Tea Cups & Tiger Claws

by Timothy Patrick

  Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the human form he’d been expecting but not from where he’d expected it. Dorthea had just emerged from the side hallway, not more than ten steps away. And she had a gun. But how did she get there? She hadn’t come down the main stairway…which meant that she’d exited the ballroom through the first floor servants’ exit…which meant that she’d been down here the entire time and may have heard everything he’d said.

  She walked toward him and made no attempt to hide the gun.

  “Perkins,” said Dorthea.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Perkins,” she said again, standing directly before him.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is Veronica in her room?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her eyes, the color of ice cubes, lingered on him for a moment before she turned. Then she stopped and looked at Veronica. “Wake up you idiot!” she snapped.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Perkins. “Some of the temporary help are not up to standard.”

  “Standard? There is no standard for this, Perkins! Take care of it!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She turned and left, and eventually disappeared into the small corridor beside the main stairway. After a few seconds the elevator came to life, indicating that she’d taken it up to Veronica’s room on the third floor, where she’d discover that Perkins had lied to her. He had only minutes, minutes for Nanny to bring the car, to whisk Veronica out of this armed fortress, to hide her in the back of his Pinto, and to figure out how to fool the nosy guard at the gate.

  Veronica looked up, winked at him, and put her head back down. Oh, to have such youthful nerve; it inspired confidence and vitality—if it didn’t get one killed.

  He watched the front door and listened for the elevator. He tried not to think about Nanny’s exasperating habit of doing the exact opposite of what she’s told. Suddenly she burst through the door. Quick work, thought Perkins, as a bit of hope trickled into his beleaguered mind. He looked at her expectantly.

  She kneaded her hands into a ball. “The boys are trying to get your car. It might take a few minutes.”

  “A few minutes? We don’t have a few minutes!” he said. “I told you to get the car, not a…a…valet!”

  “It’s blocked in by all the other cars! If you had made a plan instead—”

  “Quiet!” said Perkins. He raised his hand to punctuate the command. The elevator had come back to life. “We’re out of time, Nanny. You need to listen to me. You and Veronica make a run for it.” He slid the table over to clear the way for Veronica, and then continued, “I’ll take the gun and hold her off until you get out the gate. Take any car you can find, and tell the gate guard we’re out of…champagne. If that doesn’t work, you have to crash through the gate. Do you understand?”

  “She has a gun?” asked Nanny.

  Just then a body emerged from the corridor—in a hurry. He took that as a bad sign…until his eyes focused and he recognized Sarah, and Mack, who pulled up right behind. It hadn’t been Dorthea at all! They still had time. Sarah and Mack dashed down the hallway to greet them. Of course Nanny came unglued and almost knocked the poor girl over. But even Perkins broke decorum and gave Sarah a hug—while he kept an eye out for Dorthea.

  “Where’s Veronica?” asked Sarah

  “Allo cuzzin! Oim the new coat checker for me Lord!” said Veronica, in her best cockney accent.

  “Veronica?” said Sarah.

  She stood up, took off the wig with some fanfare, and came around the table to embrace her cousin. Perkins watched nervously.

  “You look good, Veronica. Are you feeling better?” asked Sarah, when the two broke their hug.

  “Yes, yes,” said Perkins, “she’s much better…I believe…much better. Do you have a car, Mack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Good. You have to take Veronica and get out of here. Dorthea has a gun. You have to get out of here.” He spread his arms and shepherded everyone toward the front entrance like a determined goose.

  “What about the guard at the gate?” asked Mack.

  “Do whatever it takes. He probably won’t open the gate for you. Now go. Please go.”

  They filed out the door. Sarah, the last one out, looked back and smiled. But then the smile abruptly fell from her face, and she disappeared out the door.

  Perkins turned and saw Dorthea staring down at them from the second floor landing. Without a word she walked down the stairs. She’d seen Sarah, that much he knew, and maybe Veronica too. And he’d lied to her. And she still had the gun.

  “You need to get out of here, Nanny,” he said.

  Nanny stepped toward the front door. Dorthea immediately raised the gun and said, “Stay where you are.” Nanny froze.

  “Go. She can’t hit you from there,” whispered Perkins, who’d resolved to disarm Dorthea, come what may.

  Nanny didn’t move.

  At the bottom of the stairs, gun still pointed at them, Dorthea lifted the telephone handset from the table next to the stairway. “Lock the gate,” she said into the phone. “Don’t let anybody out.” She put down the phone and walked toward them.

  “If a person can be judged by the quality of their enemies,” she said, “then I must protest. Two servile blobs conspiring behind my back just won’t do.”

  She stopped a few feet away and pointed the gun, not at Perkins, as he’d expected, but straight into Nanny’s face, which caused him to lose his nerve.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” continued Dorthea. “I have tremendous appreciation for irrelevant people. Like rusted bridges that lead nowhere, you live worthless lives and accomplish nothing. That takes some doing, but it doesn’t qualify you to ever be regarded as enemies of mine. Now put your keys on the table, both of you.”

  She pulled back the hammer and moved the gun to within inches of Nanny’s face. Nanny whimpered, pulled the keys from her apron pocket, and threw them onto the table. Perkins did the same.

  “Now get into the parlor,” she said.

  They slipped past the table and through the doorway. Perkins watched as Dorthea closed and locked the sliding doors.

  ~~~

  Dorthea walked briskly down the side hallway toward the newly built security office. She exhorted herself to stay focused. Like a dog that’s been lured into the brush by a coyote, Sarah Evans had lured Dorthea’s mind from its desired course. Sarah had been locked in the dungeon, as good as dead. Horrick had chained her to the wall. He’d given Dorthea all the details, about Sarah and the cowboy, and Horrick didn’t have the brains to make up details like that. Something had gone wrong. None of that mattered now, though. She needed to find Veronica. That’s what mattered. Like glue, Veronica’s body, dead or alive, held everything together. At the security office Dorthea punched the code into the electronic lock, pushed open the door, and told herself to stay focused.

  The surprised guard started to stand.

  “Sit down and watch the monitors. I’m looking for two young ladies who just left the house.” He sat down.

  “I haven’t seen two. I got three here, but can’t say if they’re ladies or not.” He pointed to one of the twenty four screens banked in front of his desk.

  “Zoom in.”

  He did as instructed. Dorthea studied three figures jogging between a row of cars parked on the front lawn. She’d seen Veronica and Sarah with her own eyes just minutes before, but not a third person. Still, it had to be them.

  “I think they’re guests leaving early,” he said.

  “Running like thieves, in jeans and winter coats, one of them wearing a servant’s jacket?” she asked sarcastically. He sank into his seat.

  The security team had been hired fast, too fast, and this one, a southerner named Biff, worked in the office for no other reason than a lack of body odor and a knack for electronics. His brother, who had the personality of a ramrod, fared better at the front gate where he harassed undesirables and greeted everyone
else with a suspicious glare.

  The three figures on the monitor slowed to a fast walk. When they moved closer to the camera, Dorthea clearly recognized Veronica and Sarah and…Mack—yet another who’d been locked up in the dungeon. As much as this fact troubled Dorthea, she continued to concentrate on the monitor where she saw Mack walk to a dark colored car. He opened the back door for the cousins before hopping behind the wheel himself.

  Dorthea bent close to the monitor and then stood up straight. She knew that car. It belonged to a spineless man named Sonny Osborne. She’d kept him propped up in the mayor’s office for years, the big man in town who slurped oysters, burped Dom Perignon, and occasionally pulled strings for her at city hall. She had enough on him to send him away for a hundred years. As a matter of caution, though, she had Horrick pay him occasional visits, to keep him on the straight and narrow, but he never seemed to need it. As long as his name stayed on the mayor’s door, and he had the place of honor at half a dozen banquets a year, he behaved better than a lobotomy patient.

  But now, out of the dozens of cars, how did these three end up in Sonny Osborne’s Rolls Royce? From what she’d seen on the monitor, it hadn’t been a random selection; they went straight to his car. “Give me the microphone,” she said. “I want the gatehouse. Who’s down there?”

  “My brother.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Bear.”

  “Biff and Bear. How could I forget? I hope you don’t have a sister.” Dorthea put the microphone to her mouth and said, “Wake up Bear. Do you hear me?”

  “This is Bear. Go ahead.”

  “I want you to block the gate.”

  “Roger…uh…ten-four…yeah. What do I block it with?”

  “A car!”

  “Ten-four…wilco.”

  Bear ran out the back door of the gatehouse and out of view. After a few seconds a sorry-looking white four door backed up to block the gate.

  “That’s our car,” said Biff.

  Dorthea ignored him and his five hundred dollar tuna boat and instead watched the other monitors that showed Mack drive through a row of cars to the driveway, where he turned left toward the front gate.

  “Get more security down there,” said Dorthea, handing him the microphone.

  Biff called for reinforcements, and Dorthea watched Mack drive slowly down the hill. He passed from one security monitor to another, moving closer to the barricaded gate. When the car passed between camera zones, it disappeared from the monitors altogether but eventually popped up again. At one point, no more than fifty yards from the gate, the car stopped, in the middle of the driveway, and Mack stuck his head out the window. He looked straight into the camera then ducked back in and put the car in reverse. Back the car went, falling off one monitor, popping up on another, still backing up, falling off another monitor, and…and…. Dorthea stared at the screen. It didn’t pop back up. “Where are they?” she yelled.

  “Maybe it stopped again…between cameras….”

  “Then move the cameras!”

  “…I can’t…they don’t move. I can send security.”

  “Then do it!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “No! Wait!” she said. The Rolls had reappeared and now moved forward again, going fast, too fast really; it flew from one monitor to another.

  Biff stood up and watched it barrel down the driveway.

  Dorthea grabbed the microphone and yelled, “He’s trying to crash through the gate!”

  “Roger, roger.”

  Biff put his hands on his head and said, “No, no, not my car.”

  The sturdy Rolls Royce broadsided the rust-worn hand-me-down, threw it up, onto its side, into the gate, and back down, where it smashed onto the hood of the Rolls. Dorthea heard the crash, felt it in the shaking walls, and then heard it again, delayed, over the open radio, because big bad Bear had been too transfixed to take his finger off the microphone button.

  And then she saw nothing except the grainy image of a dissipating cloud of dust and smoke. Nothing moved inside the Rolls Royce. Semiconscious heads didn’t bob, bodies didn’t writhe, and hands didn’t grope for an exit. It looked like a graveyard, and Dorthea immediately wondered if she could ever be that lucky. Two guards came into view, approaching the car, when a flash of light reduced the monitor to a storm of gray and white particles. It flickered and focused, flickered and focused again, before it came back to reveal the Rolls Royce covered in flames.

  “Uh…I think we have a situation down here,” said Bear.

  At first the fire seemed to be on the outside of the car, where it probably leapt up from a pool of gasoline spilled out on the ground. One of the guards tried to move in close. He leaned back, turned his head away from the heat, and grabbed the handle to the back door. It didn’t budge. He pulled again, it still didn’t open. Smoke poured from the deformed seams and crumpled hood of the Rolls. The flames, no longer young and tentative, climbed higher, up into the bowels of the junker. Another guard came into view. He buried his face into the back of the first guard and reached in through the broken window to try the door from the inside. Their bodies pulled in unison, once, twice, three times, but the door held. And then the flames gorged themselves on greasy rubber hoses, melted fuel lines, and the hundreds of components that are fireproof at eight hundred degrees but combustible at sixteen hundred. The guards backed away.

  “Uh…should we call the fire department or something?” asked Bear over the radio.

  Dorthea wanted to laugh, to laugh hard and loud, to catch up the burnt remains of her burdens in a wheezy, sadistic whirlwind of laughter. Instead, she put the microphone to her mouth and said, “Yes, Bear, call the fire department.” She put the gun, still clutched in her right hand, onto the desk, and turned to leave. She had damage control to do. Then she could laugh.

  Before she’d walked twenty paces down the side hallway, towards the main hallway, Dorthea heard the security office door click behind her. She turned and saw Biff stick his head out of the open doorway.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “I think there’s a problem. I just saw three people running along the side of the driveway.”

  Back in the office he pointed at a monitor but it didn’t show anything suspicious. She grabbed the microphone. “Bear, Bear, come in.”

  “This is Bear. Go ahead.”

  “Who did you see in the car?”

  “Uh…I didn’t see anyone…and neither did the other guys, so we can’t say—”

  She ignored the rest of the transmission and studied the monitors. After a few seconds, three figures popped up. “Where are they?” asked Dorthea.

  “That’s the camera down by the stable,” said Biff.

  Dorthea watched them huddle by a tree for a few seconds and then scurry over to a bush where they knelt down. Then they dashed across the driveway and fell off the monitor—yet again. Before she had time to properly curse the idiot who’d sold her the security system, they popped back up, running through the stable parking area. They ran up to a giant horse trailer, opened the side door, and piled in. Gone. Out of view. But she knew where to find them.

  Dorthea studied the trailer and the truck attached to it. Especially the truck.

  “Do you want me to send security?” asked Biff.

  She turned to the wall next to the door and plucked a hand held radio from its rack and picked up the gun from the desk.

  “No. Just tell me if they move,” she said. And then she left, dressed for combat, with radio, gun, and matching ball gown.

  ~~~

  Sarah didn’t know exactly what Dorthea had seen from the top of the stairway. Had she seen Veronica? Mack? Old people complain about their eyesight. Maybe from that distance she’d only seen human bodies with hazy features, and maybe Nanny had covered for them with one of her sing-songy lies that sounds like an Irish bedtime story, and maybe Perkins’ guilty look hadn’t given it all away. Then Sarah saw the barricaded front gate and the guards with draw
n guns, and that pretty much answered the question about Dorthea’s eyesight.

  It also had meant they needed to buy some time, so Mack put a rock on the gas pedal and sent the mayor’s empty Rolls crashing into the front gate. The fiery diversion worked better than they had expected.

  Now, shoulder to shoulder in the dark storage compartment of the manor’s big horse trailer, they gulped cold winter air.

  “Is the door locked?” whispered Sarah breathlessly.

  “Yes,” said Mack. And then, between breaths, he continued, “There are two ways out. Over the front wall. Or out back. Down the Canyon.”

  “They’re waiting for us in the front,” said Sarah.

  “Cliffs and sharp rocks wait for us in the canyon,” said Veronica. “Even if we make it down, it’s twenty miles to town—I’d never make it.”

  “We can do it on horseback,” said Mack.

  “Horseback? In the dark?” said Veronica.

  “Dark for us, not for the horses,” said Mack.

  “That’s right. They see better at night than we do in the day. And they’ve been down that trail a hundred times,” said Sarah.

  “I’ve got halters right here and long lead ropes we can use for reins,” said Mack.

  “How about seatbelts?” asked Veronica.

  “No, but I’ve got an old gelding named Eddy that’s too lazy to do anything except follow the horse in front of him.”

  After a pause Veronica said, “Ok, lazy Eddy, the follower, I’ll take him…just don’t put him behind a horse named Lightning…or Nitro…or anything like that.”

  “Nice and easy the whole way. I promise. Now I need to turn on the light for a second,” said Mack.

  Two twelve volt lights flickered overhead and lit up a windowless storage compartment about the size of a small bathroom, but longer, with a rectangular metal storage bin built against the far wall from where they stood by the door. In front of the bin, built into both the left steel wall panel and the right, jutted the empty arms of three tier saddle racks. On the left, in front of the saddle racks, close to the door, were waist high stainless steel cabinets with a stainless counter top. From hooks on the wall opposite the cabinets, Mack grabbed three halters with attached lead ropes. He studied the length of the lead ropes before going to the storage bin on the far wall. While Mack rummaged, Sarah looked at Veronica. She looked alive, not exactly healthy, but finally alive.