just let us go.”
Dolores smacked her gums, working up saliva to lubricate her words. “You just don’t understand, honey. We’re givin’ you and Kyra a new life. Sooner you understand that, the better off you’ll be.”
“That’s right, Mother.” Jim’s baritone bounced off the walls. Something thwacked, a chopping sound. Then a mouse-squeak of metal. While Dolores used false words of kindness, Jim intimidated with a knife, an axe, a hatchet, whatever. Didn’t matter. The Dandys wouldn’t touch a hair on Kyra’s head. The plan Rebecca had used on Randy worked earlier; play along, wait for the right opportunity. Then strike like a venomous cobra.
Kyra, shaking like a tambourine, grabbed the tail of Rebecca’s sweatshirt and draped it over her face.
The Dandys were beyond reason, clearly insane. Several times they’d referred to Rebecca as “family.” But if she could get them talking, establish some sort of rapport, maybe she could use it to her advantage. “Just tell me what this is all about, Dolores. Tell me what you want!”
“Why, before all the fuss and whatnot, we was fixin’ you a food tray,” said Dolores. “And we were gonna tell you about your new life, Jody.”
Jody. They think I’m their daughter, Jody.
Rebecca said nothing, while thoughts corralled her mind. If only she could see in the darkness, find something to fight with.
“Where’s that fool Gurley anyway?” Dolores’s friendly tone slipped away.
“He … he tried to attack me. I got away.”
Behind them, Jim roared. “Damn that man! Knew he was no good!”
“Poppa, language! Not in front of our little one.”
Kyra bonded closer, small fingers gluing onto Rebecca’s arm. Rebecca, likewise, wrapped her arm around Kyra, stroking her hair. Reassuring her, the only thing a mother could do.
“Sorry, Mother. But I knew Gurley was trouble. We jes’ may have to get rid of that boy.”
While Rebecca couldn’t agree more, she had to keep Dolores on track. Work her melancholy like a pump. Remain calm, feign interest. Save Kyra’s life. “You said something about our new lives.”
Although Dolores’s face remained in shadows, her shoulders noticeably sagged, followed by a sigh of contentment. No longer on guard. “Well, now … maybe it’s best we just show you.”
Jim sputtered. Spittle landed on the back of Rebecca’s neck. “Mother … you sure the wee one’s ready?”
“No! Kyra stays with us. All of us. Like … family.” No matter what new horrors awaited them, Rebecca wouldn’t let Kyra out of her sight. Not again.
“Rightly said, Jody. After all, we’re kin now” Dolores clapped her hands, a circus ringleader presenting the next macabre act. “Girl has to see it some time.”
“Reckon you’re right, Mother. Let’s get on with it then.”
Cautiously, Dolores left the stairs, utilizing a four-point turn. Rebecca noticed a shoulder striking down when she favored her left foot. The fall down the stairs must’ve done some damage. Good.
Behind them, Rebecca heard something slapping into flesh, a rhythmic beat. Jim brandishing his weapon into his palm. Nowhere near as trusting as his wife.
Like guarded prisoners, the Dandys escorted Rebecca and Kyra down a wider, cavern-like corridor. Rebecca shuffled heavy feet across the dirt floor, navigating through the darkness. A small glow outlined a door, hardly the light at the end of the tunnel.
Dolores led them into the cellar. At the opposite end of the room, green light slipped out around a door, pulsating as if alive. Rebecca looked around for an opportunity, a weapon, an escape route. Chains attached to a wall added to the dungeon-like atmosphere. Rebecca had no doubt they were intended for her. A shiver coursed through her, one she couldn’t hide. It possessed her body, shaking her sanity. Then Kyra grabbed her hand. Her anchor, her lifeline. She took a deep breath, the only thing on her mind: survival.
“Now who left this open?” Dolores waddled toward a side door, opened just a crack. A cold draft blew in, a light tide of snow piggybacking on it. She wrinkled her face and sniffed. “Why do I smell urine?” A strange thing to ask, particularly since Rebecca couldn’t smell anything over the permeating stench of rot. “No matter, I reckon.” She shut the door, smiled at Rebecca. “Come on now, gals. It’s time to visit our special room.”
Jim Dandy stuck right on their heels. Dead leaves crunched beneath his feet as he prodded them toward the green-lit door. Dolores stopped, pushed the door open with a hip and an elbow. Emerald flashes blinded Rebecca, then dimmed. Bright, muted, dead, the cycle continued. The ground beneath her feet shook as an engine dropped to a low growl, an electronic dirge.
“Go on, then.” Jim prodded a finger over Rebecca’s shoulder. “Go on.” Rebecca noted pride in his tone, the sort someone might display over a job well done. The green aura lit up his beaming face, his teeth the color of spinach.
Rebecca grabbed her daughter’s hand, squeezed it tight as if their lives depended on it. Together they crossed the threshold …
*
Outside the window, Winston watched the old woman topple down the stairs. The tall, elderly man — the same one who’d hunted them at the antique store, no doubt Jim Dandy — rushed to her aid. Near tears, he nestled the woman’s head in his arms, not at all the man who’d stalked them. Although thin and lanky, his flannel shirt drew taut across his back, muscles straining at the shoulders, his neck. A farmer’s body. Not someone to underestimate.
Using a surprisingly gentle touch, Dandy helped his wife to her feet. She strode to the back of the inn, tenacity in her gait, a hobble in her step. Her husband pounded up the stairs, two at a time. Even from outside, Winston felt tremors on the porch.
Safe to enter if he moved fast. Winston stepped over the body inside the front door. Blood stains decorated the corpse’s chest and stomach, his arm cocked behind him at an unnatural angle. Militaristic buzz-cut, cheap off-the-rack suit, scuffed dress shoes, broken blood vessels crossing his nose and striking out into his cheeks, in shape except for the start of a beer belly. Doubtless a cop. But not the uniformed policeman Winston saw earlier.
Having procured a weapon earlier, he knew where to look. He listened at the kitchen door. Unsettling silence. In the kitchen, most of the knives looked ready for the melting pot; dull, tarnished, showing the onset of rust. Clearly, the Dandys kept their best cutlery elsewhere, but he grabbed the best blade available. Even a stick could be a deadly weapon given the right amount of force; it was just a matter of physics.
At the stairwell, he stopped. Frantic voices from above, a scuffle, furniture banging over. Rebecca’s voice receded while Jim Dandy’s rose. Rebecca had the gun, and Winston knew she could protect herself. But Kyra’s voice wasn’t among the ruckus. His gut told him to go to the cellar, the same damned gut that brought him back to the Dandy Inn in the first place. The Dandys had held Heather there. Why not Kyra?
And where the hell was Carsten, anyway? No matter; it fell on Winston to save the young girl.
Him and a little luck, of course. At the host’s desk, he rapped the wood three times. Gave it one last hard knock, hoping it might up the good fortune ante. There’s no such thing as too much luck. When he thought his axiom might likewise apply to bad luck, he faltered. Chasing it from his mind, he ran down the hall to Rebecca’s room and down into the cellar.
*
For a moment, Deputy Randy Gurley thought he was back in his parents’ house, his mom pounding on the door, bitching at him to get out of bed. A true nightmare. After hearing the last knock, he jolted, a true sure-as-shitting how-do-you-do from the waking world.
But now he longed for the comfort of sleep again. Blood matted his hair. He couldn’t breathe, not easily. When he inhaled, it felt like he was snorting razor blades. Skin flattened over his nose, the tissue tender to the touch, clearly broken cartilage.
Goddamn. She broke my nose. A real wild one.
In spite of his injuries, he smiled. Which hurt in an entirely different way. But he liked a challenge, especially from women. And it made him want Rebecca even more. Call it revenge sex, call it what you like, but she’d be his. Even if he did have a bit of residual nausea after she kicked him in the junk.
When he stood, he nearly toppled. Dizziness swept up, tilting the floor. He fell onto Christian’s cot, holding his head until the world stopped swimming. At first, he thought he might have a concussion. But, hell, he’d recovered from worse hangovers than this.
Pretty dumb of him to let Rebecca get the gun. In his defense, though, he’d always had an eye for the hot ones, a soft touch for the softer sex.
At least he still had his gun, his police-issued model. Of course, the creepy Dandys had some weird hang up about gun use in their home. Ever since the incident years ago. Whatever. If he needed it, he’d sure as hell use it and damn the Dandys. What’re they gonna do? Fire him? Hardly. Not after everything he knew.
The room quit rocking. He stood, unstrapped his gun. Nice and smooth and hard. Couldn’t wait to fire the bad boy.
As he left the room, he felt woozy again, sick to his stomach. Mind over matter, he demanded his body to suck it up. Damn if it didn’t listen to him.
He heard a door click at the end of the hallway. Rebecca’s room.
Using police-trained stealth, he sidled down the hall, gun up. Just off to the side of the door, he gently inched it open. The room appeared empty. But the hidden door to the servant’s hallway stood open. Once he moved into the darkness, he allowed his eyes time to adjust. Instead, he saw stars and comet trails of orange and yellow blazing across his mind’s landscape. Nothing wrong with his ears, though. Footsteps dashed down the stairwell at the end of the servant’s corridor, heading for the cellar. Quieter than church, he followed. When he reached the cellar, he saw a figure at the end of the hall, limping toward the door.
Down the cavern he sidestepped — not too different from the country two-step he w
as famous for — gun cocked, raised, and primed for sweet release.
*
Of course, Winston knew someone was behind him. Heard him coming down the stairwell. The bigger his stalker’s attempts at covertness, the louder he sounded. A step on a leaf, the giveaway creak of leather. And the smallest of jangles. Handcuffs. The cop. A dirty cop. And all cops, good or dirty, carry firearms. He couldn’t take him out at a distance. Especially not in the dark. It’d have to be a close fight, one where he could see his opponent.
By the time he reached the door, his plan took shape. Not much of one, but improvisation had worked out so far. His damn ankle didn’t make things easy, though; rather, it put him at a decided disadvantage.
He estimated his pursuer at twenty-five feet behind him. The cop’s feet brushed through leaves, awkward leaps defining his location. The doorknob gave in Winston’s hand and, mercifully, the door opened. Had it been locked, he may as well’ve been lined up in front of a firing squad.
As soon as he closed the door, Winston flattened against the wall. He switched the briefcase to his left hand, the knife to his right. Sucking in a breath, he held it. Not so he wouldn’t be heard, rather he needed to hear.
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