Fully Loaded Thrillers - Crouch Blake (онлайн книга без TXT) 📗

We serve them lattes, handmade Danishes from the pastry case, and they drop dollar bills into our tip vase, amused at the cleverness of the accompanying sign: “Don’t be chai to espresso your gratitude.”  They lounge for a half hour in oversize chairs, sipping their hot drinks and admiring the local art hanging on the walls.  As they finally rise to leave, the woman shakes her head and comments to her husband that they don’t make towns like this anymore.

-2-

They wander through the downtown, browsing our shops as the sky sheets over with leaden clouds.

From us they buy:

a half-pound of fudge 

five postcards

energy bars from the hiking store

a pressed gold aspen leaf in a small frame

They tell us what a perfect little town we have and we say we know. Everywhere they go, they ask exuberant questions, and we answer with enthusiasm to match, and in turn solicit personal information under the guise of chitchat—Ron’s a plastic surgeon, Jessica a patent attorney.  They drove from Los Angeles, this being their first vacation in four years.

We ask if they’re enjoying themselves.

Oh yes, they say.  Oh yes.

-3-

They each have a camera.  They shoot everything:

The soaring, jagged mountains in the backdrop

Deer grazing the yard of a residence

The quaint old theatre

The snow that has just begun to fall and frost the pavement

They ask us to take pictures of them together and, of course, we happily oblige.

-4-

The day wears on. 

The light fades.

It snows harder with each passing hour.

Up and down Main, Christmas lights wink on.

It is winter solstice, the darkest evening of the year, and when the Stahls attempt to leave town, they find the highway closed going both directions, the gates lowered across the road and padlocked, since what has become a full-blown blizzard is sure to have made high-mountain travel exceedingly dangerous.

Or so we tell them.

-5-

They approach the front desk.

“Welcome to the Lone Cone Inn.”  And we smile like we mean it from the bottom of our hearts.

Ron says, “It appears we’re stuck for the night in Lone Cone.  Could we have a—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, we’re booked solid.  I just sold our last room not two minutes before you walked in.”

We watch with subtle glee as they glance around the lobby, empty and quiet as a morgue, no sound but the fire burning in the hearth.

The wife chimes in with, “But we haven’t seen another tourist, and we’ve been here all day.”

“I apologize, but—”

“Is there another hotel in town?”

“There’s a motel, but it’s closed for the season.”

“What are we supposed to do?”

“I’m not sure I under—”  

“It’s a blizzard out there, the roads are closed, and now you’re telling us you’re the only game in town, and you’re booked?”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Where are we supposed to sleep?  Our car?”

Jessica appears on the verge of tears.

We hand Ron a notepad and tell him to write down his cell phone number, promising to call if something opens up.

-6-

Ron and Jessica sit in their Mercedes, watching the snow accumulate on the windshield, piling up in the city park, a deep bluish tint settling over Lone Cone.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Ron?”

“I know.”

“Do you?  Because I thought you were the one who was supposed to call and get us room reservations.”

“We weren’t gonna stay here, Jess.  Remember?  Spend the day and drive to Aspen.”

“Well it didn’t work out that way, did it?”

“No.”

“So maybe having reservations as a backup plan might’ve been a bright idea.  Right, Ron?”  He’s been staring through the glass, his hands gripping the steering wheel, and now he glances over at his wife, into that wild-eyed, exacting glare he figures she terrorizes her firm’s paralegals and secretaries with.

“What?” he says.

“Why didn’t you take care of that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you, Ron.  I don’t want to sleep in my fucking car tonight.  That isn’t what I had in mind for my Christmas vacation while busting my ass these last—”

“I get it, Jess.”

Ron pulls the key out of the ignition.

“What are you doing?”

“Baby, let’s go get a big, hot meal, drink the best wine on the list, and forget about all this shit for a while, okay?”

Jessica pushes her short brown hair behind her ears, Ron feeling, hoping he’s cut the right wire, disarmed the bomb.

“That actually sounds nice.”  He has, and he loves this about her—how she can go from psychobitch to DEFCON 5 in two nanoseconds.

“My cell phone’s charged,” he says, “so let’s think positive thoughts.  Maybe while we’re eating, we get a call from the inn, saying they’ve had a cancellation.  This whole thing might just work out.”

Jessica’s smile makes Ron slide his hand over the console, let it work down between her blue-jeaned thighs.

“Hey now,” she warns.  “You gotta earn that, big boy.”

“You think so?”

Apparently not, because she pulls his hand into her crotch and moves her hips forward and Ron undoes the button on her jeans and pushes his fingers between cotton and skin, until he feels the warm, wet slick, wondering if that’s been there since the rage, has a hunch it has.

She moans, stretching for the button on his slacks. Pulls his hand out of her pants and leans across the console into his lap.

He reaches down and finds the right button and the seat hums back, giving Jessica more headspace between his stomach and the steering wheel.

The windshield cracks.  Flinching, Ron’s eyes shoot open and Jessica bites down and then pops off, and they both say, “What the fuck?” in unison.

-7-

Spiderwebs of splitting glass expand at right angles across the windshield as Ron zips his pants, throws the door open, and climbs out.

Standing in the pouring snow, he glimpses three shadows bolting across the park, hears the high cackle of children’s laughter.

Jessica screams, “This is a hundred thirty-thousand dollar Benz, you little shits!” as Ron lifts the fist-size rock off the hood.

“Perfect little town, huh?” Jessica says.

“Damn.”

“What’s wrong?”

Ron rubs his crotch.

“Oh, I’m sorry, babe,” Jessica says.  “Startled me when the rock hit.”

“And that’s what you do when you get startled?  Bite?” Ron tosses the rock into the snow. “Let’s go get dinner.”

“No, let’s report this to the police—”

“Look, I’m cold and hungry and my penis hurts.  Let’s go get drunk at a nice restaurant and deal with this tomorrow.  Positive thoughts, remember?”

-8-

They walk holding hands up the sidewalk of Main, snow dumping through the illumination of streetlamps.