Tea Cups & Tiger Claws

by Timothy Patrick

  He bent down to pick it up but then froze. He’d heard something. Slowly he raised himself and listened intently. It had sounded like a squeaky door or squeaky shoes. With gun in hand, he turned inch by inch, and looked back through the opening in the curtain, where his eyes crawled over boxes and between a row of shelves. He sifted through shadows over by the furnace, and finally, in the dark area where he now stood. He strained to make out even the vaguest of shapes, and he came up empty. Maybe it had been a mouse, scared by the loud noise. He pocketed the gun, picked up the rod, and walked back toward the light, angling the instructions to see the next step.

  Watch out for the man with the mutilated face. IF HE FINDS YOU YOU’RE DEAD.

  That’s great, he thought, tell me about the killer while I’m groping in the dark.

  There! The squeak! He’d heard it again, coming from behind him. He spun around and it stopped. He trained his eyes and ears into the black void. It felt like cat and mouse. He just didn’t know what role he played. And then, with the sound of a click, the light by the stairway went out, and he had his answer. He was the mouse. He let the rod fall with a loud clang and pulled out the gun. The squeaking started again. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Steady. Paced. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Then, off to the side, a loud hissing sound grabbed his attention. He looked only for a second, at the fiery explosion in the furnace, but that’s all it took. When he turned back, a man with a glowing, mutilated face bashed him on the head with a club.

  ~~~

  Dorthea paused at Veronica’s bedroom door and wondered if the day had finally arrived. What waited on the other side? Death and rigor mortis and emptied bowels? Or would she find Veronica still hanging on, like a mannequin with a pulse?

  Her time had expired. The most unworthy Newfield of them all needed to gather up her wasted life, grab hold of her soiled family name, and take it all with her to the grave. Besides the rightness of it, it needed to be done because Veronica, in any state, liked defiance, the kind of defiance that bit unexpectedly and did real harm, as it had in front of the police chief. On nothing more than a defiant whim, she, conceivably, still had the power to ruin everything.

  Dorthea opened the door and peeked in. From the light that spilled in from the sitting room, she saw Veronica on her bed, face up, still in the same bell bottom jeans and wrinkled blouse she’d worn for the last few days. Dorthea inched closer. Veronica moaned and squirmed, apparently in the grip of a drug fueled nightmare. Dorthea quietly lifted the lid on the elephant figurine. Empty! She’d taken all of it, enough to kill a horse, just as Dorthea had planned. She looked closely at Veronica’s glistening face. It had a distinct blue tint to it, especially around the eyes. She saw blue fingernails on the hand that scratched compulsively at an oozing sore on the forehead. She saw a heaving chest and heard raspy breathing.

  Dorthea didn’t know anything about slow death—her dad had died fast and so had Archibald Newfield—but she did know that all death, fast or slow, resulted in the same thing: a blue body that doesn’t breathe. Judged by those standards, the situation looked promising, but Dorthea didn’t plan to take a chance. She scooped up the figurine for an immediate refill. This time, though, the formula would include a heavy dose of roach poison.

  With any luck at all, thought Dorthea, Sunny Slope Manor would be rid of the last of the Newfield’s before tomorrow night’s winter ball.

  Chapter 33

  The overhead light assaulted Sarah’s sensitive eyes. She’d been waiting for that burning bulb. She knew what it meant. Like blinking foyer lights that signal the last act of a play, this light signaled her last chance to live. It called her to action, called her to fight. At least that’s what it had meant when she still had some fight left. Now it meant she had to muster up something more than the hopelessness in which she’d recently been wallowing.

  The walls and floor shook violently, like before. She blinked her squinting eyes and nudged them back to usefulness. When the rumbling stopped, she heard a man grunting, loudly, like he might be lifting something heavy. She hid the sharpened bone next to her right leg. The grunting then became steady, rhythmic, accompanied by the scratchy, sandpaper sound of something being dragged down the concrete ramp. She thought about standing up but didn’t—better to stay down and save her strength, and to look helpless until he got close. Soon the kidnapper’s back came into view and she took a deep breath. He looked over his shoulder at her. They made eye contact. And then his eyes got big and white and he whirled around.

  “What did you do to Bob?” he yelled.

  Sarah looked innocently at what remained of the skeleton and said, “I…I didn’t do anything…except maybe bump him….”

  The kidnapper knelt before his reconfigured friend and said, “He didn’t deserve this.”

  Sarah gripped the knife in her right hand and slowly stood up. He leaned over and ran his hands through the pile of bones. She had a decent shot at his back—if she changed her grip on the knife. Slowly, trying not to rattle the chain and shackle, she brought her hands together.

  He raised his head, glared into her eyes, and said, “He never did nothin’ to you.” She moved the knife back out of view.

  “Yes…and I appreciate that,” stuttered Sarah, as she glanced over the kidnapper’s shoulder to see what he’d been dragging down the ramp, “…and I want to say that I was…I mean I am quite fond of Bob…too,” she saw a body, face up, bloody, head still on the ramp, tilted awkwardly, “…and I think we need to accept him the way he is….” She looked again and saw cowboy boots, jeans, a shiny belt buckle, and short blond hair. It was Mack!

  “It don’t matter. I got a new friend.” He got up and walked back over to the end of the ramp and picked up a strip of leather that bound Mack’s legs.

  He grunted and tugged on the strap and took a step toward her. And then another. She had to do it now. There would be no more chances. Each slow motion step brought his exposed back closer to her manmade dagger. When she once again smelled cheap aftershave, she resisted the urge to lunge. He had to get closer, close enough to grab without the chain on her left arm getting in the way. Finally, when his butt almost touched her leg, he stood up and exhaled loudly. She plunged the knife deep into his back and screamed. He yelled and choked and grabbed his chest. She jumped onto his back, locked her arms around his neck, and held on with all her strength. If he got away all would be lost. He moaned loudly and dove forward. Her chain snapped violently but she held on, and he whipsawed backward. She let go just before he fell onto his back. He wrapped his bloody hands around the glistening bone that protruded from his chest. They slipped off uselessly and revealed a circle of bloody bubbles that percolated around the wound. He looked up at her.

  “Bob sends his regards,” she said.

  He looked confused, tried to say something, but then the hissing, dancing bubbles disappeared from his chest, and his head fell to the side.

  Sarah stood motionless for a second and then dove to the ground next to Mack. She reached up to his face and felt warmth.

  “Mack,” she said evenly, as she stroked his cheek. He didn’t respond.

  She turned her attention back to the kidnapper. On his right hip she saw a silver round gizmo with a chain that went into his pocket. From her knees, she grabbed the chain with both hands and plied a big set of keys from his pocket. She broke the chain free from the silver gizmo, studied the keys, and quickly settled on the only one that looked like it belonged to a medieval castle. It slid easily into the lock on her shackle and, with a click, opened it.

  Hopping back over to Mack, she unlocked the shackles that bound his wrists together, removed the leather strap from his legs, and then ran her fingers through the blood caked hair above his left temple. She felt a sizable wound, but his head didn’t seem to be cracked open. She slid her body next to his and draped her left arm across his chest. Her hand touched his neck and face and hair. Ten minutes ago she had no hope. Not seeing Mack again made it the worst hopelessness of all. Now she
held him close and didn’t want to let go.

  “Mack,” she whispered, her mouth gently pressed against his left ear. “Can you hear me?” She brushed her mouth past his bloody temple. “Mack, we’re in danger. We have to get out of here.” She caressed his cheek with her nose. “Mack, can you hear me?” She sat up and kissed him on the cheek, and on the chin, and on the lips, vaguely aware that she’d probably violated numerous rules about kissing unconscious young men. “Mack, please wake up.” She kissed him again and felt his lips move. She raised her head and saw him try to focus.

  “Where are we?”

  “In a dungeon, Dorthea’s dungeon.”

  “Dungeon…beneath the hotel…that’s where I went to look for you.”

  “Yes,” she said, unable to hold back simultaneous tears and laughter, “and you found me, in your own unique way, you found me.” She pressed her cheek against his.

  “Were we just…uh…kissing?”

  “I was,” she said, raising her head and wiping her eyes. “I’m not sure what you were doing.” She watched as one of his contemplative pauses took hold.

  “That’s good,” he finally said, “but given our situation, do you think this is the best place for that sort of thing?”

  Sarah laughed. “No! It’s the worst place on earth, and I hope you remember it the next time you feel like seducing me in a dungeon!”

  Mack propped himself up and smiled…until he saw the kidnapper. “Who’s that?”

  “That’s Dorthea’s goon, the one who kidnapped me. I had to stab him, Mack. He’s dead.”

  Mack sat all the way up and stared with wide eyes. He stumbled over a few words and then said, “Are you ok?”

  “I’m ok, but we should probably get out of here.”

  He looked at her tattered clothing and at the dirty bandage on her right arm.

  “I promise, Mack, I’m ok, but I don’t know if I can make it up that ramp.”

  Without a word he got up, helped Sarah to her feet, and propped her up as they walked to the ramp. Then she stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “Where would Dorthea keep the things she wanted to hide from the world?” In answer to her own question, she turned around and pointed to the footlocker by the wall.

  They walked over and opened it. It contained a half dozen portable filing boxes, each with a street address written across the top, except for one that said “Sunny Slope Manor.” Sarah took the lid off that box and found a neat row of manila envelopes, dozens of them. She reached in and pulled out one of them. It had “Edith Newfield” written on it in bold black handwriting.

  “That’s Veronica’s great, great, grandmother…give or take a great or two.” She unwound the red tie string and pulled out the contents, which consisted mostly of newspaper clippings and handwritten notes. She stuffed the papers back in and pulled out another envelope. This one said “Archibald Newfield,” written in the same bold hand. It also contained newspaper clippings and notes, but after removing them Sarah felt that something remained in the envelope. She turned it upside down and a gold wrist watch toppled onto the pile of papers. Sarah gasped. “Archibald Newfield fell off a cliff in Bryson Canyon,” she said, evenly, composed, “They found everything, even his safari hat, but not his wrist watch.”

  Sarah looked up and saw Mack stare intently into her eyes. Then in one swift motion he stuffed everything back into the box, grabbed her arm, grabbed the box, and said, “We’re getting out of here.”

  ~~~

  Mack didn’t blink when Sarah needed help standing or when she shook uncontrollably or when he felt her ice cold fingers. He blinked when he saw the sad look in her eyes. Wild rides on wild horses had never done that to her and neither had the grinding she’d taken from her family for all those years. Dorthea Railer had done it.

  And, in a way, so had he. He’d seen things getting crazy and had known that her back needed watching. It’s all he cared about—not saving Veronica or her mansion—just watching out for Sarah. Of course he wanted the best for Veronica. She was young and dumb, more of a victim than anything else, but the laws of physics don’t care about those things; loose boulders fall off cliffs, whether they deserve it or not. But not Sarah. She wasn’t that boulder. Let her try to save her cousin. He just needed to keep her away from the edge. Those sad eyes told him he hadn’t done a very good job.

  With Dorthea’s file box in one arm and Sarah shivering in the other, he pulled her up the ramp. When they got to the stairway which led up to the lobby, she climbed one deliberate step at a time. Only at the top, when she lunged for the drinking fountain next to the phone booth, did he feel any strength in her body at all.

  “How long since you had water?” he asked, as her mouth chopped at the arcing stream.

  “About a day,” she said.

  “And food?”

  “Don’t know. Long enough that I’m not hungry anymore.”

  When she’d finished drinking, she looked at the phone booth. “I want to call Veronica.”

  “Not here, Sarah. We need to get away from here.” She didn’t argue. He considered telling her about Veronica’s marriage to Ernest, which he’d heard about from Roger Millington. Then he thought better of it.

  When they came out from behind the partition and into the lobby, the clerk, the same lady who’d seen him before, looked up. Mack looked straight ahead, through the revolving doors, relieved to see his truck still in the parking lot. The clerk cleared her throat. They pushed into the revolving doorway.

  “Hey there, wait a minute,” she said. “Can I help you with something?”

  They exited the hotel and squinted into a cold, overcast day. Mack looked at his watch. Just past noon. The day or the date he didn’t know.

  Mack pointed his truck toward Sarah’s house. Dorthea’s henchman had been taken out, he reasoned. It would be safe. Besides, they didn’t have anywhere else to go. When he pulled up and killed the engine, Sarah didn’t say anything about the mess he’d left behind. For his part, Mack felt glad to see the line of boxes in the driveway just where he’d left them, and his pile of stuff in front of the garage. Hopefully it meant nobody had been snooping around.

  “Do you want to wait here while I check the house?”

  She shook her head. He helped her out of the truck. Then they locked arms and maneuvered to the front porch, where he found his answering machine, still plugged into the outlet. He also found the front door still locked. Sarah pointed to a hide-a-key on the bottom porch rail. He stood her next to the wall and unlocked the door. After searching the house, he brought her in and settled her onto the family room couch, just off the entryway, and smothered her in blankets, which he’d found in the hall cabinet.

  He made another trip for Dorthea’s filing box and also grabbed a handful of clean clothes from his pile by the garage—or semi-clean after sitting outside for who knew how many days. Then Sarah tried to reach Veronica on the phone and he wrestled with a dinosaur of a wall heater. Neither of them had much success.

  When one of her phone calls ended abruptly, and she slammed down the phone, he peeked up from the floor by the heater and asked, “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I keep getting some man in a security office. I asked him to connect me to the house and he keeps telling me to leave a message.”

  “Did you try the kitchen?”

  “Yes, and Perkins’ office number, and I get the same guy.”

  “There’s got to be a way around him,” said Mack, as he got up from the floor and sat down next to Sarah. “Dial Perkins’ office for me.” Sarah handed him the receiver and dialed.

  “Yeah, gimme Perkins,” said Mack into the phone. He listened to the guard’s response and then said, “You can take all the messages you want, but if I don’t hear from him in an hour he ain’t getting the pork chops he ordered.” He listened some more. “Take a message or transfer me, it don’t matter to me. Yeah, I’ll hold.” He then held out the phone to Sarah, handling it like his mother’s fine china.
<
br />   She put the phone to her ear and said, “Mr. Perkins! It’s me, Sarah. Yes, yes I’m fine, but we don’t have much time. Veronica is in trouble. You’ve got to get her away from Dorthea. Get her away from Sunny Slope. Mr. Perkins? Mr. Perkins?” She slowly lowered the phone. “I got cut off. I don’t know if he got the message.”

  Mack had been waiting for the right time to tell her about Veronica. Now he realized it might never come. “Sarah,” he said, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Is it about Veronica?”

  “Yes. She married Ernest a few days ago. I didn’t want to say anything until I got you home.”

  Sarah didn’t respond. Mack tried to think of something to say. Don’t worry? Things are never as bad as they seem? Veronica can take care of herself? All lies, or too silly to qualify as lies, so he went back to the stubborn wall heater and managed to get it fired up. After that he barricaded the front door with a pull down desk and the back door with a dresser. All the while Sarah sat on the couch, smothered in blankets. She looked beat up and hopeless. He went into the kitchen to rustle her up some food.

  After a few minutes, she shuffled in, still wrapped in a blanket, and said, “It’s not too late, Mack, and I won’t give up.” Then she sat down at the kitchen table and said, “Now how about if you show me what a little cowboy cooking looks like.”

  A tortured stomach didn’t need more torture, so Mack’s cowboy cooking consisted of bland scrambled eggs, dry toast, and orange juice. Just the thing, he hoped, to get her system up and running again. She ate like a ranch hand and so did he.

  At one point she stopped eating and looked at him. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Your purse. I found it in the flowerbed and found a note from some F. Prince.”

  “Oh yes. The mysterious F. Prince…but that didn’t say where to find me.”

  “No, it didn’t. It was the name on the note. That same person left me a message that I ignored…until I saw the note in your purse. Then I looked again. That’s how I ended up at the hotel. I still don’t know what to think about it. You got a note and then got kidnapped. I got a message and then got bashed on the head. He’s either out to get us or is really bad at helping people. If it’s all the same, I wouldn’t mind if he dropped us from his rolodex.”