by Katie Berry
The usual Christmas rush wasn’t happening this year like it normally was. I think that winter storm slamming the coast scared a lot of customers away. Not as many people travelling for pleasure when it’s shitty outside like that, pardon my French. The road up to this resort is treacherous at the best of times. I think the front desk had only seen a half-dozen guests for the whole day.
Even though the lounge doesn’t close down until midnight, I like to get a head start on my clean-up when it gets to be a little after eleven. But it had been so quiet that night that I had everything pretty much already done by ten o’clock! I’d been thinking to myself that this shift had to be one of the most boring ones in recent memory, but boy was I wrong.
Around a quarter after eleven, I was busy wiping the spots off of some wine glasses with my back to the lounge, since like I said, I had nothing better to do. I could see the whole room at my back in the mirror, and there was nobody anywhere in sight. But all of a sudden, there was the sound of bar stool legs scraping on the floor behind me. Made me jump a little. Now, as I said, I’d been keeping an eye on the mirror, and I couldn’t figure out how anyone could sneak up on me like that. I’m usually on top of things. Must have been tired, I figured.
So, I turned around, and there’s this skinny older guy in a black pin-striped suit, with a bowler hat on his head. You know the kind of hat I mean? Like John Steed wears on that British show, The Avengers? And he was wearing a red silk tie that had a huge diamond stickpin in the middle of it. I remember thinking that if that thing were real, it’d be worth more than an entire year of my wages, so I could see this guy had money. But man, he was pale. Looked like he hadn’t seen much daylight over the last little while. But then again, who has, right? What with the clouds and snow we’ve had over the last few weeks up here? I heard it was so bad that they had to shut the road down about nine o’clock, just a couple hours after Judy left. I kinda wondered since that was the case, how’d he get up here then? Snowmobile? Dog sled?
Anyway, I say to him, “Evening, sir, can I get you something?”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment and just stares at me like he was sizing me up for something, you know?
Let me tell you, I was starting to get pretty uncomfortable by the time he finally did speak, and then he says, all solemn-like, “I’ll take two shots of Glenfiddich, Private Vintage, Single malt. Oh, and add a half-dozen drops of water if you would, my good man.”
“Yes, sir! Right away, sir,” I said. The bottle of 1958 Private Vintage Glenfiddich Scotch Whisky is the most expensive scotch we carry. Just one single ounce costs two hundred dollars! So, two shots were a big sale, especially after how slow it had been! I grabbed the bottle from the top shelf and carefully measured out the right amount. The management around here is very picky about how the pricey booze is handled and makes us keep strict track of the sales from the bottles. I suppose it’s just in case a member of the staff took a liking to something that was way out of their price range and started helping themselves. As soon as I poured the drinks, I had to note it in the logbook sitting underneath the bottle.
But it was weird what happened next. Get this, I’m pouring the second shot, and I glance up into the mirror, and all of a sudden, I thought the guy had left, skipping out after making the order or something. Well, when I turned, I was so surprised, I almost spilled the shots. Cause there the guy sat, looking all regal-like on his stool. I figured maybe it was just the lights here in the Drop playing tricks on my eyes. I mean, you can see how friggin’ dim it is in here, right? You almost need a flashlight for Pete’s sake!
So, he’s sitting there, and he gives me this big smile all full of crooked teeth, and once he sees he has my attention, he begins peeling the skin off his hands! At least, that’s what I thought at first. Turns out he’s wearing these thin leather gloves, really light coloured, almost like the colour of human skin. That was very weird. But let me tell you, that smile of his was worse. For a person with his kind of money, I figured he would have at least gotten around to getting his teeth fixed by that stage of his life, you know? Swear to God, he looked like Count Chocula from my kid’s breakfast cereal box.
Anyway, I slide the shots across the bar on a linen napkin, and the Count picks one up. He sips it all delicate-like, then makes a little, appreciative, “Ah,” and sips a bit more. And then he says, “That is the nectar of the Gods, my friend.”
“Yessir, it’s a very rare blend,” I say, then add, “But we don’t have too many people ever asking for it.”
“Only those with refined and cultured palates, I assume.”
“Right, that and a thick wallet.”
The guy laughed at that, and he smiled with all those teeth again. And then he slides one of the shot glasses across the bar toward me, saying, “Join me, please.”
I said, “I’m really not supposed to drink with the guest’s while on duty, sir.” Then, I pushed the glass back toward him.
“I’m sure that’s something your employer would frown upon, but seeing as it’s almost closing time, what could it hurt?” He looked sneakily around the room and smiled, saying, “I don’t see anyone else around that could object. And besides, how often do you get the chance to take a glass of scotch like this out for a test drive?”
“Well, never, really,” I admitted.
Then he slides the glass over to my side again, saying, “Go ahead, my fine friend, enjoy!”
I looked around, saw nobody was watching, and I had a quick sip of the expensive hooch. I tell you, that stuff didn’t burn its way down like some of the cheaper stuff we sell in this joint. It was warm, smooth, and mellow, just a touch of sweetness — tasted like money, you know? I rolled it around in my mouth and let my taste buds have a little party for a second. I could see why this cost so much. Before I knew it, I had the last of the scotch in my mouth and finished it off in a quick gulp.
The Count laughed and smiled, saying, “It’s always wonderful to see someone not accustomed to the finer things in life, finally getting a chance to sample them.”
I nodded back at him, still feeling that stuff warming me all the way down to my toes.
“I’m wondering if you could do me a favour, though.”
So, I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth and kinda sighed inside. I should have figured there’d be a catch.
Knowing I was on the hook for the two-hundred-dollar shot now, I said, “I’ll do my best to accommodate you, sir.”
“Splendid! I have something I’d like to leave for a friend who won’t be here until New Year’s eve next week. Is there a chance I could leave it here with you? That is if you were going to be travailing on the eve of the grand event yourself, that is?”
Travail on the eve of the grand event? What the hell is this guy talking about? Is he even speaking English, I wonder? Some people and their two-dollar words, I tell you. Anyway, I say, “I’m sorry, sir?”
He clarifies things for me, saying, “Why, working during the New Year’s Eve gala in the ballroom, of course, my fine friend! I was hoping you might be on shift that evening?” The Count bends down at this point and picks up a black doctor’s bag at his feet and sits it on the stool next to him.
“Yes sir, I’ll be working in the ballroom, unfortunately.”
“Why, unfortunately?”
Well, it must have been the booze loosening my tongue a bit because I vented a little at him while he dug around in his bag. I said, “It’s always a grind, serving all the rich and famous types and watching them have a grand old time. While there I am, standing behind the bar and smiling like I wouldn’t rather be any other place than right there on New Year’s eve. But, hey, at least the tips are okay that night.”
“I’m sure they are. And I promise you, this upcoming New Year’s eve will be an evening to remember for the rest of your life!” He reaches into his bag and pulls out this small dark box, about a foot tall. He says, “Tell you what, I’ll leave this with you, and if you can place it out on the
end of the bar in the grand ballroom around eleven o’clock, an acquaintance of mine will stop by just around midnight to pick it up, and nobody will be the wiser.”
“I suppose I could do that,” I say. “What does this guy look like?”
“Don’t worry about that, just leave it on the far end of the bar. Let me just say this, you’ll know him when you meet him, all right?”
“Yessir,” I nodded, then said, “Should I ask what’s in it?”
“You should more correctly ask, what will be in it!” The Count smiles again and lets out this god-awful little laugh.
So, I say, “Look, I really appreciate the drink and all, but I don’t think I should be doing this and acting as a go-between for you and your friend. I mean, there’s nothing illegal in that box, is there?”
He chuckles to himself, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash you could choke at least two horses with! You know what I mean? It was huge! So, he peels off a bill, slaps it on the bar and slides it across to me, saying, “I believe this should cover tonight’s festivities and I’d like you to keep the change for your troubles next week.”
At first, all I see is a number one in each corner of the bill, so I think it’s an old dollar bill. But then, I see the three zeros after the one, and I realise it’s a thousand bucks! I mean, who pays for their drinks with a thousand-dollar bill? Even after taking the four-hundred dollars to cover the cost of two scotches, that would leave over six hundred bucks for me as a tip! Something that would come in very handy over Christmas, let me tell you. So, I say, “All right, sir, I think we have a deal.”
“Thank you, young man, your assistance in this matter is greatly appreciated!” So, he walks away a few steps, then turns around and says, “One final thing, though.”
“Yes sir? What’s that?”
“Do not open this box or try to open it. If you do, my acquaintance will know if you’ve tampered with it, and he will become very distraught, shall we say? And trust me when I tell you, you don’t want to make him distraught.”
“You can count on me, sir,” I said, feeling a little freaked out by that comment. Who was this friend of his?
“Excellent! That’s what I was hoping you’d say. Thank you, my fine young friend. A good evening to you.” So, he turns to leave and starts hustling toward the door, and then I see that he didn’t finish his drink and call out, “What about the rest of your whiskey, sir?”
The Count was already walking toward the door of the lounge at a pretty fast clip when I spoke, so I guess he couldn’t hear me, cause he kept on going. Not wanting anything to go to waste, I pick up his glass, and turn toward the shelves and the mirror again to hide my final big slurp of the remaining scotch. I know what you’re thinking, but waste not, want not, that’s what my mom always used to say.
So, after I downed the booze, I turned back to grab the box from the bar and was surprised to see the guy is still in the doorway to the lounge, looking in at me. I smile at him, and he tips his bowler at me. Then he turns and walks toward the front desk. I pick up the box and place it on the back side of the bar, up against the mirror. When I glanced into the mirror again, he was gone. What the hell? I thought he was going to the front desk. Strange, I think, but maybe he has a room upstairs after all.
As you can imagine, at this point, I needed to have a look at that box. There was a strange-looking padlock through the handles on the front of it and it was sealed tight with this thick black wax all around the edges, so I didn’t think the Count had to worry about anybody opening it, even if they wanted to. I shook it gently, and it was quite light like it was almost empty. But, just in case, I held it to my ear for a moment, listening. I thought maybe it might be a bomb, you know, especially after what happened with that Unabomber guy down in the States recently.
Well, there wasn’t any ticking, but after a couple of seconds, I could have sworn I heard something go ‘tap-tap-tap’. I know I’m not crazy, but it sounded like something was knocking from inside and wanting to be let out. I put the box down pretty quick and stuck it in a lower cabinet out of sight. I never wanted to touch it again but knew that I had to for the money the Count gave me. Not to mention that if I didn’t follow through this ‘friend’ of his might get pissed off and cause a scene and get me fired on New Year’s Eve.”
“Thank you, Mr. O'Malley.”
***
With a click, John turned off the tape recorder. After three-quarters of an hour of negotiating winding frost-filled curves, he pulled his unmarked Suburban to a stop under the resort’s covered entrance, stopping directly behind Jansen’s still idling Ford.
Harder stepped from his large Chevy, his breath surrounding him in a cloud of vapour as he exhaled the warmer air from inside the vehicle. It was bitterly cold up here on the Hill this morning. Before he’d left home, the thermometer hanging on the nail in his carport had said it was twenty-five below outside. He knew from experience that meant that it had to be at least minus thirty-five up here on the mountain top.
He approached the blue and white Crown Victoria idling in front of the main doors. Apart from a security sweep of the hotel perimeter every hour or so, he’d mandated that Jansen keep watch outside the hotel only. She had told John she was more than okay with that and would not enter the Sinclair until he returned. Harder didn’t want any more of his members getting swallowed by the resort like Eggelson. He was concerned that Jansen felt some of what happened to the constable was her fault, which wasn’t true, and didn’t want her searching the building for him on her own in the middle of the night.
Exhaust coiled upward in a thick cloud into the frigid air, obscuring the cruiser for a moment. John reached into the cloud of vapour and rapped on the frosted driver’s side window a couple of times. He expected Jansen to roll it down, but it remained closed. He rapped again, figuring perhaps she was napping and didn’t hear him. The door was unlocked, and he pulled it open, meaning to reprimand the young officer. The interior dome light was on, but the cruiser was empty. He’d left explicit instructions for Jansen not to enter the building under any circumstance, and yet she had apparently done so, disobeying his direct order. Not good, he thought, not good.
Taking two long strides to the top of the steps, he thrust the main doors open. Jansen was nowhere in sight. He hadn’t seen her portable radio in the cruiser, and he hoped that meant she had it on her person. Grabbing his shoulder mic, he tried to bring her up on the radio, but there was no response after several attempts. Depending on the structure they were inside, these radios could sometimes be practically useless. Fortunately, the Sinclair was not one of those buildings, and the reception had been acceptable in most areas, despite all the stone and concrete. But some sections, such as near the ballroom and the royal suite, were a dead zone for all radio transmissions.
Corporal Jansen wasn’t answering her radio for only one of two reasons, and they were both bad. He hoped to God he was wrong, but either way, he found himself praying for the first time ever in his career that a co-worker had fallen ill or become incapacitated in some way. Because if she wasn’t, then the only other possibility was something far, far worse.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
December 24th, 2021, 0759 hours
Overtop two ornate doors, a bronze-lettered banner sign read, ‘Movie Theatre, Swimming Pool & Games Room Access’. Across from them, two more elegant doors led off to a different wing, labelled, ‘Banquet & Ballroom Facilities’. A large, white plastic sign with red lettering was screwed into the decorative surface of the right-hand door beneath, covering most of it. Looking over Lively’s shoulder, Minerva read it aloud, “‘No Admittance, Authorised Personnel Only!’ Oh my, what shall we do now? Is this a job, perhaps, for another one of your little friends?”
Lively stared at the two brilliant brass doorknobs before him for a long moment, then said, “Yes, it is, actually, because I remember this trick from last night.” He reached for his pair of leather gloves, stuffed into a single pocket in his b
omber jacket.
Minerva left Lively to figure out which of his gloves would contain which thumb and moved around him. She grasped the right door’s handle and turned it gently, clicking the pair open. Her hand on the edge of the door handle, she turned back to Lively and said, “I guess we’re authorised.”
“Sis! Be careful with your hands around here. You can get frostbite from almost anything. Keep your gloves on. I tried turning the front door handle last night, and it was more than tongue-sticking to the flagpole cold. I swear I almost took off some skin.” He flashed his palm at Minerva, displaying slightly reddened skin.
Minerva held up her smooth, ungloved hand and smiled sweetly. “See? Nothing! I’m okay. And the front door handle was fine when I arrived. It was cold, but only because its almost thirty below outside.”
“Well, when I touched it, it was like it had been in the vacuum of space. So, I guess I’m just saying be careful.” He gestured Minerva inside, tilting his head slightly as he did, saying, “Ladies first.”