Florence side-stepped the kick and spread out her palms.
“Easy. Take it easy. I didn’t mean to hit you, but I didn’t expect you to be in my closet. My name is Florence Pillsbury. I’m a triathlete, too. Are you in trouble?”
Florence watched as Deb processed this. The poor girl was shaking all over. “Trap doors. Secret passages. Someone got into my room. A freak, with red eyes. He’s chasing me.”
Florence immediately helped the girl up.
“Are you hurt? Who got into your room, dear?”
“We’ve got to get out of here. We’ve got to—”
The knock at the door cut Deb off. Both women stared at it.
Florence asked, “Who is it?”
“This is Sheriff Dwight, of the Monk Creek Police Department. Can you open up for a moment, ma’am?”
“Sher—”
Florence clamped her hand over Deb’s mouth, cutting her off. This didn’t feel right.
“Just a second,” Florence called. Then she whispered to Deb, “I’ve got a weird feeling. Go hide under the bed.”
Deb shook her head. “No way in hell.”
“The bathroom then.”
“He’s the Sheriff.”
“There’s something in his voice I don’t like. Please hide while I talk to him.”
Deb chewed her lower lip. Then she nodded and walked to the bathroom, bouncing on her curved prosthetics.
“Mrs. Pillsbury?” The Sheriff said, knocking again. “Please open the door. It’s about your granddaughter.”
When Florence saw Deb was locked in the bathroom, she went to answer her door.
The Sheriff was a tall man, plump, pasty, wearing an ill-fitting police uniform. His hat was askew on his head. There was also something funny about his eyes. The edges were bright red.
They’re bloodshot. He’s wearing contact lenses to hide it.
“What about my granddaughter, Sheriff?” Florence only opened the door a few inches, and kept her foot planted behind it, like a doorstop.
“You need to come with us.”
Us? But he’s alone. Unless...
Florence craned her neck back, trying to see around the Sheriff. She caught a glimpse of a man behind him. A tall man, in overalls. He had a large jaw, and a rounded forehead that came to a point. Having done missionary work around the world and seen countless impoverished and disabled people, Florence recognized the man’s condition as microcephaly. He was what circus sideshows called a pinhead.
Not a person normally associated with law enforcement.
Florence’s uneasy feeling about this inn quadrupled when Deb showed up in her closet, but now it was off the charts. She realized her whole family was in danger.
Okay, now that I know the threat, I can deal with it.
Florence took a deep breath, centered herself, then stepped away from the door.
The men burst in. The microcephalac clapped his hands together and giggled, and the Sheriff offered a mean grin, showing that dental hygiene wasn’t one of his top priorities.
“Granny, that was a big mistake.”
He hitched up his belt and rested his hand on the butt of his gun, striking a rehearsed pose that was probably meant to intimidate.
Florence wasn’t intimidated. With her right hand, she struck the Sheriff’s jaw, driving his head upward. With her left, she shoved his wrist away from his holster and snagged his gun.
“Don’t move,” she said, backing away. “Don’t either of you—”
“Get her, Grover!” the Sheriff yelled.
Grover either always followed orders, or he was mentally impaired and didn’t recognize the threat of a gun. It didn’t matter either way to Florence. The microcephalac was twice her weight, and if he grabbed her it was over.
She shot him twice in the chest, and he fell like a redwood, crashing into the floor with a thump almost as loud as the gunfire.
Then she turned the revolver on the Sheriff.
“Where’s my family?”
The Sheriff’s eyes got wide, revealing more of their red-rimmed edges.
“Granny, put down the gun.”
“My family. Or I shoot you like I shot him.”
The Sheriff cast a quick glance at his fallen partner.
“We got ‘em. Ain’t no way you gettin’ ‘em back.”
“How many people are holding them?”
He stayed silent. She pulled back the hammer on the revolver.
“How many?”
“A lot more than the four bullets you got left, Granny. You got no idea what’s goin’ on.”
From the bathroom, Deb screamed.
Then Grover grabbed Florence’s ankle.
# # #
Felix stared, slack-jawed, at the figure slinking out of the cave. Its golden eyes caught the moonlight and glinted.
Ronald isn’t a man. He’s a mountain lion.
A surge of adrenaline temporarily overrode the pain in Felix’s tortured fingers, and he pawed at his pocket, trying to get at the handcuff keys. He slipped his shattered index finger into his jeans, pushed down, and screamed when it bent the wrong way.
He withdrew the finger, his whole body shaking in raw agony.
Ronald cocked his head to the side and padded closer, in no obvious hurry. Felix knew he needed to focus on the keys, but he was transfixed by the cat as it approached. The musk smell got stronger, and Ronald’s tail—broken in several places and shaped like a jagged lightning bolt—swished back and forth. It was strangely beautiful, almost hypnotic.
Then the cougar hissed, revealing three inch fangs, snapping Felix back into reality.
Handcuffs. Focus on my handcuffs.
Felix tried his unbroken pinky. Wincing, he slid it into his pocket, but couldn’t get down deep enough to grab the keys. He could just barely touch the metal ring with his fingertip, but couldn’t hook his pinky around them.
Ronald stalked closer to Felix, head down, eyes shining. The beast was huge, easily over two hundred pounds. Each paw was bigger than Felix’s face.
Ignore the pain. Get the keys.
Grunting, Felix forced his pinky in deeper, bending his ring finger back, the broken phalange bones grinding against one another, his previous knife wound splitting open.
Almost… almost…
Too much. The pain overtook him, and the world swirled away. Felix’s vision dimmed at the edges, the darkness forming a tunnel that got smaller and smaller until he blacked out.
Felix awoke on his knees, hugging the pole, his face warm. He opened his eyes—
—and saw Ronald only inches away, his hot, feline breath blowing onto Felix’s face.
Felix felt the scream welling up, and then the cat’s massive paw shot out, catching his pelvis, spinning Felix around the pole by his cuffed wrists.
This seemed to amuse the cougar, because he batted Felix in the other direction, like a tetherball. Felix felt the rents in his hips, where the claws hooked flesh through the denim.
My hips?
Oh, no... my pocket...
He chanced a look down at his bloody, ripped jeans.
Are the keys still in there?
Felix patted the material, feeling warm blood and torn fabric. The pain was twofold, both his ruined fingers and the gouges in his hip seemed to be in a contest for which hurt more. But there, under the heel of his hand—
The keys. And they’re poking through the denim.
Using his pinky and his thumb, he pinched the protruding handcuff key—
—and Ronald bit into Felix’s foot.
The bite wasn’t full force, the cat’s teeth not even penetrating the shoe. But the pressure caused a muscle cramp.