“Being held at gunpoint will do that to a man,” Matthew said. “Let’s see if we can see anything through the windows.”
Together, they snuck up to the boarded-up windows, taking care that they didn’t make a lot of noise on the gravel or in the grass surrounding the hotel. Matthew hunched over and wiped at the plastic covering to clear it of dirt and pollen, peering into the lobby through a small slit. The lobby looked darkened, but Matthew could see a dark shape gesturing wildly with its hand along the far wall. His blood ran cold when the dark shape turned, and Matthew could clearly make out the long shape of a double barrel shotgun. The person held the shotgun as if he didn’t consider it a weapon. The barrel swung back and forth without care or respect. As the dark figure came closer to the picture windows, Matthew held his breath and feared the person would be able to see them.
“It’s a man,” David whispered. “A big man with a shotgun.”
Now that the man had moved closer, Matthew could see the stranger better: he slumped in one of the chairs and rested the shotgun in his lap briefly before he picked it up again and waved it around. Matthew strained to hear what he was saying, but he couldn’t catch much through the plastic.
“Do you know who it is?” Matthew asked David. “He doesn’t look familiar to me.”
“I think it’s the mechanic down at that local shop. I think his name is Samuel,” David said. “I took the Volvo there for an oil change when we first moved here. He seemed like a nice enough guy.”
Samuel held the gun like a scepter and jabbed the air with it, as if to emphasize an order or command. Matthew couldn’t see his mother or son, but Samuel used the gun again for emphasis, and then looked slowly around the lobby as if he owned the place. The muffled sound of his raised voice reached Matthew’s ears and Matthew strained until he could finally make out what he was saying. “...Imma gonna whip this place into shape. Gonna get rid of all this crap here.” Samuel smacked the couch cushion beside him as if offended. “Make it a real hunting lodge like it should’ve been, like it should be, instead of this hoity-toity crap.”’
David and Matthew exchanged an alarmed look, but they both said nothing. Matthew listened intently as the man continued to rant.
“Folks will come around for miles and miles and miles,” Samuel continued. “They’ll all hole up here, just…just like my Pops said they would. When the West family gets what’s theirs, people will cross state lines to see it. How long does it take to pour a drink, huh? How long?” This last part was screamed into the hallway.
“He sounds delusional,” David breathed out.
Matthew shook his head in disbelief, just about ready to pull back and slink away to figure out their next move, when he caught sight of another figure rushing into the room. As the figure got closer, Matthew couldn’t help the sudden anger that filled him. The figure was his mother, holding a plate with a glass perched on it as if she were a servant in her own home. Ruth’s usually tidy bun looked frazzled, as if she’d run her hands through her hair more than once. She wore an old dress with a shawl over her shoulders, something Matthew had only seen her wear on mornings when she took it easy and enjoyed her coffee. Her eyes looked red-rimmed as she handed Samuel a whiskey snifter half full, and finally the man’s rambling made sense. Samuel wasn’t delusional, he was just drunk. The shotgun teetered back and forth, resting on Ruth enough times for Matthew to see red.
“Thanks, honey,” Samuel said to Ruth. “You’ve been such a good girl for me. Keep it up, okay? Earn your keep.”
Ruth gave him a slim smile, one that Matthew had often seen in the days following David’s heart attack. A pretend-I’m-okay smile that really spoke to how stressed and scared she was even though she always held her head high. She uttered something to Samuel that Matthew couldn’t make out.
A new wave of fury flowed through him. No one should treat his mother that way. His mother wasn’t a good girl—she wasn’t a dog to be treated kindly if she did something right. Matthew’s hand curled into a fist. For a brief moment, he considered barging into the room, knocking Samuel down a peg, and throwing the glass on the floor. Demand Samuel apologize to his mother before kicking him out of their home and their lives.
David laid a hand on Matthew’s arm. Somehow, Matthew managed to keep his temper by using the touch as a grounding point. He tried to see further into the room and identify other shapes of his family, but only saw Ruth and Samuel. “I don’t think Kathleen or Allison are here,” he whispered to David.
“I don’t see them either,” David said. “We must have beat them here. I can’t see Patton, either.”
Matthew grimaced, wondering where his wife and daughter could be, and yet he felt relieved they weren’t in any additional danger here. If they were, the chances were higher that they could get hurt if something went sideways.
Because Matthew was going to take back his home from this intruder. He was going to make Samuel West regret the day he came to River Rock Hotel.
David nudged him and turned away from the window. Reluctantly, Matthew followed, keeping low to the ground so they wouldn’t be spotted out of the other windows. Matthew had no idea whether Samuel had brought friends with him, and he had a sudden chilling thought: he hoped Patton wasn’t being held hostage or that his safety wasn’t being used to blackmail Ruth into obedience. He didn’t think that would be the case, especially since Samuel was drunk and
