kicked it, filling her lungs to unleash the mother of all screams.
Then she abruptly stopped when she heard something behind her in the corridor.
“I told a lie,” Alice said, walking closer. “A bad lie.”
Kelly buried the scream, instead starting to cry. “You have to help me, Alice. My finger is stuck.”
“My name isn’t Alice,” the approaching figure said. “It’s Grover.”
“I don’t care what your name is,” Kelly said, anger joining up with her pain.
“Alice was Theodore Roosevelt’s first daughter,” Grover said. “She had pretty hair.”
Then Grover stepped into the faint light of the iPod. He stood over six feet tall, and was wearing stained overalls and a faded plaid shirt. His eyes were tiny, too close together. His jaw was big, and it stuck out like Popeye’s, but his head got thinner toward the forehead, almost like a Halloween gourd. Perched crookedly on his head was a curly, blonde wig.
“Do you think I have pretty hair?” the grown man said, still using the voice of a little girl. He touched one of the curls.
Then he yelped like a hurt dog.
Kelly began to scream, but Grover put a big, rough hand over her mouth and nose, holding it there and giggling
Kelly kicked and punched and struggled to take a breath.
But he wouldn’t let her.
# # #
Mal gripped Deb’s arm, first pushing her off balance, then steadying her. The darkness felt like a weight pressing down on Deb, threatening to push her into the earth.
“Where is it?” he whispered.
“Bushes,” Deb said.
She’d seen the deadly, gold eyes of the cougar a second ago, but they’d retreated into the black.
“You sure?” Mal asked. “I don’t see anything.”
“Smell that?”
Mal sniffed the air. “Rank.”
It was an odor Deb would never forget. “Big cat smell. Back up slowly. And let go of my arm—you’re gonna knock me over.”
Mal released her. Deb had no problem walking backwards in the Cheetah prosthetics on flat land, but the wooded terrain proved difficult. All she could think of was being batted around like a ball of yarn, each swipe of the cat’s hooked claws digging into her skin and sending her rolling across the ground. She had scars all over her body from such an experience. In a way, it was even worse than shattering her legs.
Deb was so worried about the mountain lion springing on her, she wasn’t paying close enough attention to her footing. Two steps later she was tipping backward, her arms pinwheeling to regain balance.
Mal caught her shoulders, held her steady until she could get her feet under her.
“Thanks,” she managed.
“You sure there’s a cougar?”
“I’m sure.”
“How sure?”
Deb didn’t like his doubt. She’d seen the lion’s eyes. Seen them as clearly as she was looking into Mal’s.
But then, Mal had been pretty sure their tire had been shot out, and he’d apparently been wrong there. So his questioning was no more than...
“You must be Deborah Novachek, and that reporter fellow.”
The voice came from the same bushes Deb had seen the cat. It was a female voice, friendly enough.
“You don’t happen to see a mountain lion around, do you?” Mal asked.
Deb frowned at him. Mal shrugged.
“A mountain lion?” the woman said. “Heavens, no. Though they are known to hunt in these parts. Y’all had better come inside. I’m Eleanor Roosevelt, the owner of the inn.”
Eleanor stepped through the bushes, and Deb played the pen light across her. She was a large woman, and carried herself in a strong, sturdy way that belied her advanced age.
“Nice to meet you, Eleanor,” Deb began. “Are you sure you—”
“My goodness, young lady. What happened to your legs?”
Mal squeezed her shoulders a bit tighter, as if in reassurance. Deb shrugged him off.
“I lost them in a climbing accident,” Deb said. “And I saw a mountain lion just a—”
“Are you sick?” Eleanor interrupted. “We can’t allow you inside the Inn if you’re diseased.”
“Rude much?” Mal asked.
Being impolite didn’t matter to Deb, especially with a cougar nearby. But now she began to question if she’d seen the cat at all. She took pride in her inner strength, but being in these mountains again brought back some pretty terrible memories. And since no cats seemed to be pouncing on them, perhaps she’d imagined those eyes. The smell might have been something else. A badger, maybe.
“I compete in triathlons,” Deb said, her eyes darting around the woods, looking for movement. “And I haven’t had so much as a cold in over five years.”
The large woman cocked her head to the side, as if considering her. Then her face split into a big-toothed smile. “Well, then, let’s get you people inside. Welcome to the Rushmore Inn.”
Mal picked up the bags he’d dropped, and Deb followed him through the bushes, one eye on her footing and the other on the forest. The animal smell was gone.
Once past the bushes, a clearing opened up in the woods, revealing a massive, three story log house. There weren’t any lights on the outside, and no light coming through any of the shuttered windows. It was as dark and quiet as the mountains surrounding them.
“Welcome to the Rushmore Inn,” Eleanor said again, pulling open the door and holding it while they entered.
The smell inside wasn’t bad, exactly, but it wasn’t pleasant. Sort of a sour, antiseptic odor mingled with sandalwood incense. But unique as that was, it paled compared to the decor.
“As you can plainly see,” Eleanor Roosevelt said, closing and locking the door behind them, “I greatly admire our nation’s leaders. They’re such important men. You might say I’m a bit obsessed with the subject.”
“Yes,” Mal nodded, looking around. “You might say that.”
He gave Deb a sideways glance, his smirk barely concealed.
“My grandfather was second cousin to Theodore Roosevelt. There’s presidential blood in my family. It’s a fact I’m particularly proud of, though it isn’t without its…
Eleanor clucked her tongue. “You’d be surprised how often that happens around here. In the morning we can call the auto repair shop.”
“I need to be at the hotel early to...”
“My son will take you,” Eleanor interrupted. “He has a truck for your bike.”
“Already shipped the bike ahead. But the ride would be terrific.”
“He’ll be leaving early, so be sure to get some rest tonight. Might not be a bad idea to go straight to bed.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Mal said, raising his eyebrows at Deb.
She ignored him. “Is there any chance we could get something to eat?” Deb asked. “We missed dinner on the ride up.”
“The kitchen is back there, down the hall. The icebox is stocked, and you’re welcome to help yourselves. I made cupcakes earlier today, and there are a few left. But let me show you to your rooms, first.”
Eleanor plodded up the wooden staircase. Deb wasn’t a big fan of stairs, but the iron railing looked solid. She
