Free Frankenstorm: Category 8 by Ray Garton

1
    The barrel of the shotgun looked like a gaping black mouth about to close on Latrice’s head. Her umbrella slipped from her suddenly slack right hand while her left arm hugged the package.
    “Leland sent me,” she said, frozen in place, afraid to move. “Leland Salt. In Sacramento.”
    “Where’s Leland?” the man said. “ He’s supposed to be here.”
    “He had to leave the country.”
    “He had to—the fuck you mean, the country ?”
    “I . . . I mean . . . well . . . the country. He had to go to another country to live. That’s what I mean. And he had to do it right away. He asked me to bring your package and said he’d let you know I was coming.”
    The man slowly lowered the gun. “Goddammit, Leland!” he said with more frustration than anger. “He’d let me know, huh? Well, he didn’t let me know.” He took the package from her. “Who’re you ?”
    “Latrice Innes.”
    “You Leland’s girlfriend, or somethin’?”
    “No, just friends. I work in the bail bonds office he frequents.” She stood between her Highlander and another SUV, somewhat protected from the wind, but she was getting soaked by the rain.
    “I guess you should come on in outta the rain. Unless you got somewhere else to go. The hurricane’s gonna hit tonight and they’re tellin’ everybody to take cover. It’s all over TV.” He reluctantly turned around and headed for the house, glancing over his shoulder to see if she was coming.
    Latrice bent down and groped for her umbrella on the muddy ground. She found it, but got her hand muddy. She didn’t care, was too scared to care, and shook the mud off. She’d never felt such strong wind in her life. Had she opened her umbrella, it would have been destroyed.
    The first things Latrice saw upon entering the house were two dark, beefy pit bulls rushing toward her out of the dark, their claws clicking on the hardwood floor. She held up her hands defensively and started to back up when she saw their pink tongues flopping from their snouts and heard the excited, puppylike whining sounds they were making. One reared up, put his paws on her hip, and tried to lick her face while the other rolled over on her back and peed a little as she excitedly wiggled over the floor.
    “Get down,” the man ordered the dog as he closed the door. He leaned his shotgun in a corner, stomped his foot, and shouted, “Go on, you two, get outta here!” When the dogs ignored him, he kicked the one rolling on the floor. “Get the fuck out!” The kicked dog squealed and scrambled to get out of the foyer. The other followed and tossed back a single wounded glance on the way out. He shouted, “Hey, Marcus! Put the dogs in the garage, will ya?”
    She heard movement deeper in the house then and a man’s voice called the dogs.
    “Take your coat off,” her host said, nodding at the coat tree as he removed his own. “Sorry about the dogs. They always get excited when we have company. They’re not very good watchdogs. Somebody broke in here to rob the place, they’d probably just play with him.”
    He was tall and somewhat pear-shaped. He pulled back his hood as he removed the coat to reveal a thick shock of red hair, which matched the freckles on his round, puffy face.
    It was cloyingly warm in the house and Latrice wanted nothing more than to remove her coat, but she didn’t want to stay.
    “Look, I’ve really got to get back home to my kids,” she said. “If you could pay me, I’ll just get back in my car and—”
    “ Pay you? The fuck you talkin’ about, pay you? For what ?”
    Latrice felt panic swelling upward from her gut. It had never occurred to her that she might not get paid. She’d trusted Leland. But at that very moment, she had no idea why she’d trusted him because she hardly knew him.
    The only thing you know for certain about Leland Salt is that he’s a charming old fart who wants to fuck you, and that’s all. You’re too damned trusting, always were. Mama always said