Endurance

car.

“What happened, Grandma?”

Florence patted Kelly’s leg. “Front tire blew out.”

“How? Did we hit something?”

“I’m not sure, dear.”

It was an odd blowout, for sure. Their previous flat was the result of running over a nail, causing a slow leak. This was more like an explosion.

Almost as if...

The knock on their window made all three women jump. A flashlight beam hit Florence in the eyes, forcing her to squint. The dog went supernova, pouncing toward the beam and the figure who controlled it, slobber splattering all over the passenger-side window.

“Are y’all okay in there?”

Letti hit the interior light, and Florence stared out at the woman who asked the question. The stranger was tall, easily over six feet, built like a linebacker. It was too dark and she stood too far away to make out anything else.

“JD, shush!” Letti said.

JD kept barking.

Florence tapped the dog on the head. “JD!”

The dog shut up, but its lips remained curled in a snarl. Letti hit the power window, opening it a crack.

“Welcome to the Rushmore Inn,” the large woman said. Her voice was unusually high for someone so big. “Y’all must be the Pillsburys. We been expecting you. I’m the owner. Can I help with any of your luggage?”

The woman put her round face near the window and smiled, revealing a set of gigantic dentures. It looked like she had a mouth full of Chiclets. This close, Florence saw the crow’s feet, the neck waddle, and guessed her to be mid-sixties. She wore a blue floral print dress that had a lace collar and looked antique. Her gray hair couldn’t be described as a beehive, but it was twisted and piled up on top of her head pretty high, hairsprayed into a helmet. Perched on top, of all things, was a pillbox hat, the kind made famous by Jackie O.

But the thing that really caught Florence’s attention was the woman’s eyes. Big and brown and bulging like a frog’s. The mouth might have been smiling wide, but the eyes seemed vacant.

Letti turned around and looked at Florence, both women exchanging an expression of doubt. But before Florence could say anything, Letti told Kelly to put on JD’s leash, and then she opened the door.

Florence got out of the car, and found herself standing face-to-face with the innkeeper. Well, face-to-bust anyway. The woman had at least six inches on Florence.

“I’m Eleanor Roosevelt,” she said in a sing-song, southern belle voice. “My grandfather was second cousin to Theodore Roosevelt, the twenty-sixth president of the United States. But, of course, I was named after Mrs. Franklin Delano Roosevelt. FDR was the only President to serve three terms in the White House.”

Her bug eyes blinked, and she offered a fake smile and her hand. Florence shook it, and found herself in a power struggle of who could squeeze harder. Eleanor’s hand was large, meaty, and she had formidable strength. But Florence had been sticking to a strict exercise routine for more than forty years, and could knock off a hundred fingertip push-ups without breaking a sweat. Though she didn’t have leverage on her side, her fingers had the power to crush a soup can.

The two women remained locked like that for several seconds, neither of them betraying anything in their faces.

“And you are?” Eleanor asked, her voice steady as her grip increased.

“Florence. I’m not named after anybody. I find it refreshing to be my own person.”

Eleanor tilted her head to the side. “You look to be about my age, Florence. Are you certain you’re fit enough to compete in Iron Woman? It would be a shame if you keeled over from a heart attack. Do you remember when President Dwight D. Eisenhower had a heart attack in 1955?”

“I never liked Ike.”

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed, and she released Florence’s hand, wiping it on her bulging stomach. “Yes. Well then. It’s certainly a pleasure to meet you.” She turned. “And you must be Letti. I spoke with you on the phone. I’m Eleanor Roosevelt. My grandfather was second cousin to Theodore Roosevelt, the twenty-sixth president of the United States.”

“I caught that earlier. Nice to meet you, Eleanor.”

Florence watched as Eleanor tried to mash Letti’s hand, and was pleased when Eleanor let out a yelp at her daughter’s strength.

That-a-girl, Letti.

Eleanor couldn’t pull her hand away quickly enough.

“We seem to have run over something in your driveway and gotten a flat tire,” Letti said, her face betraying nothing.

Eleanor clucked her tongue. “Yes. It happens a lot out here. We try to keep the driveway clear, but there are sharp rocks everywhere.”

Letti folded her arms—her victory pose. “We lost our spare on the trip up. Do you have the number of a garage around here? Someone who sells tires?”

“Absolutely. But no one will come out here this late. It will have to wait until tomorrow.”

“We have to check in at the race tomorrow morning,” Letti said.

“Not a problem. I can have one of my boys take you into town.”

“We have three bikes we need to take with.”

“We have a truck. It will be fine.”

Florence thought she saw something—a shadow—over Eleanor’s shoulder. It disappeared behind the inn.

“Do you have many animals in these parts?” Florence asked.

Eleanor lowered her voice an octave. “All sorts of nasty things run around in these woods. Bear. Wild boar. Even mountain lions. All the more reason for us to go inside. Come on, now. Y’all must be exhausted after your long trip. From Illinois, isn’t it? The Land of Lincoln? Just follow me.”

Eleanor walked off, taking big strides. Florence shot her daughter a look and saw Letti grin. Her daughter was amused by Eleanor. Florence wasn’t amused so much as disturbed. Something wasn’t right about that woman. Something that went beyond mere eccentricity.

They unpacked the trunk, Eleanor not making good on her promise to help them. Florence shouldered hers and Kelly’s backpacks, then stared into the woods. While the foliage and scent were different, the atmosphere eerily mirrored the jungles of Vietnam. The quiet. The stillness. The darkness that seemed to seep into your very pores. After a lifetime of traveling and missionary work, Florence still wasn’t comfortable in the wilderness. She’d borne witness to countless cases of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. But that was a known danger. The woods whispered of the unknown. Of unseen things that wanted to eat you.

Letti and Florence hefted their gear over to the inn, Kelly in tow with JD. Eleanor stood on the porch with her creepy smile, holding the door open. The building itself was three stories, made of logs. Wooden shutters covered the windows. The roof was hard to see, as not a single exterior lamp was on.

“Welcome to the Rushmore Inn,” Eleanor said again. The woman apparently liked to repeat herself.

Upon stepping inside, all the creepy feelings Florence had toward Eleanor tripled. The interior—lit by murky, low-watt bulbs—was a cross between a museum and a junk shop. Presidential memorabilia decorated the walls and furniture in a most haphazard way. Paintings. Posters. Newspapers. Photos. Election signs and buttons. Rather than charming, the effect was overwhelming. Florence tried to find something, anything, that didn't have a President's name or image on it. Her eyes fixed on a plain white ashtray. Being curious, she looked closer. Inside were the smiling faces of Richard and Pat Nixon.

“This just went from quirk to fetish,” she whispered to Letti.

“She’s way past fetish. This is full-blown psychosis.”

Florence also noted a strange odor in the house. Beneath the strong scent of incense were notes of body odor, and something else. A rotting smell, like carnations gone bad.

“I see you admiring the decorations,” Eleanor said, her arms making grand, sweeping gestures.