House (6 page)

“You can be my wife,” said Pete.

Leslie spoke down to him like a teacher addressing a kindergartner. “Well, thank you. I'm flattered, but I'm afraid I'm spoken for.”

“Eh, she'd be quite a catch, now, wouldn't she, Pete?” said Stewart, seeming to contemplate the prospect.

Jack stole a quick, discreet glance at Leslie to understand what Pete and Stewart saw that he didn't. If beauty was the determining factor here, why weren't they all over Stephanie? His eyes went to his wife, checking her out by way of comparison . . .

Her pursed lips sent him a signal that she didn't care for such comparisons.

He tried the potatoes. A little mealy.

“Stewart, don't encourage him,” said Betty, a wad of food in her mouth.

Pete pointed at Leslie. “I want her.”

Randy cut in, eyeing Stewart. “Speaking of catches, where do you suppose those spikes in the road came from?”

Stewart sniffed.

“Jack,” said Betty, “why don't you tell us about your wife? Leslie told us about Randall.”

Jack jumped at the chance for a little damage control. “I'd be delighted to talk about her.” Stephanie rolled her eyes. “She's a singer and a songwriter. Country, mostly. She has a great band, sings in clubs and lounges around Tuscaloosa, sometimes Birmingham. Got a good job in Atlanta once.”

“And aren't you glad?”

About what?
“I think she's done very well—”

Betty asked Stephanie, “You having fun, sweetie?”

Stephanie smiled at Betty and at Jack. “Yes, as a matter of fact. I'm having a lot of fun.”

“I s'pose you're on the radio.”

Jack said no and then wished he hadn't.

Stephanie's eyes turned down toward her napkin. “But someday,” she said.

“Have some iced tea.” Betty poured her some. “Want more ice?”

“No thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can get you some more.”

“No, thanks; I'm fine.”

Randy asked, “So you do listen to the radio?”

“Don't have one,” Stewart replied.

“No radio. No telephone either?”

Stewart met Randy's eyes as if challenged. “We have what we want. We don't need what we don't want.”

Jack said, “Well, we could sure stand to talk to somebody in the outside world. We've both had our cars damaged—”

“—by spikes someone left in the road,” said Randy. “You did hear me mention that, didn't you?”

“
He
did it,” said Betty.

“Who?”

Betty just chewed.

“Um, maybe you have some neighbors nearby who might have a phone?” asked Jack.

Betty swallowed and stood. “Let me get you some ice, sweetie.”

“No, thank you,” said Stephanie. “Really, you don't have to; I'm fine.”

But Betty headed for the kitchen.

Pete pointed at Leslie again. “I want her to be my wife.”

Leslie sighed.

“Yeah,” said Stewart, “she probably wouldn't mind too much, considering where she's been.”

Leslie paled just a shade. “I'm taken,” she said.

“Makes me wonder how many times she's been a ‘wife' before.”

“She's taken,” said Randy a little louder, and Jack could see the veins and muscles in Randy's neck restraining curses.

“Taken once, taken again.”

“Stewart.” Randy leaned toward Stewart, gesturing with his fork as if it were a dart. “I'd like you to make it clear to your son Pete that Leslie is not interested in being his wife, and we would both appreciate it if you and he would drop this subject—and while you're at it, try looking at something else.”

“Randy, it's oka—”

“And just whose table are you sitting at, young man?” Stewart bristled.

Stephanie said, “Pete, I can sing a song for you.”

Jack and Pete looked at Stephanie.
Uh-oh.

“That's a very good question,” Randy said, rising now. “Just what kind of innkeepers don't use matching silverware and glasses, aren't even here when their guests arrive, don't have a telephone . . .”

Stephanie started singing. “Hold my hand, walk me through the darkness . . .”

Jack hated that song too.

“Randy.” Leslie put her hand over his.

He brushed off her cautionary touch. “. . . and then put the guests to work. What kind of low-overhead excuse for an inn are you running here?”

“. . . we can make it, dear, if we make it together . . .”

“As long as your feet are under this table,” Stewart growled, “you will watch that mouth of yours or
button
it!”

“And let's talk about the cars!” Randy demanded. “Pretty strange for both our cars to be spiked not far from your establishment, don't you think?”

“. . . we can make it through the night . . .”

Oh, Stephanie, just stop.

The tendons on Randy's neck were showing. “And stranger still that you and Betty won't say a word about it.”

Leslie winced and touched her left cheek. Jack noticed a spot of blood. She examined the tines of her fork.

Pete looked curiously—then hungrily—at Leslie.

“And you think you can just help yourself to anything in this place anytime you want?” Stewart said, dropping clenched fists on the table. “Take our rooms, take our lamps, drink our tea, use our bathroom . . .”

“Am I a guest here, or aren't I?” Randy shouted. “Who do you think the rooms and lamps and tea are for? And as far as that bathroom goes—”

Jack was in no mood to referee, but he was getting a bad taste in his mouth. He set down his silverware. “Hey, listen, everybody, look at the bright side here—” Stephanie stopped singing. “Stewart and Betty, you have guests, and that's business, and that's what you want. Now, we've all fumbled a bit, we've had a rocky start, sure, but we can make this work—”

“Now there's a line I've heard before,” Stephanie muttered under her breath.

Jack heard her but pretended not to. “We have a wonderful place to spend the night, dinner's on, the food's great—”

The bite that just dropped to his stomach wasn't that great.

Randy noticed Leslie's cut. “What happened?”

She was irritated, dabbing her cheek with her napkin. “I stuck myself again.”

“I can kiss it and make it better,” said Pete.

Betty strode in with a bucket of ice. “Herrrrre we are.” One of her fingernails was blackened. Jack hadn't noticed that before.

“I don't need any more ice,” Stephanie insisted, taking a bite of roast. She gagged and spit it out, pushed back from the table.

“Problem?” Randy asked, obviously hoping for one.

Jack looked at the meat on his plate.

It was moving.

Leslie squealed, her hand over her mouth, her eyes on her plate.

Stewart stabbed a slab of meat and crammed the whole thing into his mouth. Pete did the same, filling one cheek.

Jack looked closely at the roast beef on his plate and felt sick.

Tiny white worms were squirming, writhing, tunneling through the meat.

“Sweetie,” said Betty, “I brought you more ice.”

Stephanie watched her drop a cube into the tea.

Jack's peas were sagging; putrid juice puddled under them. “Looks like we took too long to eat,” he said. He thought he'd better add a little chuckle to soften things.

Leslie threw down her fork and almost shouted at Pete, “Will you
please
stop staring at me?”

“Can you blame him?” Stewart asked.

“That's it,” Randy said, taking hold of Leslie's arm and lifting her to her feet. “If you'll excuse us.”

“Sit down,” Stewart said.

“Leslie, come on.” They stepped around their chairs.

“SIT DOWN!” Stewart yelled, half rising.

Randy swore, but Stewart laughed in his face. “Kid, you're nothin'.”

Leslie tugged at Randy's arm until he left with her.

Betty grinned her gap-toothed grin at Stephanie. “Don't tell me you don't like ice, dear.” She lifted a cube from the bucket and shoved it under Stephanie's nose. “You think about it all the time, don't you?”

Stephanie shied back. “No. Please, I don't.”

Jack leaned across the table. “Whoa, whoa, wait a minute now!”

Betty followed Stephanie with the ice cube, wiggling it in her face. “I don't hear you singing.”

What was it with these people? “Betty, she doesn't want any ice, and she doesn't want to sing. Now put that down!”

Stephanie's voice trembled. “
We can make it through the night . . .
”

Enough. More than enough. Jack went to Stephanie's side. “It's been fun.”

Betty cackled again. “You can't rescue that one, boy. Nope, she don't want to be rescued.”

Stephanie ran from the room.

Jack ran after her and caught up in the foyer.

She smiled through tears. “Isn't this the strangest place you've ever been? It's just so . . . so . . .” She started a laugh; it became a sob. “I can't stay here.”

He held her to keep her from bolting. “Steph, I understand. But we have to think this through.”

“Think
what
through?”

“Reality,” said Randy. He and Leslie were near the stairs. Leslie steadied herself with one hand on the railing; with the other she held a hanky to her cheek. She was breathing slow, rhythmic breaths with her eyes closed. “Such as where to go in the middle of the night in the Alabama backwoods without wheels.”

“What about Lawdale?” Jack wondered aloud. “He said he drives that road every morning. He'll see our wrecked cars.”

“Lawdale?” Randy asked.

“Highway patrol,” Jack said.

Stephanie peered over Jack's shoulder, and her eyes filled with dismay.

Jack looked.

Betty, Stewart, and Pete were coming their way, walking shoulder to shoulder with Stewart in the middle. Betty looked hurt. “Always running. What are you always running for?”

Stewart was about ready to take that belt to somebody. “The food was fine till you came in here.”

Randy stepped out, hand extended in a clear warning. “Keep your distance, please.”

Stephanie bolted for the front door, flung it open, and dashed out onto the veranda. Jack ran after her.

She pulled up at the top step, her hands over her mouth.

“Steph, take it easy now. You—”

She was trembling. She took a step backward. Another step. She was peering down the flagstone walkway.

Jack approached and touched the small of her back—and then he saw it too.

Halfway between the house and the gate loomed the immense shape of a man, a shadowy silhouette veiled by a light rain. A duster draped the body to midcalf, and the face was obscured by the shadow of a wide-brimmed, drooping hat. The man held a shotgun, the barrel glinting in the lights lining the path.

Behind them, Betty sucked in a rasping breath and hissed, “Get inside.”

They lingered, unsure.

She lunged and took hold of them. “Get inside! It's
him
!”

The figure started walking their way, the duster billowing, the boot heels clacking on the stones. The barrel of the shotgun swung forward.

6

JACK AND STEPHANIE WERE ALREADY BACK – pedaling toward the door when they tore their eyes away from the apparition, turned, and dashed inside.

Jack slammed the door shut and locked it. He snatched a chair from the foyer and wedged it under the knob, momentarily uncertain if they were any safer inside. Well, their hosts were crazy, but they didn't sport a shotgun.

Randy rushed from the stairs, demanding, “What is it? What's going on?”

“Get away from the door!” Betty hissed, flicking off the foyer lights.

“What are you doing?” Randy said.

“You don't want him to see you.”

They fell silent, motionless, and heard the sharp, staccato clicks of boot heels on the veranda. A shadow rose upon the door's stained glass, a hulking shape topped by a broad-brimmed hat.

The barrel of the shotgun came up against the glass.
Tap, tap, tap.

Jack and Stephanie pressed themselves against the wall to the side of the door, watching.

Tap, tap, tap.

Leslie whispered, “Who is it?”

Stephanie shook her head, then mouthed and pantomimed,
He has a gun.

Leslie drew herself up and asked in a calm and quiet voice, “Well, maybe he's a law officer. Why don't we ask him who he is and what he wants?”

Stephanie shook her head
.

“He's no law officer,” Jack whispered. He grabbed a vase off a stand and took the stand for a weapon, holding it high and ready. “Remember the spikes in the road?” He caught Randy's eye and jerked his head toward the door. “I don't think he's from AAA.”

Randy stole close to the wall, taking hold of a chair. “He knows we're in here. That was the whole idea.”

“What are we gonna do?” Stephanie squeaked. “Oh, dear God, help us.”

Where is the loony crew?
Jack did a quick check and saw the three peeking through the dining room's archway.
Best not to expect any help from those three.
Betty disappeared from view.
Click.
Dining room lights went out. Stepping out of the prismatic light coming through the stained glass, Jack tightened his grip on the vase stand. He'd never assaulted anyone with a piece of furniture before.

Randy braced himself against the wall near the lock, the chair ready in his hands. He called, “Who are you?”

The lock began to creak and jiggle.

Jack could feel Stephanie's trembling body next to him.

“Not a chance, pal,” Jack shouted, making Stephanie flinch. “The door's locked, you're outnumbered, and we're armed.”