Elaine poured coffee for a couple of college girls at table 1, brought regular breakfast orders to tables 3 and 4, cleaned up at 5, 6 and 7, then took a quick smoke break in the employees' washroom.
Wiping her brow, she popped a Pall Mall between her thin lips, lit it, and took a deep, bracing drag.  As always the nicotine gave her a needed adrenaline rush.  She sighed and listlessly primped in the mirror, not caring much for the thin, middle-aged face that peered back at her.
    Mission  Impossible.
    Presenting Elaine Sagersby: flat chested, graying hair, pale watery eyes and bucked teeth.  Unheralded and unsung, she was treading water on the backside of a cheerless, lonely life.  She sighed again, then bent over to wash her hands in icy cold water.  There was just a sliver of soap left and it slipped out of her numbed fingers, and in a sudden, savage fury she picked it up and threw it into the corner.  Drying her hands, she found that she was crying.  Wiping her eyes and snuffing out the smoke, she left the washroom and hit the floor just in time to collect a dollar tip at table 1.  Great big hairy deal, a whole buck.
    By now, table 1 had been taken by a party of four, two teenage girls and a pair of anxious looking parents.  The man was lean and balding, the wife very heavy--a real life Mr. & Mrs. Jack Sprat.  The smirking girls were already elbowing each other and casting sly grins of derision in Elaine's direction.  But Elaine greeted them without rancor, poured their coffee, passed out menus, forced a smile, then left to take care of the departing diners at tables 3 and 4.  Afterward she made small talk with the bus boys, checked the coffee machine, refilled the pie display, and sorted some silverware.
    Glancing at the far end of the room, she could just make out the sizable elbow of Beavis Beach, the 90 day wonder of a manager, who sometimes hid in a booth for hours to sip coffee and  study the racing form.  Hot shot gambler.  She cringed as a vicious blast of wind and rain slammed against the Three Master restaurant, and her eyes reluctantly strayed to the end parking space of the Smuggler's Rest motel, the slot nearest the restaurant. Empty.   She relaxed a bit.
    It hadn't  been empty that morning, however, the morning that had shocked Granite Cove, the tiny coastal community where Elaine had spent most of her life.  The weather back then had been rotten as well.  The only difference was, the end parking space had been occupied by a navy blue van with darkened windows and an obscene yellow Smiley Face ball flopping around on the radio antenna.
    Funny what you remember.
    She shivered and went back to the uptight family foursome at table 1.  Peering outside again, she sought verification that the far end room of the motel, up there on the second floor, the one with the stained yellow curtains was unoccupied.  Blessedly it was.
    Nonetheless, a vivid flashback entered her mind: the crouching shape on the balcony, the ski mask, the rifle, the shattered glass, the incredible pain, and the blood. The blood!  She trembled violently.
    "Hey, lady, can we get some service here?"
    It was Jack Sprat, the one whose kids reminded Elaine of Cinderella's ugly sisters--only this pair were anything but ugly.  Huh-uh.  Nubile blond babes they were, who no doubt had the cooks and bus boys walking around on three legs.
    Elaine arrived with a strained apology.  "Sorry, sir.  Are you ready to order?"
    "Since about last week," muttered one of the brats, who immediately went into paroxysms of barely suppressed giggles.
    Lovely child.
    "Gena, Audrey stop it," snapped the plumpish Mrs. Sprat, looking overly warm and uncomfortable.
    Elaine shrugged.  "What'll it be, folks?"
    Mr. Sprat peered at the menu, then gave the order.  They were all having brunch.
    Elaine pointed the way to the room where brunch was being served and picked up generous tips at tables 3 and 4, noting with disquiet that the place was thinning out, that her section was just about empty.  Business had been slow for the last couple of winters, and there had been some layoffs.
    She was all too aware that she’d fallen under the calculating scrutiny of the new manager.  Elaine and young Mr. Beach didn't seem to mix--strictly oil and water--and Elaine knew he wanted to replace her with a couple of young chickies like Cinderella's sisters.  But old Mac, the owner, had a certain affection for Elaine, once likening her to an old sheep dog he'd once kept around the place.  It wasn't a very attractive metaphor, but Mac had been the reason that this particular "sheep dog" had survived the cuts.  Still, Mac was getting on and didn't come in much anymore, while Elaine was getting older and slower.
    Out of the corner of her eye, she saw, simultaneously, the return of the Sprat family from the salad bar, and a dark colored van parked in the end space--the space.  A sickening wave of deja vu overcame her when she noted the darkened windows and the whimsical yellow ball perched on the antenna.  It's him!  Abruptly, she sagged into a nearby booth, momentarily unable to support her weight.
    "Jesus, Elaine," snapped Mr. Beach, squeezing his bulk in beside her.  "You look like hell.  What's the matter?"
    She pointed a trembling finger at the van.  "T--that van.  It's just like the one--"  She stopped to catch her breath.
    "Yes?"
    "In `89.  It's like the--the--"
    "You mean the famous shooting?” he snapped.  “Impossible."
    She vehemently shook her head.  “No, Beav, It’s not impossible.”  Her stomach threatened to toss-up her breakfast, as she gently rubbed the thick ridge of scar tissue on her belly, remembering the thud and the incredible agony as though it were yesterday.
    "C'mon Elaine, that was 10 years ago.  That chump is long gone."
    "They never caught him, Beav.  What's to stop him from doing it again?"
    "Why would he do that?”
    “Well, why the hell not?  He got away with it once.”
    “You're paranoid, ya know that, Elaine?"
    "No.  No, look, it's got the same Smiley Face ball, just like last time.  It just can't be coincidence.  Check with the motel.  His name was Fletcher."
    Beav scratched his head and frowned.  "You're serious."
    She got mad, then, stood up, and poked him sharply in the chest.  "Dammit, Beav, just do it."
    His face registered surprise, and he involuntarily edged away from her.  He wasn't used to this kind of static from Mac's old "sheep dog."
    "Okay, okay," he mumbled irritably.  "But it's a million-to-one shot.  A million to one."
    He stalked to the phone in high umbrage and called the motel desk.  He was on the line for about three minutes, while Elaine looked on anxiously.  Then her gaze shifted to the Sprat family.  They were laughing and eating up a storm. If they only knew.  There had been a young couple in that very booth last time.  The shots had come fast and furious--an AK 47, the cops had said.  Elaine had been serving them breakfast the instant the glass blew in.
    Can't forget it: eggs over easy for her; ham and eggs sunny side up for him--their last meal.
    She was walking toward the Sprat party to freshen their coffee when Beav trotted down the aisle and caught her arm.
    "Whoa, Nellie."  He was grinning.
    She shook off his hand.  "Well?" she demanded nervously.
    He laughed.  "That dreaded guy up in your end room?   Hah, a middle-aged dude from out of town.  Medical supply salesman or somethin'.  Janie says he looks harmless.  Name's Van Winkle.  Now, that's all I know.  So--see?  Nothing to worry about."
    Unconvinced, Elaine pressed further.  "But the van, the Smiley face thingy?  What about them?  And--he can say he's anybody."
    "Lots of people own blue vans--and thingies.  Relax."
    She trembled and leaned against a booth.  Her face was pale and her heart was palpating.  Beav's assurances meant nothing.  He hadn't been there, hadn’t been there, hadn't gone through it.  She shivered violently.
    Sensing the depths of her fear, Beav uncharacteristically softened.  "Okay.  Look, Elaine, if you like, I'll go up there and check this guy out, personal.  That make ya happy?"
    She grabbed his hand.  "Oh, yes.  Thank you.  But Beav, please be careful."
    He laughed.  A college boxing champ and muscle-bound six footer, Beavis Beach feared no one.  “Not to worry.”
    Still, Elaine was worried.  "Why not call the cops?"
    "On what grounds?  You wanna lawsuit?"
    She shook her head.
    "So, no sweat.  I'm outta here."
    "Beav, wait a sec.  Don't be hasty."
    "No, you wait,” he murmured testily.  “What happened before must have been awful, but that was 10 years ago.  What are the odds that a serial killer would come back here, driving the same van, staying in the same room, and do it again?  Hey?  Like I said before: a million-to-one."
    "But what if I'm right?"
    "Not a chance."
    "At least take Mac's gun with you."
    Beav laughed, turned on his heel, and left the restaurant, marching swiftly across the parking lot toward the motel stairway.
    Elaine tried to swallow her fear.  She glanced at her watch:11:00 a.m.  Maybe Beav is right.  This could just be paranoia.
    But by 11:30, Beav had not returned, and the people at table 1 were just about ready for the check.  Yet Elaine was reluctant to spend a whole lot of time in that area.  She wanted the assurance of Beav’s return.  Staring up at the motel room, she worried that maybe Beav had been over-powered somehow. Where is he?
    At last Beav came into view; he was walking through the parking lot toward the restaurant.
    Huh oh!  Not his usual walk.  No swagger, thought Elaine, wringing her hands.  And his steps looked tentative, as though he were learning a new skill.  Then he began to wobble and droop at the shoulders.  As he drew near, Elaine saw the blood.  A lot of it.  She threw an instinctive glance toward the balcony.  And God!  He was there, dressed in dark clothing, a ski mask over his face.  Deja vu.
    Her glance quickly shifted to Beav.  He was down, lying on the ground just outside the front door.  Motionless.
    Then Elaine knew what she had to do.  She made a frantic dash for table 1, knowing she somehow had to thwart the monster this time.  As she sped down the aisle she watched Ski Mask raise a rifle to his shoulder.
"Down, everybody, down!" she shrieked at the Sprats.
    From the tone in her voice, they didn't require an engraved invitation.  As Elaine arrived, they all dove for cover.  One second later, the ocean view window, fronting the corner booth, imploded with a shattering bang, and a hundred shards of glass rained down amidst the whine and hum of a dozen rapid-fire bullets!
    Somebody screamed, and afterward an eerie silence ensued.  Soft sobs and moans emanated from beneath the table.  Elaine got to her feet and found her uniform sprayed with bright scarlet flecks of blood.  He'd hit somebody.
    Suddenly she experienced a ferocious up-welling of outrage.  Her fear vanished.   “You bastard!” she screamed.  Shaking with with an uncontrollable fury and wanting only to inflict a lethal vengeance, she spun on her heel and ran down the aisle, heading for the front desk.  A lifetime of disappointments and genuflection had conditioned her for this moment--pay-back time for all indignities.  Knowing Mac kept a loaded .38 Colt revolver beneath the cash register, she reached the desk, snatched the heavy revolver from the drawer, and looked outside.  A plume of smoke erupt from the van's exhaust.  He was leaving, to be lost from view--again. Over my dead body.
    She sped through the kitchen to the rear of the building, scattering cooks and bus boys.  Running headlong through the supply room, she kindled an ungovernable, righteous wrath.  Not content with having killed the young couple years before, he'd come back to try for an entire family!  Not on my turf.
    She threw open the back door just as the van lurched by, not ten feet away, the dark figure hunched over the wheel like a bird of prey.  He turned his head and looked at her.  He was laughing.
    Steadying the weapon against the door jamb, she emptied the revolver, sending six high impact loads through the driver's window and door.   For a moment the van kept on chugging along, then it slowed a bit and slued off to the side, finally shuddering to a stop on the lawn.  It didn't move again.
    "Sayonara, you bastard," snapped Elaine.
    Almost immediately the sirens began to howl in the distance and soon the place was converged-on by fire rescue vehicles, ambulances, at least a dozen police cars, a Highway Patrol cruiser, and a number of unmarked vehicles.
    Elaine strutted back into the dining room, a thousand-and-one sorrows and regrets rectified by the deadly accurate expending of six well aimed rounds.  At table 1, she found that Jack Sprat had taken a bullet in the cheek, and that the booth was a bloody mess.  Mrs. Sprat and the two Sprat brats were covered with papa's blood, but were unscathed.  They accompanied the wounded man to the ambulance, leaving without paying the bill.  But nobody was counting.
    Beav had suffered a deep stab wound to the abdomen, having been taken by surprise at the door of the shooter’s motel room.  But he'd live, opined the young female paramedic.  And when they got him stabilized, they loaded him into the ambulance.
    When they did, Elaine refused to leave his side.  “I’m so sorry, Beav,” she moaned.
    He smiled wryly at her and reached out to take her hand.  "My fault.  I should have listened to you."
    Elaine asked the attendants if she could accompany him to the hospital.  "Be my guest," said the girl, helping Elaine into the back of the ambulance.  "Just don't get in the way," she added.
    "Hey--Elaine," Beav gasped, as she took a seat on the floor and grabbed his hand.
    "I'm right here, boss."
    "So--I hear you shot the son of a bitch."
    She nodded.
    He shook his head.  "Had ya all wrong.  You were right about that weasel.  You're some woman."
    Elaine smiled, realizing, with uncommon insight, that there wouldn't be any new waitresses signing on at The Three Master any time soon.
    "Am I gonna make it?" muttered Beav softly.
    "How's that?"
    "What're my chances?" he muttered, his eyelids drooping.
    She leaned over and whispered, "Oh, I'd say about a million-to-one."
    He looked at her and grinned.  "Then I guess I won't worry."

Copyright 1995, Carter Swart

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A Million to One first appeared in "Kracked Mirror Mysteries," Sept 1995