Endurance

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

# # #

“Buck and a half.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never heard of it.”

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

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

“Seen her before?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not too many left.

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

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

Someone had to know where the Rushmore Inn was.

If the Rushmore Inn even exists.

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

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

The women I love is in there. Somewhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Top dollar.”

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

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

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

“What room?”

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

The hell with Cameron.

“One ten.”

“I can come by, hour or so.”

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

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

The hunter studied the picture. Felix studied his eyes.

“She one of them try-atha-leets?”

“You’ve seen her?”