He just hoped he could keep the family alive. He was here –
(Not by choice, dammit. This isn't what I want – none of it.)
– but that didn't mean he was happy about any of this.
He couldn't stop the job from happening, but maybe he could at least forestall any bloodshed.
"You can't break it?" asked Rob.
Aaron shook his head. Wiped his eyes as another drop was dislodged. "Not without the combo."
Rob turned on his heel and marched out of the closet.
A scream resounded. Aaron had heard screams before – enough to know that there are many different screams, many different tales they tell. This one was a scream of fear that morphed into wretched agony.
A moment later, Rob reappeared in the closet, this time dragging the home's owner in by his hair. James was nearly choking with pain and fear. A red trail slicked behind him, a dark smear that turned to black in Aaron's red light. Blood on blood.
"Please," gasped the man. One hand held to Rob's wrist, desperately trying to alleviate the pressure on his scalp, while the other reached frantically for the source of the blood – a leg so clearly broken that Aaron's stomach roiled.
Don't do this, Rob. Not this. Please.
He didn't say the words. He couldn't. But not letting them out just meant they were trapped in his mind, bouncing back and forth in his skull, louder and louder.
Don't do this, Rob.
Don't.
Not this.
NOT THIS.
Rob dragged the wounded man the rest of the way into the closet. Tossed him beside Aaron.
"Combination," said Rob. His voice was low, deadly. A gravelly rasp that seemed to spring from the rough edges of his flashlight's illumination. A sound born from the edge of shadow, thrust darkly into light.
James blinked. No longer screaming now that he wasn't being yanked bodily along – but clearly so far into pain and terror that Rob's words weren't registering.
The fact that Aaron had needed help was bad.
If help didn't come, things would get a hell of a lot worse.
He reached for James' shoulder. Aware suddenly that, though James wasn't screaming, screams still tore the air.
His wife. His kids.
Stop this, Aaron.
I can't. I can't.
He shook James lightly. Barely more than a fast twitch, but the other man's eyes whipped over to him as though he had just administered a painful beating.
"Please," said James, a whisper so low and ragged Aaron barely heard it.
"I just need the combination, James," said Aaron. He tried to keep his voice calm, though he felt a tremble at the edge of his words.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Rob said there'd be no violence.
Rob says a lot of things, Aaron. And precious few are true.
Just get through this. Get through this, and get home to Dee.
James was staring blankly at him. Aaron wondered if the man was just… gone. Knew that if he was, the job would change from a robbery to a bloodbath.
"James!" he put a snap into his words, trying to walk a thin line between so soft the man wouldn't hear him and so hard the man would simply retreat further into himself.
It worked. James' eyes – which had been focused on a nowhere point a few inches in front of him – turned to Aaron. "What?" said the man. His voice cracked, dry and jagged.
"I just need the combination, James," said Aaron. "We just want whatever's in here, and then we go. You and your family will be fine."
James stared for a long moment, and Aaron was about to repeat the instructions when the man's hand reached for the safe. Shaking.
He entered several numbers on the keypad. Then his hand jerked as a scream sounded from the other room. This one younger. The scream of a little girl.
James' finger spasmed. He hit a button, and the safe clicked. A red light appeared on the LED screen above the keypad.
The screams kept on.
Rob didn't seem to hear them. He only had eyes for the safe. Only had ears for the sound of the box opening and giving up its treasures.
Or, in this case, locking more tightly.
Rob pressed his gun against James' temple. "Don't screw with us, James. Open the safe. Now."
The man tried again. This time his finger jerked on the second number, bouncing with the sounds of his daughter's screams.
Aaron watched in dread as another red light joined the first. Listened as the little girl's screams rose and rose and then were joined by the sudden shout of her mother.
Rob looked like the sounds of the missed guesses were driving him over the edge. Aaron thought he might just blow James away in that moment.
Not that. Dee would never forgive you. No matter what happened before, that would be too far, too much.
"Rob. Rob!" Rob was nearly as hard to reach as James had been – not because of fear this time, but because of rage. The gang's boss knew as well as Aaron did that this whole job had turned to ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag.
Rob didn't take failure well.
"Rob," said Aaron again, this time managing to coax the other man's attention to him.
"What?" The word barely made it through clenched teeth.
"Maybe we could quiet down whatever's happening out there," he said, motioning to the space beyond the closet door.
Rob's glare intensified for a moment.
He's just going to kill them all. And me, too.
Oh, Dee, I'm so sorry.
"Rob, if we don't get the right combination on the next try, the safe goes into a lockdown mode and there's no way to open it – no way – for twelve hours." Aaron looked at James, who was once again staring into nothing. Then back at Rob. "Please. Just have the others cool it out there."
Rob stared at him. Stared so long that Aaron wanted to just run.
But where to? Rob's gun was twitching back and forth between him and James. If Aaron ran, he didn't doubt that Rob would blow him away without a second thought.
And even if he made it out of the closet? The screams that still shattered the silence were noisy testament to how bad things were out there.
"Please. Please, Rob. Just quiet them down."
The gun moved.
Now it was trained solely on him.
4
Tommy Leigh wasn't doing anything. Not really. Just a little fun.
He'd had his gun on the woman – some rich whore who'd never known what it was to struggle, whose biggest concerns were probably whether to use a fifty or a C-note to light her cigarettes. That was what his job was in this room: he watched Momma Bear, and Kayla watched the two little piggies she'd shot out into a life just as privileged as hers.
But it got boring fast. He liked watching the bitch cry, curled up on the floor and weeping dime-sized tears onto some kind of carpet that Tommy'd never get to use if he did a thousand jobs. But after a while the cries got lower, she just ran out of gas.
Boring. Boooooring.
He nudged her with his foot. That was worth another little wince, a short binge of bawling.
Too short.
He nudged her again, not really expecting anything interesting to happen. What he really wanted to do was put a bullet in her head. Then he could have some quality time with the kids.
How come Kay gets all the good jobs?
He glanced at his sister. She had her gun trained on the teen boy and his little sister. Both of them were silent, but Tommy noted with muted glee that they stared not at Kayla – not even at her gun – but at him.
They know. They know who has the power. They know who deserves everything they have.
Still looking at the kids, he nudged Momma Bear again. And because he was looking, he saw the girl take a half-step toward him when the woman at his feet gave a little cry.
His face tightened pleasantly as blood rushed to his face – and other parts of him. He grinned.
The girl stepped back into her brother's arms.
/> That was okay. That made it more exciting. Enticing.
He kicked Momma Bear. Not a nudge this time, a full-fledged slam into her side. She screamed.
He barely noticed. He was watching the little girl. She screamed, too.
Oh, yeah.
"You like that?" he said, staring right at the little girl. She was a looker. Long blond hair, huge blue eyes that had just the right mix of pain and fear and adoration in them. The braces added an innocence that he found entrancing.
The girl didn't look away. Even when her brother tried to turn her head into his chest, she pulled away and kept looking at her mother.
No. Not at her mother. At me. At the only one who matters. The only one in the room with her.
"Tommy," said Kayla. "Back off."
He ignored her. She would expect him to – she was a good sister that way.
He kicked Momma Bear again. This time he heard a rib crack. It was a beautiful sound.
Almost as beautiful as the little girl, suddenly crying out.
"Mom!" She took a step toward her mother – toward Tommy.
Come on over, baby girl. Let's play.
The girl's brother held her shoulders, but Tommy thought for a moment she might actually shake him off. Might cross the room to Tommy.
And what came next would be beautiful.
Then the bitch on the floor stuck her nose in. "No!" she shouted. She had her arms crossed over her stomach, trying to hold her damaged ribcage together. But still managed a loud shout. And again, "No, Ashley! Stay there!"
The little girl – beautiful Ashley – stepped back to her brother's embrace.
Tommy rounded on the woman. He kicked her. Again. Again. She was screaming, and even the siren screams of Ashley, the beautiful screams of a little girl learning about life, didn't make him less angry.
"Shut up," he grunted as he sent another kick into the woman's stomach. "No one asked you, so shut up."
He was about to kick her in the face. About to end her meddling – mothers always meddled too much, which was one of the reasons Tommy had hated his own so much.
His foot hung in space. One kick, right in the face. Boom. Lights out.
Then he could turn all his attention to Ashley. And after her, her brother. The kid was old enough to be less interesting, but still good for some quick fun.
"Tommy!"
The voice jerked him to a halt. His foot still hung there, one motion away from an ecstatic release.
"Tommy!" The voice came from the closet. Rob. And he was pissed.
Tommy wasn't afraid of Rob – he wasn't afraid of anyone – but the guy did supply the jobs. Which meant he supplied a lot of the best times of Tommy's life. So Tommy listened to him. Mostly.
"Yeah?" he said.
"Whatever's happening out there – stop it."
It should have made him mad. Should have enraged him to have to stop at the height of terror, the apex of joy.
But little Ashley was looking at him. Staring with such terror, such fear and adoration, that he couldn't find it in himself to be mad.
"Sure," he said. And in that moment, he also realized something that made it easier to stop.
Rob had said, "Tommy." Had called him by name.
And that meant he wasn't worried about anyone providing information to the cops – or anyone else.
Tommy inhaled. Everything smelled sweet, the darkness of the room cast thin threads of terror and pain and all things wonderful.
He put his foot down.
"Sure, Rob!" he called. Knowing Rob wouldn't care that he used his name.
Because everyone who lived in this house was going to die tonight.
5
The sounds outside the closet died.
James didn't understand what was happening. Didn't know why someone would do this.
The night had started so well. It was his and Beth's date night. They met after work at their favorite restaurant. A bottle of champagne to celebrate another successful week's ride on life's little merry-go-round. A return to the house they loved, to the place where they had made a home with their children.
Evan and Ashley had been waiting for them. They had each made a card that spelled out "WE LUV YOO" in macaroni that had been glued to the construction paper and spray-painted gold. A silly, ridiculous pair of "presents" that made James laugh so hard he thought he might lose consciousness.
The cards had been Evan's idea, he could tell. Evan, so tall, so strong. Smile and sense of humor just like his mother's. Only that boy could come up with something so ridiculous, so childish, so perfect.
James was blessed. A family he loved – and who loved him back. A home where happiness could be found. Money – which he couldn't deny was a nice thing to have, though it was a distant third to family and hearth.
Then… awakened from a deep sleep, body still pleasantly warm after some vigorous lovemaking with his wife after the kids went to bed. Guns in their faces. Masked features. A man stomping his heel down on James' leg so hard it felt like a hammer blow against denuded bone.
What's happening?
He knew what was happening, of course. It was a robbery. There were men who were willing to kill him and his family to get what they wanted – the money and jewelry that the safe held.
Even so, his mind kept fluttering on moth wings back to that thought: What's happening? What's happening?
What THE HELL is happening?
The screams from the room beyond the closet – the room that now held the sum of his existence – silenced after the guy with the gun shouted for "Tommy" to stop whatever he was doing.
But they didn't stop in James' mind. Shrieks of pain and shock and terror, and under it all:
What's happening?
The man with the gun pushed it down on top of James' head. He could feel the bore, the black circle on his head a brand that burned through hair and flesh and scorched his skull and the curled brain matter beneath it.
"Now get the safe open," said the man. His voice was tight. Under control for now, but ready to burst into mayhem at any moment.
James looked at the other man in the closet. The man kneeling beside him, close to the safe. The man with the eyes that said he didn't want to be here, didn't want to be doing this.
"Please," whispered James. Not knowing what he hoped the sad-eyed man would do. But something – someone had to be able to help them.
The sad eyes stared at him for a quick moment, then flicked away. Down. No help to be found.
The gun ground harder into his head. "Listen carefully, James. If you don't get this safe open I will kill you. But first I'll make you watch my colleagues kill your family. Slowly."
James barely managed to process the words. Everything was –
(What's happening?)
– a jumble. All was a blur.
"James. James?"
He managed to find the source of the words. The sad-eyed man. "Please," said the man, gesturing at the safe.
James nodded. The bobbly motion of a man so terrified he can't reliably control his own muscles.
That was why he'd hit the wrong numbers before. He wasn't trying to stall or keep the robbers away from the safe's contents. They could have everything he owned as long as they left his family alone. Alive.
But his fingers were twitching. His body wasn't acting the way it should.
What's happening?
He reached a finger for the safe.
Get this wrong and the safe won't open and we're all dead. Beth and the kids – gone.
(What's happening?
They'll all die. Open the safe or they all die.
What's happening? WHAT'S HAPPENING?)
"Come on, James. Think hard," said the gunman. "Don't screw this up or –" The gunman stopped speaking, and suddenly James was aware that the man had turned toward the closet door.
"Bring in one of the kids!" he shouted.
That penetrated. Ripped away the fog and left James gasping.
"Plea
se! No!"
"Wait, what –" said the sad-eyed man.
"Shut up, Aaron," snarled the gunman.
Sounds erupted in the master bedroom. A struggle.
The circle of hot metal disappeared from James' head as the gunman pulled his gun away and moved to the doorway. Reached out into the dark room beyond, then yanked a struggling, screaming form into the closet with him.
"Evan!" The cry tore free from James' throat.
The gunman threw James' son to the floor, then stepped on the teen's back. The man's gun was no longer pointed at James, but rather ground into his son's temple.
"We don't need –" began the sad-eyed man. Aaron.
"Shut up," said the gunman before returning his gaze to James. "Listen, Pops. I know you're scared. But you've got two minutes to get this door open. And if you get it wrong…." He shifted his grip slightly, then brought the butt down against Evan's shoulder. Evan screamed, and beyond the doorway, out of sight, so did Beth, shrieking in anguish.
She can see this. Can see him.
Can Ashley see it?
(What's happening?)
"Please," he said. "No."
The gunman just stared at him. Even without the mask James suspected he wouldn't have seen anything he understood. These people – they weren't men, they weren't women. Just monsters.
"Time's a-wastin', Pops," said the gunman.
James heard a low groan roll through the closet space. Realized after a moment it had come from him.
He turned back to the safe. Trying not to think about his wife and daughter, held in the room by people willing to kill without a moment's thought. Trying not to think of his son, bruised and crying on the floor only inches away.
Trying to get his hand to stop shaking. His mind to focus.
The moan disappeared, replaced by a shivering cry. Tears dripped down his cheeks; obscured his vision and made everything seem like a nightmare and somehow at the same time more real than anything James had ever before experienced.
He reached for the safe. For the keypad.
A hand stopped him.
The sad-eyed man held his wrist. Not tightly, not angrily, but firmly enough that James couldn't reach the safe.
The House That Death Built Page 2
