Endurance

“Kelly is right. If we don’t discuss it, if you don’t understand me, how will you ever forgive me?”

“Where in our deal does it say I have to forgive you?”

Letti pushed the door open and went into her room, slamming it in Florence’s face.

Do I deserve that?

I don’t know. Maybe I do. Maybe Letti has been right all along.

But that doesn’t mean I would have done things any differently.

Or would I have?

Florence sighed. She’d raised a girl who was just as hard-headed as she was. Hopefully Letti wouldn’t make the same mistakes with Kelly that Florence had made with her.

Florence padded to the Grant bedroom, opened the door, and stepped inside, feeling the space.

It didn’t feel right.

The lights were already on, illuminating the expected Ulysses S. Grant decorations plastered everywhere. Somehow Eleanor had managed to find President Grant curtains, and a bed spread that looked like a giant fifty dollar bill. But it wasn’t the Grant motif that gave Florence pause.

It was the sense that she wasn’t alone in the room.

Florence believed, and had been proven correct on dozens of occasions, that she could sense when others were nearby. It wasn’t any ESP baloney, or any supernatural trick. Many animals had some sort of proximity sense, alerting them to when prey or predators were close. Bats. Sharks. Whales and dolphins. Dogs. It was well within the scope of nature to sense other living creatures near you, without sight, sound, or touch. The same way you could sense when someone was looking at you from across a room, or sense that the door was about to open.

Everyone had this ability, to one degree or another. Florence felt that she honed hers through a lifetime of travelling to different environments, coupled with her interest in meditation and the martial arts.

Different places felt different, in a way beyond what the five senses could report.

And in this room, Florence felt like she was being watched.

But they weren’t friendly eyes watching her.

They feel more like hunter’s eyes.

The last time she’d had this feeling was during the war. She’d been with the third field hospital, 85th Evac, in Qui Nhon. The conditions had been primitive. Surgery in tents. Not enough equipment. Always low on medicine. After a full morning of plucking slugs out of a boy’s legs without antiseptic or rubber gloves, she’d gone to the latrine to wash the blood out from under her fingernails, and some instinct made her duck. A second later, a sniper’s bullet passed over her head, killing the nurse in line ahead of her.

Florence had felt him.

Just like she felt someone now.

She took in the room, her eyes sweeping over it slowly. It was small, tidy, smelled strange like the rest of the house. There was a bed. Dresser. Bathroom. Window. Door.

A closet door.

Is that what I’m feeling? Someone in the closet?

Florence moved to the door, slow and cautious. Her left hand reached for the knob. Her right hand drew back in a fist.

She hesitated.

What if there is someone in there?

For all of her adult life, Florence took pride from her ability to take care of herself. No matter the situation, she could handle it.

But now? At my age? In my condition?

Running earlier with Kelly had been difficult, and hiding her pain had been impossible. The only reason Kelly didn’t notice was because she’d been so scared.

Florence let her fist open. If there was someone in the closet, she wanted something with a little more heft than her fist. The lamp next to the bed would pack a bigger wallop.

Florence picked it up. It was a standard ceramic table lamp, maybe five pounds, the cylindrical shade boasting a glued-on picture of Grant’s face.

Then she raised the lamp up with one hand, and grabbed the knob with the other.

Ready or not...

She yanked the door open and stared.

Staring back was nothing but empty clothes hangers.

Florence blew out a deep breath and set the lamp back down.

But she still felt like she was in someone’s crosshairs.

Under the bed?

Florence eyed it. Queen size. A large frame, up off the floor on casters.

She watched it for a moment, looking for movement.

It remained absolutely still.

Maybe it’s paranoia. Maybe my proximity sense is just one more thing that’s failing on me.

Or maybe there is someone under there.

Florence swallowed, then took a deep breath.

Only one way to find out.

She slowly crouched down, reaching for the dust ruffle on the bed.

“Florence?”

Florence jerked her head around, saw her daughter standing in the doorway.

“Letti?”

Letti folded her arms and leaned against the jamb. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

# # #

Deb lashed out, striking Mal in the chin as his hands locked around her throat.

“Down!” he yelled.

He pulled her head toward him, toward his lap, his arms incredibly strong. The seatbelt gave some slack then locked up, keeping her in her seat. She made another fist, chopping at his balls, missing and whacking his thigh.

“Someone is shooting at us!” Mal said, catching her wrists.

She paused for a moment. Mal released her, pressing the catch on his seatbelt, kneeling down on the floor mat and then reaching for her again. Deb processed what he said.

The tire blowout. Did someone shoot the tire?

Deb killed the engine and the headlights. Then she hit the seatbelt button, draping herself over the armrest, the gearshift digging into her belly.

“Are you sure?”

His voice was low, harsh. “I used to be a cop. That was gunfire. Someone took out our wheel. Stay below the window.”

Deb tried to press herself into the bucket seats. Mal opened the passenger door and spilled out onto the road.

“Come out this way.” Mal beckoned for her. “He’s on your side.”

Deb pulled herself toward him, and he grabbed her hands. She moved a few inches, then stopped cold.

My leg is stuck on something.

She wiggled her pelvis, trying to turn her knee. But without being able to feel her foot, she had no way to know what it was stuck on, or how to free it.

Mal tugged harder, wrenching her shoulders.

“Hold on,” she ordered. “Let go a sec...”

He complied, and she tore at her snap pants, her fingers ripping at the Velcro strap. Then she hit the release nozzle, breaking the suction between her stump and the prosthetic’s socket. She reached for Mal again, and he tugged her roughly, yanking her out of the car and into his arms. They fell, Mal onto his back, Deb landing on top, her chest crushing into his, their faces inches from each other.

“What do we do?” she whispered.

“I don’t know where the shot came from. I’m going to wait for him to fire again, then try to flank him.”

Deb pulled away, trying to get off of him, and her empty pant cuff caught on something. To keep from falling over, she straddled his waist.

“I thought you didn’t like me,” Mal said.

“Are you always such a smart ass in life-or-death situations?”

“Your hair smells nice.”

“Jesus.” Deb shook her head and twisted around, freeing the cuff from the hinge of the car door. Then she rolled off of Mal and sat with her back to the fender.

Mal eased the car door closed and sat next to her. The night was dark and silent. Even the crickets had ceased their song.

A minute passed. Then another. Deb’s eyes slowly adjusted. The orange hunter’s moon overhead, pinned in a sky of stars, made it easier to see.

“Think he’s still there?” Deb asked.

“I dunno.”

“Can’t he circle around and shoot us?”

“Yes.”

Deb frowned. “Weren’t we safer in the car?”

“Probably.” Mal leaned closer. “But now I’m wondering why he didn’t shoot us instead of the tire.”

They waited for another minute. Doubt took root in Deb’s head, then began to grow.

“Are you sure that was a gunshot, and not just a blowout?” she asked.

“Yes. Pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure?”

“Mostly sure.”

Deb squinted at him. “Have you ever had a blowout before?”

“No. But I know a gunshot when I hear it.”

“How do you know a tire blowing up doesn’t sound like a gunshot?”

“I know.” Mal rubbed his chin. “I think.”

Another minute ticked by. Deb was listening so hard she could make out the sounds of the night. The crickets returned. A frog croaked. Miles away, an owl announced itself.

“How sure are you now?” Deb asked.

“Sort of sure.”

Deb sighed. Her mistrust of Mal’s intentions morphed into mistrust of his instincts. While she no longer felt he was a threat, she did think he was wrong about the gunshot. Deb began to crawl around the back of the car.

“Hey!” Mal caught her remaining prosthetic leg. “Where are you going?”

“To search the tire for bullet holes.”

“That’s probably not a good idea.”

“So we just sit here all night?”

“Good point. I’ll come with.”

Mal crawled up alongside her, their sides touching. The temperature outside had dropped at least ten degrees since the sun went down, and his body heat felt good.

At the rear bumper they both got down on their bellies. Mal produced his pen light and shined it on the tire, revealing a tangle of rubber strips and twisted steel belted radials.

“Do you see a bullet hole?” Deb asked.

“I can’t tell.”

“So it could have been just a regular blowout?”

“I guess that’s a possibility.”

Great.

“So, what now?” Deb asked, her irritation coming through.

Mal dug out his cell phone. “No bars. Want to try your phone?”

Deb got onto her knees, then used the bumper to lift herself up onto one leg.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Without answering, she hopped up to the driver’s side door, opened it up, and hit the trunk release. As she expected, no one took a shot at her. She hopped back, feeling smug, foolish, and irritated all at once. Her side was still warm where Mal had lain next to her.

“You putting on the spare?” Mal asked. He was also standing up, scanning the trees.

“It’s a Corvette. There is no spare.”

“What? Why not?”

“Each tire has unique treads. They aren’t interchangeable. So no spares.”

Deb reached into the trunk for her Cheetah prosthetics. They were easier to walk in than her cosmetic legs. Especially if they were going into the woods to look for the Inn.

She could guess how hard it would be to find a tow truck in this area at this time of night. That was if her cell phone even worked. Reception out here was spotty at best.

“Look, Deb, maybe I was wrong. About the gun thing.”

“You think?”

“I’m sorry if I freaked you out.”

“Apology not accepted.”

“Okay, how can I make it up to you?”

“You can carry my suitcase.”

She adjusted the silicone end pad in the gel sheath on her stump, then fit it into the custom cup of the running prosthetic. A few presses of the vacuum button and it was form-fitted and tight. Then she took off her cosmetic leg and repeated the process. With her Cheetahs on, walking was much easier. She waited for Mal to stare at them. How could he help it? She looked like the Greek god Pan, prancing around on his goat legs. All she needed were horns and a lute.

But Mal was staring at her chest again.

“See anything you like?” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Sorry. It’s just...”

“Just what?”

He shrugged. “I know it isn’t professional, me being a reporter. But you’re an attractive woman, and I like you.”

Deb didn’t appreciate how that made her feel. “You’re right. That’s not professional.”

“You think I’m a doofus, don’t you?”

“A doofus? How old are we, twelve?”

Mal grabbed their luggage. Deb went to close the trunk, but paused. She didn’t want to leave her prosthetics. If the car were towed, she wouldn’t be able to compete in Iron Woman without them. So she shoved them all in a duffle bag, then went into the car and grabbed her cosmetic leg, which was caught on the wire pulley system that activated the brake pedal. After putting on the hazard blinkers and locking the door, she was ready to go.

“Let me have the light. I need it to see where I step.”

Mal handed it over. They walked off the highway and onto the dirt. Deb flashed the beam at the RUSHMORE INN sign, with its arrow pointing ahead.

I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.

But she knew they had to try it out, or else spend an uncomfortable night in the Vette and face exactly the same problem in the morning. That was out of the question. If Deb missed the check-in, she missed the race.

“So what exactly is it about me that you don’t like?” Mal asked.

“Insecure much?”

“That’s the thing. I’m not insecure at all. But people usually like me.”

Mal shined the light on the forest floor, side-stepping a dead branch. The trail was easy to follow, even though it couldn’t be called a road.

“Cockiness isn’t attractive,” she said.

“Am I cocky? I thought I was just confident. Maybe not as confident as you...”

Deb stopped and hit him with the light. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just surprised you’re letting me carry your suitcase.”

“Are you saying I can’t accept help?”

“I’m saying you’re superwoman. I expected you to strap the car to your shoulders and run it back into town.”

“That’s a pretty insensit—”

Deb stopped mid-sentence. An odor had penetrated her nose and tongue. A distinctive odor, rank and musky.

It awoke a deep-seated fear in Deb. A primeval fear.

A familiar fear.

I know that smell.

Deb swept the beam around them, frantically looking for the source.

“What’s wrong?”

She opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat.

Can it be? Jesus, no...

“Deb? What is it?”

With great effort she managed to get the two words out.

“Mountain lion,” Deb whispered as her light came to rest on a bush, reflecting off a pair of deadly yellow eyes.

# # #

The ride to the Cozynook Motel was nerve-jangling. Felix spent most of the trip looking in the review mirror. Checking to make sure John stayed under the tarp. Checking to see if the cop car was following him. Checking his own reflection to verify this was all really happening. His mind kept flitting between the fear of getting caught, and the hope that maybe fate would intervene and stop him from doing what he was planning on doing.

Whenever he became too distracted, he tried to focus on Maria. The chance that she was alive meant he had to take this risk. Felix swore he’d do anything to get her back. Including going to jail. Including hurting someone who had something to do with her disappearance.

“We bled her. Same as the others. Nice and slow.”

Felix glanced at the Beretta on the dashboard. He would make John talk. He’d make that big son of a bitch talk until his lips fell off.

The motel parking lot was full, probably the only time a year that happened. The one-story building was laid out in an L-shape, its twelve rooms all side by side, guests’ parking spaces by their front doors. Earlier that day, Felix and Cameron had visited everyone staying there, showing Maria’s picture, asking questions. No one knew anything. But unlike most of the townies, the visitors were at least sympathetic.

The people who lived in the area were another story. Not that they were mean, or even particularly cold. A better word for them was distant. Over the past twelve months, Felix had talked to dozens of Monk Creek residents. He was usually met with a warm smile or a nod, but once he started asking questions their demeanor would change. Felix originally thought it was because small towns were private, wary of talking to strangers.

But now he suspected differently. Now he saw a big conspiracy of silence. There was something going on in Monk Creek no one wanted to discuss.

And John had something to do with it.

Felix drove past the parking lot, onto the unkempt grass alongside the building. He pulled the truck around the back, into a copse of trees behind his room. Once parked, Felix turned off the ignition, wincing as his ruined fingers removed the keys. Then he waited in the darkness, listening to the night, second-guessing himself for the last time.

I can still go to the cops, turn him in. John tried to kill me. I haven’t broken any laws.

Yet.

Felix considered starting the truck again. Taking John to the police was the only legal, and moral, course of action. The police had more resources, more manpower. Maybe trying to get John to talk would endanger Maria.

But what if the cops don’t believe me? What if John’s lawyer tells him not to say anything? What if John is well-known in the community? What if he’s friends with the police?

Felix couldn’t risk John not talking.

The only way to know the truth is to get it from John myself.

Felix grabbed the gun on the dash, opened the door, and climbed out of the truck. He walked around to the flatbed and rapped John on the heel with the butt of his Beretta. John squealed in fright.

“Out. Now.”

“Please don’ hurt me.”

Felix hit him again, harder. John moaned and began to inchworm backwards out of the truck on his knees and chest. Felix grabbed the large man’s cuffed wrists and helped him off the tailgate, onto his feet.

The night had gotten colder, the cool breeze pinching Felix’s wounds. John’s face was glossy with sweat, reflecting the light from Felix’s bathroom window. Felix removed the bungee cords wrapped around John’s legs and led him to the back porch; a poured slab of concrete with two weathered resin chairs facing the woods. He tried the patio door.

Locked.

Felix squinted through the split in the curtains, saw Cameron lying on the made bed, watching TV. He knocked lightly, and whispered. “Cam, it’s me. Open up.”

Cam’s head jerked at the sound, and a moment later he sprang off the mattress and opened the door. The younger man was dressed for bed, in boxer shorts and a tee shirt, but he still wore those black leather gloves. Felix had never seen Cam take the gloves off, even in the sweltering West Virginia summer when temperatures peaked at a hundred and three.

“You got one,” Cam said, his eyes getting big when he noticed John. Cam’s voice was high and raspy, as if he’d never finished the last few weeks of puberty, even though he’d just turned twenty. “Christ, Felix. You’re covered with blood.”

“Get the rope,” Felix said.

Cam did as instructed, and Felix lead a docile John to a battered desk chair, which creaked under his weight as he sat down. When Cam brought the nylon clothesline, he secured John’s body and feet while Felix covered him with the gun.

“You don’ wanna do this,” John said.

Cam stepped away, looking startled.

“Cam...” Felix said. He knew Cam’s history, knew that he might not be able to handle what was about to happen. “Maybe you should wait in the—”

Cam’s hand shot out, slapping John across the face. It sounded like a firecracker going off in the small room.

“Where’s my sister, you son of a bitch!”

Cam raised his hand again, but Felix grabbed his arm, wincing at the pain in his injured fingers. He looked into Cam’s eyes, saw them crackling with fire.

This is a bad, bad idea.

“Easy, kid,” Felix said, trying to keep his voice even. “John wants to cooperate. Don’t you, John?”

John eyed the floor, saying nothing.

“Does he know where Maria is?” Cam caught Felix’s forearm and squeezed. He was strong for his slight build.

“Maybe.” Felix tugged his arm away. “I’m not sure.”

Cam grabbed John’s ears, forcing his head up. “Where is she? Where’s my sister?”

“You better let me go.” John looked close to crying again. “Y’all be in big trouble if’n you don’t let me go.”

Cam stared hard, and something flashed across his face.

Is that a smile?

“Can you count, you big, fat redneck?” Cam asked. “Because I’m going to count to ten. And if you don’t tell me where Maria is, I’m going to kill you.”

Felix felt like he swallowed a bucket of ice. He knew why Cam was in the hospital. Knew what Cam was accused of doing.

Accused of. Never proven.

Still, it was enough to get him committed.

“Cam,” Felix cleared his throat. “Let’s go in the other room, talk this over.”

Cam ignored him, walking around to the back of John’s chair. “I bet you’re so slow and dumb you count on your fingers, don’t you? Here, let me help you count.”

John’s lips began to tremble.

“Cam...” Felix said. This situation was spiraling way out of control.

“One,” Cam counted.

CRACK.

It sounded like a branch snapping. But it wasn’t wood. Felix knew that Cam had just broken one of John’s fingers.

John’s face turned bright red, and Felix saw the scream building up in his throat. He managed to grab a dirty sock from the floor and shove it into John’s open mouth a second after the howl began. The sound went on and on, and Felix had never heard anything so pitiable, so awful, in his entire life. It made him sick, all the way down to a cellular level. Like Felix’s entire body had become rotten, making him want to crawl out of his skin and go hide.

But Cam wasn’t finished.

“Two.”

Another snap. John thrashed his head back and forth, the tendons in his neck sticking out, his throat vibrating with muffled cries.

Felix’s stomach clenched like a fist. He stumbled into the bathroom, dropping the gun in the sink, vomit spewing up and spraying the toilet. He sunk to his knees and held the bowl, trembling. The steely resolve of a year-long search seeped out of Felix’s body, replaced by pain, fear, and regret over what was happening.

I have to stop this. Now.

But John’s a killer. He had something to do with Maria’s disappearance.

He’s also a human being.

A human being who tried to kill me.

So that means we can torture him?

He may still have Maria.

That last thought gave Felix the strength to stand up and return the bedroom, albeit on wobbly legs. John was thrashing back and forth, his muffled screams making the hair on Felix’s neck stand up. Cam hyperextended another one of the man’s fingers, twirling it around and around like he was stirring a cookie batter.

“Cam.” The spectacle before Felix was surreal.

“I got this, Felix.” Cam grinned at him. “Least I can do, since you busted me out of the loony bin.”

Cam grabbed another finger, and Felix yelled, “Enough!”

Cam’s head shot up, looking like a teenager scolded for bad grades.

“Back off,” Felix ordered. His voice was shaky, but he held Cam’s gaze until the younger man slunk away.

Felix glanced quickly at John’s hands—most of his fingers were stuck out at odd angles—and walked around to face him. John was bright red, his face wet with tears. Felix yanked the sock out of his mouth and was rewarded with a soul-wrenching moan.

“Am... am I bleedin’?” John said.

Felix swallowed. “Not yet. But if you don’t answer my questions, my partner is going to start cutting off your fingers. Do you understand?”

John nodded, his chin trembling. Felix leaned down over him.

“Tell me, John. Is Maria alive?”

John stared, but stayed quiet. Drool leaked out of the corner of his mouth. Felix had once jammed a finger catching a football, and it hurt like hell. To have five broken fingers, misshapen and manhandled, must have been unbearable.

“Answer me. Is Maria alive?”

“You... hurt me bad,” John cried.

Felix felt his stomach turning again. But he managed to keep it under control when he said, “Cam, go out to the truck and get this bastard’s hunting knife.”

Cam nodded and hurried off. Felix considered his prisoner. Maybe John didn’t want to talk, because he thought if he did, he’d be killed. Killed because he was no longer useful. Or killed in retribution for the things he’d done to Maria.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Felix said. He knew it sounded hollow. Lame. But the alternative was letting Cam start slicing off fingers; something Cam seemed disturbingly eager to do. This was a slippery slope, and unless Felix could convince John he’d live through this, the situation would get a lot messier.

Could I allow Cam to keep hurting John?

Felix closed his eyes. He saw Maria’s face. If John had something to do with her disappearance, Felix would let Cam roast the guy over hot coals in order to get answers. Felix could have a crisis of conscious after John talked.

If John talked.

“Got it,” Felix said, hurrying back in. “Man, this knife is wicked.”

John began to blubber uncontrollably at the sight of Cam, and Felix felt ready to do the same.

Be strong. It’s for Maria.

Cam positioned himself behind John.

“Don’t cut me... please don’t cut me.”

e knew it sounded hollow,

“I just want to know what happened to my fiancé,” Felix said. He forced himself to maintain eye contact.

“He’s... he’s gonna cut my fingers off.”

“Not if you tell me the truth. If you tell me the truth, I promise he won’t cut you. We won’t hurt you any more if you tell me.” He crouched down, staring into John’s face. “Is Maria still alive?”

John’s lips trembled, but he stayed silent.

Anger surged up in Felix like the vomit had moments ago, and the last vestiges of sanity left him as he reared back and slapped John across the face, hard as he could.

“Goddammit, tell me!”

John’s whispered answer was the most important thing anyone had ever said to Felix.

“Your woman is... alive.”

# # #

Maria allows herself to be led out of her cell by George. He’s one of the largest of her captors, close to seven feet tall, and among the most sadistic. He’s not as deformed as the others, though his head is a little too big for his body, and his arms are too long, like a gorilla. The cattle prod he has in his hand is used for amusement as much as persuasion.

But today George seems distant. He straps on her ball gag without saying a word, and the nudge he gives her with the stick lacks electricity.

He puts the black cloth bag over her head, grabs her elbow, and leads her through the underground tunnels. As usual, Maria counts her steps. The first dozen times, they’d been clever, having her walk in circles. All the better to keep her disoriented. But lately they’d slipped into a routine. At exactly a hundred and fifteen paces, they come to the door to the Room.

She hears it open, feels George push her from behind. Maria’s legs lock. As terrible as her captivity has been, her times in the Room were the low points. What happens in the Room goes beyond pain, beyond sickness, beyond desperation.

What happens in the Room is an abomination.

George nudges her, but she still refuses to enter. She braces herself, expecting the jolt, anticipating the hurt.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, she’s shoved inside, many hands grabbing her, pulling her to the chair, strapping her down. Then the bag is pulled off her head, and Maria stares into the bulging eyes of Eleanor Roosevelt. She’s surrounded by a menagerie of freaks. Practically all of them. Deformed, twisted, grotesque, some half-naked, some fully nude. They form a large circle around Maria, smiling, drooling, grunting.

Eleanor holds a cupcake in her hand, a lit candle jabbed into the pink frosting.

“Happy anniversary, child. Today, you’ve been with us a whole year.”

As the words sink in, Eleanor blows out the candle. The freaks—those who have two normal hands—begin to clap. There are hoots. Howls. Giggles.

Maria sobs. She fights her bonds. Fights with every last bit of her strength, even as she realizes that Felix will never save her, that she’ll never get out of this hell alive, that these sub-human monstrosities are going to use her all up until there’s nothing left.

Maria watches George sit in the opposing chair. It’s his turn today; the apparent reason for his lethargy. She watches Jimmy—his eyes crossed and the pale hump on his back protruding through the split in his filthy lab coat—wheel the machine forward.

Maria screams when the needle goes in.

# # #

Kelly’s fascination with the Lincoln bedroom lasted all of six minutes, and then she was lying in bed, tackling Zombie Apocalypse on her iPod. With Grandma watching, she’d finally beaten level 65, though it had taken up all of her shotgun ammo. Now she was on level 70, fighting a boss who was three times her character’s size, with a stomach so fat it looked like he’d eaten ten other fat guys.

Kelly strafed him with the machine gun, circling his rotund body while dodging the green acid he kept puking at her. She got his health down to only a few red bars, and then one of his lumbering minions grabbed her, turning her into a pile of ash.

Retry? the game asked.

“Hell, yeah.”

She adjusted the pillow she was on, took the last bite of a chocolate chip granola bar, and prepared to kick some fat zombie ass.

Then JD growled.

Kelly glanced at her dog. The hair on his muzzle was sticking straight out, and his lips were raised in a snarl. His defensive stance. But he wasn’t focused on her. He wasn’t focused on the front door, either.

JD was staring at the closet.

That’s strange.

“JD. Come.”

Kelly patted the mattress beside her. At home, the German Shepherd wasn’t allowed on the bed, but Mom couldn’t bitch about what she didn’t know.

JD didn’t move. He growled again, hunkering down like he was ready to pounce.

Kelly studied the closet door. She’d checked inside earlier, while exploring the room, and had found it empty. But the way JD was snarling, he obviously didn’t think it was empty anymore.

Could there be something in the closet?

The thought of it was creepy, and made Kelly shiver.

“What is it, boy?” she asked. A pointless question—it wasn’t like JD was going to answer.

But he did answer, in his way. He stared at her and whined.

The only time Kelly ever heard JD whine was when she accidentally slammed his tail in the patio door. That’s what he looked like now—eyes wide, ears flat, tail drooping under his hind legs. Like he was hurt.

Or scared.

That’s stupid. Dogs don’t get scared.

Do they?

Kelly stared at the closet door again. She’d been pretty engrossed by her game. Could someone have snuck past her and gotten into the closet?

No. JD would have noticed.

Maybe it wasn’t a person. Maybe an animal had crawled in there, through the walls. They’d had a racoon in the house before, up in the attic. JD used to bark like crazy when he heard it.

But JD wasn’t barking now. He was growling and whining.

Some other type of animal, maybe?

A few seconds ago, the closet had been just a boring, old closet. But now, with how JD was acting, it was actually beginning to freak her out.

She thought about the hunter by the waterfall, the one with the messed-up face. After beating Level 65, she’d used her iPod to Google cleft palate. That lead her to a site about birth defects, and some of the images were among the most horrible Kelly had ever seen. On one hand, it must have been awful for the poor people who had to live with those deformities. On the other hand, there was something so instantly repulsive about those images, Kelly had to stop looking at them.

Could that hunter guy be in my closet?

Kelly pictured him standing behind the door, waiting silently for her to go to sleep. So he could sneak up on her and kiss her with that disgusting mouth.

Kiss her, and worse.

Kelly had never kissed a guy. Not even on the cheek. She didn’t want her first to be that awful man.

I’m imagining things. He’s not in the closet.

He can’t be.

Right?

“Come here, JD.” Kelly said it softly.

JD didn’t come. He looked at her, then back at the closet.

Kelly set her iPod on the nightstand and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. She held her breath, listening for any sounds that could be coming from the closet—

—and heard someone cough.

JD barked once and lunged at the closet door, scratching at the knob. Kelly quickly stood up and backed away, to the bathroom. The wooden floor was cool under her bare feet, and she felt nearly naked in her sleep tee shirt, even though it had three-quarter sleeves and hung past her knees.

The Shepherd continued his attack on the doorknob, even biting it, and though JD had never been able to open a door before Kelly had an unrealistic belief that he might this time.

“JD, come.”

The dog glanced at her.

“Come. Now.”

He trotted over, tongue hanging out, tail wagging. Kelly patted his head, surprised by how reassuring it felt. Then she knelt down and hugged his neck, both of them eyeing the door.

The seconds ticked by. Kelly began to wonder if she’d imaged the cough.

Could it have been something else?

Old houses made noises. There were water pipes, and furnaces, and any number of things that made sound. At home, when Mom flushed the toilet, Kelly could hear it from the basement.

Maybe it wasn’t a cough. Maybe someone upstairs had turned on the shower.

Or maybe someone did cough, but it came from the room next door, not the closet.

JD pressed his cold nose into Kelly’s neck, making her flinch. She stood up.

I should open the door to check.

While Kelly didn’t consider herself a tomboy, she was far from a sissy. Kelly preferred SlipKnot to Hannah Montana, and would much rather watch the Saw movies than High School Musical. She could pick up snakes and frogs without screaming, unlike other girls in her class, and during a sleepover was the only one who could spend a full two minutes in the pitch-dark bathroom with the Ouiji board Sue Ellen Wilcox’s brother swore was possessed by Satan. The only irrational thing that scared Kelly was heights.

Is being afraid of the closet irrational? Or common sense?

“It’s irrational,” Kelly said. Her mother loved the word irrational. And if she were there right now, she’d march over to the closet and show Kelly how irrational her fears were.

Drawing on that, Kelly walked toward the door.

The floor creaked under her feet. Though only a few yards separated her from the closet, it seemed like it took a very long time for her to get there. Each step closer increased Kelly’s apprehension. When she finally reached out and touched the knob, her throat felt like there was a walnut stuck in it she was unable to swallow.

Just open the door.

She tightened her grip, but still hesitated.

What if I open it, and the hunter is standing there?

Kelly looked back at JD. He’d stayed next to the bathroom, still as a picture.

Maybe I should listen to the door first.

The girl carefully placed her ear against the cool, rough wood. Again she held her breath, listening for sounds.

A few seconds passed.

Kelly heard nothing.

Mom’s voice appeared in Kelly’s head, like it did whenever she stepped onto a diving board. “You’re being irrational, Kelly. What’s the worst that can happen?”

Crack my head open and drown?

Or in this case, get attacked by a crazy, birth-defected redneck?

Maybe pushing a chair up against the door was a better idea than opening it. Kelly saw a small desk and chair, tucked into the corner of the room. She could brace the chair up under the knob, so nothing could get out of the closet.

No. I’ll never get to sleep unless I check. It’s a big day tomorrow. I can’t spend the night with one eye open, waiting for a monster man to break out and attack me.

Kelly turned the knob—

—yanked the door open—

—and saw—

“Nothing,” Kelly said, blowing out a big breath. She turned around to glare at her dog. “JD, you’re one dumb—”

A creaking noise came from inside the closet, so close Kelly could practically touch it. She startled, jumping backwards, eyes focusing on...

An empty closet.

So what made that noise?

Curiosity won out over fear, and Kelly crept back toward the closet. It was a small space, no more than five feet wide and deep. At eye-level, bisecting the space, was a metal bar, where two wire hangers hung.

Is one of the hangers swinging?

Kelly couldn’t tell. If there was movement, it was slight, and might have happened when she opened the door. She stepped closer, sticking her head inside the closet. There was no overhead light, and it was tough to make out any details beyond the three walls. Kelly went back to the bed, picked up her iPod, and switched it on. One of her apps was simply a bright white screen that functioned as a nightlight. She shined it all over the closet, not exactly sure what she was looking for, but finding something unusual on the floor.

A straw of hay.

Not unusual by itself. But the odd thing was its position. The hay seemed to be stuck under the back wall of the closet. Almost like it was caught in a door.

Kelly tentatively pressed her palm against the wooden wall and pushed. The wall didn’t budge. She gave it a quick rap with her knuckles.

Hollow. But that might be the room next door.

Kelly crouched down, grasped the straw between her thumb and index finger, and tugged. The hay broke in half, still wedged beneath the wall.

WTF?

Then something nudged her from behind.

Kelly yelped, scrambling forward, turning around to face JD.

“Bad dog,” she said, though he really didn’t do anything worthy of scolding.

The comment didn’t seem to bother the canine. He brushed past Kelly, sniffing the floor, and his nose locked onto the corner of the closet. He whined and pawed at the wall, finding something that interested him.

Kelly nudged the Shepherd aside and pointed her iPod at the space he’d been clawing at. The white screen illuminated a small, wooden knob on the floor. It looked like the top of a broomstick, no taller than two inches. Kelly tried to pick it up, but it was stuck. Instead of pulling, she tried to push.

There was a clicking sound, and the wall Kelly had her shoulder against suddenly moved.

A secret passage.

Before Kelly had a chance to process what was happening, JD darted past her, scratching the wall, pushing it open on an unseen hinge like a big door. Then he charged into the blackness behind the wall, disappearing into the darkness.

“JD!” she yelled after him.

Kelly heard the click click click of his toenails on the wooden floor echo away into silence. She squinted into the gap. It was a thin hallway, no more than two feet wide. Unlit, though the iPod allowed her to see that the hall stretched for several yards.

She turned to go tell her mother, then stopped, imagining Mom’s lecture.

“You let JD run off? How irresponsible, Kelly.”

Mom liked the word irresponsible almost as much as irrational.

I should still go get her.

But why? I’m almost a teenager. I don’t need to go to Mom for everything.

What if someone is in there?

JD barked. He didn’t sound very far.

“JD!” she called again.

He barked once more.

Then he yelped.

The yelp was the deciding factor. Kelly had raised JD since he was a pup. Mom bought him right after Dad died, and Kelly had had quite enough of losing loved ones, thank you very much. If her dog was hurt, she had to go get him. No other way about it.

Kelly quickly put on her jogging pants and her gym shoes and stepped into the gap. It was just wide enough for her to walk normally, rather than sideways, though her shoulders did brush the walls. She moved quickly, her iPod bobbing up and down so she could alternate between watching her footing and looking ahead. The corridor smelled like mildew and dust, with notes of something else beneath it—something that reeked like really bad body odor.

The corridor ended at a right turn. Kelly paused. The iPod light wasn’t strong enough to illuminate more than a few feet.

“JD?”

No answer.

I should go get Mom.

Then she heard another yelp. Closer this time.

“I’m coming, JD!”

Kelly rounded the corner, picking up her pace. She held out her free hand and touched the wall, her fingers trailing along rough, unfinished wood, and stopped when she touched something that moved.

Kelly flashed the iPod light at the object. It was a small, square piece of plywood, swinging on a single nail like a picture frame. She touched the bottom and swivelled it upside down, revealing...

A hole. It’s a hole in the wall.

The hole was perhaps the size of a quarter, and there was a faint light coming from it. Kelly’s finger probed the outside. She got ready to stick her finger in, then halted.

Bad idea. It could be a rat hole.

But what if it’s another secret door?

She poked the tip of her index finger inside, ready to pull it back if she felt anything sharp. Her finger went in to the first knuckle...

The second knuckle...

And then it touched something cold and flat.

Glass?

I guess I have to look.

The hole was high enough for Kelly to have to stand tippy-toed to see through it. She pressed her nose against the wall, the wood smelling really foul, and squinted into the opening.

Kelly saw a toilet. She gasped when she noticed the toilet seat had Lincoln’s face on it.

It’s the toilet in my room.

Kelly backed away from the peep hole, turning to run back to the room. This was bad. This was really bad. That creepy old lady was spying on them, and Kelly had to tell Mom and Grandma.

“Help me.”

Kelly paused in mid-step. The voice belonged to a girl. A young girl, from the sound of it. Coming from the same direction she’d heard JD yelp.

“Please help me. My name is Alice and I’m scared.”

Kelly peered over her shoulder, into the dark. She knew she couldn’t leave a little girl behind. Fighting panic, she managed to sound calm when she said, “Where are you, Alice?”

“I’m here. There’s a doggy with me. He’s hurt.”

“How is he hurt, Alice? What happened to my dog?”

“He’s limping. His foot is all twisted up.”

JD cried out, a pitiful sound that made Kelly want to scream.

“I’ll be right there, Alice,” she said, racing ahead, frantic with fear and adrenalin, coming to another turn, thinking about poor JD with his paw broken, and then coming to...

A dead end.

Kelly stared at the wall, wondering what to do next, and noticed another hanging square of plywood.

“Alice?”

“I’m stuck in here. Please help me.”

The voice was coming from directly behind the wall.

Kelly sidled up to the wall and stretched to look through the peep hole. She saw only darkness.

“I can’t see you, Alice. Is my dog in there?”

JD yelped again.

Kelly pushed on the wall, but it didn’t budge.

“You need to pull it,” Alice said.

Kelly had no idea how to pull a flat wall forward, then decided to stick her finger in the hole and try tugging on that. She put it in carefully, gripped the side, and then...

“Uhhhhn....”

The pain was so sudden, so shocking, that it literally took Kelly’s breath away. She tried to yell, but nothing came out, and at the same time she tried to free her finger from the hole and only succeeded in making the pain worse.

Something had her finger. Something sharp and tight that wouldn’t let go.

Kelly dropped her iPod. It landed face-up, its gel case working as advertised and absorbing the shock. In the dim light it emitted, Kelly could see that there was blood leaking down her hand. She pulled again, determined to rip her finger off if it would free her, but the agony made her cry out. Kelly beat against the wall with her fist, then kicked it, filling her lungs to unleash the mother of all screams.

Then she abruptly stopped when she heard something behind her in the corridor.

Is it JD? Please let it be my dog.

It wasn’t her dog.

“I told a lie,” Alice said, walking closer. “A bad lie.”

Kelly buried the scream, instead starting to cry. “You have to help me, Alice. My finger is stuck.”

“My name isn’t Alice,” the approaching figure said. “It’s Grover.”

“I don’t care what your name is,” Kelly said, anger joining up with her pain.

“Alice was Theodore Roosevelt’s first daughter,” Grover said. “She had pretty hair.”

Then Grover stepped into the faint light of the iPod. He stood over six feet tall, and was wearing stained overalls and a faded plaid shirt. His eyes were tiny, too close together. His jaw was big, and it stuck out like Popeye’s, but his head got thinner toward the forehead, almost like a Halloween gourd. Perched crookedly on his head was a curly, blonde wig.

“Do you think I have pretty hair?” the grown man said, still using the voice of a little girl. He touched one of the curls.

Then he yelped like a hurt dog.

Kelly began to scream, but Grover put a big, rough hand over her mouth and nose, holding it there and giggling hehehehe like a five-year old.

Kelly kicked and punched and struggled to take a breath.

But he wouldn’t let her.

# # #

Mal gripped Deb’s arm, first pushing her off balance, then steadying her. The darkness felt like a weight pressing down on Deb, threatening to push her into the earth.

“Where is it?” he whispered.

“Bushes,” Deb said.

She’d seen the deadly, gold eyes of the cougar a second ago, but they’d retreated into the black.

“You sure?” Mal asked. “I don’t see anything.”

“Smell that?”

Mal sniffed the air. “Rank.”

It was an odor Deb would never forget. “Big cat smell. Back up slowly. And let go of my arm—you’re gonna knock me over.”

Mal released her. Deb had no problem walking backwards in the Cheetah prosthetics on flat land, but the wooded terrain proved difficult. All she could think of was being batted around like a ball of yarn, each swipe of the cat’s hooked claws digging into her skin and sending her rolling across the ground. She had scars all over her body from such an experience. In a way, it was even worse than shattering her legs.

Deb was so worried about the mountain lion springing on her, she wasn’t paying close enough attention to her footing. Two steps later she was tipping backward, her arms pinwheeling to regain balance.

Mal caught her shoulders, held her steady until she could get her feet under her.

“Thanks,” she managed.

“You sure there’s a cougar?”

“I’m sure.”

“How sure?”

Deb didn’t like his doubt. She’d seen the lion’s eyes. Seen them as clearly as she was looking into Mal’s.

But then, Mal had been pretty sure their tire had been shot out, and he’d apparently been wrong there. So his questioning was no more than...

“You must be Deborah Novachek, and that reporter fellow.”

The voice came from the same bushes Deb had seen the cat. It was a female voice, friendly enough.

“You don’t happen to see a mountain lion around, do you?” Mal asked.

Deb frowned at him. Mal shrugged.

“A mountain lion?” the woman said. “Heavens, no. Though they are known to hunt in these parts. Y’all had better come inside. I’m Eleanor Roosevelt, the owner of the inn.”

Eleanor stepped through the bushes, and Deb played the pen light across her. She was a large woman, and carried herself in a strong, sturdy way that belied her advanced age.

“Nice to meet you, Eleanor,” Deb began. “Are you sure you—”

“My goodness, young lady. What happened to your legs?”

Mal squeezed her shoulders a bit tighter, as if in reassurance. Deb shrugged him off.

“I lost them in a climbing accident,” Deb said. “And I saw a mountain lion just a—”

“Are you sick?” Eleanor interrupted. “We can’t allow you inside the Inn if you’re diseased.”

“Rude much?” Mal asked.

Being impolite didn’t matter to Deb, especially with a cougar nearby. But now she began to question if she’d seen the cat at all. She took pride in her inner strength, but being in these mountains again brought back some pretty terrible memories. And since no cats seemed to be pouncing on them, perhaps she’d imagined those eyes. The smell might have been something else. A badger, maybe.

“I compete in triathlons,” Deb said, her eyes darting around the woods, looking for movement. “And I haven’t had so much as a cold in over five years.”

The large woman cocked her head to the side, as if considering her. Then her face split into a big-toothed smile. “Well, then, let’s get you people inside. Welcome to the Rushmore Inn.”

Mal picked up the bags he’d dropped, and Deb followed him through the bushes, one eye on her footing and the other on the forest. The animal smell was gone.

Once past the bushes, a clearing opened up in the woods, revealing a massive, three story log house. There weren’t any lights on the outside, and no light coming through any of the shuttered windows. It was as dark and quiet as the mountains surrounding them.

“Welcome to the Rushmore Inn,” Eleanor said again, pulling open the door and holding it while they entered.

The smell inside wasn’t bad, exactly, but it wasn’t pleasant. Sort of a sour, antiseptic odor mingled with sandalwood incense. But unique as that was, it paled compared to the decor.

“As you can plainly see,” Eleanor Roosevelt said, closing and locking the door behind them, “I greatly admire our nation’s leaders. They’re such important men. You might say I’m a bit obsessed with the subject.”

“Yes,” Mal nodded, looking around. “You might say that.”

He gave Deb a sideways glance, his smirk barely concealed.

“My grandfather was second cousin to Theodore Roosevelt. There’s presidential blood in my family. It’s a fact I’m particularly proud of, though it isn’t without its… challenges.”

Like turning your house into a flea market, Deb thought. But instead of speaking it aloud, she said, “Mrs. Roosevelt, my car is out on the road. It seems we’ve gotten a flat tire.”

Eleanor clucked her tongue. “You’d be surprised how often that happens around here. In the morning we can call the auto repair shop.”

“I need to be at the hotel early to...”

“My son will take you,” Eleanor interrupted. “He has a truck for your bike.”

“Already shipped the bike ahead. But the ride would be terrific.”

“He’ll be leaving early, so be sure to get some rest tonight. Might not be a bad idea to go straight to bed.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Mal said, raising his eyebrows at Deb.

She ignored him. “Is there any chance we could get something to eat?” Deb asked. “We missed dinner on the ride up.”

“The kitchen is back there, down the hall. The icebox is stocked, and you’re welcome to help yourselves. I made cupcakes earlier today, and there are a few left. But let me show you to your rooms, first.”

Eleanor plodded up the wooden staircase. Deb wasn’t a big fan of stairs, but the iron railing looked solid. She followed Mal up, stopping only to admire his trim backside as they ascended. Deb found it amusing that he continued to flirt despite several rebuffs. For a millisecond she entertained what it might be like to date Mal. The fantasy disintegrated when she caught the toe of her Cheetah prosthetic on the top stair. Luckily, she managed to make it to the second floor without a face-plant.

“Deborah, this is the Theodore Roosevelt room,” Eleanor said, holding out a key. “One of the finest rooms in the Inn.”

Deb didn’t suppose that meant very much. “Does it have a bath tub?”

“Indeed it does. And for you—I didn’t catch your name.”

“Mal. Mal Deiter.”

“Next door over, Mr. Deiter, is the Harry S. Truman room. While it doesn’t have a bathtub, I believe you’ll find the walk-in shower most agreeable. And necessary, considering your current appearance.”

“We ran into one of the locals, making venison headcheese,” Mal said, taking the key. “Is it currently hunting season?”

Eleanor smiled. “There’s always something in season around these parts.”

“Have the Pillsburys arrived yet? I didn’t see any other cars around. I’m a reporter, and I’m supposed to interview them.”

“They have, but I’m afraid they turned in for the evening.”

“Perhaps I’ll get to see them at breakfast.”

“Perhaps. If you’ll indulge an old woman’s fancy, might I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“I pride myself in being able to guess blood types. You strike me as a type O. Am I correct?”

“Yes, you are.”

Eleanor’s bulbous eyes lit up. “Would that be positive or negative?”

“Positive.”

“You’re sure about that?”

Mal winked. “I’m positive.”

Eleanor nodded politely. “Thank you, Mr. Deiter.” The old lady curtsied. “I trust you’ll both have a pleasant night.”

Then she waddled off, leaving the two of them befuddled.

“Blood type?” Deb finally asked when the old woman had descended the stairs.

“Maybe she’s a vampire,” Mal said. “She might have been the creature you saw in the bushes.”

“I saw a cougar, Mal. Not an old woman.”

“Was it wearing a pillbox hat?”

Deb allowed herself to smile. “Maybe it was. I think it also had a rifle. Perhaps it shot out my tire.”

“Touché. I’m going to unpack and grab some food. Meet you in the kitchen in a few?”

“Sure.”

Mal handed Deb her bags, then unlocked his door. “See you in a bit.”

In keeping with the theme of the Inn, the Teddy Roosevelt room was chockfull of creepy presidential memorabilia. Every wall boasted pictures and banners, the lamp shades were collage pastiches, and not a single stick of furniture was without a Roosevelt stamp of some sort. Eleanor had even managed to find Teddy Roosevelt bed sheets, his cherubic face five feet wide and grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Deb placed her two suitcases in the closet, next to an old reel-to-reel tape deck. Since she wouldn’t be here for more than a few hours, it didn’t make sense to unpack. She’d pull out a change of clothes in the morning.

A trip to the bathroom found her appearance to be considerably less than stellar. She applied a bit of lip gloss from her fanny back, a bit of mousse to her hair, and used the hand soap on the sink to get the last of the deer blood out from her expensive manicured fingernails. A life-size poster of Roosevelt hung next to the toilet, his eyes seeming to follow her. Deb didn’t mind—the old-fashioned clawfoot bathtub more than made up for the bizarre decorations. She was aching to have a soak. And if she’d been alone, she would have put off dinner and done just that.

And yet, she found herself leaving the bathroom, and her room, in order to meet Mal in the kitchen.

Why am I so anxious to see him again? And why am I hurrying?

He’s probably not even there yet.

She still descended the stairs quicker than safety warranted.

To get to the kitchen, she walked through the living room, getting a startle when she saw the large man standing in the middle of the room.

No, that’s not a man.

It was the statue of George Washington, larger than life and dressed in period clothing. Deb found it oppressive, and gave it a wide berth as she passed.

The walls of the kitchen were lined with ephemera; magazine covers, newspapers, brochures, campaign signs. On the running board near the ceiling was a line of dinner plates, each bearing faces and quotes of Presidents. Unlike the unusual odor pervading the rest of the house, this room smelled delightfully like baked goods. Deb’s enthusiasm sank when she failed to see Mal.

Maybe he’s not coming. Maybe he just went to bed.

Then she noticed him peering into the refrigerator, and had to suppress her smile.

“There are enough cupcakes in here to feed the entire state of West Virginia,” Mal said. “There’s also a mystery meat sandwich. Interested?”

“I love meat in all of its permutations.”

Mal stacked a plate of cupcakes and the plate with the sandwich on one hand, and grabbed a glass carafe of milk and two apples with the other. He bumped the refrigerator door closed with his hip, and laid everything out on the dining room table.

“Pretty good balance,” Deb said, easing into a chair.

“I waited tables in college. Would madam care to split the sandwich?”

“Madam would like to eat the whole thing. But since you carried up my bags, I guess I’m willing to share.”

Mal went to the cupboard and found an extra plate and two glasses. While Deb poured the milk, Mal searched drawers for utensils.

“So you never got around to telling me about the history of Monk Creek,” she said, licking the pink frosting on a cupcake. It was buttercream, and very good. “You said you were researching it and discovered some interesting things.”

“Indeed I did. You want to hear something really interesting? This woman has dozens of forks and spoons, but not a single knife.”

“Not even a butter knife?”

“Not one. I guess you get the whole sandwich after all.”

Deb reached into her fanny pack, took out her Benchmade folding knife. She flicked the five inch blade open with her thumb and cut the sandwich in half. The meat was whitish, piled on high. The lettuce and tomato were still crisp. Eleanor had made this recently.

“Nice piece of cutlery,” Mal said, sitting across from Deb.

“I won’t be trapped in the woods without a weapon ever again,” Deb said, wiping it on her pants.

They each tore into their halves. Deb was surprised by how hungry she was. She was also surprised by the taste of the meat. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just unusual.

“Is this chicken?” she asked.

Mal shook his head. “Pheasant.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure. Dad used to take me hunting, when I was a kid.”

“You still go?”

“No. Lost my taste for it.”

“Pheasant?”

“Killing animals. I’m not a hypocrite, though. I still a voracious carnivore. But not enough to go after it on my own.”

Deb took another bite, then sliced into one of the apples. The crisp fruit was a nice compliment to the gaminess of the meat.

“So, Monk Creek,” she said. “What did you discover in your investigative reporting?”

Mal finished chewing, and swallowed. “The thing I liked best about being a cop was figuring things out. I didn’t like the violence, which is why I left the force to study journalism. So while researching this assignment, I wanted to learn about the history of the region, to use as a background for the interviews. And I found out some pretty strange things.”

Deb cut off another hunk of apple. “Such as?”

Mal polished his apple on his shirt and took a bite. “A lot of people disappear in these parts.”

When Deb finished chewing she said, “Quantify a lot.”

“In the past forty years, more than five hundred people.”

Deb did the math in her head. “That’s only about one a month. Doesn’t seem like too many.”

“Considering Monk Creek’s small population, that’s more than ten times the national average.”

She wiped some mayo from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’ve climbed the mountains here. It’s easy to get lost.”

“But the majority of lost people get found. Either alive or dead. These people are gone. Vanished, without a trace. You’d think some of them would have been discovered.”

“Odd,” Deb agreed. “Does anyone have any theories?”

“That’s also strange. No one seems to think it means anything. Because most of the missing people are from different states, there’s no joint task force treating this like a single problem. The only unifying factor is the sheriff of Monk Creek. And he’s... interesting.”

“In what way?”

“I spoke with him on the phone. Let’s just say I’m not convinced all of his cylinders are firing.”

“Why would the town hire him?”

“Maybe that’s why the town hired him.”

Deb finished off her sandwich. “So it’s a big conspiracy?”

Mal shrugged. “Could be. Could be just a coincidence.”

“You come up with anything else?”

“Just one thing. The disappearances began after a specific event in the town’s history. There was a pharmaceutical plant that employed almost everyone in the area. It was closed down by the government in the early 60s, and the town began to die out. As the population dropped, the number of missing persons rose dramatically.”

Deb set the apple core aside, and went back to the cupcake she’d been licking. She peeled off the paper, thinking about five hundred people missing in this area. Missing, presumed dead.

How does something like that happen? Don’t these people have families? Didn’t the families know where they were going?

And yet, Deb herself never told anyone she was going mountain climbing that fateful day. One of many rookie mistakes she’d made. If she’d told someone, and had been overdue, maybe they could have sent help.

Deb felt a stab of adrenaline kick up her heart rate.

No one knows where I am now.

Last year, Deb had lost her parents. Mom, to cancer. Dad, to grief over Mom. The tough exterior Deb wore like armor kept anyone from getting close.

So here she was, making the same rookie mistakes all over again.

I’m not mountain climbing, though.

No, I’m at a creepy inn, out in the middle of nowhere.

But this time, there is someone who knows where I am.

She glanced at Mal, who’d taken their plates and was dumping the apple cores and bread crust into the garbage can in the corner of the room. He lifted the can’s lid, peered inside, then made a face.

“You okay?” Deb asked.

“Remember when I said the meat was pheasant?” Mal asked.

Deb’s stomach turned a slow somersault. “What are you saying?”

“I think I was wrong.” Mal said. “It wasn’t pheasant at all.”

# # #

Maria’s alive.

The thought stunned Felix. After a year of hoping, despairing, and wondering, to finally have this confirmed was so overpowering he didn’t know whether to cheer, laugh, or weep.

“What have you done to her, you son of a bitch?”

Cam pushed Felix aside and grabbed John by his flabby neck. He raised the hunting knife.

“Answer me or I’ll scalp you.”

Felix reached out, ready to intervene, but John began to babble. It was a rant, mostly incoherent, but obviously sincere.

“Blue blood. It’s blue. We all got blue blood. Me ‘n my brothers. Direct line to Charlemagne. Like the Presidents. Ma says it’s too pure. Too presidential ‘n strong. We get sick. We need mixin’.”

“We bled her. Same as the others. Nice and slow.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Cam said.

But Felix thought he got it. “You need her blood.”

Cam looked at him. “Huh?”

“Transfusions,” Felix said. He stared at John. “Is that why you’re so worried about bleeding?”

“If’n I get cut, it don’t stop. Takes too long to heal up.”

Cameron shook his head. “No way. I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true,” John implored. “We don’t hurt her none. We just use her for bleedin’. And...” John’s voice trailed off.

“And, what?” Cam said.

John pursed his lips. Cam pointed the hunting knife at Jon’s face. An inch from his nose.

“What!”

“And makin’ babies,” John whispered.

Felix sank to his knees, feeling like someone had punched him. He’d been overwhelmed by emotion after hearing Maria was alive. Now, hearing why Maria had been taken—to be bled and raped by a family of psychos—it was too much to handle.

“Bullshit,” Cam said, shaking his head. “You’re lying.”

“I ain’t. I ain’t lyin’.”

“We’ll see.”

And then Cam stuck him with the knife. In his right arm, just below the shoulder.

John screamed. High-pitched and loud, like a girl. Cam jammed the sock back into the hunter’s mouth, while Felix watched, slack-jawed, as blood began to soak John’s shirt.

The giant thrashed, breaking the chair, crashing to the floor. Landing on his broken fingers made him scream even louder, and he rolled onto his side, kicking to get the rope off his legs.

Felix tore off John’s sleeve to assess the injury. The knife wound did more than bleed. It gushed with John’s heartbeat, pumping out of his body with a lub-dub rhythm.

“Wild,” Cam said. His face twisted into a grin.

Felix pressed his ruined hands to John’s wound, then spat out at Cam, “You asshole! If he dies we won’t find Maria!”

Cam stuck out his lower lip. “What do I do?”

“My tool kit! In the truck! Get the superglue!”

Cam ran off. John flipped, onto his belly, knocking Felix away. Blood soaked the carpet beneath him. He pulled the sock out of John’s mouth and implored, “Where is she?”

“Stop the bleedin’... gotta... stop the bleedin’”

“Tell me where Maria is, and I’ll stop the blood.”

“Turn...” John mumbled.

“Turn? Turn where?”

“Turnikit...”

Shit. John’s going to die without giving up where she is.

They’d used all of the rope to tie John up. Felix could have cut off a length, used that, but John was too big to be able to control. Felix’s eyes wandered the room, frantic. They locked on the closet.

Hurrying to it, he grabbed a metal clothes hanger and stretched it in his hands, wincing as he bent back the hook on top. When the wire opened up, he tucked one end under John’s armpit. Then Felix brought the two ends together and began to twist the hanger around John’s biceps. It was easy at first. But once the wire began to meet with resistance, Felix didn’t have enough strength in his mangled fingers to make it tight.

Dammit, where’s Cam?

Felix picked up a broken chair leg and jammed that under the wire. He began to turn the leg, like a propeller, cinching the wire tight against John’s skin.

John moaned.

The wound still bled.

Gritting his teeth, Felix jammed the sock back into John’s mouth and twisted the leg even harder.

The hanger pressed deep into John’s flabby arm, then broke the skin. More blood poured out, covering the wire. Felix tried to twist the wire off, and the blood dripped out of the split flesh like a towel being wrung out.

No. No no no no...

“John. Listen to me.” Felix grabbed John’s cheeks, which had grown sickly pale. “You need to tell me where she is.”

“Help... me.”

“I’ll help you. But I need to you tell me.”

John’s eyes glazed over, and he seemed to be looking far away. “Help... me... Dwight...”

Dwight?

Felix felt the gun press against the back of his head. He knew who Dwight was. The Sheriff of Monk Creek had been of no help to Felix during his quest, refusing even the simplest of requests.

“Stand up. Hands over your head. Slow and easy, or I’ll have to use force, like I did with your friend outside.”

Felix felt his entire world crumbling. He lifted up his hands.

“This man tried to kill me, Sheriff. He’s got my fiancé. The one I told you about.”

“Is that so?”

The Sheriff grabbed Felix’s wrist, twisting his arm and forcing him face-first into the blood-soaked carpet. He felt the Sheriff put a foot on his back, and the handcuff go on.

“You have to believe me,” Felix said, his words blowing a bubble of John’s blood. “Please.”

“We’ll get to the truth of this whole situation.” The Sheriff gave his arm another rough twist, then slapped on the second cuff. “That’s for damn sure.”

“Help me, Dwight,” John said again. His voice had gotten very weak.

“You don’t look so good, Johnny. Where’s your styptic?”

“I dunno, Dwight. In my truck.”

“Shit lot of good it’s doin’ you there.”

Felix turned and looked up at the Sheriff. Though not as big as John, Dwight was a large, portly man, with a doughy face and a bald head. He was wearing a brown shirt and green slacks, his badge handing on his belt next to his gun. The Sheriff knelt next to John, and unwound the coat hanger.

“Don’t move, dummy. I got to open the wound for this to work.”

The Sheriff unclipped a knife from his belt and brought the blade next to John’s arm.

“Don’t... move.”

With a quick motion, the sheriff jammed the tip into the original wound and cut sideways. John howled, jerking his whole body sideways.

“Goddamn it, John! I almost nicked my finger!”

“It hurts! They broke my fingers, Dwight! They broke all my digits!”

“I gotta expose the goddamn artery.”

The blood was really gushing now, almost like a water fountain. Felix watched the Sheriff pull a tan package out of his breast pocket. It had QuikClot printed on the paper. He tore off a corner and poured white powder into John’s wound. John yelped.

“Shush, now. Stop being a baby.”

“It burns, Dwight. B-burns bad.”

“Hold still. I need to see if I got it all.”

John twitched. Felix stared at John’s arm. The powder indeed stopped all the bleeding. But there seemed to be another problem.

“Jesus, Dwight! Hurts even worse!”

Felix could see why. The hemostatic agent apparently had stopped the blood from leaking out, but it hadn’t stopped the internal bleeding. John’s triceps began to expand, like a balloon.

“I’m gonna have to open you up again, John. Hold on, I got more styptic in the car.”

“No! Please, Dwight!”

Without provocation, the Sheriff kicked Felix in the side, so hard he actually saw red.

“Now don’t you move none, or I’ll make it worse for you,” he told Felix. Then he lumbered off.

My gun. It’s in the sink.

Felix pressed his head into the sopping carpet, then pulled his knees up under him. He got to his feet, unsteady, feeling like puking again, and staggered into the bathroom. The Beretta was still there. He backed up against the sink, reaching his cuffed hands behind him, seeking the gun.

The sink was deep, the bowl curved, and every time he touched it, the weapon slid away from him. His fingers, wrapped in bandages, had no feeling in them, and he couldn’t see what he was doing over his shoulder.

He felt fresh sweat break out on his forehead, stinging his scalp wound.

Slow and easy, Felix. You can do it.

Nudge.

Miss.

Nudge.

Miss.

He eyed the door, expecting the Sheriff to come in any second.

Wait... I’ve got handcuff keys in my front pocket...

He’d put them there after cuffing John on the highway. Felix tried to bring his hands around, but he couldn’t even get a finger in his pocket, let along reach for the keys.

No time. Go for the gun.

He backed up to the sink again, stretching his arms.

Concentrate. Reach your hands in deeper.

Felix blinked back tears, held his breath, and locked his right hand around the butt of the gun.

Now what?

He tried to bring the gun around, and shoot forward from the hip, but there wasn’t enough play in the cuffs. The best he could aim was sideways. Felix wasn’t a very good shot in ideal conditions. He doubted, with the stance, he could even hit the wall while standing up against it.

“Now, what do we have here?”

Startled, Felix spun around, pressing the trigger.

The shot missed the Sheriff by a good five feet.

However, it didn’t miss John. The hunter’s head jerked back, and the back of his skull popped off. Brains spilled out like a dropped bowl of oatmeal.

The Sheriff was on Felix in three steps, punching him in the jaw, stepping on his neck when he fell and yanking the gun from his hand.

“Looks like you just went from assault to homicide, boy.”

“Sheriff, you have to listen. John has my fiancé. He and his brothers have her someplace.”

The Sheriff didn’t seem to be paying attention. He got on one knee next to John, and closed the man’s staring eyes.

“Styptic won’t fix this one, hoss.” He blew out a breath. “Look at all that blood.”

“Sheriff... listen to me!”

The Sheriff’s eyes centered on Felix. Felix saw no mercy there.

“No, you listen to me. You’re going to get into my car and not speak one more peep, or I’m going to shoot out both your knees. You got that, boy?”

Felix nodded.

The Sheriff manhandled Felix to his feet, and roughly pulled him out the front door. The squad car was there, and there were several motel guests with their doors open.

“Everyone back inside,” the Sheriff ordered. “The situation has been taken care of.”

The Sheriff opened the rear door of his car and shoved Felix into the back seat, next to Cam. Cam’s nose was bleeding freely, and his face was the epitome of sullen. He had his hands behind his back; apparently handcuffed like Felix.

“Asshole snuck up on me. Probably gonna take me back to the nuthouse. You find out where they’re keeping Maria?”

Felix gave his head one quick, brief shake. “John’s dead.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard to find out where he lives.”

“What does it matter, Cam? We’re fucked.”

The car bounced on its shocks as the Sheriff climbed in. He adjusted his rear-view mirror, looked Felix square in the eyes, and started the car.

When he pulled out onto the road, Felix was confused. He whispered to Cam, “This isn’t the way to the police station.”

“What are you two hens cluckin’ about?” the Sheriff demanded.

Felix slunk back in his seat. “Town. It’s the other direction.”

“I ain’t takin’ you to town.” The Sheriff grinned, showing his crooked brown teeth, and Felix felt his mouth go dry. “I got other plans for you boys.”

# # #

The machine whirs and clicks, spins and pumps. The IV drains blood out of Maria’s right arm, passing it through the siphoning mechanism, and pumping into George. He also has an IV sucking blood out of him, feeding it back into Maria’s left arm.

A trade. Blood in, blood out.

This has been done to Maria dozens of times, and it never fails to revolt her. Exchanging blood with these monsters—she thinks of them as monsters rather than human beings—is almost worse than when they climb on top of her. But the revulsion goes beyond the awareness that their diseased blood is in her body. Their blood actually causes her to feel sick.

These freaks are ill. Seriously ill. They bleed from the slightest injury, and the bleeding doesn’t stop on its own. If they don’t get a transfusion every few weeks, they die.

Maria isn’t sure why she’s still alive. Apparently whatever disease they have isn’t fatal to her. Perhaps she’s immune. Perhaps it can’t be passed on. Perhaps her body cleans their dirty blood, like some sort of human dialysis machine. However it works, Maria knows that she, and other captives like her, are keeping these mistakes of nature alive.

The process takes a few hours, and it’s nearly done. Afterward, the monsters line up, eager for a chance to impregnate her. Maria has tried to tell Eleanor that she can’t have children, that her ovaries don’t work, but that hasn’t stalled their efforts. Eleanor endlessly prattles on about the presidential blood line, about having heirs, and she has some grotesque, grandiose delusions about her legacy. So convinced of her own importance, Eleanor often lies down alongside Maria, and has sex with her own monstrous children and grandchildren in some twisted attempt to produce more monsters.

Though not deformed, Eleanor is the biggest monster of all.

Maria looks around. The freaks are huddled together, grunting at one another. They don’t talk much. Some are mentally retarded, from either inbreeding or birth defects or both, and unable to converse. They’re missing limbs, or have too many, or their appendages are under-developed or in the wrong place. Some have heads that are too large, some too small. Many have harelips. Few of them have hair, and they’re all sickly pale and smell sour.

“All done,” Eleanor says. She’s lifting her dress up over her head. “Let’s line up, children. It’s time to make babies.”

George pulls the transfusion needles from his arms, quickly sealing his wounds with a white powder. He turns to Maria and says, “Me first.”

Maria forces down the gorge rising in her throat; vomiting while wearing a ball gag could cause her to choke to death.

George presses the cattle prod to her stomach, then unstraps her feet and hands.

She closes her eyes and thinks of Felix. She imagines him bursting in right now, killing all of the monsters, and taking her away from here.

Will he still want me, after all I’ve been through?

Of course he will.

It’s been a year since she’s seen him. Felt his touch. Heard his voice. A long, agonizing, nightmarish year.

George frees her hands, then paws at her pants.

She imagines being with Felix. They’re sitting on a porch, drinking lemonade, holding hands. The sun is out. The breeze smells like cut grass.

And since it’s a fantasy, she also imagines the child they can’t have. A toddler, roaming the lawn, chasing a butterfly, or a dog.

She can even imagine the dog barking.

Maria hears it again, and opens her eyes.

“elpDog! There’s a dog!”

Maria watches as Calvin bursts into the room. He’s the one with the unibrow and the flipper hands, one of which is being nipped at by a German Shepherd. Maria is overjoyed to see the animal. She’s even more elated when the dog snarls and barks at Eleanor and her monstrous brood, forcing them to back away.

The freaks are terrified. And they should be. A single bite could kill them. And this dog is big and looks eager to bite.

George, his broad face a mask of fear, pokes at the animal with the cattle prod. The dog takes a quick zap in the muzzle, then darts away. Its lips curl back, exposing long, sharp teeth, and it attacks in a frenzy, biting George’s hand five or six times in the blink of an eye.

George screams, dropping the prod. The new blood he’s just received bursts out of his hand in all directions, like a 4th of July firework. He turns, running for Eleanor, dropping to his knees.

“The styptic, Ma! The styptic!”

The dog lunges again, biting at the back of George’s thigh, clamping down tight and shaking its head back and forth.

The freaks are in a panic, a wall of misshapen bodies climbing all over each other in an effort to get away. They’re flooding out the exit. Some of them are being trampled. Eleanor looks at George, then at Maria, radiating hate.

“Get the girl!” she yells at her brood.

Maria knows she’s terribly outnumbered, and there’s a mad dog loose, but she decides then and there to die before she lets them take her back to her cell. She reaches for the dropped cattle prod.

Most of the monsters ignore Eleanor, but a few form a circle around her. Maria swings the prod, keeping them at bay, turning this way and that way so none can sneak up behind her. With her free hand she unbuckles the ball gag, lets it fall to the floor. She’s light-headed, and the nausea is starting to take hold. Normally, after an ordeal in the Room, she sleeps for a long time. Maria fights the feeling, keeping on the balls of her feet, determined to stay alert.

Someone grabs at her, and she sticks him with the cattle prod. The burst of light and the accompanying sizzle and scream give her strength. She whirls around, stabbing the prod into a creature’s bloated face. Then an avalanche of sour flesh rams into her, forcing her to the floor, pinning her under its weight. She twists the prod around, zaps whoever is on top of her. There’s a cry, but she’s still trapped. There are too many freaks on top of her. She can’t move.

She can’t even breathe.

Maria grunts, pushing with all of her strength. She’s not going to smother. Not now. Not this close to escape. But the fetid, shifting mass of flesh atop her is too heavy to move. Her hair is yanked. A filthy, malformed baby’s arm with seven fingers tugs at the corner of her mouth as her face is pressed into the dirt floor.

She tries to suck in some air, but the weight is too much.

I’m sorry, Felix. I tried.

And then, miraculously, the mass shifts. One monster rolls off, screaming. Then another. Maria pushes herself onto her side, gasping for oxygen. She watches as the dog—the beautiful, terrifying dog—tears into another freak, pulling him off of her.

They’re all scrambling for the door now, dragging their wounded, of which there are many. The dog is on top of the last freak, one with a blockish, Frankenstein head and hands that look like pincers. It’s tearing at the monster’s throat. Maria looks at the door, trades a hateful glance with Eleanor as she abandons her child and closes it shut.

Maria sits up, clutching the prod in both hands. The dog bites the freak until it stops moving, until a good portion of its neck is hanging limp from the dog’s jaws.

The dog shakes its head, releasing its prize. Then it looks at Maria and snarls.

“Good boy,” Maria manages to say. Her voice is raspy. She can’t remember the last time she’s spoken.

The dog hunkers down, the hair on its back standing up. It growls, low and deep, its lips raised and bearing teeth.

“Sit,” Maria orders.

The dog stalks forward. It’s not looking at Maria. It’s looking at the cattle prod.

Maria sets it down. “Sit!” she says again.

Incredibly, the dog sits. Its tongue lolls out of its mouth.

“Good dog! Come.”

The dog bounds forward, and Maria almost screams when it pounces on her.

But it’s a happy pounce, tail wagging. The dog’s bloody tongue is warm on Maria’s cheek. She grabs its muzzle and hugs it tight. The feeling is so good, so pure, she can’t stop the tears from coming.

“Good dog. Can you shake?”

The dog offers its paw. Maria shakes it gladly.

“What’s your name, boy?” She fumbles for his collar while he licks her. “JD. I swear to God, JD, if we get out of this, I’m buying you steak every day for the rest of your life.”

JD approves of this, wagging his tail even more.

Maria stands up. She knows Eleanor and her boys will be back, with weapons. Maybe even guns.

She goes to the door, tries the knob. Locked.

Maria slams her shoulder into it. The door is solid. It won’t budge.

I can’t give up. Not now. Not when I’m this close.

But as Maria looks around the room, she has no clue how they can escape.

# # #

Letti Pillsbury stood in the doorway of the Ulysses S. Grant room, looking at her mother crouch on the floor.

“Do you normally check under the bed every place you sleep?” Letti asked.

“Hmm? No, of course not.” Florence stood up, smoothing some imaginary wrinkles from her pants. She looked perturbed, which wasn’t something Letti could ever recall seeing.

“Okay, then. You wanted to talk. Let’s talk.”

The older woman seemed confused, and for a moment Letti questioned her mother’s health. After all, her health was the reason she was moving in with her and Kelly.

“I want you to understand, Letti.”

“Understand what, Florence?” Letti crossed her arms, determined not to make it easy for her.

“Why I didn’t come to your husband’s funeral.”

“I know why you didn’t come, Florence. You were off in Bosnia or Ethiopia or one of your other causes.”

“I was in Mumbai. Doing volunteer work, Letti, during the floods. We were saving lives. Peter, bless your husband’s heart, was already dead. There wasn’t anything I could do for him.”

She doesn’t get it. Maybe she never will.

“Peter didn’t need you, Florence. I did.”

Florence raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying your grief is more important than building a dam that saved three hundred lives?”

Letti refused to let her eyes tear up. “I was devastated. I needed my mother.”

“I raised you so you wouldn’t need me.”

“You’re impossible,” Letti turned to leave. She felt Florence’s hand on her shoulder.

“What do you want me to say, Letti? That I made the wrong choice? You’re strong. Always were. Peter’s death was a terrible tragedy, but I knew you could handle it. Mumbai needed me more.”

This is a waste of time. She’ll die before she apologizes.

But she’s right. I am strong. And I will not cry.

Letti spun around, feeling the scowl take over her face. “If Mumbai is so goddamn important, why didn’t you go running there when you were diagnosed with cancer?”

Florence flinched. Letti immediately felt bad for saying it, but she was on a roll.

“You didn’t, though. You came to me, Florence. Me and Kelly. I thought it was because you wanted to mend fences. To get to know your granddaughter. But money is the real reason, isn’t it? You gave away all of yours, helping strangers. Now you need a place to die, and my house is a free hospice.”

Florence kept her face calm, but Letti saw something behind it crack. “Oh... Letti... is that what you think?”

Letti bit her lower lip. She felt the tears coming, but refused to blink. “We needed you, Florence. Kelly and I. And you weren’t there. But now you need us, and here we are. Maybe Mumbai built a big stature to Saint Florence for saving their village. But I never wanted to be raised by a saint. I wanted a Mom.”

“And I wasn’t a mother to you.” Florence said it as a statement.

“Mothers nurture.” Letti said. She felt the tear roll down her cheek. “Mothers support. Mothers show up at the goddamn funeral when their daughters lose their husbands.”

Florence said nothing. She just stood there, stoic as ever.

I might as well be talking to a statue.

“It’s so important to me for you to understand why I did it, Letti.”

“I know why you did it, Florence. But I’ll never understand it. And I’ll never forgive you for it.”

Florence opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Point. Match. Game.

So why did it still feel like losing?

Letti walked out of the room, shutting the door behind her. She went down the hall to the Grover Cleveland room and let herself in. For a moment, she felt like giving in to the tears, crying her eyes out. But she pushed the feeling down. The last time she cried was at Peter’s funeral. She’d lost two people that day. Her husband, and her mother.

Letti wouldn’t allow herself to cry over her mother again.

She took a deep breath through her nose, let it out slow through her mouth. Like she’d been taught. All during her youth, Florence had subjected Letti to countless instructors, coaches, and senseis, in countless sports, martial arts, and disciplines. Florence thought dropping Letti off at a dojo or a yoga class was a substitute for parenting. But none of her many teachers could fill the void Letti felt, and none could teach her how to deal with her resentment.

Letti took another slower, deeper breath, letting her heart rate slow down. The room smelled strange, and the decorations were even more so.

Damn, this is one creepy place.

If Letti hadn’t known what Grover Cleveland looked like before coming to this room, she certainly did now. Everywhere she looked, there were pictures and drawings and photos of the chubby, moustached President. He was on the curtains, the walls, the bedspread, the doors, and even the lampshades.

That Eleanor Roosevelt has some issues. Hell, she has a whole subscription.

Letti undressed down to her panties, letting her clothes stay where they fell. She was exhausted, bone weary, but her mind refused to shut off. Sleep would be elusive.

She considered taking a shower, but standing up for those few extra minutes seemed like a tremendous chore. And, for some strange reason, she didn’t feel comfortable being naked.

Letti crossed her arms across her breasts, considering the feeling. It wasn’t shame. Letti had toned her body to be all it could be, and was proud of her efforts.

No, what Letti felt was something closer to fear.

What am I afraid of? I’m alone.

Still, she opened her suitcase next to the bed, and quickly tugged on a tee shirt. After a quick look around the room, checking for leering boogeymen, she took her toiletry bag into the bathroom and began to brush her teeth.

The bathroom was also funky, both in odor and in decor. The large poster of Grover Cleveland facing the toilet seemed to stare right at her. Letti had an irrational urge to hang a towel over its eyes.

The water from the sink was off-color, and tasted funny, so Letti brushed without swallowing any. She finished quickly and crawled into bed, wrapping herself up in Grover Cleveland sheets. Letti automatically reached for the remote control on the night stand next to the bed, but didn’t see it. And there was an obvious reason why; the room had no TV.

Annoyed, Letti wondered how she’d ever be able to fall asleep. Her normal ritual involved talk shows and infomercials until she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore. The silence in this room was much too loud.

She thought about getting up, going to Kelly’s room. Maybe her daughter had a TV. Or maybe she’d let Letti borrow her iPod. YouTube was a sorry substitute for Leno, but it would have to do.

Letti was peeling back the covers when her eyes caught on something setting on the dresser.

A book.

Been a while since I read a book.

She padded over to it, and realized it wasn’t a regular book at all. It was a hardbound journal. On its cover, in detailed script, were the words The Rushmore Inn.

Letti immediately knew what it was. She’d stayed in bed and breakfasts before. The proprietors often left journals in the rooms, so people could document their stay. Curious as to what guests would say about this odd little Inn, Letti picked up the journal and climbed back into bed.

The first page was written in deliberate, ornate cursive.

10/23/1975

The Inn is practically hidden out here in the woods, but Henry and I find the accommodations and the proprietor quite charming. Henry hasn’t returned from hunting yet. While I hope he had fun, I also hope he doesn’t bring any of those ghastly birds home. They’re such a mess to prepare. Our vows said nothing about “plucking.”

I hear someone downstairs. Maybe it’s him. Maybe I’ll surprise him by being naked when he comes to bed.

He’s walking up the hall now. I’m going take off my

The last sentence just ended there, without punctuation. Letti turned to the next page, and found it was ripped out. She began reading the next entry, done in a different hand.

May 19, 1979

My second night here. I don’t like it. There are strange smells, and right now I hear something moving in the walls. It’s another two days before Blake and the other men come back from their mountain climbing, and I almost wish I went with them. Marcus’s wife has come down with something. She’s slurring her speech like she’s drunk, but she swears she hasn’t touched any liquor, and her breath doesn’t smell. I hope Blake comes back soon.

Again, more missing pages.

This is pretty creepy stuff.

Letti listened, to see if she heard anything in the walls. There was nothing but silence. Though she knew the journal was getting to her, Letti moved on to the next entry.

July 24, 1984

I can’t believe we found this place. It’s so deep in the woods I don’t know how it stays in business. Especially since our room was free, and we seem to be the only ones here. My wife thinks it’s all incredibly kitschy. I think it’s just weird. If this new job pans out, I’ll make some real money and take her on a proper honeymoon. But I love her, so it doesn’t matter where we are, as long as there’s a bed. Though last night, I could have sworn I heard something UNDER the bed.

Feeling foolish, but also a bit freaked out, Letti peeked over the side of the bed. She grabbed the dust ruffle with her hand, set her jaw, and lifted it up.

Nothing.

Florence would find my paranoia amusing. I need to get a grip.

Letti considered putting the journal down, but that would have proved it was scaring her. Instead, she skipped ahead, skimming bits and pieces. It stayed true to the theme. Brief, spooky paragraphs, followed by missing pages.

August 14, 1991

Paula is still upset about the “monster” she said she saw in the woods. Something with two heads. I think she’s seeing things. We both seem to have the flu, though neither of us has a fever. Can’t wait to get out of this place.

Two pages missing.

June 1998

Barry hasn’t returned yet. I’m getting worried. I hear noises. I hope we get the car fixed soon so we can leave.

Page missing.

9/19/02

It’s the middle of nowhere. There’s no place to run. What am I supposed to do?

Another page torn out.

6/2005

This place is really fucked up. I think we’re gonna die here.

More missing pages. Letti turned to the most recent entry.

June 12, 2007

Exhausted. Iron Woman training is both the hardest and the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. I wish I was at the event hotel, but this isn’t a bad substitute. And you can’t beat the price, even though this place is sort of scary. I___

The “I” trailed off, making a pen mark that went all the way down to the bottom of the page. Like someone bumped the writer. And on the bottom of the page...

Brown stains. Like blood drops.

Letti looked around the room, feeling goosebumps raise up on her arms. This had to be some sort of prank. A gag journal, to amuse the guests.

But Letti wasn’t amused. She was seriously weirded out.

I need to check on Kelly.

She was getting ready to toss the journal aside and hop out of bed when a mark on the page caught her eye. A black mark.

Letti turned the page past the final entry, and saw a child’s handwriting, written in black crayon.

Letti scratched at the printing with her fingernail, getting black wax underneath. The familiar smell of crayon wafted up at her, reminding Letti of when Kelly was younger. But Kelly’s childhood printing never looked so... creepy.

Letti turned to the next page.

Letti’s head shot up. She scanned the room, listening for strange sounds, feeling like someone was indeed watching her, and at the same time knowing it was crazy to be thinking that.

It’s a joke. A dumb, sick joke. When I see Eleanor again, I’m going to tell that crazy old hag what I think of her stupid little Inn.

Letti stared down at the journal again. She touched the top corner of the page, ready to turn it.

Do I really want to keep reading this BS?

No. I should go check on my daughter.

Letti began to close the book, and stopped.

They’re only words on paper. I don’t need to be afraid of them.

So why am I?

Letti chewed her lower lip, undecided what to do next.

Florence would think I’m a real chicken. She was in a war zone for four years, and I can’t even read a silly journal.

Letti turned the page, feeling her breath catch.

Letti sprang out of bed, backpedalling to the opposite side of the room, her eyes glued to the closet.

There’s no one in there.

But how do they know my name?

Letti wondered if Kelly somehow had fabricated this, had put the journal in her room. She loved scary movies.

But Kelly hasn’t been in this room.

Could she have snuck in while I was talking to Florence?

That seemed a lot more plausible than someone named Grover hiding in the closet.

And if Grover really is in the closet, why would he tell me?

Letti set her jaw.

It’s a joke. Stop being a baby.

She marched over to the closet, grabbed the knob, and with no hesitation pulled the door open, staring up at the tall, deformed man with the bloodshot eyes and the crazy smile on his face.

“You’re pretty,” Grover said in a high voice. “Like Kelly.”

Letti froze in shock. As the scream welled up in her throat, Grover grabbed Letti around the back of the head with one huge hand and pressed a wet towel to her face with another.

Letti got over her surprise quickly, and her body went on autopilot, executing the self-defense moves Florence drilled into her head years ago. First came a fist to the throat, followed by a heel grind to the instep.

She hit fast and hard, holding her breath, waiting for him to stagger back.

Grover didn’t stagger. The punch to his neck missed his Adam’s apple, because it wasn’t where it should have been. Her hand sunk into doughy neck fat, and bounced off harmlessly. Letti’s kick was similarly ineffective. Her bare heel bounced off what seemed like steel-toed boots.

She quickly followed up with a knee to the groin, putting her weight behind it.

Her knee connected with... nothing.

Along with his other defects, Grover didn’t seem to have genitals.

Letti didn’t give up yet. Still refusing to breathe in, she cupped her hands and slapped them against Grover’s ears, trying to burst his eardrums.

This time Grover did react. He stuck his lower lip out and started to cry, the tears running down his misshapen face. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled Letti tight to his body. She continued to punch and kick, but she didn’t have any room to swing, and her blows did little damage.

Finally, no longer having a choice, Letti inhaled.

The liquid soaking the towel burned her nose and throat when she sucked it in, and for a moment Letti felt like everything was okay, that she was completely safe, and it was perfectly reasonable to fall asleep right now.

A bit of panic-fueled realization got through—I’m being drugged—and she lashed out one more time, reaching for Grover’s eyes, smearing the tears on his cheeks.

But before she could gouge them out, the darkness took her.

# # #

Mal Deiter stared into the garbage can at the severed head. He debated picking it up, showing it to Deb, but rightfully decided that wasn’t in good taste.

“What did I just eat, Mal?” Deb asked, an edge to her voice.

“It wasn’t pheasant,” Mal replied, eyeing the small beak. “It was partridge.”

“You mean like in a pear tree?”

“His pear tree days are over.”

Mal discarded the remnants of their snack, then closed the lid. He faced Deb and saw she wasn’t amused.

Too bad. Deb was an attractive woman, but when she smiled, she was dazzling. So far, Mal hadn’t been able to make her smile more than a few times, even though he was trying his damnedest. Deb was too guarded which was a shame. If she relaxed a bit, Mal knew he could really fall for her. But he doubted Deb would let him get close enough for that to happen.

For the time being, he tried to reign in his feelings and keep things professional. Even guarded, Deb was an interesting person, and he liked being around her. He was already trying to think up some good excuse to call her after the interview ended.

“So what’s your impression of our hostess?” Mal said, taking his seat. “I’m thinking about calling The Addams Family, seeing if one of them is missing.”

Deb’s mouth curled in the faintest smirk, and the lines on her forehead smoothed out.

“You might want to call the White House instead. These decorations are mind-blowing.”

“They’re unpresidented.”

This time Deb actually did smile, full wattage, and it lit up the room.

“Thanks for splitting a partridge sandwich with me, Mal. I think I’m going to turn in. Long day.”

Mal wracked his brain to come up with some reason to keep talking. Another interview question? Something more personal? A joke?

Then he saw Deb stifle a yawn with the back of her hand, and realized the proper thing to do was let her get some sleep. She was, after all, competing in a triathlon.

“I’ll walk you up.”

They took the stairs slowly, silently, but the silence wasn’t awkward. When they arrived at Deb’s room, Mal felt a tinge of uncertainty, like he’d just been on a date and was unsure if he should try for the kiss.

Deb unlocked her door, then turned and looked up at him. For the briefest of moments, Mal saw in her eyes the same desire he felt.

Should I try it?

Then Deb stuck out her hand.

The goodnight handshake. Ugh. That’s even worse than the goodnight peck on the cheek.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Deiter.”

He folded her hand into his. “The pleasure has been all mine, Ms. Novachek. See you in the morning.”

Mal let the touch linger. So did Deb. Her eyes were big and her chin was titled up and all the signals were there, so Mal went for it. He leaned down, parting his lips, and got a faceful of hair when she abruptly turned around.

Deb slipped into her room and closed the door behind her, leaving Mal standing there like a dork. He recalled what Deb told him earlier.

“How old are we, twelve?”

He sure felt like it.

Mal let himself into his room. Several dozen Harry S. Trumans stared at him, and they all seemed to be thinking what Mal was thinking.

Smooth move, Casanova.

Mal padded into the bathroom, stripped off his shirt and pants, and took a leak. Then he turned his attention to the shower. Unlike the rest of the room, which was decorated in late 60s Norman Bates, the shower stood apart by appearing modern. It was a walk-in, with a floor-to-ceiling glass door, and the shower head was big and chrome and new.

Mal turned the knob to scald and stepped inside. The water was rust-colored, and smelled medicinal, but the stream was strong and felt good on his body. He opened the little box of soap in the soap dish and worked up a lather. Also in the soap dish was a mini bottle of shampoo. Mal unscrewed the top, dumped the brown contents into his hand, and raised it to his head.

That’s when the smell hit him.

A foul, rotten smell, like meat gone bad. He brought his hand to his face, sniffed the shampoo, and almost puked.

It’s not shampoo. It’s blood. Old, decaying blood.

Revolted, he pawed at his head, trying to get the gunk off. He could feel little pieces—clots—become tangled in his hair. Mal felt his stomach twist again, the partridge sandwich struggling to get out like it still had fluttering wings. Doubling over, Mal took deep breaths, watching gunky, brown blood swirl down the drain. He put a hand on the glass door to steady himself, wiping off a streak of steam—

—and saw someone standing in the bathroom.

Startled, Mal backed into the corner of the shower, watching the figure approach. Once he got over the initial shock, his mind tried to make sense of what was happening.

Deb? Coming back for that good night kiss?

Another guest, who walked into the wrong room?

Eleanor Roosevelt’s son, the one with the truck who was supposed to take them back into town?

Someone trying to do me harm?

Mal hollered above the water spray, “Who’s there?”

The person didn’t answer. He came up to the door and stood there.

Christ, he’s huge.

“Who the hell are you?”

The giant didn’t reply.

Mal’s heart went into overdrive. This whole situation felt like it was happening to someone else, and it was so far removed from reality that he wasn’t sure how to react. That he was naked made the vulnerability even more intense.

“What do you want?”

The man stayed silent, continuing to stare.

“Get the fuck out of here, asshole!”

More silence. More staring.

Mal felt like his legs couldn’t support him anymore. He’d been in confrontations before. Shoving matches in bars with men who’d had a few too many. Once, a fist fight in high school, that resulted in a black eye.

But this was something different. Something very bad.

This isn’t someone in the wrong room. This is someone who wants to hurt me.

Mal reached up, wiping his palm across the glass so he could see the man’s face.

Holy shit! What’s wrong with his—

The door jerked open, the giant’s hand reaching for Mal’s neck. Mal danced under the grab, making a fist, letting it fly.

His fist hit the man in the face—

—and sunk in to the gaping hole between his upper lip and his nose.

Mal’s knuckles were engulfed in something warm and wet; snot, saliva, or both. He recoiled, pulling his hand out of the giant’s harelip, and got shoved back against the shower wall.

Then a wet towel was pushed over Mal’s face. When he tried to breathe, his lungs filled with an acrid stench that Mal knew all too well. From his cop days, busting huffers—kids who inhaled chemicals to get high.

Ether. He’s trying to knock me...

That was Mal’s last thought before he spun into unconsciousness.

# # #

I should have kissed him.

Deb sat on the Teddy Roosevelt bedspread, staring at the door, willing Mal to knock on it. She had wanted to kiss him. She had really wanted it. But when he went for it she chickened out, no doubt humiliating him.

He’s not going to knock. He’s not ever going to try it again.

Deb closed her eyes and fell back onto the bed, sighing deeply.

I can run triathlons, but I don’t have the guts to kiss a guy I like. Pathetic.

She thought back to Scott, her last boyfriend. He patiently waited during her months of recovery, and when they finally tried to have sex again for the first time since her accident, he couldn’t get it up. Her cheeks burned at the memory.

“I’m sorry, Deb. I can’t.”

“Why, Scott? I’m the same woman.”

“You’re... grotesque.”

Mal didn’t seem to find her grotesque. And Deb doubted he’d have any sort of problems in bed.

But Deb knew she had problems. Body image problems. Mobility problems. Self-confidence problems.

She wasn’t comfortable letting another human being see her bare stumps. How was she supposed to get completely naked with somebody?

I’m so sick of hating myself.

Deb opened her eyes, struck by an intriguing thought.

I could go to his room.

Not to sleep with him. Deb knew she wasn’t ready for that. But she could at least kiss the guy good night.

It had been so long since she’d kissed a guy.

Deb pushed herself off the bed, and walked to the door. When her hand rested on the knob, she paused.

Now I’ve gone from being a chicken to being needy.

She thought about what was worse, cowardice or insecurity, and decided cowardice was worse.

Deb stepped into the hall and walked over to Mal’s room. Surprisingly, his door was open a crack.

Is he expecting me?

Deb hesitated again.

Knock? Go back? Or go in?

She knocked lightly.

No answer.

Deb lightly bounced up and down on her Cheetahs, trying to decide her next move. If he left the door open by accident, going in would be a bad move.

But who leaves their door open accidentally?

Deb went inside. Immediately, she realized why he didn’t respond when she knocked. She heard the shower, and saw steam coming out from under the bathroom door.

He isn’t expecting me.

For a moment she debated walking into the bathroom and joining him in the shower. It was purely fantasy—she just wasn’t the type to do that, legs or no legs. But she let herself imagine how it would unfold. Maybe she could say something clever, like, “Is there room for two?” Or maybe she’d just slip in behind him, and start washing his back.

Damn it, I should have just kissed him.

The shower cut off.

I could wait here. Surprise him when he walks out. “Your door was open. I thought maybe we could give that kiss another try.”

The bathroom door creaked, pushing outward.

Deb turned fast and got out of there. Heart pounding, she slunk back into her room and locked the door behind her.

“Nice, Deb,” she said to herself. “Real mature.”

Annoyed with herself, she hobbled into the bathroom to check out the clawfoot tub. Earlier, all she wanted to do was take a nice, hot bubblebath. Deb loved bubblebaths. She loved being weightless while immersed in water, and getting the suds high enough to imagine that under them, her body was whole.

But looking at it now, she saw how steep and high the bathtub’s edges were. Unlike modern hotels, there was no hand bar or railing next to the tub. That meant getting in and out would involve flopping over the edge. The tile floor was probably cold, and there weren’t enough towels to cover it. Then, afterward, Deb would have to put her prosthetics back on to get into bed.

A whole lot of work for a bit of relaxation. Besides, she didn’t like that gigantic framed poster of Theodore Roosevelt that faced the toilet.

It seems to be looking right at me.

Deb decided against the bath. She’d get up early, deal with it then. Right now, she just wanted to sleep and try to forget this day ever happened. She took off her fanny pack, placed it on the sink, and pulled out her toothbrush and toothpaste. The water was gross, but she made do. Afterward, she picked up a hand towel and left the bathroom. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and undressed down to her underwear.

I really hate this part.

Deb hit the release valves on her prosthetics, breaking the suction. She eased them off and set the Cheetahs on the floor, next to the bed. Then she rolled down the gel sock, sheathing the vestige of her left calf. A day’s worth of accumulated sweat dripped onto the floor. Deb wiped the sheath with the towel and gave it a tentative sniff.

Not too funky. I can get another wear out of it.

She pulled the silicone end pad out of the bottom, dried it off, and repeated the process with the other side, setting the sheaths on the night stand. Then Deb finally looked at her legs.

The amputations were transtibial; below the knee. Her left leg was three inches longer than her right, and both came to tapered ends. Deb hated that they were uneven—it made her feel even more deformed. To make the complete package reach eleven on the hideous scale, each leg had raised, ugly scars, from her surgery, and from her cougar injuries. On top of all that, she needed to shave.

Yuck, Deb thought. I’m a monster.

She always thought that when she looked at her stumps.

Her skin below each knee was pruned and red. The gel sheet provided cushioning, but Deb sweat so much she got heat rash. The alternative was to wear stump socks, which would wick away sweat just like regular socks did. Unfortunately, the suction of the prosthetics weren’t as tight when she wore socks, and Deb didn’t want to risk having a leg fall off while in motion. Still, she’d eventually have to come up with some sort of compromise. Even the strongest antiperspirants didn’t do much to help.

She draped the towel over her legs, then began to dry her stumps, massaging the muscles.

For half a second she pictured someone else doing the massage. Mal.

The fantasy ended with Mal gagging and running away.

You’re... grotesque.

Yes. Yes I am. And it’s my own stupid fault.

Deb considered jumping into the self-pity pool and wallowing around, but she was presently too tired to hate herself. Instead she yawned, then flicked off the light switch next to the bed. The room went dark, and Deb buried her face in the Roosevelt pillowcase, letting her mind blank out.

Less than a minute later, she heard something creak.

Like someone is walking toward the bed.

Deb’s eyelids snapped open, and she fumbled for the light switch.

The room was empty.

She waited, riding out the adrenaline, her heart dancing a rhumba. But there were no more noises. No one around.

Okay. Old houses creak. No need to get paranoid about it. The door is locked. I’m alone. I need to go back to sleep.

She hit the switch, adjusted the pillow, and rested her head.

Creak, creak, creak.

Closer this time.

The light on once again, Deb sat up in bed. No one was in the room. She wondered if there was some reasonable explanation for this. Maybe the creaks were coming from the floor below. Or next door. Or maybe she was hearing something else that she mistook for footsteps.

But it didn’t sound nearby. It sounded like it was coming from in the room.

She waited longer this time. Waited for the creaking to come back.

There was only silence.

Deb put her head back down, but she left the light on. If there was another creaking noise, she wanted to be able to see what was causing it.

Is someone messing with me?

Who? I’m alone in here.

After another long minute, she closed her eyes. She let her mind wander, and it found its way back to Mal. Cute guy. Obviously interested. All Deb needed to do was get out of her own way, and let things develop. If she stopped second-guessing everything, stopped thinking ten steps ahead, maybe she could actually—

Creak.

Deb opened her eyes, wide.

The creak came from right under my bed.

Moving slowly, she peeked over the edge, half-expecting to see some masked psychopath lying on the floor, waiting to spring.

She saw nothing. And that scared the living hell out of her.

My prosthetics are gone.

Deb left them alongside the bed. She was sure of it. She checked the nightstand, saw the gel sheaths were still there.

Maybe I’m brain dead. Maybe I put them on the other side.

Rolling over, Deb peered over the other end of the mattress.

All she saw was bare floor.

Someone took my legs.

Then the bed moved. Just a bit, but enough for Deb to realize what was happening.

The person who took my legs is under the bed.

Deb stared at the closet. She had her cosmetic legs in her case. If she could get to them, strap them on, she’d at least have a chance at getting away.

But how? Ease onto the floor and crawl there? That’s at least five yards away. I’ll never get there in time.

The bed jerked again. Harder this time. Whoever was under there lifted up the box spring and let it drop.

Then she heard him chuckle. Soft and low.

The fear that overtook Deb was the worst thing she ever felt. Worse than when she was falling off the mountain. Worse than when she was being stalked by the cougar.

This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t mother nature.

This is a human being deliberately intending to do me harm.

Her mind flashed back to the blowout. Maybe Mal had been right. Maybe someone had shot out the tire, to make sure they couldn’t get away.

And maybe that someone was under her bed right now.

What am I supposed to do? Any other person would be able to run away.

Maybe I can talk to him

Deb’s voice was shaking when she said, “Who’s there?”

After a terrible silence, a voice directly beneath Deb said, “I’m Teddy.”

It hit Deb like a slap to the face. She was so frightened she began to shiver. He was right beneath her.

“What... what do you want, Teddy?”

No answer.

“Teddy...?”

“I wanna watch you bleed, girl.”

Deb put her fist in her mouth, biting on her knuckles so she didn’t scream. She cast a frantic glance around the room, looking for some kind of weapon. There was nothing. And she’d left her fanny pack—and her knife—on the bathroom sink.

“I got yer legs.” Teddy said. “You can’t get away.”

The fear was overwhelming. What could she do, other than wait there, unable to escape, while this crazy man crept up the side of the bed and climbed on top of her? She might as well have been tied up. Or paralyzed.

How do I run from someone when I can’t even stand up?

Mal, Deb thought. He’s right next door.

“Mal!” she screamed, banging on the wall behind her. “Mal, help!”

“Help me, Mal!” Teddy joined in, using a falsetto. “Please help me!”

Deb filled her lungs and yelled as loud as she could. “MAAAAAAL!”