Endurance

Eleanor touched the railing, unlatching it. It swung inward on hinges, revealing the twenty-five foot drop to the first floor.

“When the slave fell, the rope would pull taut and dislocate his shoulders.”

“Charming,” Florence said, her voice flat.

“Legend says one slave, after his fifth drop, lost both of his arms when they ripped from his sockets. He’s said to roam the hallways at night, looking for his missing limbs. One wonders what infraction he committed to deserve such treatment. Or why his owner would risk the loss. After all, slaves cost money.” Eleanor closed the gate. “Did you know twelve of our Presidents were slave owners?”

“Thank you again,” Florence said, giving the key a hard tug and freeing it from Eleanor’s grasp. “We need to be in town at eight a.m. for the race sign-in and walkthrough. Are you sure your son won’t mind giving us a ride? I’m guessing we’ll need to leave by seven.”

Eleanor offered a big-toothed smile. “He won’t mind at all. I can have breakfast ready for y’all at six- thirty.”

“Are there other guests?” Letti asked.

“At the moment, no. But we’re expecting more later tonight.”

Florence couldn’t understand how this place stayed in business. “Is it the slow season?”

Eleanor’s bug eyes became wide. “Not at all. We’re just very particular when it comes to who we invite into our little inn.”

“You must get a lot of repeat business, then.”

“You wouldn’t believe it. After their first night, some of the guests never want to leave.” She winked, then performed a clumsy curtsey. “Goodnight, ladies. See you soon.”

The innkeeper waddled off. They watched her descend the stairs, giving the iron railing an affectionate pat.

“I don’t like that woman, this inn, or the surrounding area,” Florence said.

“But you can’t beat the price.” Letti put her key in the lock.

“Tell me again how you found this place?”

“They mailed me a letter, saying all of us won a free three-night stay.”

Florence shook her head. “But how do they benefit from that? It’s not like all the other guests here are making up for it. This place is dead as a tomb.”

Letti swung her door open. “We discussed this already. No matter how crummy the place was, we were going to stay. It’s saving us a lot of money, Florence. And you know we need the money for—”

“For me. I know, Letti.” Florence put a hand on her daughter’s, which was resting on the doorknob. She lowered her voice. “We really need to talk about your husband...”

Letti pulled her hand away. “One of the rules is we’re not going to talk about that.”

“Kelly is right. If we don’t discuss it, if you don’t understand me, how will you ever forgive me?”

“Where in our deal does it say I have to forgive you?”

Letti pushed the door open and went into her room, slamming it in Florence’s face.

Do I deserve that?

I don’t know. Maybe I do. Maybe Letti has been right all along.

But that doesn’t mean I would have done things any differently.

Or would I have?

Florence sighed. She’d raised a girl who was just as hard-headed as she was. Hopefully Letti wouldn’t make the same mistakes with Kelly that Florence had made with her.

Florence padded to the Grant bedroom, opened the door, and stepped inside, feeling the space.

It didn’t feel right.

The lights were already on, illuminating the expected Ulysses S. Grant decorations plastered everywhere. Somehow Eleanor had managed to find President Grant curtains, and a bed spread that looked like a giant fifty dollar bill. But it wasn’t the Grant motif that gave Florence pause.

It was the sense that she wasn’t alone in the room.

Florence believed, and had been proven correct on dozens of occasions, that she could sense when others were nearby. It wasn’t any ESP baloney, or any supernatural trick. Many animals had some sort of proximity sense, alerting them to when prey or predators were close. Bats. Sharks. Whales and dolphins. Dogs. It was well within the scope of nature to sense other living creatures near you, without sight, sound, or touch. The same way you could sense when someone was looking at you from across a room, or sense that the door was about to open.

Everyone had this ability, to one degree or another. Florence felt that she honed hers through a lifetime of travelling to different environments, coupled with her interest in meditation and the martial arts.

Different places felt different, in a way beyond what the five senses could report.

And in this room, Florence felt like she was being watched.

But they weren’t friendly eyes watching her.

They feel more like hunter’s eyes.

The last time she’d had this feeling was during the war. She’d been with the third field hospital, 85th Evac, in Qui Nhon. The conditions had been primitive. Surgery in tents. Not enough equipment. Always low on medicine. After a full morning of plucking slugs out of a boy’s legs without antiseptic or rubber gloves, she’d gone to the latrine to wash the blood out from under her fingernails, and some instinct made her duck. A second later, a sniper’s bullet passed over her head, killing the nurse in line ahead of her.

Florence had felt him.

Just like she felt someone now.

She took in the room, her eyes sweeping over it slowly. It was small, tidy, smelled strange like the rest of the house. There was a bed. Dresser. Bathroom. Window. Door.

A closet door.

Is that what I’m feeling? Someone in the closet?

Florence moved to the door, slow and cautious. Her left hand reached for the knob. Her right hand drew back in a fist.

She hesitated.

What if there is someone in there?

For all of her adult life, Florence took pride from her ability to take care of herself. No matter the situation, she could handle it.

But now? At my age? In my condition?

Running earlier with Kelly had been difficult, and hiding her pain had been impossible. The only reason Kelly didn’t notice was because she’d been so scared.

Florence let her fist open. If there was someone in the closet, she wanted something with a little more heft than her fist. The lamp next to the bed would pack a bigger wallop.

Florence picked it up. It was a standard ceramic table lamp, maybe five pounds, the cylindrical shade boasting a glued-on picture of Grant’s face.

Then she raised the lamp up with one hand, and grabbed the knob with the other.

Ready or not...

She yanked the door open and stared.

Staring back was nothing but empty clothes hangers.

Florence blew out a deep breath and set the lamp back down.

But she still felt like she was in someone’s crosshairs.

Under the bed?

Florence eyed it. Queen size. A large frame, up off the floor on casters.

She watched it for a moment, looking for movement.

It remained absolutely still.

Maybe it’s paranoia. Maybe my proximity sense is just one more thing that’s failing on me.

Or maybe there is someone under there.