by Jack Kilborn
“Do you think I have pretty hair?” the grown man said, still using the voice of a little girl. He touched one of the curls.
Then he yelped like a hurt dog.
Kelly began to scream, but Grover put a big, rough hand over her mouth and nose, holding it there and giggling hehehehe like a five-year old.
Kelly kicked and punched and struggled to take a breath.
But he wouldn’t let her.
Mal gripped Deb’s arm, first pushing her off balance, then steadying her. The darkness felt like a weight pressing down on Deb, threatening to push her into the earth.
“Where is it?” he whispered.
“Bushes,” Deb said.
She’d seen the deadly, gold eyes of the cougar a second ago, but they’d retreated into the black.
“You sure?” Mal asked. “I don’t see anything.”
“Smell that?”
Mal sniffed the air. “Rank.”
It was an odor Deb would never forget. “Big cat smell. Back up slowly. And let go of my arm—you’re gonna knock me over.”
Mal released her. Deb had no problem walking backwards in the Cheetah prosthetics on flat land, but the wooded terrain proved difficult. All she could think of was being batted around like a ball of yarn, each swipe of the cat’s hooked claws digging into her skin and sending her rolling across the ground. She had scars all over her body from such an experience. In a way, it was even worse than shattering her legs.
Deb was so worried about the mountain lion springing on her, she wasn’t paying close enough attention to her footing. Two steps later she was tipping backward, her arms pinwheeling to regain balance.
Mal caught her shoulders, held her steady until she could get her feet under her.
“Thanks,” she managed.
“You sure there’s a cougar?”
“I’m sure.”
“How sure?”
Deb didn’t like his doubt. She’d seen the lion’s eyes. Seen them as clearly as she was looking into Mal’s.
But then, Mal had been pretty sure their tire had been shot out, and he’d apparently been wrong there. So his questioning was no more than…
“You must be Deborah Novachek, and that reporter fellow.”
The voice came from the same bushes Deb had seen the cat. It was a female voice, friendly enough.
“You don’t happen to see a mountain lion around, do you?” Mal asked.
Deb frowned at him. Mal shrugged.
“A mountain lion?” the woman said. “Heavens, no. Though they are known to hunt in these parts. Y’all had better come inside. I’m Eleanor Roosevelt, the owner of the inn.”
Eleanor stepped through the bushes, and Deb played the pen light across her. She was a large woman, and carried herself in a strong, sturdy way that belied her advanced age.
“Nice to meet you, Eleanor,” Deb began. “Are you sure you—”
“My goodness, young lady. What happened to your legs?”
Mal squeezed her shoulders a bit tighter, as if in reassurance. Deb shrugged him off.
“I lost them in a climbing accident,” Deb said. “And I saw a mountain lion just a—”
“Are you sick?” Eleanor interrupted. “We can’t allow you inside the Inn if you’re diseased.”
“Rude much?” Mal asked.
Being impolite didn’t matter to Deb, especially with a cougar nearby. But now she began to question if she’d seen the cat at all. She took pride in her inner strength, but being in these mountains again brought back some pretty terrible memories. And since no cats seemed to be pouncing on them, perhaps she’d imagined those eyes. The smell might have been something else. A badger, maybe.
“I compete in triathlons,” Deb said, her eyes darting around the woods, looking for movement. “And I haven’t had so much as a cold in over five years.”
The large woman cocked her head to the side, as if considering her. Then her face split into a big-toothed smile. “Well, then, let’s get you people inside. Welcome to the Rushmore Inn.”
Mal picked up the bags he’d dropped, and Deb followed him through the bushes, one eye on her footing and the other on the forest. The animal smell was gone.
Once past the bushes, a clearing opened up in the woods, revealing a massive, three story log house. There weren’t any lights on the outside, and no light coming through any of the shuttered windows. It was as dark and quiet as the mountains surrounding them.
“Welcome to the Rushmore Inn,” Eleanor said again, pulling open the door and holding it while they entered.
The smell inside wasn’t bad, exactly, but it wasn’t pleasant. Sort of a sour, antiseptic odor mingled with sandalwood incense. But unique as that was, it paled compared to the decor.
“As you can plainly see,” Eleanor Roosevelt said, closing and locking the door behind them, “I greatly admire our nation’s leaders. They’re such important men. You might say I’m a bit obsessed with the subject.”
“Yes,” Mal nodded, looking around. “You might say that.”
He gave Deb a sideways glance, his smirk barely concealed.
“My grandfather was second cousin to Theodore Roosevelt. There’s presidential blood in my family. It’s a fact I’m particularly proud of, though it isn’t without its… challenges.”
Like turning your house into a flea market, Deb thought. But instead of speaking it aloud, she said, “Mrs. Roosevelt, my car is out on the road. It seems we’ve gotten a flat tire.”
Eleanor clucked her tongue. “You’d be surprised how often that happens around here. In the morning we can call the auto repair shop.”
“I need to be at the hotel early to…”
“My son will take you,” Eleanor interrupted. “He has a truck for your bike.”
“Already shipped the bike ahead. But the ride would be terrific.”
“He’ll be leaving early, so be sure to get some rest tonight. Might not be a bad idea to go straight to bed.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Mal said, raising his eyebrows at Deb.
She ignored him. “Is there any chance we could get something to eat?” Deb asked. “We missed dinner on the ride up.”
“The kitchen is back there, down the hall. The icebox is stocked, and you’re welcome to help yourselves. I made cupcakes earlier today, and there are a few left. But let me show you to your rooms, first.”
Eleanor plodded up the wooden staircase. Deb wasn’t a big fan of stairs, but the iron railing looked solid. She followed Mal up, stopping only to admire his trim backside as they ascended. Deb found it amusing that he continued to flirt despite several rebuffs. For a millisecond she entertained what it might be like to date Mal. The fantasy disintegrated when she caught the toe of her Cheetah prosthetic on the top stair. Luckily, she managed to make it to the second floor without a face-plant.
“Deborah, this is the Theodore Roosevelt room,” Eleanor said, holding out a key. “One of the finest rooms in the Inn.”
Deb didn’t suppose that meant very much. “Does it have a bath tub?”
“Indeed it does. And for you—I didn’t catch your name.”
“Mal. Mal Deiter.”
“Next door over, Mr. Deiter, is the Harry S. Truman room. While it doesn’t have a bathtub, I believe you’ll find the walk-in shower most agreeable. And necessary, considering your current appearance.”
“We ran into one of the locals, making venison headcheese,” Mal said, taking the key. “Is it currently hunting season?”
Eleanor smiled. “There’s always something in season around these parts.”
“Have the Pillsburys arrived yet? I didn’t see any other cars around. I’m a reporter, and I’m supposed to interview them.”
“They have, but I’m afraid they turned in for the evening.”
“Perhaps I’ll get to see them at breakfast.”
“Perhaps. If you’ll indulge an old woman’s fancy, might I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“I pride myself in being ab
le to guess blood types. You strike me as a type O. Am I correct?”
“Yes, you are.”
Eleanor’s bulbous eyes lit up. “Would that be positive or negative?”
“Positive.”
“You’re sure about that?”
Mal winked. “I’m positive.”
Eleanor nodded politely. “Thank you, Mr. Deiter.” The old lady curtsied. “I trust you’ll both have a pleasant night.”
Then she waddled off, leaving the two of them befuddled.
“Blood type?” Deb finally asked when the old woman had descended the stairs.
“Maybe she’s a vampire,” Mal said. “She might have been the creature you saw in the bushes.”
“I saw a cougar, Mal. Not an old woman.”
“Was it wearing a pillbox hat?”
Deb allowed herself to smile. “Maybe it was. I think it also had a rifle. Perhaps it shot out my tire.”
“Touché. I’m going to unpack and grab some food. Meet you in the kitchen in a few?”
“Sure.”
Mal handed Deb her bags, then unlocked his door. “See you in a bit.”
In keeping with the theme of the Inn, the Teddy Roosevelt room was chockfull of creepy presidential memorabilia. Every wall boasted pictures and banners, the lamp shades were collage pastiches, and not a single stick of furniture was without a Roosevelt stamp of some sort. Eleanor had even managed to find Teddy Roosevelt bed sheets, his cherubic face five feet wide and grinning like the Cheshire cat.
Deb placed her two suitcases in the closet, next to an old reel-to-reel tape deck. Since she wouldn’t be here for more than a few hours, it didn’t make sense to unpack. She’d pull out a change of clothes in the morning.
A trip to the bathroom found her appearance to be considerably less than stellar. She applied a bit of lip gloss from her fanny back, a bit of mousse to her hair, and used the hand soap on the sink to get the last of the deer blood out from her expensive manicured fingernails. A life-size poster of Roosevelt hung next to the toilet, his eyes seeming to follow her. Deb didn’t mind—the old-fashioned clawfoot bathtub more than made up for the bizarre decorations. She was aching to have a soak. And if she’d been alone, she would have put off dinner and done just that.
And yet, she found herself leaving the bathroom, and her room, in order to meet Mal in the kitchen.
Why am I so anxious to see him again? And why am I hurrying?
He’s probably not even there yet.
She still descended the stairs quicker than safety warranted.
To get to the kitchen, she walked through the living room, getting a startle when she saw the large man standing in the middle of the room.
No, that’s not a man.
It was the statue of George Washington, larger than life and dressed in period clothing. Deb found it oppressive, and gave it a wide berth as she passed.
The walls of the kitchen were lined with ephemera; magazine covers, newspapers, brochures, campaign signs. On the running board near the ceiling was a line of dinner plates, each bearing faces and quotes of Presidents. Unlike the unusual odor pervading the rest of the house, this room smelled delightfully like baked goods. Deb’s enthusiasm sank when she failed to see Mal.
Maybe he’s not coming. Maybe he just went to bed.
Then she noticed him peering into the refrigerator, and had to suppress her smile.
“There are enough cupcakes in here to feed the entire state of West Virginia,” Mal said. “There’s also a mystery meat sandwich. Interested?”
“I love meat in all of its permutations.”
Mal stacked a plate of cupcakes and the plate with the sandwich on one hand, and grabbed a glass carafe of milk and two apples with the other. He bumped the refrigerator door closed with his hip, and laid everything out on the dining room table.
“Pretty good balance,” Deb said, easing into a chair.
“I waited tables in college. Would madam care to split the sandwich?”
“Madam would like to eat the whole thing. But since you carried up my bags, I guess I’m willing to share.”
Mal went to the cupboard and found an extra plate and two glasses. While Deb poured the milk, Mal searched drawers for utensils.
“So you never got around to telling me about the history of Monk Creek,” she said, licking the pink frosting on a cupcake. It was buttercream, and very good. “You said you were researching it and discovered some interesting things.”
“Indeed I did. You want to hear something really interesting? This woman has dozens of forks and spoons, but not a single knife.”
“Not even a butter knife?”
“Not one. I guess you get the whole sandwich after all.”
Deb reached into her fanny pack, took out her Benchmade folding knife. She flicked the five inch blade open with her thumb and cut the sandwich in half. The meat was whitish, piled on high. The lettuce and tomato were still crisp. Eleanor had made this recently.
“Nice piece of cutlery,” Mal said, sitting across from Deb.
“I won’t be trapped in the woods without a weapon ever again,” Deb said, wiping it on her pants.
They each tore into their halves. Deb was surprised by how hungry she was. She was also surprised by the taste of the meat. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just unusual.
“Is this chicken?” she asked.
Mal shook his head. “Pheasant.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure. Dad used to take me hunting, when I was a kid.”
“You still go?”
“No. Lost my taste for it.”
“Pheasant?”
“Killing animals. I’m not a hypocrite, though. I still a voracious carnivore. But not enough to go after it on my own.”
Deb took another bite, then sliced into one of the apples. The crisp fruit was a nice compliment to the gaminess of the meat.
“So, Monk Creek,” she said. “What did you discover in your investigative reporting?”
Mal finished chewing, and swallowed. “The thing I liked best about being a cop was figuring things out. I didn’t like the violence, which is why I left the force to study journalism. So while researching this assignment, I wanted to learn about the history of the region, to use as a background for the interviews. And I found out some pretty strange things.”
Deb cut off another hunk of apple. “Such as?”
Mal polished his apple on his shirt and took a bite. “A lot of people disappear in these parts.”
When Deb finished chewing she said, “Quantify a lot.”
“In the past forty years, more than five hundred people.”
Deb did the math in her head. “That’s only about one a month. Doesn’t seem like too many.”
“Considering Monk Creek’s small population, that’s more than ten times the national average.”
She wiped some mayo from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’ve climbed the mountains here. It’s easy to get lost.”
“But the majority of lost people get found. Either alive or dead. These people are gone. Vanished, without a trace. You’d think some of them would have been discovered.”
“Odd,” Deb agreed. “Does anyone have any theories?”
“That’s also strange. No one seems to think it means anything. Because most of the missing people are from different states, there’s no joint task force treating this like a single problem. The only unifying factor is the sheriff of Monk Creek. And he’s… interesting.”
“In what way?”
“I spoke with him on the phone. Let’s just say I’m not convinced all of his cylinders are firing.”
“Why would the town hire him?”
“Maybe that’s why the town hired him.”
Deb finished off her sandwich. “So it’s a big conspiracy?”
Mal shrugged. “Could be. Could be just a coincidence.”
“You come up with anything else?”
“Just one thing. The disappearances began after
a specific event in the town’s history. There was a pharmaceutical plant that employed almost everyone in the area. It was closed down by the government in the early 60s, and the town began to die out. As the population dropped, the number of missing persons rose dramatically.”