Endurance

“Why don’t you go with your grandmother,” Mom said, wiping the sweat from her forehead and replacing it with a streak of grime. “Take JD for a walk.”

Kelly Pillsbury frowned at her mother, who’d been trying to change the flat tire for more than ten minutes now. The last nut refused to come off. Each of the women had taken a turn with the tire iron, but it was rusted on tight. Grandma was the one who suggested a squirt of WD-40. Now they were all waiting around for the lubricant to soak in, loosen the nut up, so they could get back on the road.

“I’m cool,” Kelly said.

She took a furtive glance at the wilderness around her. More trees than she’d ever seen, covering the hills and mountains in every direction. It was gorgeous, and being out here made Kelly forget her established role as a sullen tween. Make that teen. She was turning thirteen in only three days.

Something caught her eye at the tree line, alongside the winding road. A quick streak that looked like a man.

A man darting behind some bushes.

But it had been too big for a man. A bear, maybe?

No. Bears don’t wear overalls.

Kelly squinted into the woods, but the figure didn’t reappear. She listened for a moment, and heard only the faint click click click of the wind spinning the rear wheels of their three bikes, bolted to the rack on the Audi’s roof. After a moment, Kelly believed she’d imagined the figure, that her eyes were playing tricks on her after such a long road trip.

Who would be way out here in the middle of nowhere anyway? We left modern civilization two hours ago, the last time we stopped for gas.

She looked back at her iPod and unpaused her game, Zombie Apocalypse, on level 64, with only ¼ of her health left. Kelly had never beaten level 65, and she’d been playing the game for more than a month.

“Kelly?” her mom said.

“Huh?”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“What?” Mom was seriously breaking her concentration.

“Go help Florence walk the dog.”

Kelly flicked the touch screen, pausing again. Mom had her bare arms folded, her muscles popping up like a man’s. Kelly subconsciously checked her own arms. She prided herself in being strong, but she never wanted to look like that. Never. Muscles on women were gross.

“Grandma’s doing fine.”

The women both looked at Grandma. The sixty-five year old was tugging on JD’s leash. JD was sitting on the road, licking himself between his legs. At over a hundred pounds, the German Shepherd weighed about as much as Grandma did.

“Kelly. Don’t make me say it again.” Mom lowered her voice. “Give her a chance. Please. For me.”

Kelly sighed loudly and rolled her eyes, even though Mom never said please. Then she tucked her iPod into her fanny pack and stalked over to Grandma and the dog. It was bad enough that Grandma was coming to live with them after the Iron Woman race, but Mom had also insisted Kelly give up her room and move into the much smaller third bedroom.

Totally unfair.

Kelly didn’t understand why Grandma was moving in anyway. She and Mom had some kind of falling out years ago, after dad died, and Kelly hadn’t seen her grandmother since she was six. She had no idea why they’d been out of touch for so long, but now here they were, pretending to care about each other. One big happy.

“Stubborn, isn’t he?” Grandma let the leash go slack. Like Kelly, she was dressed in jogging shorts and a loose tee, though even at her ancient age, Grandma filled the clothes out better. “I don’t think he likes me.”

“He only walks for me and Mom. If he didn’t like you, you’d know. He’d be growling and the hair would stand up on his back. C’mere, JD.”

At the command, JD’s ears pricked up and he pranced over to Kelly, the leash pulling out of Grandma’s hand. He bumped his massive head into Kelly’s hip, and gave her arm a lick. He then switched to licking the scab on her knee—a training injury from a few days ago.

Grandma walked up to them. She wasn’t as muscular as Mom, and just a bit shorter, but the resemblance was amazing. When the three of them stood next to each other, it was like looking at the same woman at different stages of her life. Each of them also wore their blond hair the same way, in a ponytail, though Grandma’s was mostly gray.

“Want to go north?” Grandma said, pointing her chin over Kelly’s shoulder. “I hear a waterfall. We could go check it out.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“You will, as we get closer. Come on.”

Grandma moved at an easy jog, cutting across the road, into the thick trees. Kelly lived her whole life in southern Illinois, flat as a bowling alley with no flora taller than corn stalks. West Virginia, with its mountains and forests, seemed like a different country. It was beautiful, but Kelly refused to admit it aloud, sticking her nose back in her iPod whenever Mom or Grandma pointed out something pretty during the long drive. She didn’t want to give either of them the satisfaction, still sore about the bedroom thing, which Mom sprung on her when they picked Grandma up at the airport yesterday.

Why didn’t Mom give up her room to Grandma? It was all a bunch of BS.

No, not BS. It was straight-up bullshit.

Just thinking about the swear word made Kelly feel older. She frowned, then followed her grandmother.

Ten steps into the woods, Kelly felt like she’d been swallowed. The trees were everywhere, and she lost all sense of direction. Grandma weaved through the forest like a jackrabbit, her pace increasing, and Kelly began to fall behind.

“Slow down! JD can’t keep up!”

In fact, JD was doing fine. Kelly was also doing fine, at least in the stamina department. She’d trained for seven months for the triathlon, and was enormously proud to be the youngest contestant this year. But Kelly was used to running on asphalt, not rocky wilderness. Her steps alternated between jagged outcroppings and soft dirt that sucked at her gym shoes. Kelly spent so much time watching her footing she was afraid Grandma would get too far ahead and disappear.

“Don’t look at your feet.”

Kelly startled, coming to a stop. Somehow Grandma had materialized right in front of her.

“I’m gonna break my ankle.”

“Look into my eyes, Kelly.”

Kelly did as instructed, Grandma’s eyes were blue, like hers and mom’s, but set in a valley of deep wrinkles. Kelly couldn’t remember Grandma ever smiling. Not that she was a mean woman. But she was serious all the time.

“Can you see my hand?” Grandma asked.

Kelly glanced down at Grandma’s wriggling fingers.

“No, Kelly. Keep looking at me while you do it.”

Kelly sighed, then stared at Grandma again.

“Keeping your eyes on mine, can you see my hand?”

Kelly couldn’t see it, at least not clearly. But she could make out an indistinct blur.

“I guess.”

“What am I doing?”

“Wiggling your fingers.”

“Good. Now watch me.”

Grandma took a step back and stood with her legs apart, her hands at waist-level, one in front of the other. She quickly raised her arms up over her head, then brought each hand around in a circle. They met again at her belt-line, palms out. The entire time, her gaze was locked onto Kelly.

“What’s that?” Kelly asked.

“The beginning of a kata called Kushan Ku. It helps improve your peripheral vision. The goal is to be able to see your hands while looking straight ahead.”

“What’s the point?”

“To be aware of everything around you, and not just what’s in front of you.”

“So?”

“So then you’ll know if someone does this.”

Kelly felt wind on her cheek. She looked, and saw Grandma’s palm an inch away from slapping her ear. Kelly hadn’t seen Grandma’s hand move at all.

JD growled, baring his teeth.

“Shush,” Grandma said. “Be nice.”

The dog whined, then sat down and began licking himself again.

“Can you teach me how to do that?” Kelly asked. “To hit that fast?”

“It’s up to your mother. She never really warmed up to the martial arts.”

“Show me that kata thing again.”

“Kushan Ku.”

Grandma repeated the move. Kelly handed over the leash and tried it. She could just barely make out her hands at the very edge of sight.

“I can see them.”

She also thought she saw something else. Something moving in the woods. Kelly remembered the man she’d seen earlier, but kept her eyes on Grandma, as instructed. Besides, if there was a man in the forest, JD would be barking.

That is, if JD could keep his snout out of his own crotch for more than ten seconds.

“Good. Now use your peripheral vision when you’re running over the rocks, so you don’t have to keep your head down. Keep your eyes ahead of you, but not your entire focus.”

“I can try.”

Grandma took off, JD running alongside her. Kelly trailed behind, doing as Grandma said, and found she could move much quicker. She looked around for the man in the overalls, but only saw foliage.

Kelly smiled, relaxing a little. The summer breeze smelled like pine trees and wild flowers, and she enjoyed the stretch and pull in her hamstrings and quads. It was a brief run, barely even a warm-up, before Kelly caught up to Grandma on a crest.

“Hey,” Kelly said. “JD let you walk him.”

Grandma wasn’t even out of breath. “Can you hear it now?”

“What?”

“Listen.”

Kelly heard it. A hissing, splashing sound.

“The waterfall?”

Grandma nodded. “Which direction is it in?”

“I can’t tell.”

“Close your eyes. Open your ears.”

Kelly shut her eyes and listened. The sound seemed to be coming from no particular direction.

“Try turning around. Tune out everything else.”

Kelly shifted slightly. She spun in a slow circle, eventually locking in on the direction of the water. When she opened her eyes, she was grinning.

“It’s this way,” Kelly said, bounding off into the woods.

She jogged down a hill, around a bend, and then to a clearing, skidding to a stop because the ground simply ended. Kelly felt her stomach sink, staring down off the side of a sheer cliff. She wasn’t good with heights, and even though she could swim three hundred laps in the school pool she was terrified of diving boards. Standing on ledges just wasn’t her thing.

Then she saw the waterfall.

It was gigantic, at least fifty feet high. The vertigo made her back up two steps.

“Lovely,” Grandma said.

Kelly hadn’t even heard the old woman come up beside her.

“I don’t really like heights.”

“Your eyes can make you afraid of things you shouldn’t be afraid of. Are you standing on solid ground?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think you should trust more, your eyes, or the solid ground?”

“The ground.”

“So trust the ground and let your eyes enjoy the view.”

Kelly trusted the ground and stared at the waterfall. A fine mist hovered overhead and made a double rainbow in the rays of the setting sun. It was prettier than a postcard, and not so scary anymore.

“Is this what Vietnam looked like?” Kelly asked. Then she immediately regretted it. According to Mom, Grandma never talked about the war. Kelly knew she was there for four years as a combat nurse, but that was all.

“Parts of it. Parts if it were so beautiful it hurt.”

“Is that where you learned that kung fu stuff?”

“It’s karate. And no, I learned that after my tour ended. Let’s go back, see how Letti is doing with that tire. Can you find the way?”

“I dunno. I don’t think so.”

“Try it. Maybe you’ll surprise yourself. If you get confused, see if you can spot any of our footprints. The ground is soft and we made quite a few.”

Grandma’s eyes were serious, but kind.

“How come you never smile?” Kelly asked. She watched Grandma’s eyes get hard again, and regretted the question.

“It happened during the war,” Grandma said. “They shot my smile off.”

What? They shot her smile off?”

Then Grandma winked.

Kelly grinned, took a final, unsteady glance at the waterfall, then bounded back into the woods. Nothing looked particularly familiar, but she managed to spot a footprint so she knew she was on the right track, even though the footprint seemed rather large. Then she recognized a big tree she’d passed earlier, and she altered her course, picking up speed and growing more confident.

Abruptly, something snagged her shoulder, pulling her off her feet. Kelly landed on her butt, hard, and someone covered her mouth before she could yell out.

“Shh.” Grandma was kneeling next to her, her hand over Kelly’s face. “Stay calm.”

Kelly didn’t understand what was happening, and she was about to protest, when she noticed JD. The dog was crouching down, ready to pounce, his teeth bared. All the hair on the dog’s neck stood out like spikes. Kelly followed the animal’s gaze and saw—

—trees. Nothing but trees.

Then something moved. Ever so slightly, but enough for Kelly to distinguish the body from the surrounding foliage.

It was a man, hiding behind a giant oak. The one in the overalls she’d seen earlier. He was incredibly tall, wearing a plaid shirt and a baseball cap. There was something wrong—something horribly wrong—with his face. And his eyes...

His eyes look red.

The man stared right at Kelly, and she’d never been more frightened in her life.

JD barked, making Kelly jerk in surprise.

“Hello,” Grandma said to the stranger. “We were looking at the waterfall. I hope we’re not trespassing on your property. If so, we’re sorry.”

Grandma didn’t sound sorry. She sounded tough as a barrel of hammers.

The man continued to stare. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

What happened to his face?

“We’ll be on our way.”

JD barked again, then began to growl.

“Easy, boy. We don’t want you biting any more strangers.”

JD had never bit anyone. But Kelly understood why Grandma said that; it might scare the man off.

But the man didn’t look scared. He simply shifted from one leg to the other, revealing something he was holding in his hand.

Oh, shit.

That’s a shotgun.

“Let’s go,” Grandma whispered. “Fast.”

Kelly didn’t have to be told twice. The two of them sprinted, JD alongside, down the hill in a zigzag pattern. Kelly kept expecting to hear a gunshot, and could almost feel a cold area between her shoulder blades where she was sure the bullet would hit. Mom had what she called a varmint gun, a small .22 she used to scare off the raccoons who liked to get into the garbage cans. Kelly knew the damage that could do.

This man’s gun was a lot bigger.

Not soon enough, they broke through the tree line and were back on the road. Kelly looked left, then right, and couldn’t see their car.

Had the man gotten Mom?

“This way,” Grandma said. “Over the crest.”

Grandma’s strides were long, and Kelly matched her. On the asphalt she had a lot more confidence, the hard road under her feet solid and familiar. She sprinted ahead, feeling her muscles stretch, JD easily matching pace as he galloped alongside. The hill was a gradual incline, tough on the shins, and after two hundred meters her breath came faster.

Is this the right way? What if Grandma is wrong? What if Mom isn’t over the crest?

She took a quick glance over her shoulder, but the strange man wasn’t behind them.

What was wrong with his face? It was all messed up.

They were almost to the top of the hill now. Ten steps. Five steps. Kelly willed her mom to be there. Not only there, but with the tire already fixed so they could get the hell away from here. Kelly pulled even further in front, reaching the crest, staring down on the winding road and—

Nothing. Mom and the car weren’t there.

Then JD took off, pulling the leash out of Kelly’s hand, jerking her forward and almost making her fall. He tore ahead, running around the bend, out of sight.

Kelly glanced at Grandma, who was matching her pace. The old woman stared back, her face solemn.

“The car...” Kelly sputtered.

“It’s ahead.”

“JD...”

“Ahead.”

Kelly felt like crying. “I’m… scared.”

“Use it. Everyone gets scared. Don’t let it paralyze you. Your body, or your mind.”

Kelly lengthened her stride again; a dangerous move since they were going downhill. If she hit some loose gravel, or stumbled somehow at this speed, it would cause more damage than just a skinned knee.

“Kelly. Slow down.”

But Kelly didn’t slow down. Her feet pressed against the street faster and faster, and Kelly became off-balance on the decline. She pitched forward, envisioning her chin cracking against the pavement, her face scraping down to the teeth and cheekbones, her knees breaking and head bursting—

“Kelly!”

Grandma caught Kelly’s shirt, steadying her. Kelly took a few more unsteady steps and then slowed down enough to keep her balance.

They pushed through the turn, Kelly hoping she’d see Mom and the car and JD, fearing she’d see the strange man with the gun.

But there was nothing ahead but empty road.

“We went... the wrong... way,” Kelly said between pants. She began to slow down even more.

“Keep running.”

Kelly wished she’d paid more attention on the car ride up. None of this seemed familiar. The road. The woods. The mountains. It all looked the same.

“Is this...” she gasped, “the right road?”

“Yes.”

“But...”

“Don’t talk. Run.”

Grandma pulled in front. Kelly fell back five paces, thinking Grandma was wrong, thinking about turning around and going the other way.

Then they rounded another turn and Kelly saw their car.

JD left Mom’s side and came sprinting over to Kelly. He knew not to jump on her, and instead doubled back and ran with her until they reached the car.

“I changed the tire. Did you and Grandma enjoy—” Mom squinted at Kelly. “Babe, are you okay?”

“There was a man,” Kelly huffed and puffed. “His face was messed up. He had a gun.”

Grandma coasted to a stop alongside them.

“Florence? What happened?”

Mom hadn’t called Grandma Mom since Dad died.

Grandma blew out a deep breath. “I’m not sure. Could have been a hunter. Could have been some hillbilly protecting his whiskey still. Scary-looking fellow, wasn’t he, Kelly?”

“Did he threaten you?” Mom asked.

Grandma shook her head. “Kept his gun down. Didn’t say a word. Might not be used to talking, though. He had a severe harelip, probably a cleft palate. Talking would be difficult.”

“Should we call the police?”

“For having a gun in West Virginia? They’d laugh us off the phone.”

“Are you okay, Kelly?”

Kelly felt like crying, and Mom showing concern made the emotion even stronger. But she sucked it in, got her breathing under control.

I’m almost a teenager. Teenagers don’t cry.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Grandma folded her arms. “She said she’s fine, Letti. Kelly’s almost a teenager. Quit treating her like a child.”

Kelly matched Grandma’s pose, taking strength from it. “Yeah, Mom. Now can we get going?”

Mom made a face, then looked at her watch. “We’ve got another forty minutes before we get to the bed and breakfast. Do you need to pee?”

Kelly rolled her eyes. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Geez, Mom.” She walked over to the car and climbed into the backseat.

Surprisingly, Grandma got in next to her.

“Let’s let JD ride shotgun. I’d like to see that game you’re playing on your iPod.”

“Uh, sure.”

As Mom pulled back onto the road, Kelly showed Grandma Zombie Apocalypse.

“It’s really hard. I can’t get past level 65.”

“Sure you can,” Grandma said. “You just haven’t yet.”

Kelly attacked the level with a frenzy. For some reason, more than anything, she wanted to prove Grandma right.

# # #

“I’m sorry, Miss Novachek. All of our rooms are booked.”

Deb Novachek kept her anger in check. She was an expert at that.

“But I have a reservation. I confirmed it yesterday.”

The concierge looked pained. He was a tall, pasty man with a bad hairpiece that looked like an animal was perched on his head. His nametag read Franklin. “I realize that. And I humbly apologize for the inconvenience. We overbooked. Your room will be available tomorrow morning, and we’ll upgrade you to a suite at no extra cost.”

“That’s not good enough. Tomorrow is the pre-event briefing. I have to be there early.”

Deb fleetingly considered playing the special needs card, but she knew she’d sleep in her car before she did that. Hell, she’d sleep on the street with a newspaper blanket before she asked for preferential treatment.

“I really wish there was something I could do. I’m very sorry.”

“I’d like to speak to the manager.”

“Miss Novachek, I am the manager. I’ll not only upgrade to a suite tomorrow, but we’d be happy to pay for it to make up for the inconvenience.”

“That doesn’t do me any good tonight.”

Deb felt like crossing her arms, but resisted. It messed with her balance.

“Unfortunately, this seems to happen every year at triathlon time. Every hotel and motel in town is filled to capacity.”

Deb frowned. “Could I room with another contestant staying here?”

Franklin reached for the phone. “That would be up to them. If you give me a name, I can connect you.”

“I don’t know anyone here. This is my first time at Iron Woman.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t just start randomly calling guests.” He put the receiver down and tapped his pale chin, apparently thinking. “You know, there is a bed and breakfast, forty miles out of town. It’s so out of the way, it probably has some rooms available. Would you like me to check for you?”

Deb took a deep breath, let it our slow. “Yes. Please.”

“I’ll need to find the number. I’ll be right back.”

Franklin waddled off. Deb turned away from the check-in counter and faced the lobby. It was crammed full of people. Some of them spectators. Several of them reporters, complete with video cameras and microphones. A few of the women were obviously athletes, and Deb considered approaching some of them, asking if they’d like to share a room. But she didn’t move.

Deb valued her privacy. Social situations were painfully awkward for her.

Which is why she quickly turned away when she saw the man staring.

Men stared at her all the time. So did women. And kids. Even animals did, somehow able to sense something was wrong with her.

But this man wasn’t gawking. He had a playful smile on his face, and his eyes crinkled when she caught him looking.

This wasn’t a gawker. This was a flirt.

Deb preferred the gawkers. She unconsciously glanced down at her cosmetic legs. They were covered by sweatpants. Unless someone was paying close attention, they couldn’t tell, even when she was walking.

“Hello.”

The voice startled her, and she turned around. Mr. Flirt was in her personal space, less than a foot away from her, a sly grin on his face. Deb noted his breath smelled like cinnamon, and he was even cuter up close. Strong chin with a bit of stubble. A roman nose. Neatly cut hair, dark and parted on the side. Sort of like a younger George Clooney.

“Can I help you?” Deb’s voice came out clipped, and a bit squeaky.

“Are you Debra Novachek?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Mal Deiter. Sporting Digest. My office has been in touch.”

He offered his hand.

So he’s not a flirt. He’s a reporter. Which means he knows about my legs.

Deb didn’t know if that made it less awkward, or more awkward. For some reason, she had pictured a woman interviewing her. Or some pudgy old man. Not someone good-looking.

Good-looking guys made her nervous.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Deiter.” She took his hand and shook it hard, businesslike, then quickly pulled away. “They seem to be having some trouble finding me a room here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“If you’re really sorry, you can give me your room.”

“I would, Ms. Novachek, if I had one. But I’m already doubled up with my photographer.” He pointed to a portly man with a very large camera in his hands, shooting people in the lobby. “That’s Rudy. Great talent, but a terrible roommate. He snores so loudly he can loosen your fillings. I’m going to wind up on the lobby sofa if I want to get any rest tonight.”

He smiled, and it was a dynamite smile. Deb wondered why he worked for a magazine when he had a face for TV. She decided against asking, not wanting to compliment him and risk it sounding like a come-on.

Not that Deb could even remember what it was like coming on to a guy.

The manager returned. “The Rushmore Inn does have a few rooms left for tonight. I took the liberty of making you a reservation and drawing you a map. We’re also covering the cost of your room there. It will be free of charge.”

Deb bit back thanking him, instead saying, “I have a GPS. I don’t need a map.”

He pushed the paper toward her. “It’s really out of the way. I doubt the Inn, or even the road, is on the GPS.”

“How long will it take to get there?”

“An hour. Maybe an hour and a half at the most.”

Deb clenched her jaw. Her mood worsened when she saw the cute reporter furtively eyeing her legs.

She slapped her hand on the map and picked it up.

“Again, we really apologize for this inconvenience.” The manager smiled, but this time it seemed more cruel than sympathetic. “I hope to see y’all tomorrow, Miss Novachek.”

Deb raised an eye at the manager’s sarcastic tone. She let it slide, instead turning to the reporter.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Deiter. This isn’t going to work.”

“Call me Mal.”

“Mal, I know we were going to do the interview tonight over dinner, but I won’t have time. It seems I just lost three hours.”

“You still have to eat, don’t you?”

“Hopefully I can pick something up on the way to the inn. I didn’t figure on an extra ninety minute drive tonight.”

The fat photographer, Rudy, had come over and was snapping Deb’s picture. This annoyed her. She hadn’t checked her hair, or her make-up.

Not that they want pictures of my face. My face isn’t the reason for the interview.

“Ms. Novachek, this is Rudy.”

“Ma’am.” Rudy held out a chubby hand. It was moist when Deb shook it.

“Nice to meet you, Rudy, but it looks like you guys will have to find some other subject for your story.”

“We’ve got other subjects,” Rudy said. “But you’re the big one. You came first in your age group in the Denver Triathlon, and third overall. You’re a tremendous athlete, Ms. Novachek. Especially considering the loss of your legs. I’ve heard you have different prosthetic legs for each part of the event. Do you have some with fins for the swimming portion?”

Rudy was talking loud enough to attract the attention of others in the room. Deb felt every eye on her, but managed to keep her voice steady.

“I don’t wear my legs for the swimming portion. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I had an unfair advantage. And now if you’ll excuse me.”

Deb shoved the map into her fanny pack and began to walk away from the counter.

“But we want you for the cover...” Rudy said.

She willed herself not to run. These weren’t her running legs, and it was easy to catch her toes on things. The thought of the fat guy snapping her photo when she was flat on her face was too much to bear.

“Ms. Novachek... please...”

The reporter was next to her, his expression concerned.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Deiter—”

“Mal.”

“—I’m simply not going to have time.”

“I could ride with you to the inn. He said the Rushmore, right? I was actually going to take a cab there, anyway. That’s where the Pillsburys are staying. They’re my other interview.”

“I only have a two seater.”

“It would just be me. Rudy will stay here. He’s actually a nice guy. A bit blunt, but not a mean bone in his body. I hope he didn’t offend you.”

“Not at all.”

That was the truth. Nothing offended Deb these days. And she prided herself that she was also beyond embarrassment. Since she lost her legs, Deb had gotten so accustomed to her condition that she was mostly oblivious to other people’s reaction to her. Hell, when she jogged around town, she often stopped to let kids touch her running prosthetics.

So why am I so anxious to get away right now?

She knew the reason.

It’s because he’s attractive. Talking to handsome guys makes me feel inferior, inadequate.

Incomplete.

But am I strong enough to deal with it?

Deb took a calming breath, let it out slow.

Yes. Yes I am.

“Please, Ms. Novachek. I feel like we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot...”

Deb stopped and shot him a look. He seemed confused for a moment, and then he turned such a bright shade of red she thought he might pop.

“Oh... jeez... look, I really didn’t mean to say foot...”

She let him squirm for a moment, because he was cute doing so. Then she let him off the hook.

“It’s okay. I put my foot in my mouth all the time. Want to see me take it off and do it right now?”

He looked mortified, then noticed her grin and burst out laughing.

Deb allowed herself a small smile. It felt pretty good.

“Ms. Novachek, I have a feeling this is going to be a great interview.”

Deb had that feeling too. “Call me Deb.”

“Thank you, Deb.” He offered his hand again.

This time, when she took it, she didn’t squeeze as hard. Or pull away as fast.

“Look, Deb, I don’t want to impose, but the desk clerk said they had several rooms, and since all of my interviews are at the same inn, it makes sense for me to stay there as well. Do you mind if I grab my suitcase from my room? I know you’re in a hurry but I haven’t even unpacked yet. It’ll just take a second.”

“Sure, Mal. I’m parked right outside the lobby. It’s the red Corvette.”

“Thanks. I’ll be two minutes, tops.”

He gently disengaged his hand, then quickly walked over to Rudy and exchanged a few words. Deb turned to go to her car and caught a glimpse of the manager again. He was looking straight at her, and seemed to be saying something.

To me?

No. He was talking on the phone. He smiled at her, then shot her with his thumb and index finger.

Asshole.

Deb turned, slow and easy, and headed through the lobby, to the revolving doors.

Revolving doors were tough to navigate in her cosmetic legs. So were stairs and ramps. Ladders were the worst of all, and the one time she tried to climb one, she fell and sprained her wrist.

There are no handicaps. Only challenges.

But why does every simple thing have to be a challenge?

Back when she was still doing the Internet dating thing, one of her prospects actually had the guts to ask what it felt like, trying to walk on prosthetics.

“Ever have your foot fall asleep then try to walk?” she’d responded.

It was a good analogy, but not perfect. It explained the lack of sensation, and how taking away that sensation made it very hard to judge where to place your feet. But it didn’t cover the balance difficulties. Deb spent over a year in thrice-daily physical therapy to get to where she could walk again, and another two years to be able to run, which required a whole new set of challenges.

She approached the revolving door warily, timed it right, then took some awkward little hops to get in, holding the door for support. When she made it through she let out a little sigh of relief—falling in a revolving door was the worst.

Her Vette was where she’d parked it, in the drop-off zone. Deb fished out the keys and hit the alarm, unlocking the doors. Then she maneuvered into the front seat, adjusted her fanny pack so she wasn’t sitting against it, and took the portable GPS out of the glove compartment.

The creepy manager was right. Her Garmin couldn’t find the name of the inn, or the road it was on. She programmed in the spot where it was supposed to be and stuck the unit up on the dashboard, then fought the urge to check herself in the mirror.

After ten seconds she gave in, flipping down the sun visor, meeting her own gaze.

No crud in the eyes. Her brown hair, with red and blond streaks, was a bit poofy and windblown from the ride up, but the layers looked natural and were hassle-free, just like a three hundred dollar haircut should be. The touch of blush and pink eye-shadow—applied at home in D.C. on the off-chance the reporter spotted her in the lobby—were still in place. Deb touched up her lip gloss with just a dab of wet red, and judged herself okay.

Deb knew she was pretty. She just wished she was whole.

She fidgeted, waiting for Mal. He looked to be late twenties, maybe early thirties. Only a few years older than her. Deb hadn’t seen a wedding ring on his finger, but that didn’t mean much. At their age, all the good-looking ones were either spoken for, or gay.

Not that it mattered. The only man Deb had been with since the accident was Scott, and it had been awful with him and not something she ever cared to repeat.

Another minute crawled by, and Deb began to wonder if Mal had changed his mind. She’d gone on a blind date last year, and the guy had gotten up to go to the bathroom at the restaurant and never came back. It was right after he’d gotten a little frisky with his flirting and had cupped her knee, feeling the prosthetic leg below it.

This isn’t a date. It’s an interview. And he already knows you have no legs.

She wondered if Mal, or Rudy, would want to see her bare stumps for the article. That would be a no way. The only one who had ever seen them was her doctor, and the only other person who would ever see them would be her undertaker.

Someone knocked on the hood, startling her. Mal leaned over the driver side door.

“Can you pop the trunk?”

Deb hit the button, then had a moment of panic realizing what he’d see.

It doesn’t matter. He’ll see your prosthetic legs during the competition anyway.

She braced herself for his comments when he sat down next to her, but all he said was, “Thanks again for the ride, and the interview. Please let me pay for gas.”

“If you insist. But this beast doesn’t get very good mileage.”

“I can imagine. I drive a Prius. But I always wanted a Corvette.”

“Me too.” She smiled. “Buckle up for safety.”

Deb started the car, engaging the hand clutch on the gear shift, and squeezed the gas lever on the steering wheel. The tires squealed, pinning Mal into his seat, and the car peeled away from the lobby entrance and onto the main road.

Almost immediately Deb squeezed the brakes, skidding to a stop as someone darted into the street ahead of her—

THWAK!

—the dark figure slapped the hood of her car, spun, then scurried away in a limping crouch. He disappeared into the bushes alongside the road, into the woods.

“Holy shit,” Mal said.

Deb blew out her cheeks, the adrenalin making her hands shake.

“Did I hit him?”

“I dunno. He was huge.”

“All I saw was long, white hair. But an old man couldn’t move that fast.”

“Did you see his eyes?”

Deb nodded, then shuddered.

“They were red,” Mal said. “I swear they were red.”

After taking a few more seconds to compose herself, Deb pulled onto the side of the road and parked the car.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Mal said. “He jumped out of the bushes right in front of you.”

“If I hit him, it’s my fault. I have to check.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Deb undid her seatbelt and pulled herself out of the Vette. It was dusk, but looked even darker because the sun had dipped below the tree line. The town of Monk Creek wasn’t exactly a town, per se. It was more like a collection of a few motels, some scattered stores, and a loose group of homes interspersed along the mountainside and woods in a thirty-square-mile area. The hotel was packed, but once you stepped off the property you were smack dab in the middle of the wilderness.

Deb squinted into the brush just off the shoulder of the road, where the man had disappeared. If he’d been hurt, he couldn’t have gotten far.

“Hello?” she called.

No one answered. A strong breeze kicked up, blowing Deb’s hair into her eyes and making her widen her stance so she didn’t tip over.

“Anyone there? Are you okay?”

She watched the breeze make the bushes sway, back and forth, like they were waving at her.

Deb peered at the ground, at the slight slope leading into the woods. In her Cheetah-Flex sprinting legs she could bounce down there, no problem. In her cosmetic legs, chances were high she’d be on her ass after a few steps.

“I’ll go check,” Mal said, a penlight in his hand.

Deb frowned, began to protest, but he was already halfway down the embankment, pushing into the brush.

She waited, feeling her stomach go sour.

What if I hurt him? What if he’s badly hurt?

What if he’s dead?

The thought of killing another human being—it would be too much to live with. She cursed herself for showing off in the car, accelerating so fast. Since her accident, Deb prided herself in paying extra attention, avoiding mistakes and screw-ups, because she realized how precious, and precarious, life was.

Deb walked over to the front of the Vette, checking the fender for dings. Or blood.

All she found was a decent dent in the hood, from when the man slapped it.

Had he slapped it out of anger? Or to steady himself because I hit him?

Then she noticed the blood. Hard to discern against the red paint job, but it was there.

Quite a bit of it.

Deb felt herself getting ready to vomit, when someone yelled, “Uh!”

Mal?

She went back to the shoulder, squinting into the gathering darkness. No sign at all of Mal, or the man. The wind continued to blow the bushes to and fro, to and fro.

“Mal?” she called.

Mal didn’t answer.

Deb tried louder. “Mal!”

A faint sound caught on the breeze. Something high-pitched.

Is that giggling?

Deb considered going to the trunk, putting on her running legs to make it easier, and then decided screw it and began to make her way down the slope.

Just as she reached the bottom, something lunged out of the bushes at her. Deb couldn’t react quickly enough, and her balance was thrown off. She landed hard on her backside.

“Mal!”

Mal’s eyes were wide. And his pants—

They were covered in blood.

Deb positioned herself onto her knees. Getting up off the ground in her cosmetic legs was difficult, so she reached for Mal, wrapping her fingers in his belt to steady herself.

“Deb...”

“Call an ambulance, Mal,” she said, grabbing his penlight and pushing into the bushes.

“Deb, don’t go in there. It’s—”

Deb didn’t hear the next thing he said. Once past the bush, her senses were overloaded with the stench, and the sight, of blood.

A ridiculous amount of blood.

It soaked the ground, and drenched the surrounding foliage.

But it was more than just blood. It was bits of tissue. Sinew. Organs.

The spectacle overtook her, and she stumbled forward, losing her footing on something slippery, falling forward into a wet loop of intestines.

Deb recoiled, squealing, pushing herself away, bumping into a severed head with...

Antlers.

It’s a deer.

Jesus Christ, it’s just a deer.

Then someone grasped her shoulder.

Deb turned around, the scream building in her chest, and saw Mal above her.

“Looks like we both need a dry cleaner. I slipped, too.”

He offered his hands, and she used them to pull herself up.

“I didn’t hit a deer. I’m sure of it.”

Mal’s face was kind. “I know.”

“It was a man.”

“I know. We both saw it.”

Deb played the light over the carnage. Deer parts were everywhere.

“Did that guy do this?”

Mal nodded. “I think he killed the deer, and was skinning it.”

“There’s blood on the hood of my car.”

“Deer blood, probably. Maybe he didn’t have a hunting license, heard you pulling up, thought it was the game warden. Hell, it might not even be hunting season, for all I know.”

“So I didn’t hurt him?”

“I don’t see him anywhere. If you hurt him, he’d be nearby, don’t you think?”

Deb shined the light on the deer head, wincing as she did.

“When skinning a buck, is it normal to cut the eyes out?”

“No. It’s not. Let me see the light.” Mal took it, moved in closer. “The ears are gone, too. So’s the tongue.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Mal pointed the light at her. “I think we should go. Right now.”

Deb didn’t like his tone. He sounded scared. When he took her arm, she didn’t protest, and when he put his hands on her hips to help her up the embankment she cared more about haste than dignity or modesty.

“I’ve got water in the trunk. We can clean up.”

Mal shook his head. “Not here. Not now. Let’s get out of here.”

“What’s going on, Mal? You’re freaking me out a little. And it’s not like this situation isn’t already freaky enough.”

“It’s Monk Creek. It has a history. When I was researching this article, I read up on it. Things have happened in this town. Bad things.”

“Like what?”

Mal looked over his shoulder into the darkness, then back at Deb. “I’ll tell you in the car. Please. Let’s go.”

The breeze kicked up, and Deb heard it again, faint but unmistakable.

Giggling.

It took less than ten seconds for them to get into the car, lock the doors, and get the hell out of there.

# # #

“Buck and a half.”

The bartender was overweight, unshaven, and his apron bore stains from days before, stains that were easy to see even in the low lighting of the smoky, shitkicker bar.

Felix Richter slapped a ten next to the can of Miller High Life. The bartender reached for it, but Felix’s finger kept it pressed to the bar counter top.

“I’m looking for a bed and breakfast in these parts.”

The bartender spit tobacco juice into an ashtray. “Then get yourself a map, boy.”

“This one isn’t on any maps. It’s called the Rushmore Inn.”

The man sitting next to Felix—stereotypical redneck hunter-type—leaned closer. Felix ignored him, watching the bartender, searching his eyes for any sign of recognition.

“Never heard of it.”

If the bartender was lying, he was good at it. Felix had become pretty good at spotting liars. He’d talked to more people in the last year than he had in his previous twenty-six.

Still keeping his finger on the bill, Felix tugged a worn photo from the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. He held it up.

“Seen her before?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Maybe it would help if you looked at the goddamn picture.”

The bartender’s eyes flitted to the photo, then back to Felix. “Don’t recall,” he said, spitting again.

“I’ll pay for the information.” Felix dropped his voice. “I have a lot more money.”

“Then buy yourself some swabs to clean out your ears. I never saw the girl before.”

Felix let him take the ten. Then he flipped the picture around and stared at it.

Like always, seeing her face made his jaw get tight. Her voice played in his head, even though her last words to him had been an acronym-filled text.

Felix – you’re probably asleep. I’m at a creepy B&B, not the hotel. Long story, but it’s free. That equals more money to spend on our honeymoon. We’ll talk later. Ta-ta for now, hope to see you soon, love you, Maria.

He thought about looking at his phone to read the message again, for the ten thousandth time. Then he thought about calling her, just to hear her voicemail message. He kept paying her monthly cell bill even though the account hadn’t been used in twelve months.

The barkeep brought back his change. Felix took it, left the beer untouched, and got up to leave.

How many bars had it been so far? Fifty? Sixty? Add in the restaurants, the gas stations, the motels, the homes, and it was well over a hundred he’d visited.

Not too many left.

And then what? Give up? Finally have her declared dead and give her the funeral her parents have been pleading for since Christmas?

No. Felix wasn’t going to give up on Maria. Ever. When he’d asked questions at every shop and residence within a hundred square miles, he’d start over at the top of the list.

Someone had to know where the Rushmore Inn was.

If the Rushmore Inn even exists.

Felix stepped out into the night, rolling his head on his neck, loosening up the tension in his shoulders. The bar parking lot wasn’t paved, and the gravel crunched underfoot like freshly fallen snow.

He looked out over the road, into the dark forest.

The women I love is in there. Somewhere.

After Maria went missing, he’d tried all the conventional methods of getting her back. The police. The FBI. Hanging fliers. Offering a reward for information. Even hiring a private detective.

The only thing he’d accomplished was getting fired from his job, which turned out to be a good thing. It freed him up to investigate full time.

Unfortunately, his unemployment checks were just about ready to run out, and the only lead he’d uncovered in all of his searching and questioning was a vague reference by an old drunk to a bed and breakfast called the Rushmore Inn.

“Supposedly it’s been in these parts forever, but no one knows where it actually is. Or those that know, don’t tell. It’s like one of them roach motels. People check in, but they don’t check out.”

Felix questioned him further, but his answers became increasingly incoherent. Drunken mumblings of strange rituals and birth defects. The old woman who lived in a shoe. Something to do with blood types. He eventually passed out in mid-ramble, right at the bar. When Felix went to visit him the next day, having written down his address from his driver’s license, the old man wasn’t there.

He turned up that afternoon. The state trooper said it was a car accident. But Felix had seen the supposed crash site. The blood trail went on for almost a quarter of a mile. Like someone had tied a rope around the old guy and took him for a drag.

Felix took a big gulp of West Virginia air. It smelled clean and fresh, but there was a sour note beneath it. Felix hated the country. He hated the trees, and the mountains, and the clear sky, and the beautiful sunsets. If he ever found Maria, he’d never leave the city again.

When, he corrected himself. When I find Maria. Not if.

He climbed into his pick-up; a purchase meant to help him blend in with the locals, like his flannel shirts and work boots and unshaven face. Digging out the area map, he drew an X through Mel’s Tavern. The map contained so many Xs it was getting tough to see the roads.

A knock on the driver’s side window startled Felix. He looked up, saw a man standing next to his truck. The hunter from the bar.

He was older than Felix, maybe mid-thirties, and in no danger of ever winning a beauty pageant. Tall and pudgy, like he’d never lost his baby fat, sporting a plump, almost feminine face, which had a strange appearance to it that Felix realized was a complete lack of facial hair. No stubble. No eyebrows. Not even eyelashes. In contrast, the black hair on his head looked like a wig.

Felix unrolled the window with one hand. The other he stuck under his seat, finding his nine millimeter Beretta.

“Heard you talkin’ ‘bout the Rushmore Inn,” the hairless guy said. “You payin’ for information?”

“Top dollar.”

The man looked around, uneasy. His denim overalls were splotched with brown stains. “This ain’t a good place to talk. You stayin’ nearby?”

Felix considered what to say. He decided on the truth, since the chance of learning something outweighed the potential danger.

“Place called the Cozynook Motel. Outside of Slatyfork.”

“What room?”

Did he really want the hunter to know his room number? What about Cameron?

The hell with Cameron.

“One ten.”

“I can come by, hour or so.”

Felix tried to play it cool. Maybe the hunter knew something. Or maybe he just wanted to round up some buddies, drop by, and rob him. In these parts, apparently strangers weren’t missed.

“I’m looking for this woman,” he said, flashing Maria’s picture. “Have you seen her?”

The hunter studied the picture. Felix studied his eyes.

“She one of them try-atha-leets?”

“You’ve seen her?”

The hunter shrugged. “All kinda look the same. But if she was at the Rushmore, she probably got in some deep shit. I’ll come by later, we talk some more.”

If he did have information, Felix didn’t plan on leaving him out of his sight. He’d done that once before, and the guy wound up a thousand yard smear on Highway 39.

“I was planning on checking out tonight,” Felix lied. “If you have something to tell me, we could take a walk in the woods.”

The hunter shook his head. “Woods ain’t safe ‘round here.”

“How about we take a ride, then? Drive around for a bit?”

“Maybe. What’s your blood type?”

Felix blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Blood type. You know. Type A, type B, type O.”

What the hell kind of question is that?

Then he remembered the old drunk said something about blood types.

Was there a connection?

“I’m A. A positive.”

John sucked on his lower lip, then blew it out. “Okay. We can take a ride.”

The big man walked around the front of the truck, and Felix noted the large hunting knife strapped to his leg. When he climbed in, the cab bounced from his weight.

All of the sudden this seemed like a very bad idea.

“We drivin’ or what?”

Felix had to let go of the gun to turn the ignition. His initial feeling of hope was replaced by uneasiness. This guy was so big his head touched the ceiling.

“What’s your name?” Felix asked.

The hunter grunted. “I’m John.”

“Do you know where the Rushmore Inn is, John?”

“Not here. I’ll tell you when we’re moving.”

“Why? Are you afraid?”

John leaned over, his brown eyes slightly crossing. His breath was warm and smelled like decay. “Damn right I’m afraid. And you should be, too.” Then he smiled, revealing brown, crooked teeth and gums that looked like raw hamburger. “Y’all should be scared as hell.”

# # #

She has the dream. Again.

In it, the man has two heads and three arms. His second head is smaller, misshapen, with a mouth crammed full of crooked teeth.

He climbs on top of her, one head giggling, the other drooling.

Others watch.

Other monsters.

A man whose fingers are fused together, like flippers. The bushy unibrow dividing his oversized forehead makes him look Neanderthal. He has a tiny nose and tiny ears, out of proportion with his large face. He claps his flippers, applauding the show.

Another man with a pointed head, thin on the top and bulbous on the bottom, like an eggplant. He hops from foot to foot, anxiously awaiting his turn.

One man has a split down the middle of his face, as if someone hit him in the nose and mouth with an ax. He snorts through the combined nose/mouth opening, spit and snot spraying.

Another man, naked and disgustingly obese, is propped up in an old, rusty wheelchair. Instead of knees, he has tiny, baby feet attached to his thighs. His right arm is also no larger than a baby’s. It’s waving at her as he smiles.

There are others. Many others. Many that are even worse.

She doesn’t scream. They like it when she screams.

Instead, clenches her fists, her fingernails digging into her palms, her teeth biting her own tongue, willing herself to wake up.

Her eyes open wide.

The creatures are still there.

This isn’t a dream.

She’s been awake all along.

# # #

Letti Pillsbury glanced in the rearview mirror at her mother and daughter in the backseat, huddled over the videogame. It made her feel both happy and sad, and more than a little dishonest. But she and Florence had agreed not to tell Kelly until after the Iron Woman event.

One thing at a time.

She shifted her eyes back to the road, and then to the map. It wasn’t a real map. In fact, it looked like a photocopy of a hand drawing, and a poorly done one at that. Letti had called the inn yesterday and spoken to the female proprietor to get better directions.

“Ten point six miles southwest down 219 once you pass 55. The road isn’t marked, so use your odometer. It’s on the right. We’re so looking forward to having y’all.”

The odometer was creeping up on ten point five, but there was nothing out here but hills and forest, and it was getting increasingly more difficult to see as the sun went down. Letti questioned, not for the first time, her decision to stay this far away from the competition, instead of at the event hotel. But money was tight and would only get tighter, and when the Rushmore Inn brochure arrived in the mail, stating they’d won free rooms, she couldn’t pass it up. Letti didn’t even remember entering the contest, but apparently she’d checked some box while filling out the extensive paperwork for the competition. The inn was really out of the way, but even if it had the worst amenities in the history of bed and breakfasts, it was still a lifesaver.

Letti slowed down, squinting into the trees, looking for the road. At first, the endless forest and jutting mountains had taken her breath away with their beauty. But after hours of the spectacular view, she began to feel intimidated. Letti hoped the race course was clearly marked, because if one of them got lost in this wilderness, they’d be lost forever.

When the odometer hit the magic number, Letti rolled onto the narrow shoulder and coasted to a stop.

“Are we here?” Kelly said, poking her head up through the space in the front seats and giving JD a pat.

Letti checked the numbers again. Then she rechecked the map.

“According to this, yes. But there’s nothing here.”

“There.” Kelly pointed. “See the tire tracks?”

Letti followed her daughter’s finger, and saw two barely visible tracks, almost completely hidden by weeds, leading into the forest between a small gap in the trees.

“That’s not a road,” Florence said. “That’s not even a trail.”

“It matches up to the map. And look.”

Letti pointed to a tiny sign, hanging from a tree. It read RUSHMORE INN.

“Why would they paint the sign green?” Florence asked. “It blends into the trees. And it’s so small.”

Letti turned the wheel and pressed the gas.

“Letti, you can’t be serious. What if we get stuck?”

“We’re driving an Audi. It’s all-wheel drive.”

Florence clucked her tongue—something she did when she was displeased. “Let’s go back into town. I’m sure there are other rooms available. I’ll pay for it.”

Letti bristled at her mother’s words, and any doubts she had about this road vanished, replaced by anger. Pay for it? Now Letti was determined to see this through, even if they had to drive over a log jam to do it.

The Audi’s tires dug in and performed as advertised, traversing the bumps, divots, and rocks without getting stuck. But the suspension left something to be desired, the shocks bouncing them around like a carnival ride. Twenty yards into the woods the sun disappeared, forcing Letti to flick on her brights. Though overgrown, the path was relatively straight, and no trees or large obstacles got in their way.

Boy, it’s dark.

In southern Illinois, on the Great Plains, even a moonless night was starlit. But this was like swimming in ink. Letti had the window cracked open, and she could practically feel the darkness seeping in.

Then the car jolted, the front end tilting downward. Letti whacked her head against the steering wheel, causing the horn to honk, and JD bounced against the dashboard, uttering a surprised yelp.

Letti pushed herself back into her seat, but the car still canted on an angle, like they were driving down a steep hill.

“Mom?”

“We went into a hole, or a ditch, or something. Are you both okay?”

JD hopped onto Letti’s seat, his big paws between her legs. He growled at the driver’s side window.

“JD! Down!”

The growl became a sharp bark, and the dog’s entire body tensed. Letti stared where JD was looking, out into the woods. She saw only blackness.

“JD? What’s wrong, boy?”

Kelly patted his head, her voice full of concern. “There’s something out there, Mom. He senses it.”

Letti put a hand on his collar. JD was baring his teeth, and he stood rigid as a statue, his hackles up. The last time she’d seen the dog act this way was a few months ago, when someone tried to break into their house at three am. It turned out to be their drunken neighbor, mistaking their house for his. JD had gone Cujo at the intrusion, leaping at the door with such force he’d knocked out the security window.

She certainly didn’t want a repeat of that right now.

Letti pressed the brake and shifted the Audi into reverse, giving it a little gas.

The wheels whirred, but they remained stuck.

“I can’t see anything out there,” Florence said, her nose pressed to the glass. “It’s like staring into a grave at midnight.”

Letti gave it a little more gas, shouldering JD aside and watching the RPM gage jump.

The car still didn’t move. She wondered if the Audi was on its undercarriage, the wheels off the ground. She would have to go check, see if she could—

JD barked again, clipped and loud, surprising the shit out of her.

“JD! Down!”

Letti gave the dog a rough shove, pushing him off her lap and back into his seat. Then she reached for the door handle.

”Letti!” Florence yelled in her ear. “Don’t get out of the car!”

Her mother never raised her voice. Ever. Not even when Letti was a child. So hearing it now felt like a slap. Letti recovered quickly, turning around in her seat to look at her.

“What’s the problem, Florence?”

“There’s something out there,” Florence said.

“JD has never been in the woods before. It’s probably a rabbit. Or a deer.”

“Or a bear.” Florence looked solemn.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Indulge an old woman. Turn off the car and the headlights for a minute.”

Letti sighed. “Florence...”

“Please. What can it hurt?”

Kelly leaned forward. “What if it’s that guy with the gun, Mom?”

“We’re a long way from him, Kelly.”

“What if it is a bear?”

“Then hopefully he’ll help us get unstuck.”

No one laughed. Sighing, Letti flipped off the ignition and killed the lights.

It seemed even darker now. Darker, and unnaturally quiet. Letti couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.

Then a light came on in the backseat.

Kelly. Holding up her iPod, its screen bright white.

“Turn that off, dear. With no light, our eyes can adjust to the darkness.”

Dear? Florence never called me dear.

Letti chided herself. She wasn’t in competition with her daughter.

The light went off. Everyone waited. Letti wasn’t scared. She never got scared. It was a useless emotion, like guilt, and worry. Even if there was a bear out there, the thing to do was deal with it, not hide from it like frightened children.

“Have we waited long enough, Florence?”

“Shh. I hear something.”

“What?”

“Right next to the car.”

Letti felt the gooseflesh rise on her arms.

“Are the doors locked?” Florence whispered.

Against all common sense, Letti lowered her voice as well. “Why? A bear is going to pull open the door?”

“I don’t think it’s a bear,” Florence said. “I think it’s something else.”

Letti found the lock button, flicked it twice to make sure. Then she pressed her face to the window, trying to peer outside. Slowly, her eyes began to adapt, and she could see her breath fogging up the glass.

Letti wiped it off with her palm.

It didn’t wipe off.

She rubbed harder, her flesh squeaking on the window.

The condensation stayed there. And as she squinted at it, she watched the fog get bigger.

Hold on... it’s not on the inside.

It’s on the outside.

Someone has their face against my window.

JD went crazy, jumping fully on top of Letti, his claws digging into her thighs, barking and scratching at the glass in full-on attack mode. Letti’s face was buried in his muzzle, fur getting up her nose. She gave the dog a rough shove, turned the ignition, threw it into gear, and jammed on the accelerator.

The engine whined, then the wheels found purchase and the Audi lurched forward, climbing out of the ditch, bouncing its occupants against the ceiling, JD falling into the passenger seat. Letti cut the wheel hard to the right so the rear didn’t get stuck, and all four tires bit into the dirt as she fishtailed. She flipped on the brights, gasping as something darted behind a tree only a few feet away from them.

A man?

Pretty big for a man.

“Mom!”

Letti saw it too; a tree, dead ahead. She wrestled with the wheel, guiding the Audi back onto the trail, the tree trunk banging against the side mirror and shearing it off.

Twenty yards later, the woods suddenly opened up into a clearing. Letti hit the brakes, skidding to avoid smashing into the front porch of the large house that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Then there was a massive BANG! as the front tire popped.

# # #

After five miles of driving, the stench of blood began to make Deb sick, and she pulled the Vette over on the side of the road to clean up.

“I have bottled water, some towels, in the trunk,” she said, the first words spoken since they’d left the butchered deer. “I also have some plastic garbage bags.”

“You come equipped,” Mal said.

“It’s a triathlete thing. Never know when you’ll be swimming, or have to hydrate.”

They got out of the car, walked around to the rear. Mal pulled out his suitcase, and Deb pulled hers. She was thinking the same thing he probably was; in the darkness, the only way to change clothes was next to the light from the trunk. She watched him struggle for a moment with what to do, and then she pulled her bloody tee shirt up over her head, revealing her neon sports bra.

“Would you like some privacy?” he asked.

Deb loosened the drawstring on her sweatpants. “I wear a bikini when I compete. There’s nothing you’ll see here that you won’t see there.”

She rested her butt against the bumper, then tugged down her pants. Removing them from her legs was awkward, but Deb favored flared cuffs, making the process easier. When she was finished, she stood in her bra and panties, expecting Mal to be staring at her prosthetic legs.

Instead, Deb caught him staring at her breasts, which made her feel wonderfully normal. She tried not to smirk, reaching into the trunk for a water bottle and a towel as he began to unbutton his shirt. Deb cleaned herself off as best she could. When she glanced at Mal again, he was in his boxer briefs. It was obvious he worked out.

“Can you toss me a water bottle?”

Deb thought, staring at his chiseled abs, about asking him if he needed help. But that was totally inappropriate, especially after what they’d just been through. Instead, she went with something banal.

“Do you run?”

“Yeah. Not like you, though. Never competed in anything. After five miles I feel like puking.”

“Everyone feels like puking after five miles. It’s called hitting the wall. You have to run through it.”

“That’s why you’re the athlete, and I’m the reporter. Once I hit the wall, I curl up and start crying.”

“I do that too. But only after the race.”

Deb took a long pull from the water bottle, then dumped the remainder on her prosthetics. Her cosmetic legs, as opposed to her sports legs, were flesh-colored and shaped like real calves, the outer skin latex. Inside each was a titanium bar, which attached to a complicated spring/joint mechanism that functioned as ankles. Her high-top Nikes were specially made to snap onto the ends. Every so often, Deb toyed with the idea of getting a custom pair of stiletto boots. She missed high heels. But walking was enough of a challenge without an extra three inches.

Except for the flesh-colored Velcro straps just below her knees where the prosthetics began, the legs looked real, even close up. But they got dirty very easily, and were a pain to clean. The dried-on blood was proving especially tough, and Deb was worried if she rubbed too hard, she’d rip the latex.

“Maybe this will help.” Mal tugged a bottle out of his suitcase and held it up. Grey Goose vodka.

“Apparently you come equipped, too.”

“I travel a lot, and hate paying twelve dollars for martinis at the hotel bar.”

“I’m not sure getting drunk will help get the blood stains out.”

He shook his head and walked over, kneeling down between Deb’s legs. “Do you mind?” he asked.

Deb didn’t mind at all. She watched as he poured some alcohol onto a clean part of his towel, and then rubbed her prosthetics with it. For the briefest of moments, Deb could almost feel his touch on her missing legs, her brain linking his actions with remembered sensations. She shivered, and told herself it was because of the night breeze and not anything else.

“I think I can take it from here,” she said, holding her hand out for the vodka.

He looked up like a guy ready to propose marriage, which was something Deb knew she’d never see. The tiny flirtatious spark she’d felt a moment ago became resentment. At herself. At her legs. And at Mal, for daring to treat her like a normal person.

Scott, her boyfriend once-upon-a-time, didn’t react well to the loss of her legs. It freaked him out, and he didn’t act the same after the amputations. He alternated between treating her like a fragile China doll that might break, and acting like she was deformed. The one time they tried to have sex, and the comments he made, was so upsetting she dumped him right there, and hadn’t been with a man since.

She’d dated again, eventually, after getting through rehab on her own. But in Deb’s experience, all men were in one of two groups. Those that wished she had legs, and those freakazoids who had a thing for women without legs. Deb made the mistake of joining an amputee forum on the internet, and later an online dating service. In both cases, the only men she attracted were weirdoes with a stump fetish.

Mal, treating her like she was 100% normal, was messing with her head.

Deb wasn’t normal. She never would be. And if he didn’t stop staring at her with that sly grin, she was going to smack him.

“I said I got it, Mal. Back off.”

He raised his hands in supplication and quickly retreated.

Deb took a big swig from the bottle, feeling it burn down her throat, coming to rest like a hot coal in her belly.

Damn him for being cute, and damn him for being nice.

She poured more vodka on her towel and began swabbing her legs again. The alcohol worked fine at dissolving the blood. It also got rid of the blood caked under her fingernails, which was important considering she paid a hundred bucks to get them done. Still, she couldn’t wait to find this stupid inn and get into a bathtub.

Deb hoped it had bathtubs. She wasn’t good with showers.

Mal seemed to take the rejection in stride, hopping on one foot to get his fresh jeans on. Deb went with a pair of nylon snap pants, the kind basketball players used. They had snap-on buttons along the outside and inside of each leg, so they could be torn off quickly. That was a nice function, but Deb preferred them for the opposite reason; she could put them on by using the snaps rather than stepping into them.

“Have you done any climbing since the accident?”

She shot him a look. “Speaking of non-sequitors. Are we starting the interview now?”

Mal was buttoning up his shirt, another light blue one. “I figured we have three things we could be talking about. The deer.”

Deb shook her head. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.”

“Me neither. That leaves the interview, and getting personal. And I assume, by the way you told me to back off, you aren’t all that interested in getting personal.”

Deb capped the bottle and tossed it to him, perhaps a bit too hard. “No, I haven’t done any rock climbing since I lost my legs.”

She shivered again, and this time she was positive it was the night air. Deb pulled a hoodie out of her suitcase and wrestled that over her head.

“Is the accident too difficult to talk about?”

His voice had a hint of challenge. Deb relaxed a notch.

“Not at all.” The only thing that scares me is flirting.

She threw the wet, bloody towel and the empty water bottle into the trunk, and watched Mal muscle his suitcase up and place it next to her sports legs.

“You’ve got three pairs of prosthetics in here,” Mal said. “What are each of them for?”

An easy question. Deb got asked a lot about her various legs.

“The ones that look like skis bent into question marks, those are my Cheetah Flex-Sprints. They’re made of carbon fiber, curved backward the same way the legs of a gazelle are curved, which transfers energy better than a human knee and ankle.”

He reached for one and asked, “May I?”

“Sure.”

He picked up the Cheetah. “Wow, they’re light.”

“Try to bend it.”

Mal placed the rubber tread attached to the curved bottom in one hand, and the stump cup in the other. It really did resemble an upside-down question mark, and when Deb wore them she thought she looked like a satyr—a woman with the legs of a goat.

Mal flexed, and the leg bent slightly.

“Strong,” he said. “And springy.”

“Very springy. With a running start, I can jump high enough to slam dunk a basketball.”

“What about these?” he said, replacing the Cheetah with a titanium bar with a clip on the end.

“I call those my Long John Silvers.”

“Because they’re sliver?”

“That, and they look like old pirate peg legs. The clip onto the bottom of the pylon hooks on my bike pedals. They’re shit to walk in, but function the same way as a tibia does, without any spring. Direct energy transfer from my thigh to the pedal.”

“Now you said you don’t wear your prosthetics while swimming.”

“I actually have a pair for swimming, with fins on the feet, but they’re for training and recreation and I left them at home.”

“So what are these?”

He picked up another leg. Like the Cheetah, it was a thin band, wide as a ski. But it wasn’t as curvy. Rather than a question mark, it looked more like the letter L. And instead of a rubber tread foot, this one ended in a rubber knob with small metal spikes. Sort of like the bottom toe of the L had a sea urchin on the tip.

Mal touched a spike. “Let me guess. These are what you use when you’re fighting in gladiator tournaments?”

“Rock climbing legs. Specially made.”

Mal raised an eyebrow. “I thought you don’t climb rocks anymore.”

Deb stared over his shoulder. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she caught some kind of movement behind him, down the embankment.

Something big and dark.

“Let’s get out of here,” Deb said.

Mal put the leg back, and shut the trunk. Deb climbed back into the driver’s seat and started the car, peeling out back onto the highway.

“I’m a reporter, so I have to ask these questions,” Mal said. “But I don’t want to overstep my bounds.”

Deb checked her rearview mirror. Nothing there. “Go ahead. No question is off limits.”

“Do you mind if I record this?”

“Not at all.”

Mal flipped on the overhead light and dug a mini-recorder out of his pocket. It was about the size of a cell phone.

“Okay. Why have climbing legs if you don’t climb anymore?”

Deb felt the goose bumps on her arms, but she managed to shrug convincingly. “Because I’ll climb again. Someday. I just haven’t fit it into my schedule yet.”

“Are you scared?”

She glanced at him. He wasn’t mocking her, wasn’t judging her, and he had a notepad in his hand, jotting things down.

“How much do you know about my accident?” Deb asked.

Mal flipped to an earlier page in his notebook. “You were solo climbing in the New River Gorge in Fayetteville, West Virginia. Not too far from here. The rock you were hanging on came loose, and you fell thirty feet, shattering both your legs. You had to crawl three miles to safety.”

Mal’s facts were actually wrong, on several points. But Deb only chose to correct him on a few, and keep the most important one to herself.

“I crawled 2.7 miles, not three. I went back and measured it. And I actually fell closer to sixty feet, but the first thirty were a gradual slide down an angled rock face. That first part probably only took five or six seconds. But it felt a lot longer.”

“I can imagine.”

Deb looked at him. “Can you? Can you really? I was on my belly, face pressed against the mountain, arms and legs spread out, trying to find some sort of grip, some kind of toe hold, so I wouldn’t slide over the edge. But the rock face was shear. As flat and smooth as glass. I skidded down it slowly—even slower than a child on a park slide. But I couldn’t slow down, couldn’t stop my gradual descent. You know, six seconds is usually nothing. Hell, I’ve been talking longer than six seconds. But as I was sliding, heading toward the edge, I had time to think. I had time to actually think about my own death. About what it would mean.”

Mal leaned in closer. “What would it mean?”

Deb stared ahead, into the blackness of the open road, and felt herself shiver.

“It would mean nothing. I was going to die for no reason at all.” She let out a clipped, humorless laugh. “The whole point of my life was to be a cautionary tale for other rock climbers to make sure you use pinions.”

“You weren’t using pinions?”

“I was hammering my first pinion in when… the rock gave way.”

Mal wrote something down.

“Can you talk about what happened after the fall?”

The memory was hazy, like trying to recall a dream, or a hallucination. But parts of it stuck out. Parts of it felt like they’d been burned into her head with a branding iron.

“It didn’t hurt at first. I remember waking up, confused about where I was. Then I saw my legs, both of them bent backwards. It looked like I had two extra knees, and the bones were jutting out the front of my shins. You know, I actually tried to pull one out? I thought I’d landed on a stick, and it was poking out of me. Instead, it was my tibia. I tried to yank out my own tibia.”

Mal cleared his throat. “That’s… horrible.”

“I was in shock, and I still wasn’t feeling any pain. But then I started crawling. That’s when it really got horrible.”

“Because the pain hit?”

“It hit. Hard. As I was pulling myself to my car, dragging my legs behind me, I kept catching my tibia bones on things. Rocks. Branches. I actually got snagged on a dead squirrel, and pulled that along with me for about a hundred yards.”

Deb could remember the crawling. The pain. The horror. The desperation. Because she knew, if she got to the car, the worst was yet to come. She hoped he wouldn’t ask about that part.

“I was also losing blood, getting dizzy. I’d tied my shirt around my knees to stop the bleeding, but I was still leaving a trail. And some local wildlife took notice.”

Mal looked up from his notepad. “A coyote? Bear?”

Deb shivered again. It was really getting cold. “Cougar.”

“I didn’t think there were mountain lions in West Virginia.”

“It followed me. I saw it up close. At first I thought I was hallucinating. But I wasn’t. Had to be close to two hundred pounds.”

Deb could remember how it stared at her. How it snarled. How it smelled. She would never forget its musky, pungent scent. Or its broken tail, bent in several places like a zigzag.

“Did it attack?”

She subconsciously touched the scars on her side. The cat had pounced on her, batting her with its massive paw, the claws hooking into her flesh. It did this several times. Playing with her. Taking its time. It even lazily groomed itself between strikes, its merciless yellow eyes following her as she tried to scrabble away.

“It treated me like I was a mouse. I would crawl a few feet, and it would drag me back. Like it was all a game.”

“How did you get away?”

“It was futile. Eventually I stopped trying, and just closed my eyes and waited for it to kill me. But it didn’t. Maybe it had already eaten. When I looked for it, it was gone. Then I continued on, to the car.”

“How did you drive? I mean, you couldn’t use your legs, right?”

So much for him not asking.

“Cell phones don’t always work in the mountains. Mine didn’t. And I couldn’t put any weight at all on my legs, but I couldn’t press the pedals with my hands and still see where I was going. So...” Deb let her voice trail off.

“So?”

“What would you have done?”

“I dunno. Looked for a tree branch, something long to press the gas.”

“There was a mountain lion outside the car.”

“Tire iron?”

“In the trunk. I could barely get myself into the driver’s seat. I couldn’t have pulled myself into my trunk.”

“I give up. What did you do?”

“I put my foot over the gas, grabbed my tibia, and pressed down on it.”

Mal set his writing pad in his lap. “That’s... that’s just...”

“Disgusting? Repulsive? The most terrible thing you’ve ever heard?”

“That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re one helluva woman, Deb Novachek.”

Deb looked at Mal. He was beaming at her. Then she opened her window a crack, because it had gotten kind of warm in the car.

“Look for a dirt road, on your right,” she said, happy to change the subject. “According to my GPS, it should be coming up.”

After a few hundred yards, Mal said, “Is that it?”

Deb squeezed the brake bar and peered where Mal was pointing. Rather than a road, there were two faint tire tracks that led into the woods.

“It can’t be.”

“There’s a sign. On that tree.”

The sign was half the size of a pizza box, painted green with a large white arrow. It read RUSHMORE INN ¼ MILE. Deb didn’t mind quaint and rustic. But backwoods and hidden weren’t a good match.

“You’re kidding me.” She frowned. “How is anyone supposed to see that?”

“Maybe they like their privacy.”

“Maybe they don’t like guests. It’s not even permanent. It’s hanging on a rope.”

And it was swinging, even though the wind had stopped.

Almost like it was hung there just a moment ago.

“The weeds are tamped down,” Mal said. “Looks like someone drove down there recently.”

“Never to be seen again.”

“Are you actually nervous about this?”

Deb didn’t answer.

“Come on. How bad can it be?”

“You’re asking the wrong girl.”

Mal shrugged. “Well, I’m tired and I need a shower, and there’s no place else to go, so let’s give it a shot. What do you say?”

Deb didn’t like it. She didn’t like the fact that it wasn’t on the map. She didn’t like the creepy manager who suggested the place. And she didn’t like Mal’s sudden enthusiasm for driving off the main road and into the woods.

What do I know about Mal anyway?

She hadn’t asked him for ID or credentials. He smooth-talked his way into her car, and now he had her out here, all alone, in the middle of bumblefuck. Hell, maybe there was no inn at all. Maybe this was some scheme Mal cooked up with that manager guy.

Then a very bad thought hit her.

What if that strange man who slapped the hood hadn’t done that to the deer?

What if Mal had done it?

Mal was covered in blood. And he had a few minutes from the time he left the car to the time she saw him...

“You look freaked out,” Mal said. He reached out to touch her arm, and she flinched away.

“Let’s keep our hands to ourselves, okay?”

He backed off, fast. “No problem. Do you want me to hike over there, check it out first?”

If this was all part of his plan to abduct her, what was to stop him from lying and saying everything was fine?

She stared at him. Hard. He was cute, charming, and seemed to be bending over backwards to accommodate her.

Of course, all of those same things could have been said about Ted Bundy.

“Let’s go back to the hotel, Deb. I’ll grab Rudy, and you can have our room. That’s what I should have done in the first place. Then I could have interviewed you over dinner, and we wouldn’t have almost hit that guy, gotten soaked in deer blood, and then wound up here, on the set of Texas Chainsaw Massacre 8.”

It was funny, but she kept a straight face without much difficulty. “Do you have a press pass?”

“Sure.”

“Can I see it?”

Mal seemed to study her, then he reached for his back pocket. He pursed his lips.

“My wallet is in the trunk. In my other pants. Look, if you’re still mad about me touching your prosthetic legs, I was just trying to be friendly. I knew I was going to ask some hard questions, and I didn’t want you to think I was a jerk.”

So he hadn’t been flirting. He’d been softening her up before the interrogation.

Deb went from paranoid to hurt.

That’s when the rear tire exploded with the sound of a thunderclap.

Deb’s eyes went wide as Mal lunged at her, his expression crazed as his fingers wrapped around her neck.

# # #

Felix hadn’t ever dwelt on the necessity of good hygiene, but its importance overwhelmed him when John climbed into his truck.

The hunter reeked.

It was a pungent stench; body odor, sour milk, and some sort of perfume that smelled like the soap his father used. Sandalwood. Felix tried breathing through his mouth, but it left a lingering taste on his tongue, so he opened his window and inhaled the air coming in.

“Am I going the right way?” he asked quickly before turning back to the window.

John didn’t answer. Felix flipped on the interior light. John’s eyelids were drooping, and his jaw hung slack as he stared straight ahead.

“John? Are we going in the right direction?”

“Huh?”

“The Rushmore Inn. Is this the right road?”

John scratched his hairless cheek with dirty fingernails. “Yeah. It’s right up here. Pull over.”

“Where? Here?”

“Yeah.”

There were no crossroads. No buildings. It was just highway and forest.

“There’s nothing here, John.”

“Driveway is hard to see.”

John still had that vacant look on his face. Felix wondered if the guy was crazy. Or taking some sort of drugs. But on the off-chance that John was telling the truth, Felix pulled the Chevy off the road and onto the grass.

“Okay, now what do—”

The hunting knife was at Felix’s throat so fast he felt it before he saw it, the blade pressing against his Adam’s apple, forcing him against the headrest.

“Here’s what we gonna do, Mr. Type A. You gonna climb out, slow and easy, and then we takin’ a little walk in the woods. Your blood ain’t no good, so I won’t have no problem spillin’ it.”

The knife was incredibly sharp. Felix could feel the sting when it lightly broke his skin. Like a long paper-cut. John’s other massive hand was tangled in Felix’s hair, cupping his head like a basketball.

Fear smothered Felix like a wet blanket.

When Felix was able to speak, his voice was hoarse, barely audible. “My money is in my wallet. In my back pocket.”

“This ain’t about money, shit-brain. This is about poking your nose in what’s none of your goddamn business. Now get out of the truck.”

The knife sawed forward, giving Felix another, deeper cut. He thought about his Beretta, just under his seat. It might as well have been a hundred miles away. There was no way for him to reach it without his throat being slit.

Every system in Felix’s body went haywire. He got very hot, which was incongruous with his shivering. His bladder seemed to get smaller, tighter. His stomach churned, and his bowels were ready to burst. His breath came out in quick pants, making him even more light-headed.

This isn’t happening. It’s not happening.

Please don’t let this be happening.

He felt around for the door handle, thinking that maybe he’d have a chance to run when he stepped out of the truck, depending on how tight a grip John kept on him.

John kept his grip tight as a vice. He pulled on Felix’s head, keeping it at waist-level, as he followed Felix out the door.

“Let’s mosey on into the middle of the road. Won’t no one mind a big pool of blood there. It’ll look like a deer got hisself hit.”

John tugged him away from the car. Felix’s heart was pounding so hard it hurt, and at the same time he was finding it difficult to walk. Mixed in with the terror was a sense of detachment. Like it was happening to someone else.

Am I really about to die?

He’d never thought much about death before, and certainly never thought this was how his life would end. He wondered if he should be concentrating on something important. Or praying. Or looking back over his life and trying, in his very last seconds, to make sense of it all.

But all he could focus on was the knife.

“Unlike some of my kin, I don’t take no pleasure in killin’. Momma says it’s on account I’m too soft. But I done some bad things. And right now, I reckon I’m gonna do some of those bad things to you.”

Felix heard someone say, “Please, don’t,” and realized it was coming from him.

“I gotta. Maybe Momma won’t think I’m no softy no more if’n I bring her your head. But heads don’t come off easy. Takes lots of cuttin’ and hackin’. I ‘spect you’ll feel most of it.”

“Please...”

“On your knees, boy.”

Felix was forced down in the headlight beams. He stared at John’s waist, smelled his body odor, and realized these were the last sensations he’d ever experience.

Except for pain.

How will it feel when he cuts into my throat? Will it hurt a lot? Will I choke on blood?

Will John slit my neck, or dig the tip of the blade in?

What’s in a throat, anyway?

Jugular vein.

Carotid artery.

Adam’s apple.

The cartilage part. What was that called?

The trachea.

How will it feel when he pokes through the trachea?

How about when he goes even deeper?

Will the pain stop when he severs my spine?

Felix felt like sobbing. He didn’t want his last thought to be about the pain to come. He wanted it to be about something more important. He wanted it to be about Maria.

He pictured her face. Her eyes. Her smile.

He wanted so badly to see her, one last time.

I’m so, so sorry, baby. I failed you.

“What happened to her?” Felix croaked.

“Them questions is what got you into trouble, boy. You still asking ‘em?”

“I have to know.” Felix swallowed. “Please.”

John snorted and spat. “We bled her. Same as the others. Nice and slow. Not fast, like you’re gonna be. Just try not to splash any on my new truck.”

Rage overtook Felix, burning away the blanket of fear, filling his veins with electricity.

“If’n you take a deep breath, maybe you’ll be able to look ‘round for a bit after I get your head off.”

Felix lashed out with his fist, connecting with John’s crotch, feeling his hand sink in while simultaneously trying to twist away from the knife.

John grunted, jerking to the side, dragging the tip of the blade across Felix’s chin and cutting to the bone. Felix flinched away, but John’s hand was too big, his hold too tight. He cut again, the jagged back of the hunting knife catching Felix across his scalp. Felix reached out with both hands, his fingers wrapping around the cruel, sharp steel.

John bent down and pulled. Felix felt it cut into his fingers, but he refused to let go. He swung his head upward, fast. His scalp rammed into John’s chin, snapping the larger man’s head backward.

John jerked up to his full height, did a half-turn, then fell like a redwood, banging his forehead into the asphalt when he hit the road, his knife clattering beside him.

The pain hit Felix all at once. His neck. His head. His fingers.

Oh, Christ, my fingers.

He held them up but couldn’t see much in the dark except for blood. Then he reverted back to self-preservation and scurried over to the knife. He was able to pick it up, albeit painfully, and then slowly approached John.

The giant’s eyes were closed. Felix heard a low, rumbling sound, and he realized John was snoring.

Is he faking it?

Felix placed a foot on the hunter’s shoulder, shoved him from his side onto his back. In the high beams, he could make out the growing knot on John’s forehead.

Felix could also make out the injuries to his hands. It looked like he’d stuck them in a blender.

Seeing the cuts made them hurt even more. Felix hurried to the car, threw the knife in the back seat, tucked the 9mm into his waistband, and then dug the first aid kit out of the rear compartment where he kept his car jack and toolbox. He slathered his hands with a full tube of Neosporin, then began to wind them with gauze. Halfway into wrapping his right hand he had to stop and redo it, leaving his index finger free so he could still shoot the gun if needed.

Then Felix yanked out his toolbox, searching through it until he found the handcuffs. An impulse purchase he’d made at the same time he’d bought the gun, on the off-chance he might run into whoever had done Maria harm.

He stuck the keys in his front pocket and rolled the big man onto his belly—a difficult task with someone so heavy. The cuffs just barely fit around his thick wrists. Then Felix managed, with even more difficulty, to pull his cell phone out of his pocket.

Felix used his index finger to dial 9 and 1. Then he paused.

John hadn’t said Maria was dead.

What if she was still alive?

And what if John could take him to her?

“It’s a police matter,” Felix said aloud.

But what if the cops couldn’t get John to talk? What if they weren’t persuasive enough?

Felix stared at the snoring giant.

The man who knows what happened to Maria. The man who sliced up my face and fingers. The man who almost cut off my head.

Felix hit the end call button and tucked the phone away.

I’ll get him to talk.

Felix walked over to John and gave him a hard kick in the ribs to make sure he was still out. The hunter didn’t so much as flinch. Then Felix collapsed into the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirror to look at his injuries.

It was ugly.

His shirt was soaked to the skin with blood. His head looked like he’d dunked it in the stuff, and his hair was plastered to his scalp. Not quite as bad as Sissy Spacek at the end of Carrie, but damn close.

Felix mopped away the blood with a stack of paper napkins acquired during his last trip to McDonald’s, paying special attention to wiping off his eyes, where the blood stung like chlorine.

His chin seemed to be the more serious injury; gentle manipulation revealed the jaw bone in the slit. Stitches were needed, but Felix could barely hold the gun, much less a suture. Luckily, in his toolbox was a tube of cyanoacrylate. Superglue. Felix pinched the ends of the wound together and ran a seam of glue across it. The gel set immediately, knitting the edges, forming a tough scab.

The scalp was more complicated, both hard to see and reach. Not worrying about the mess he was making of his hair, Felix alternated between a napkin compress and dabs of glue until the bleeding got under control.

Now what to do about John?

The Cozynook Motel was the best bet. Even though it was full occupancy, each of the rooms had a back patio, facing the woods. Felix could pull the truck around, load John into the room without anyone seeing.

And what about Cameron?

Felix buried the thought. Maria’s brother would either go along with this or he wouldn’t. But he wouldn’t tell anyone. Not after what Felix had done for him.

All that was left to do was figure out how to load John into Felix’s truck. He walked over and grabbed the man’s leg, attempting to drag him.

No good. John had to weigh three hundred pounds. Felix was strong, and he maintained his exercise regimen even during his obsession with finding Maria. But unless he had a ramp and a dolly, or a block and tackle, there was no way he could get John into the flatbed.

That left one alternative. John had to get in himself.

Felix knelt next to the big man’s head, a gun in one hand, a vial of ammonium carbonate from the first aid kit in the other. He held the smelling salts under John’s nostrils until the man’s eyes popped open and he twisted away from the fumes.

“Momma?” he moaned.

“I’m not your momma, asshole.”

John blinked, then sucked in his lower lip. The fear displayed on his round, hairless face made him look like an overgrown child.

“Am I bleedin’? Sweet Jezus, am I cut anywheres?”

Something caught Felix’s attention. Up on the crest of the hill, on the road leading up the mountain.

Headlights.

Someone was coming. Fast.

“Get up. You’re coming with me.”

“My head hurts. Is my head cut?”

Felix’s gaze flitted back to the approaching car. Thirty seconds until it arrived. Maybe less.

“You’re not bleeding.”

“You sure?”

Felix brought the gun up. “You have five seconds to get to your feet, or you will be bleeding. I’ll blow your fucking knee off.”

“Don’t! Aw gawd, please don’t...”

“Get up.”

John tried to get his legs under him, but he was too big and heavy.

The car zoomed within a few hundred yards of them.

Felix shoved the gun in his waistband and winced as he pulled on John’s armpit, helping the man get to his knees.

“Into the back of the truck. Move your ass.”

The car almost upon them now. In just a few seconds they would be in the driver’s headlights. Felix rushed back to his truck and killed his own headlights and the interior light, and then hurried back to John, who was standing in the middle of the road with his mouth open, looking terrified.

“In the fucking truck!” Felix jammed the gun into the hunter’s ribs, prodding him toward the back end. He pulled down the tailgate door, climbing onto the flatbed with John.

“Stay down! Don’t fucking move!”

Felix held his breath. John shook next to him.

The giant was sobbing.

The headlights approached. Felix could make out the shape of the car. A sedan. Square headlights. Something on the roof of it.

A hunting rack?

No. Sirens.

It’s a police car.

And it’s slowing down.

Felix tightened his grip on the Beretta, wondering what he would do if it stopped. He could tell the truth, say he was trying to dial 911 but couldn’t get a cell phone signal.

But then the cops would have John. What if they couldn’t make him talk? Where would that leave Maria?

Or worse, what if they knew John? What if all the townies were drinking buddies? Maybe Felix was the one who’d wind up in jail.

Felix listened to the car slow down and watched the cop’s headlights throw shadows over the flatbed. He placed his finger on the trigger of the Beretta.

They’re not going to take John.

The police car cruised by, then sped off down the highway, into the distance.

Felix breathed again. He climbed out of the bed, going around to the cab to get a bungee cord.

“What’re you gonna do to me?” John whimpered.

“Shut up.”

“You sure I ain’t bleedin’?”

“I said shut up!”

Felix whipped John in the head with the bungee. Then he wound it around John’s legs and threw a tarp over him.

Next Felix spent a few minutes cleaning himself off, stripping off his shirt and using the melted ice from the extra large cup of cola he’d bought hours ago to pour over his face and neck. The blood had begun to dry, and wasn’t coming off easily, but with a new shirt and a baseball cap he wouldn’t get a second look from any other drivers he passed.

“Where you takin’ me?” John said, his voice quavering.

“We’re going to have a nice, long talk about Maria.”

“You better let me go. Or you’re gonna get in big trouble.”

“You’re the one who’s in trouble, asshole.”

“If’n you hurt me, you’ll never get your girl back.”

Felix’s heart leapt up to his throat.

Is Maria really still alive? Or is this inbred son of a bitch just saying that to save his own neck?

I’ll find out the truth. So help me, I’ll find out everything this redneck has ever done going all the way back to his toddler years.

Felix cracked an ugly, hysterical smile, uttered a noise somewhere between a chortle and a sob, and then pulled onto the highway.

# # #

She doesn’t know what day it is. Or what month it is.

By how long her hair has grown, she knows she’s been here a long time. Ten months? A year?

Longer?

The depression is impossible to overcome. It’s even worse than the fear. Even worse than the abuse. Even worse than the—

She doesn’t want to think about that last thing. But it will happen again. Soon. Very soon. She’s due.

Escape is impossible. The door is solid iron, set in concrete. She isn’t allowed anything that can be used as a weapon. Not a pencil. Not even a spoon.

She once tried to hide a chicken bone in her cell. She was going to sharpen it, use it against them.

It was discovered. The consequences were horrible.

Resistance is met with punishment. Beatings. Food being withheld.

And worse. Much worse.

She used to have nightmares. Of them. A few in particular. The crueller ones. The sicker ones.

Now it’s all one big nightmare.

For a while she stopped eating. Wanted to die.

They tied her to a chair, stuck a tube down her throat, one end attached to a meat grinder, and force-fed her. Along with the grain and hamburger, they ground up a rat in there as well.

A live rat. Blood, fur, bones, squeals and all. From the grinder, straight to her belly.

She ate her meals after that.

Her cell has a dirt floor. A metal door. A mattress. A hand pump for water, though the water tastes strange. An aluminum chamber pot. And books. They let her have books. Some old paperbacks. And a lot of non-fiction. About Presidents. It’s tough to read, because the single overhead bulb is only 25 watts, but she makes due.

She exercises every day. It helps pass the time. Help keeps her sane.

But she isn’t sure how much longer she’ll be able to cling to sanity.

She’s lost weight, and isn’t quite sure how she’s still alive. How she’s been able to survive what they keep doing to her.

There are others down there with her. Other prisoners. She isn’t sure of the amount. At least three. Possibly more. Talking is met with swift punishment. Whenever she’s taken from the cell, it’s with a hood over her head so she can’t see.

But she knows there are others. She’s whispered to a few. Befriended some without ever seeing their faces. Men and women in nearby cells.

But they never stay for long.

Maybe they were moved. Maybe they even escaped.

But she knows what really happened to them.

This place is a slaughterhouse. And no one gets out alive.

Once, she heard a baby crying. The sound made her weep.

Weep for the child. Weep for its poor mother.

Weep for herself.

She had resigned herself to never having kids. Spat her condition in their ugly faces.

They tried anyway. They keep trying.

In the beginning, she was grateful for not being able to conceive.

Now, she almost wishes she could. Just to connect with another human being.

To hold a baby, just for a moment. To hold anyone at all.

She wants so to see her family. Hell, to see herself. She hasn’t looked in a mirror for so very long.

And the sun. She’d give anything to see the sun again.

She tries to maintain hygiene. They give her soap. She washes herself with the cold well water from the pump. Washes the few articles of clothing she has. They give her toothpaste but no toothbrush. She uses her finger.

Escape is impossible. Resistance is met with violence.

But there’s always the possibility of rescue.

Her hope has dimmed as the months have dragged by. But it isn’t fully dead yet. There’s still a tiny flicker of hope left.

Because she knows that he’s looking for her. She knows he’ll never give up.

And when he comes, she wants to be ready.

So she tries to stay healthy. Tries to hang on. Tries to endure it all.

But she realizes, deep down, she won’t last much longer.

There aren’t as many prisoners. That means they’re using her, more and more.

It won’t be long before they use her all up. The scars on her arms attest to that.

She does another set of push-ups, her fingernails filthy from the dirt floor. Drinks some water, wincing at the taste. It makes her light-headed. Dizzy.

Then she hears the footsteps.

They’re coming. Again.

She tries not to cry. She needs to save her strength. There’s nothing she can do to stop it.

The tears come anyway.

Then her cell door opens, and the endless nightmare is about to get horribly worse.

# # #

JD was going nuts, scratching at the front windshield and barking so fast and loud Florence wondered how the animal was able to breathe. The older woman reached forward into the front seat and grabbed his collar.

“Down, boy!”

The German Shepherd whined, then sat. The night was dark and quiet and seemed to press down on their car.

“What happened, Grandma?”

Florence patted Kelly’s leg. “Front tire blew out.”

“How? Did we hit something?”

“I’m not sure, dear.”

It was an odd blowout, for sure. Their previous flat was the result of running over a nail, causing a slow leak. This was more like an explosion.

Almost as if...

The knock on their window made all three women jump. A flashlight beam hit Florence in the eyes, forcing her to squint. The dog went supernova, pouncing toward the beam and the figure who controlled it, slobber splattering all over the passenger-side window.

“Are y’all okay in there?”

Letti hit the interior light, and Florence stared out at the woman who asked the question. The stranger was tall, easily over six feet, built like a linebacker. It was too dark and she stood too far away to make out anything else.

“JD, shush!” Letti said.

JD kept barking.

Florence tapped the dog on the head. “JD!”

The dog shut up, but its lips remained curled in a snarl. Letti hit the power window, opening it a crack.

“Welcome to the Rushmore Inn,” the large woman said. Her voice was unusually high for someone so big. “Y’all must be the Pillsburys. We been expecting you. I’m the owner. Can I help with any of your luggage?”

The woman put her round face near the window and smiled, revealing a set of gigantic dentures. It looked like she had a mouth full of Chiclets. This close, Florence saw the crow’s feet, the neck waddle, and guessed her to be mid-sixties. She wore a blue floral print dress that had a lace collar and looked antique. Her gray hair couldn’t be described as a beehive, but it was twisted and piled up on top of her head pretty high, hairsprayed into a helmet. Perched on top, of all things, was a pillbox hat, the kind made famous by Jackie O.

But the thing that really caught Florence’s attention was the woman’s eyes. Big and brown and bulging like a frog’s. The mouth might have been smiling wide, but the eyes seemed vacant.

Letti turned around and looked at Florence, both women exchanging an expression of doubt. But before Florence could say anything, Letti told Kelly to put on JD’s leash, and then she opened the door.

Florence got out of the car, and found herself standing face-to-face with the innkeeper. Well, face-to-bust anyway. The woman had at least six inches on Florence.

“I’m Eleanor Roosevelt,” she said in a sing-song, southern belle voice. “My grandfather was second cousin to Theodore Roosevelt, the twenty-sixth president of the United States. But, of course, I was named after Mrs. Franklin Delano Roosevelt. FDR was the only President to serve three terms in the White House.”

Her bug eyes blinked, and she offered a fake smile and her hand. Florence shook it, and found herself in a power struggle of who could squeeze harder. Eleanor’s hand was large, meaty, and she had formidable strength. But Florence had been sticking to a strict exercise routine for more than forty years, and could knock off a hundred fingertip push-ups without breaking a sweat. Though she didn’t have leverage on her side, her fingers had the power to crush a soup can.

The two women remained locked like that for several seconds, neither of them betraying anything in their faces.

“And you are?” Eleanor asked, her voice steady as her grip increased.

“Florence. I’m not named after anybody. I find it refreshing to be my own person.”

Eleanor tilted her head to the side. “You look to be about my age, Florence. Are you certain you’re fit enough to compete in Iron Woman? It would be a shame if you keeled over from a heart attack. Do you remember when President Dwight D. Eisenhower had a heart attack in 1955?”

“I never liked Ike.”

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, and she released Florence’s hand, wiping it on her bulging stomach. “Yes. Well then. It’s certainly a pleasure to meet you.” She turned. “And you must be Letti. I spoke with you on the phone. I’m Eleanor Roosevelt. My grandfather was second cousin to Theodore Roosevelt, the twenty-sixth president of the United States.”

“I caught that earlier. Nice to meet you, Eleanor.”

Florence watched as Eleanor tried to mash Letti’s hand, and was pleased when Eleanor let out a yelp at her daughter’s strength.

That-a-girl, Letti.

Eleanor couldn’t pull her hand away quickly enough.

“We seem to have run over something in your driveway and gotten a flat tire,” Letti said, her face betraying nothing.

Eleanor clucked her tongue. “Yes. It happens a lot out here. We try to keep the driveway clear, but there are sharp rocks everywhere.”

Letti folded her arms—her victory pose. “We lost our spare on the trip up. Do you have the number of a garage around here? Someone who sells tires?”

“Absolutely. But no one will come out here this late. It will have to wait until tomorrow.”

“We have to check in at the race tomorrow morning,” Letti said.

“Not a problem. I can have one of my boys take you into town.”

“We have three bikes we need to take with.”

“We have a truck. It will be fine.”

Florence thought she saw something—a shadow—over Eleanor’s shoulder. It disappeared behind the inn.

“Do you have many animals in these parts?” Florence asked.

Eleanor lowered her voice an octave. “All sorts of nasty things run around in these woods. Bear. Wild boar. Even mountain lions. All the more reason for us to go inside. Come on, now. Y’all must be exhausted after your long trip. From Illinois, isn’t it? The Land of Lincoln? Just follow me.”

Eleanor walked off, taking big strides. Florence shot her daughter a look and saw Letti grin. Her daughter was amused by Eleanor. Florence wasn’t amused so much as disturbed. Something wasn’t right about that woman. Something that went beyond mere eccentricity.

They unpacked the trunk, Eleanor not making good on her promise to help them. Florence shouldered hers and Kelly’s backpacks, then stared into the woods. While the foliage and scent were different, the atmosphere eerily mirrored the jungles of Vietnam. The quiet. The stillness. The darkness that seemed to seep into your very pores. After a lifetime of traveling and missionary work, Florence still wasn’t comfortable in the wilderness. She’d borne witness to countless cases of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. But that was a known danger. The woods whispered of the unknown. Of unseen things that wanted to eat you.

Letti and Florence hefted their gear over to the inn, Kelly in tow with JD. Eleanor stood on the porch with her creepy smile, holding the door open. The building itself was three stories, made of logs. Wooden shutters covered the windows. The roof was hard to see, as not a single exterior lamp was on.

“Welcome to the Rushmore Inn,” Eleanor said again. The woman apparently liked to repeat herself.

Upon stepping inside, all the creepy feelings Florence had toward Eleanor tripled. The interior—lit by murky, low-watt bulbs—was a cross between a museum and a junk shop. Presidential memorabilia decorated the walls and furniture in a most haphazard way. Paintings. Posters. Newspapers. Photos. Election signs and buttons. Rather than charming, the effect was overwhelming. Florence tried to find something, anything, that didn't have a President's name or image on it. Her eyes fixed on a plain white ashtray. Being curious, she looked closer. Inside were the smiling faces of Richard and Pat Nixon.

“This just went from quirk to fetish,” she whispered to Letti.

“She’s way past fetish. This is full-blown psychosis.”

Florence also noted a strange odor in the house. Beneath the strong scent of incense were notes of body odor, and something else. A rotting smell, like carnations gone bad.

“I see you admiring the decorations,” Eleanor said, her arms making grand, sweeping gestures.

“It’s very presidential.” Letti barely containing her smirk.

“Indeed.” Eleanor’s face took on a solemn cast. “Presidents are the most important people in the world. They're like royalty. After all, what could be more important than running a country? All that power. All that responsibility. As Americans, we should proudly revere our Presidents, for they're so much better than we are.”

“Didn’t Jefferson say all men are created equal?” Florence asked.

“Presidents are more than mere men. They’re born to lead. Did you know all forty-three Presidents have carried European royal bloodlines? Thirty-four of them are genetic descendants of the French ruler, Charlemagne. Nineteen are related to England’s Edward the Third.”

Eleanor produced a handkerchief from the cuff of her long-sleeved dress and mopped at the sweat on her neck.

“If you go back far enough, everyone is descended from the same people,” Letti said.

“Of course they are, dear. Adam and Eve. But only a small minority of these descendants have carried the royal bloodline and were fit enough to lead nations. I have to ask... is Letti short for Leticia?”

“Loretta.”

“Too bad. Leticia Tyler was married to our tenth President, John Tyler. Not a very dynamic first lady, and a cripple at the end of her years. But she had eight children. Only seven survived. How many have you had?”

“Just Kelly.”

Eleanor fanned her face with the handkerchief, a dainty movement incongruous with her massive frame. “Only one child? Such a shame. God told us to be fruitful and multiply. Did you know there was a woman in the eighteenth century who had sixty-nine children? She gave birth to sixteen pairs of twins, seven sets of triplets and four sets of quadruplets. How blessed her family must have been.”

“I’m surprised her uterus didn’t run off and hide,” Letti said.

Eleanor turned to Florence. “How sad that both of us are past our child bearing years, isn't it Florence? It would be so lovely to have a few more.”

“I only needed one because I did it right the first time,” Florence said. Out of the corner of her eye she caught her daughter smiling.

Eleanor turned her attention to Kelly.

“But this young lady here. She has many children in her future. Her breasts are just coming in. I can picture them, swollen with milk. ready to suckle her young.”

“Yuck,” Kelly said. “If I have kids, they’re getting formula.”

Florence didn’t like the woman talking to her granddaughter. Letti didn’t seem to like it either, and put a protective hand on Kelly’s shoulder. Eleanor apparently didn’t notice, and moved closer to the girl.

“And what’s your name, precious one?”

“I’m Kelly. This is JD.”

JD was staring at Eleanor like she was a rabbit he was ready to chase.

“And what does JD stand for?”

“Jack Daniels. Mom named him. We got him when my dad died.”

“He looks very protective of you. How old is he?”

“Eleven.”

“Our thirty-fifth President, John F. Kennedy, had a German Shepherd named Clipper. Such a good-looking animal.” Eleanor tucked her handkerchief away and went tsk tsk tsk. “Too bad JD is near the end of his life. Shepherds don’t live much longer than eleven years.”

Kelly’s eyes got wide.

“We really do appreciate the free rooms,” Letti said, stepping between Kelly and Eleanor. Florence noted the forced smile on her daughter’s face. “We’re very tired, so if you could please show them to us.”

Eleanor raised up her nose, as if she just smelled something she didn’t like. “Of course. Please follow me.”

The large woman strolled past the living room and up the stairs, moving at a quick clip. Florence and Letti, hauling the bags, had to march double-time to catch up. Like the walls, the stairs were made of naked wood, the banisters iron. There was a gap between the opposing flights, so it was possible to look straight up between them and see the roof. The stairway was slathered with more Presidential stuff, including a large poster of Mt. Rushmore. When they reached the second floor, Eleanor was standing in front of a closed door, tapping her foot. Her boots were vintage like her dress, black leather with hooks for the laces.

“This is the Abraham Lincoln Bedroom. It will be perfect for Kelly. You other ladies are on the third floor.” She handed Kelly a key, then began walking back to the stairs.

Letti voiced her objection before Florence could. “We’d like to all stay on the same floor, if possible,” she called to Eleanor’s back.

Eleanor turned and offered a mirthless smile. “That’s impossible. I’m afraid I haven’t made up any of the other rooms.”

“I’ll take this one,” Florence offered.

Kelly already had the key in the door and had opened it. The light was on, and as expected, Lincoln memorabilia was the dominating motif.

“This room is cool! I did a school report on Lincoln. Remember, Mom?”

“I’d feel better if you stayed in a room next to me or Grandma.”

“Aw, c’mon. I’ll be fine. JD will be with me.”

“I’m a fan of Lincoln too, dear,” Florence said. “I was actually at Ford’s Theater when he was shot. Other than that, it was a pretty good play.”

Kelly pouted. Florence considered correcting her on her pouting—pouting wasn’t a useful habit to pick up—but she wasn’t going to usurp Letti’s authority and start making rules. That had been one of many conditions Florence had agreed to when she asked to move in with them. In truth, if Letti had asked that Florence wear a bag on her head and never speak again, she would have agreed to that as well. Repairing her relationship with her daughter, and building one with her granddaughter, were the most important things in her life.

Funny how priorities change when circumstances change.

“You should room next to Mom,” Kelly told her. “It will give you a chance to patch things up.”

Florence gave Letti a look that said, Did you tell her? and Letti gave her the same look right back.

“I’m not stupid,” Kelly said, putting her hands on her hips. “I don’t know what the deal is between both of you, but now is a good time to work it out. I’ll be in here with JD, eating granola bars and playing with my iPod. G’night.”

Kelly smiled brightly, stepped into the Lincoln bedroom with the dog, and shut the door behind her. Florence heard the lock turn.

“She takes after you,” Florence said.

Letti folded her arms. “Meaning she never listens?”

“Meaning she’s strong willed and a smart observer.”

“I don’t have all day.” This from Eleanor, still waiting at the stairs.

Letti pursed her lips and walked after the woman. Florence followed.

After another flight of stairs, and another poster of Mt. Rushmore, the women arrived on the third floor. More low-lighting. More odd memorabilia on the walls.

This woman must spend all of her free time on eBay.

“Letti, this is the Grover Cleveland room. I believe you’ll find it quite comfortable. And for you, Florence, the Ulysses S. Grant room, right next door.”

“Thank you, Eleanor.”

Eleanor handed her the key, but hung onto the key ring.

“If you’re hungry tonight, the kitchen is on the first floor. There’s food in the icebox. I made cupcakes earlier. But be careful walking the halls. Rumor has it the inn is haunted. This property used to be a tobacco plantation. The owners had six slaves, and they treated them harshly. Lashings. Thumb screws. Are you familiar with strappado? They would tie a rope around a slave’s wrists, fasten it to this iron banister right here. It’s actually a gate. See?”

Eleanor touched the railing, unlatching it. It swung inward on hinges, revealing the twenty-five foot drop to the first floor.

“When the slave fell, the rope would pull taut and dislocate his shoulders.”

“Charming,” Florence said, her voice flat.

“Legend says one slave, after his fifth drop, lost both of his arms when they ripped from his sockets. He’s said to roam the hallways at night, looking for his missing limbs. One wonders what infraction he committed to deserve such treatment. Or why his owner would risk the loss. After all, slaves cost money.” Eleanor closed the gate. “Did you know twelve of our Presidents were slave owners?”

“Thank you again,” Florence said, giving the key a hard tug and freeing it from Eleanor’s grasp. “We need to be in town at eight a.m. for the race sign-in and walkthrough. Are you sure your son won’t mind giving us a ride? I’m guessing we’ll need to leave by seven.”

Eleanor offered a big-toothed smile. “He won’t mind at all. I can have breakfast ready for y’all at six-thirty.”

“Are there other guests?” Letti asked.

“At the moment, no. But we’re expecting more later tonight.”

Florence couldn’t understand how this place stayed in business. “Is it the slow season?”

Eleanor’s bug eyes became wide. “Not at all. We’re just very particular when it comes to who we invite into our little inn.”

“You must get a lot of repeat business, then.”

“You wouldn’t believe it. After their first night, some of the guests never want to leave.” She winked, then performed a clumsy curtsey. “Goodnight, ladies. See you soon.”

The innkeeper waddled off. They watched her descend the stairs, giving the iron railing an affectionate pat.

“I don’t like that woman, this inn, or the surrounding area,” Florence said.

“But you can’t beat the price.” Letti put her key in the lock.

“Tell me again how you found this place?”

“They mailed me a letter, saying all of us won a free three-night stay.”

Florence shook her head. “But how do they benefit from that? It’s not like all the other guests here are making up for it. This place is dead as a tomb.”

Letti swung her door open. “We discussed this already. No matter how crummy the place was, we were going to stay. It’s saving us a lot of money, Florence. And you know we need the money for—”

“For me. I know, Letti.” Florence put a hand on her daughter’s, which was resting on the doorknob. She lowered her voice. “We really need to talk about your husband...”

Letti pulled her hand away. “One of the rules is we’re not going to talk about that.”