Tommy gave a low whistle. Rob motioned to him to shut up, but his body language showed he agreed with the sentiment.
Kayla was at the wall near the front door, examining what was clearly an alarm control pad. She returned to the group after just a moment, shaking her head.
"Morons," she muttered.
So there was an alarm after all.
Aaron couldn't help wishing that it had gone off. That way the job would end without it being his fault.
Without it hurting Dee.
Rob moved to the stairs. Tommy and Kayla followed. Aaron, as always, brought up the rear.
No, no, no, no, no….
He was mouthing the word as it sounded over and over in his mind. A never-ending prayer composed of so many things.
No, please keep them from hurting anyone.
No, please keep Dee safe.
No, please turn back time so none of this will be happening.
On and on, with every step upward. Praying to some God who he knew wouldn't listen.
Up to the second floor.
To the bedrooms.
To the people.
No, no, no, no….
But God was as silent as the rest of the house.
And Aaron kept walking. Forward. Upward.
To the end.
17
Kayla had a weird impulse to push Tommy over the side of the stairs.
The stairway curved upward in a graceful sweep, hugging on one side to the wall, on the other ending in a white banister.
I could do it. Just shove, and he'd fall and his head would splash all over the stone floor.
She didn't hate her brother. She loved him – at least as much as she was capable of love. She suspected sometimes that what other people called love might in actuality be beyond her grasp, that something inside her mind was broken in some basic way. But she couldn't ever quite manage to care about that fact.
It actually made life easier. She didn't have to worry about other people's feelings, about their fears or worries. Or about their pain.
The way she saw it, she was free in a way that no one else who was "broken" could ever be.
But there was the occasional downfall. That awful feeling when she didn't get her way, the knowledge that when she didn't get what she wanted the rest of the universe died a bit inside.
The periodic urge to toss Tommy over a rail, or to run him over or shoot him or any of a handful of other ideas that flitted into her mind from time to time.
But she didn't hate him. To paraphrase a movie she hadn't seen – she didn't like movies, they were too long and complicated – he completed her.
She knew deep inside that her periodic urges to kill him were born of the simple fact that he knew her. Not in the basic way Rob or Aaron or the men she occasionally picked up at bars knew her. He had seen her as a child, beaten by their mother before being turned over to a father who had much darker impulses than simple violence. He had seen her broken and bruised, bleeding on the floor of the closet where she always took refuge after such events.
He had seen her cry.
Had seen her weak.
And for that, she knew, he would someday die. Because she wasn't weak now, and the only thing that tethered her to that time of fragile vulnerability was him. His very existence reminded her of the simple fact she wasn't perfect, because she'd come from an imperfect birth, to an imperfect home.
Just toss him over.
But that would screw up the job. And the job mattered enough to her that she continued to allow his life. Besides, the knowledge that someday she'd kill her own brother made everything just a bit sharper, a bit clearer, a bit more delicious. The knowledge of his someday-death was like perpetually staring at a Christmas present that you knew was exactly what you wanted.
The waiting was painful, and maddening… and so, so sweet.
With every step up, she pushed the urge to murder a bit farther down. When she reached the top of the stairs, which became a balcony with a balustrade that would prevent anyone from tripping –
(but not from being pushed)
– over to a painful death on the stone floor below, the feeling was almost gone.
She loved her brother. And she wasn't going to kill him. Not tonight.
She looked down the hall. There were five doors on the left side of the hall, and four on the right. A lamp hung from the ceiling, a bit closer to the back of the hall than the front. It was one of the only things she'd seen in the house that wasn't either elegant or expensive-looking: just an inverted hemisphere hanging from an iron cord that looked clunky and thick and wholly out of place.
Beyond the lamp, though, beyond the doors to each side: a single door on the end.
That's where they'll be. The master bedroom, the safe.
She had the urge to run forward, to tear down the hall and throw the door open and get to the real business of the night.
But it was like the urge to kill Tommy. It wasn't useful, it wouldn't get her what she wanted, so she'd put it away.
She took point this time, moving past Rob on the way to that beautiful door at the end. Just as had been the case downstairs, most of the doors were all open.
They should just put out a sign: "Open for business…. Thieves welcome!"
Though, of course, the door at the end of the hall was closed. So was the last door on the right, and the second on the left.
The first doorway to the left led to a guest bedroom that was every bit as nice as she expected based on the rest of the house. Empty, though, and clearly not the kind of place where anything important would be stowed. She flitted past it, to the first closed door.
She opened it.
The door led to a landing, then stairs that proceeded up in complete darkness. Clearly leading to the attic she'd seen on the plans.
It was surprisingly spooky. The kind of dark staircase that wouldn't have been out of place in a haunted house. The kind of stairs an idiot would run up when followed by a chainsaw-wielding maniac in a lacrosse mask.
She re-closed the door, then turned to see Tommy standing rigid in the middle of the hall.
She drew close to him. "What is it?" she whispered. She could feel tension pulsing out of him.
Rob joined her, looking up and down the hall, nervous eyes glinting like those of a cornered animal.
Weak.
I'll kill him someday, too.
Fun.
"You see something?" whispered Rob.
Tommy remained still for a moment, then his head turned from left to right and back again. He hesitated, then asked, "Don't these kinda doors usually swing into the rooms?"
Kayla looked. He was right: all the doors were swung outward, flush against the wall so it was less noticeable, but even the ones that were closed had hinges on the outside.
Rob looked like he had down in the kitchen: unsure, trying to put his finger on what it was that mattered about this little tidbit.
He's gonna back out.
Kayla didn't want that. Not only was this job going to be incredibly lucrative – she believed Rob in his assessment of that – but it was getting kind of exciting.
Exciting was good.
A lot of people thought Kayla was a daredevil; a reckless woman who took risks when others refused to move. But she knew the truth: it wasn't that she was reckless, she was simply invincible. Nothing could hurt her, because the universe wouldn't let that happen. And in her deepest dreams, the dreams of her parents, her father and mother and the pain they visited on her, she knew why: the universe owed her.
She would never be hurt – for all she knew, she might never even die, she might be immortal. And knowing that, she could move forward, enjoy life to the fullest.
It wasn't acting reckless if you knew you were safe.
But Rob didn't know that. And looking at his eyes she could see that he was getting thoroughly creeped out. She didn't know why – it was just doors.
Had he lost his nerve? Had one too many bad jobs
soured his ability to ever be successful?
No. Not tonight.
She moved. Headed forward toward that door at the end, the door.
She passed the rooms to her right and left. Other than the guest room and the now-closed door to the attic, there were also doorways that led to a bathroom and a game room. The game room had comfy couches, a dart board. A big TV with game and sound equipment stacked in the cabinet beneath it. An air hockey table hunkered in the center of the room. Beyond that….
The final room on the left made her pause, and for a moment the uneasiness that had gotten to her brother and Rob gripped her as well.
The room itself was unthreatening, from the point of view that there was nothing dangerous in it. But that was the point: there was nothing dangerous in it, because there was nothing at all in it. Four white walls, the cold mouth of an unlit fireplace. A mantel hung over the fireplace, as bereft of ornamentation as the rest of the room.
Kayla could feel Rob looking in the room behind her, and could feel an unease that matched her own.
I'm not scared though. Not at all. What's there to be scared of in a universe that owes me so much?
Nothing. Nothing at all.
(Just like what's in the room. Nothing at all.)
She turned away. Left Rob staring in for a moment before she joined her brother. He was casing the rooms on the right: a billiard room with a beautifully-appointed pool table in the center, a stained glass lamp hanging above it; a media room: theater-style seating facing what had to be the biggest HDTV on the market, ninety-eight inches if it was a foot, probably thirty grand to buy something like that, even a genuine theater popcorn maker that sat quietly in the back of the room.
And closed door number two.
Tommy moved quickly to it. He turned the knob slowly, so quietly it didn't make so much as a whisper in the hall. Pushed the door open a crack, then a foot, then all the way.
A bedroom. Pink enough to practically scream, "teenage girl!" but not so pink as to be tacky.
Tommy drew up his mask, revealing most of his face. Kayla wondered for a moment why he would do such a dumb thing, then she saw what he was looking at, and understood.
There was a girl on the bed. Probably sixteen or seventeen. She wore boxers and a tank top, though the top had drawn up high enough that it concealed little and revealed much. The sheets were rumpled around her, and the outline of a young man on the bed with her – turned away, so his back was all that could be seen of him – left little doubt exactly what had happened in here. Recently.
The girl was what Tommy was staring at. What he had pulled up his mask to see more clearly. Or if not to see, to enjoy.
The girl was young, but that was the way Tommy preferred them. Young and unblemished, unbroken. He liked to ruin beautiful things, and if that beautiful thing was a girl, so much the better.
He licked his lips. Actually took a step toward the bed.
Kayla would have grabbed him. Would have stopped him. This wasn't the plan, and doing it wouldn't be much benefit to her – the only thing that mattered. Before she could stop him, though, a hand snaked out of the darkness of the hallway, pulling on Tommy's bicep.
Aaron. The smaller man shook his head, a quick whip back and forth. No way.
Tommy looked for a moment like he might just lose it right there. Kayla didn't like Aaron – Rob had called him a buzzkill on more than one occasion, and she agreed – but Tommy despised him. Aaron actually daring to touch him might be the thing that finally put him over the edge.
She could see her brother contemplating it: one quick motion, a single jerk, and Aaron would fall lifeless to the ground, his neck snapped and all his whining and bellyaching about "right and wrong" would be silenced forever.
Kayla didn't want to do it. It would screw up the job.
But wouldn't it be fun?
The choice was taken from her. Rob leaned into the room. Looked around. Two forms on the bed, and Kayla noted that Rob's gun was pointed directly at the girl.
As though sensing something amiss, the girl moaned. Just slightly. She turned toward her boyfriend, throwing one arm over his side.
Aaron was watching the whole thing unfold. Hand still clamped on Tommy's arm, eyes pleading with Rob not to do anything.
Kayla's breath quickened. This was an exciting development, and even if the job didn't turn out the way she thought it would, this moment would make it all worth it.
Finally, Rob's gun lowered a hair. He looked at Tommy, jerking his head toward the hall and the door at the end.
Tommy cast a last longing look at the girl on the bed. Then he slowly drew down his mask and followed Rob. Kayla went next, leaving Aaron to close the door. He was a pro in that respect – it made less noise than it had when Tommy opened it. He was trying to keep the two in the room unaware and alive.
Good luck with that.
She knew everyone else in the group had marked this room. And that if there was any noise from this point forward, one of the first moves Rob would make would be to order her or Tommy – or both – back here to take the couple by whatever force might be necessary.
Fun.
She squeezed her brother's arm as the door closed. He looked at her, irritation clear in his eyes, then calmed and nodded. He got it. She wasn't going to stop his fun, but there was a time and a place.
He'd get his chance.
They all would.
Rob was standing in front of the final, closed door. He should have been moving to open it, but he was just standing. And the longer she watched, the longer he continued to do nothing at all.
After a while – too long – she sidled up to him. "What?" she whispered.
He looked around. The doors, the rooms, the hanging lamp, all of it. "Something," he said. "Something about this place…." Then he shook himself, casting off whatever thoughts had reached up from his subconscious. He nodded to Kayla.
She reached for the closed door. The final door.
The only one that mattered.
She opened it.
And they went in.
18
So far, every step had been an agony, culminating in the moment when Tommy looked like he was going to lose control and rape and murder the girl in her room. That was, Aaron thought, as bad as it could get.
But he was wrong. Even after he shut the girl's door and rejoined the others, his dread somehow grew. Each step down the dark hallway was worse than the last.
It didn't matter. No one else felt the way he did: this was just money and maybe some fun. The people in the house, the lives in danger –
(Dee!)
– made no difference to anyone at all.
Kayla turned the doorknob on the final door. Like the rest of the doors, this one opened outward, a tight arc that somehow went too fast and terribly slow.
The rooms at Aaron's back were large-to-huge. He figured that they took up half the entire upstairs floor space.
The master bedroom was the other half. It stretched the entire width of the second floor. To Aaron's left was a sitting area: divan and chaise, separated by a bookshelf. A door led into one of the twin bathrooms – a "his" and a "hers."
To his right, a vanity sat against one wall. It looked Victorian, with outward-swept legs that curled gracefully into several drawers, all of it topped by a mirror held in place by scrolled woodwork. A full-length mirror leaned against the wall near the vanity, as well as a wardrobe that looked so beautiful and expensive it was nearly shocking; the type of thing you expected to see in a movie, not in an actual home. Beyond the wardrobe was a half-open door to the second of the master bathrooms.
And in the middle of it all sat a king-size, four-poster bed. An actual canopy draped across the dark wood posts, heavy fabric that looked softer than most blankets. Tassels and golden cords hung down, twisted artfully around each bedpost.
Snoring in the bed was a man. Rob had said the mark's name was Crawford, and this man certainly matched his description: dark hair,
graying at the edges; a hawk nose that made him seem a bit peremptory even in repose.
Beside Crawford, another shape lay outlined by the thick duvet. The cover was pulled up so high on her that Aaron could only see a spill of dark hair on her pillow.
Crawford took a deep breath.
Three guns came out, pointed instantly at the pair on the bed: Kayla, Tommy, and Rob were all packing. Aaron felt the world start spinning a bit faster under his feet.
He had known they would all bring weapons. No matter what they said, what they promised, none of them would ever consider a job without bringing firepower. But the sight of the guns still sent a shock through his spine. Everything was out of control.
It was never in control.
Aaron started trembling, his muscles tensing and releasing so fast he expected his teeth to chatter together.
Say something.
What? What can I say?
Crawford snuffled. Then took another deep breath and visibly slipped back into an even deeper slumber. The guns lowered. Not pointed at the floor, but at least not directly aimed at his head.
Rob pointed. In the back of the room, between the two bathrooms, was an open door that would lead to the closet. To the safe. The door hung open, revealing a few hanging clothes, darkness beyond.
Rob nudged Aaron. Almost a shove, and he nearly tripped over his feet before he regained his balance. He righted himself, got his feet planted firmly under him, and glanced at Rob. His eyes were flat, unblinking. If the man went to a rattlesnake family reunion, he'd fit right in.
Aaron moved reluctantly to the closet. He entered, and in only a few steps he fell into pitch blackness. He pulled out a flashlight – not the usual white light carried by people the world around, but a specially-designed red LED light. It had the dual advantage of not ruining his darkness-adapted sight, and being low enough that even sleepers in the same room wouldn't be jerked to wakefulness by its glow. A safe light for a safecracker.
The House That Death Built Page 8
