House (3 page)

“No need for that,” Lawdale said. “If you go now, while there's plenty of light, you'll get through without missing another beat. You all be careful now.”

The officer touched the rim of his smoky hat and walked back to his cruiser.

Jack climbed behind the Mustang's wheel and slammed his door shut. “You ever wonder what kind of man patrols the backwoods?”

Stephanie dropped in beside him. “Not really.”

“Now you know.”

“I'm sure he's pulled plenty of your kind from the ditch. I say we turn around.”

Jack checked his watch. Quarter till six. They could still make it. He eased the car forward.

Stephanie pressed it. “The appointment can't possibly be worth this much trouble.”

Jack turned onto the gravel detour.

“Jack.”

He picked up as much speed as he dared. “We've come this far, right? I'd like to try to get there.”

3
7:46 pm

“SLOW DOWN, JACK.”

Jack wasn't going that fast, not a shade over forty . . . well, sometimes fifty. The washboard road and potholes made it seem a lot faster. He remembered to use his mirrors but never saw more than a billowing trail of dust behind them. “He said it would take us an hour, but we're going on two.” He ventured a sideways glance. “How far did he say it was to 82?”

“I think he said forty miles after the
T
.”

Jack checked the odometer as he had several times already. “We've gone sixty at least. Are there any towns around here, any landmarks?”

She sat with her arms crossed, looking out the window. The crazy winding road had taken them back into dense forest. With the exception of a tiny roadside sign a half mile back, they hadn't seen so much as a mailbox. “Wayside Inn,” the sign read. “Rest for the Weary Soul, 3 Miles.” The sign was painted in cheery yellows, pinks, and blues, with a pink arrow pointing in the same direction they'd been headed for so long.

“This road isn't on the map, Jack. We only know what he told us.”

He gripped the wheel and leaned into his driving. He was eating crow—and it was going down sideways. “Would you call and tell them we're running late?”

Steph picked up her phone. “No coverage out here. You may as well relax. We've missed the appointment.”

He'd already run some time and mileage figures in his head and knew she was right. Figured.

“Well, apparently there's an inn up here somewhere,” Jack said. “Maybe we can at least get off the road for the night.” He met her eyes and looked for longing there, the meaningful glances she used to give him before their trouble. Nothing. He turned forward and tried to find words—What was that? His foot went for the brake—
Bam!
Something metallic thudded under the tires and screeched against the floorboards. The car lurched, shuddered, and wobbled, sliding on loose gravel.

Stephanie screamed as Jack struggled with the wheel. The car slid broadside, tires roaring over the rocks and raking the powdery surface into a wall of dust. Sounded like they were riding on rims. The wheel edges dug into the surface, and the car tipped to the passenger side. It teetered, then came down on all four wheels with a crunch of metal and shattering glass, the dust swarming over it.

Silence. Stillness. They were alive.

“You all right?” Jack asked.

Stephanie's voice trembled. “What . . . what happened?”

The left side of his head throbbed. Jack touched his hair and brought his hand away bloody. He must have hit the door.

“There was . . . something in the road.”

He unbuckled his seat belt and let it slip into its retractor as he opened his door. Dust drifted in, settling on his clothes and coating his nostrils. He stepped out, unsteady on his feet, and noticed the car was lower to the ground.

All four tires were flat. The skid had nearly torn the shredded rubber from the wheels.

He looked back, squinting through the haze of dust and dusk, and saw a vicious contraption lying in the gravel like roadkill, flopped and twisted from the impact. It was a thick rubber mat, long enough to span the road and bristling with steel spikes.

His guts wrenched. He looked up and down the road, probed the thick forest and creeping kudzu on either side with his eyes. No sounds. No movement. “Steph . . .”

She emerged from the car and gasped at the damage. He pointed up the road at the monstrosity lying in the dust. “It was a trap, or a trick, or . . . I don't know.”

She scanned the thick woods on either side of the road. “What do we do?”

His eyes were on the trees, both sides, back and forth. It seemed someone would have made a move by now, would have pounced, ambushed, fired a weapon,
something
.

“Well, whoever did this, they're bound to come back and see what they caught. We'd better get out of here.”

“What about the car?”

“It's not going anywhere. Grab your purse. We'll head for the inn.”

She ducked inside the car and pulled out the handbag, then plunked her cell phone in it, her eyes darting everywhere, afraid. Jack could see she was weighing the same possibilities: Inbreds. Weird, backwoods people. No regard for the law. Lawdale had warned them about being out here after dark.

“Come on.” Jack reached for her hand across the hood of the car, urging her around.

She came to him. He clamped his hand on hers. They started out together, hurrying, looking back at their stricken car for as long as it was in sight.

They settled into a walk-run for nearly two miles. The sunlight continued to fade. They rounded a bend and saw a small sign at the top of a long gravel drive.

WAYSIDE INN

Jack let go of Stephanie's hand and turned up the narrow road. “All right. We'll use their telephone.”

The house was nothing Stephanie expected, not out here in the remote Alabama backwoods. When she and Jack reached the gated stone wall and looked up the flagstone walk, her fear of the gathering darkness and threatening weather dropped away; her sore feet and the grit in her sandals became bearable; even their wrecked car and meaningless road trip were not the end of the world. She felt so relieved that tears blurred her eyes.

They could have been looking back in time. Somehow, while vast plantations gave way to open fields and shady lanes decayed into potholed strips of red dust and gravel, this grand old lady stubbornly remained in a more genteel era. She was not quite a mansion, but her imposing white walls, dormer windows, and tall, glowing lights invited thoughts of hoopskirted southern belles and drawling, frock-coated gentlemen.

“Oh,” was all she could say as relief gave way to joy, and joy gave way to amazement.

“What's a nice house like that doing in a place like this?” Jack wondered aloud.

He opened the gate and started up the walk, looked back, and then waited, which surprised her. She hurried to join him and they walked together, but
not
hand in hand, entering another world.

Miniature lamps cast a warm glow on the flagstones every few yards. The hedges on either side of the walkway were neat and precisely cornered; even in the dim light, the flower beds were hilarious with color. Beyond the beds, ancient oaks stood at ease on a parade ground of manicured green.

“Wish I had my suitcase,” she said. “I want to stay here.”

“We'll telephone for some help, then maybe go fetch our stuff,” he replied. “Officer Lawdale might be around somewhere.”

She winced at that. He was probably joking, but it wasn't funny.

They crossed the veranda and found a note on the door:
Welcome, weary traveler. Sign in at the front desk
.

Jack put his hand on the knob as she spotted her reflection in the door's ornate stained glass. That flushed, dust-streaked face and windblown hair would never do in a place like this. “Wait.” She groped in her purse for a brush.

He opened the door, swinging her mirror away. “Steph, we have enough trouble right now.”

She followed her moving reflection, pulling the brush through her hair. He never saw things her way. Her own disgusted face looked back at her. “I'm so sweaty.”

Jack went inside without her, and it stung.
Sure, just keep walking, buddy.

She stowed her brush, worked up a sweet smile, and turned into the foyer, closing the door behind her.

Now she felt all the more dusty, dirty, wrinkled, and out of place. The room was open to a high ceiling, and a fancy chandelier hovered over their heads. The spotless hardwood floor reflected a wide, carpeted staircase. Flower-filled vases perched on tables, in wall niches, and small stands in corners. The living room to their left boasted a yawning fireplace with a carved mantel. She should be dressed for a party, but here she was looking like—

“You don't look like
you
own this place,” a man's voice boomed from above.

A man and a woman came down the stairs. He was tall and well built, in crisp jeans and a celery-green sport shirt—the neck was open to show off a color-coordinated T-shirt. She was tall, brunette—not beautiful by Stephanie's estimation, but chic in her stylish white slacks and sleeveless red tunic. Silk, probably. Silver drop-shaped earrings. She descended with a professional grace she must have learned somewhere, and one quick, sizing-up glance from those green eyes made Stephanie's face flush.

“We need a phone,” Stephanie said.

If Jack was conscious of his own dusty condition, he didn't show it. The novelist in him never put much stock in physical appearances, to her aggravation. Right now he was dressed as always, casual if not sloppy in baggy chinos and an untucked denim button-down, open over a white T-shirt. His reddish hair could use a comb, but other than that, he was a fine-looking man—yes, even finer than Mr. GQ now taking the stairs like a catalog model. Unfortunately, she needed more than
fine
these days. Her career was about to take off, but Jack was so stuck in the past that he would hold her back, no doubt.

“Run into trouble?” the man asked.

Jack answered, “We had some car trouble a couple miles down the road.”

The man's eyes narrowed, and he shared a knowing look with the woman. “So did we.”

Now he had Stephanie's wide-eyed, unwavering attention. “Our tires were slashed.”

The man's right eyebrow arched. “So were ours.”

The revelation alarmed her. “You too? How . . . how's that possible?”

“In these backwoods? Anything is possible,” the man said with a coy smile.

“But that can't be a coincidence. Both cars?”

“Settle down, honey. Just some hillbillies laughing their guts out in a tree about now. It'll be just fine. Where you come from?”

“We were coming from the north, from Tuscaloosa,” Jack said.

“We were coming from the south, from Montgomery.”

“Did you turn off 82?”

“That's right.”

“We had to walk for miles,” Stephanie reminded him out loud.

“So did we,” said the woman, not looking one bit like it.

The man jutted out his hand. “Randy Messarue.”

Jack gripped his hand. “Jack Singleton. This is Stephanie, my, uh . . .” He deferred to her.

“I'm his loving wife,” she said.

The woman was taller than Stephanie, which helped her look down when she said, “Charmed.” She turned away and offered her hand to Jack. Stephanie bristled. “I'm Leslie Taylor. Randy and I are longtime associates.”

“Looks like you hit your head,” Randy said. “You okay otherwise?”

Jack touched his head again. The blood was mostly dry now. “Tired, but okay. Have you called the police?”

Randy sneered. “Got a cell phone with service?”

Stephanie pulled her cell phone from her purse. She checked once more, but, “No, no service. Isn't there a landline here?”

“Good luck finding it.”

Stephanie's subdued fear raised its head.

“We've checked the main floor and some of the rooms upstairs. If they have one, it's locked away.”

“We can ask the owners when they get here,” said Leslie.

“Yeah, when they get here,” said Randy. “Don't know what kind of a business they think they're running, but you don't just leave a note on the door and leave the customers to fend for themselves.”

Leslie smiled, cocked her head. “Randy runs a chain of hotels.”

Jack's eyebrows went up. “Wow. That's something.”

“And a chain of restaurants, but that's beside the point,” said Randy.

Stephanie offered, “Jack's a writer. He's got several novels published.”

“Oh,” said Randy. “Bring any luggage with you?”

“No,” Stephanie answered quickly, giving Jack an appropriate eye stab.
My husband doesn't consider such details.

But he wasn't looking at her. “It's still back in the car. We were pretty nervous. You know, we figured . . .”