Chapter 4
That was two hours ago. Before the blizzard turned into an absolute monster.
Marcus looked at the antique black payphone mounted on the wood-paneled wall near the restroom corridor, then back toward the desk rotary. The silver coin slot on the wall unit was tarnished; the heavy steel-sheathed cord dangled uselessly.
"Kid," Marcus barked.
"Y-yes?"
"That payphone. Does it run on the same line as the desk telephone?"
Arthur nodded vigorously, his eyes wide with desperate sincerity. "Yes, sir. It’s all tied into the same overhead drop from the telephone pole at the corner of the property. When the tree branch snapped down by the creek, it killed the whole building. Nothing in, nothing out."
Marcus let out a bitter, foul curse. He leaned against the stone fireplace, pressing his forehead against the cold mantelpiece. If the telephone lines were down and the cell towers were dark, Dutch’s payphone dimes were useless. And if Dutch was trying to push an emergency CB signal through the blizzard from the truck, without a receiver running up here, the broadcast would dissolve into freezing static. Marcus was blind, deaf, and pinned to the mountain.
*No,* Marcus told himself, shaking the dark thought away. *Dutch is solid. Dutch wouldn't roll. He’s just stuck in the drifts. He’ll get through.*
A low, dull vibration shuddered through the floor beneath Marcus’s boots.
*Thump. Thump-thump.*
Marcus froze. His head snapped toward the corner of the room. "What the hell was that?"
Arthur blinked, looking around with a puzzled, frightened expression. "What was what, sir?"
"That noise! Under the floor!" Marcus stepped off the hearth, his gun coming up instantly, sweeping the worn carpet. "Sounds like somebody knocking."
"Oh!" Arthur exhaled a tiny, nervous giggle that instantly dissolved back into a whimper. "That's... that's just the old steam pipes, sir. The boiler in the cellar is over forty years old. Whenever the temperature drops below zero, the pressure builds up in the cast-iron elbows and the pipes knock against the floor joists. Mr. Henderson says it sounds like a dying blacksmith, but it’s completely normal."
Marcus stared at the dark pine planks beneath his feet.
*Thump.*
It sounded rhythmic. Hollow. Almost desperate.
Marcus walked two cautious steps toward the hallway that led to the guest rooms and the cellar access. "Where’s the door to the basement?"
Arthur’s heart didn't skip a beat, but his eyes widened with theatrical panic. He scrambled to his knees, waving his hands frantically.
"P-please don't go down there! The stairs are rotten, and there's no lights—the breaker tripped two days ago! There’s nothing down there except coal dust, the furnace, and dead rats! Please, sir, stay up here where it's warm!"
Marcus looked at the trembling boy, then at the dark hallway.
Arthur's transparent terror at the thought of the cellar was the best proof Marcus needed that there was nothing of value down there—certainly no hidden exit, and certainly no threat. Just a dark, freezing hole with broken steps.
"Shut your sniveling mouth," Marcus sneered, feeling the familiar, intoxicating rush of dominance. "I’m not going down in your rat-trap basement. Sit back down. Put your hands back on your knees."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Arthur sank back down, crossing his legs, dutifully pressing his hands to his knees.
Marcus walked back to the front counter and pulled himself up onto one of the tall barstools, resting his heavy revolver flat on the Formica surface. His ribs throbbed with a sickening, pulsing heat, but the warmth of the lobby was finally seeping into his frozen limbs. He was out of the blizzard. He had shelter. He had an obedient hostage who jumped whenever he raised his voice.
Marcus looked down at Arthur, curled up like a frightened puppy on the carpet, swallowed by that absurd, oversized yellow sweater.
The fugitive chuckled—a low, raspy, arrogant sound that echoed in the quiet lobby.
"You’re a real lucky boy, you know that?" Marcus said, tapping his thick fingers on the counter. "Any other guy busts through that door, you’d be dead on the floor already. But I’m reasonable. I just need to sit tight until this storm blows itself out. Then I take your little car, I take whatever cash is in that register, and I leave you tied up like a pig in the back."
"I... I appreciate that, sir," Arthur whispered meekly, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the weave of the brown carpet. "I really do."
"You sheep are all the same," Marcus mused, shaking his head with profound contempt. "You spend your whole lives following rules, wiping counters, saying 'yes sir' and 'thank you sir,' waiting for a wolf to show up and tell you what to do. You don't have an ounce of fight in you, do you, kid?"
Beneath the long, fraying sleeves of his yellow wool sweater, Arthur’s fingers rested against his kneecaps.
His pulse remained perfectly, beautifully calm. Sixty-four beats per minute.
Arthur didn't answer. He simply bowed his head a fraction of an inch lower, allowing the shadow of his bangs to conceal the slow, quiet smile spreading across his face in the dark.
The illusion of control was a fragile thing, but Marcus Vance clung to it with the desperation of a drowning man gripping a razor blade.
He sat on the high vinyl stool behind the front counter, his knuckles white against the battered cylinder of his .38. Every breath scraped through his throat like crushed glass. The warmth of the lobby—stale, dry air blasted from an overhead vent that rattled with every gust of the storm—was doing something terrible to his wound. As the numbness of the mountain cold thawed from his flesh, the pain woke up.
It didn't merely ache; it chewed.
A hot, dark wetness began to seep through the white gauze he had slapped across his ribs. The sterile pad was already saturated, turning into a soggy maroon sponge that peeled away from his torn flannel. Marcus sucked air through clenched teeth, a wet hiss slipping past his cracked lips.
"Hey," Marcus rasped. The word was thick, coated in feverish saliva. "Kid. Get up."
On the floor beside the empty hearth, Arthur didn't move immediately. He flinched, tucking his chin deeper into the collar of the oversized mustard sweater, playing the part of a creature bracing for a kick.
"I said get up!" Marcus snapped, slapping the flat of his heavy revolver onto the Formica. The crack sounded like a whip in the confined space.
Arthur scrambled to his feet with an ungainly, knee-knocking haste. He stumbled forward two paces, arms half-raised in surrender, his round spectacles sliding down the bridge of his pale nose.
"Y-yes, sir! I’m sorry, I was just—I wasn't trying to—"
"Shut your mouth and get over here," Marcus growled. He pulled back his shredded canvas coat, grimacing as the stiffened fabric tore free from dried crusts of blood. "This damn tape isn't holding. It’s leaking like a stuck hog. You’re gonna fix it."
Arthur hesitated, his eyes widening behind the thick lenses until they seemed comically circular. "M-me? Sir, I—I faint at needles. I work at a motel. I don't know anything about—"
"You’ve got two working hands, don't you?" Marcus leaned forward, bringing the black muzzle of the snub-nose up until it pointed directly at Arthur’s throat. The fugitive’s breath was foul, rank with the sour acid of an empty stomach and the metallic stench of internal distress. "You want to live till sunrise, you stop the bleeding. Now get behind this counter."
