by Jake Burt
At Loblolly the next day, I’m forced to deal with the fallout from my nuclear explosion. In fact, the rest of the week is basically high-stakes hide-and-seek. I’m constantly ducking Archer and his friends, not to mention the girls from the basketball team, who have every right to wonder why I didn’t bother to go all defensive diva until the game didn’t count.
By Friday, I’m exhausted—we all are. I could have gone over to Brit’s for the fourth night this week, but I beg off, and instead curl up on the couch under a pink fleecy blanket. Jackson is asleep across from me, and Jonathan is slumped down in his chair, the lamp above him illuminating the copy of Fahrenheit 451 perched on his chest. I’ve got my eyes closed, but I’m listening to him read aloud, and every time he drifts off I chuck one of the little embroidered pillows at him.
“Stop that,” he murmurs, and glances at his watch.
“They’re called throw pillows for a reason. You were falling asleep again.”
“It’s past midnight. Of course I’m falling asleep.”
“Not until—” I interrupt myself with a tonsil-baring yawn. “Not until we finish. We’re almost done.”
Jonathan stretches, takes off his reading glasses, and sets them on the coffee table.
“I am done. Your mother went to bed two hours ago. Let’s finish tomorrow.”
“It is tomorrow,” I say snarkily, pointing to the clock on the DVR box.
“All the more reason to go to bed.”
I relent, slithering out from under the comfy fleece and slinging an arm around Jonathan.
“Should we get Jackson?” I ask.
“Nah. Leave him. He gets grumpy when we wake him up.”
“It’s not just when we wake him up. There’s when we say good morning, when we’re eating dinner, when we walk by his room, when we…”
“You forgot alternate Tuesdays, just because.”
He chuckles and starts toward his bedroom. He only makes it a few steps, though, before the phone rings.
“Who could be calling this late?” Jonathan grumbles.
“I bet I know,” I fume. “Let me get it.”
I hurry over to the phone and rip it off its dock. Sure enough, the number is unlisted. I press the button and bring the phone to my ear.
“Listen, Archer. I’m sorry for freaking out at you, but this stops now. We’re not ever going to—”
“Essi sono all’interno.”
I pull the phone away in confusion. “Essi sono all’interno?” I echo.
Jonathan’s eyes widen. Trembling, he translates.
“They are inside.”
“Shhh!” I snap, and I cock my head toward the front door.
The third step creaks.
Jonathan scrambles to the switch and cuts off the lights. My fingers hover over the phone, ready to key in Janice’s emergency number. When I hear the jostling of the front doorknob, followed by the sound of a quiet curse, I dial.
“I’ll use the alarm to call nine-one-one, too,” Jonathan whispers, and he creeps toward the hallway. I follow closely behind, the phone up to my ear, and eyes riveted on the windows. The blinds are closed like always, but we can see shadows thrown by the streetlamps. Jonathan and I both freeze as a patch of darkness grows. It slowly climbs the ladder of the blinds until it takes the shape of a man.
Then two.
Then three.
Jonathan bolts toward the front door, and I’m right behind him. He tries to push the blue police button on the alarm pad, but his finger never reaches it. Our mad dash must have made the noise the men were waiting for, because the door explodes inward, knocking Jonathan back against the wall.
Standing in the frame, flanked by two darkly dressed figures, is my bogeyman. My cancer and my killer bees. Somehow, some way, Arturo Cercatore found us.
Just the sight of him hits me like a punch to the chest, a full-body shiver jolting me, paralyzing me. I watch as he steps through the splinters of the shattered door casing, watch as he looms over Jonathan, as he raises a gun.
It’s Janice’s voice that sets the second hand to spinning again. In my ear, I can hear her: “Charlotte? Charlotte? I just got a message that your alarm system was breached. Are you okay? Charlotte?”
I scream in response. No words—just a scream. And I launch myself at Arturo. I honestly don’t know if he’s pulling the trigger as I move, or if my movement, my sudden shout causes him to fire. It doesn’t matter, because I’m too late. I can’t push him down. I can’t knock the gun away. My feet aren’t fast enough to let me do anything to save Jonathan.
But my hands are.
I snap my right hand out just as I reach him, the phone gripped tightly between my fingers. There’s a blinding flash of light, and I turn my head. Someone curses—I think it’s Arturo—and I collapse atop Jonathan, who wraps his arms around me as we both fall to the floor. My ears are ringing. There’s a hot slipperiness beneath my fingers, and I can’t seem to close them; I can’t even move them.
The pain comes as a single, massive throb. I gasp like I’m drowning, and I see Jonathan beneath me. His shoulder is covered in blood. I hear a voice in my head: He’s been shot. Find the wound. Put pressure on it. I try to slide my fingers over his shoulder again and again, but there’s too much blood, too much pain.
Too much fear.
“Daddy!” I screech, pure panic blurring my vision. “Jonathan! Daddy! I can’t find it! I can’t find it! I can’t…”
Jonathan’s arms raise, and I feel myself held, crushed to him. At the same time, my head is wrenched backward, and I’m forced to look up into Arturo’s face. He’s got a hand tangled in my hair, and he’s ripping me away. I try to turn, to fight him off, but I’m weak all of a sudden; Jonathan has gripped my right wrist, and I can’t seem to pull back. And through it all, I watch this man’s face—his horrible, calm, still-eyed face.
Jackson is screaming; Harriet bursts from the bedroom with a baseball bat in her hands, and she brings it down over the closest man’s head. He staggers, and she hits him again, and again, until he folds like a crumpled blanket. With a rage I’d never seen, the woman who held me so gently, who forgave my worst mistake, turns against her brother. She lifts the bat again, leaps forward …
And freezes.
Arturo, who has let go of me, levels his gun directly at Jackson. Regarding Harriet coolly, he twitches just the tip of his weapon. She flinches, dropping back a step.
“Saluti, Elena,” he purrs. “Nice hair.”
“Please, Arturo … please,” she manages, and she puts the bat down. She lifts her hands wide.
“In a few moments, the alarm company will call to ask about the front door?” he asks her. She nods rapidly.
“You will tell them everything is okay. Just a false alarm. If you don’t, I’ll shoot them. In fact, I’ll start with the girl. Maybe it will go through her and into your husband?”
“Okay, Arturo. A false alarm. Whatever you…”
Harriet doesn’t get a chance to finish. The third man, carrying a crowbar and wearing a hoodie, shouts over her.
“Damnit, Arturo! Who are these people? You said this was a simple B&E on an empty house!”
I gasp.
I know that voice.
In the deepest, rawest places in me, those places behind and beneath my heart, I know that voice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Bottom of Things
I force myself to look up. He has a full beard now, and his nose is different—flatter. Maybe someone broke it in prison? I don’t care. I still recognize my father.
“What … how?” I mumble.
“Christian,” Arturo says smugly, “say hello to your daughter.”
My father reaches up to pull back his hood. His mouth is moving, lips forming words that just don’t come. His feet shuffle like he can’t decide whether to run, collapse, or take a swing at Arturo with his crowbar.
“That … that isn’t possible,” he says finally.
“Look at her.
This is no trick,” Arturo commands, and he gestures at me with his gun. I wince.
The only light in the entryway is the bare glow of the streetlights, and my father steps to the side to allow it to wash over me. Then he stares. Hard. I stare right back. His eyes cast about, like he’s a sculptor mentally chipping away seven years’ worth of change to get at the little girl he knew. I can actually see the moment when it clicks for him.
I didn’t have a memory of what my father looked like when he was terrified.
Now I do.
“What the hell is she doing here?” he spits, his voice cracking. He points at me with the crowbar like he’s warding off some pale, blood-soaked ghost.
“You are right, Christian, and I will admit to a bit of deception here. This is no robbery. What it is, though, need not concern you. You have a new task. Take your daughter, get in the second car, and leave.”
“What?”
“At our rendezvous point, you will find the remainder of your payment for this job. I have taken the liberty of increasing it tenfold, enough to allow you to hide, comfortably, for the rest of your life—both you and your daughter. And you get to leave here now, before you become either an accessory to murder … or a victim of it.”
My father presses his palm to his forehead, his teeth bared and gritting. He curses several times under his breath before responding.
“And … and what do you get out of this?”
“A scapegoat,” Harriet says softly. Arturo smiles, nodding appreciatively at his sister as she continues. “Someone to take the fall. Oh, this is cruel, even for you.…”
I expect Arturo to bow, but he doesn’t.
“What does she … what do you mean, a scapegoat?”
“You’re his reasonable doubt,” Harriet tells him.
Arturo turns his gun on my father. “My sister, the lawyer. She is correct, Christian. We both profit from this deal. You get your daughter. You get the money. You get a running start. Maybe the cops don’t catch you. And if they do, you tell them about us. Perfectly plausible that Arturo Cercatore came here to make a message out of his turncoat sibling, just as it is perfectly plausible that an ex-convict might find that his only daughter has been taken by a family that is not her own. That man might very well seek her out. He might find that family, and when he goes to reclaim his flesh and blood, things could turn violent. Two stories, each one believable. What is a jury to do? Especially when the police find ample evidence of that ex-convict’s presence here.…”
As his words trail off, Arturo points at the crowbar in my father’s hand.
“Drop it. Right there on the ground.”
I watch as my father grips the metal so hard his knuckles turn white. He knows his fingerprints are all over it. Still, he lets it clatter to the floor.
“Good. Now you have two hands free,” Arturo says. “You can get your daughter.”
“What if I don’t? What if I just leave? The girl doesn’t know me, and I don’t know the first thing about…”
Arturo levels his gaze. “Christian, my family spent considerable resources to set this in motion. We bribed people. We threatened them. And trust me when I tell you that this is not the first time; we’ve grown quite good at this. So, given our efforts here, to what lengths do you think we might go to find a man who disappointed us in the manner you’re suggesting? One who might conceivably testify in court to what he’s seen here?”
It’s hard to tell if my father nods or if he’s just trembling so badly his head shakes. He wipes his sweaty palms on his flannel shirt and steps toward me.
“No,” I manage, and I try to stand, try to push off Harriet and Jonathan so I can fight.
“Charlotte,” Jonathan whispers, “you can’t. Your hand … you saved me, but your hand … you’ve lost too much blood already. You have to be still.”
I tear my gaze away from my father long enough to look at my right hand. Jonathan has wrapped his shirt around it, and he’s squeezing tightly. A thick ball of pain rolls up my arm, blurring my vision. I can taste the acid on my tongue, like I’m going to throw up, but I resist.
“I’m not going with him.”
My father heaves a sigh. He kneels by me, daring to touch my face. I jerk away.
“Honey, I…”
A shrill ring from the bedroom interrupts him. The alarm company, calling Harriet’s phone.…
“Nephew,” Arturo croons. “Do be so kind as to go get the phone for your mommy?”
Jackson, shaking worse than I ever have, stumbles his way over the unconscious form of Harriet’s bat victim. He emerges with the phone moments later and hands it to Harriet. She grabs him and pulls him into a tight, protective embrace.
“Answer it, Harriet,” Arturo says, and he aims the gun at Jackson. As she obeys, woodenly telling the operator that everything is fine, my father leans close to me.
“Can you move?”
I can—just enough to kick out at him. I wish I had the strength to make it hurt. To make him feel my anger. To do something. All I get, though, is a laugh from Arturo.
“Still so much trouble from this one! Do you know, little girl, how many problems you’ve caused us? Our accountants, our Realtors looking for three people buying homes. One child enrolling in a school. We simply didn’t account for you. And my nephew’s Facebook page—a boy with a sister? I almost dismissed it entirely. Christian,” he says, placing a hand on my father’s shoulder, “I can shoot her again if she’s too feisty for you to corral.”
“Don’t touch me, Arturo,” he warns.
“Fine. You’re right. We are not friends. Take your wounded little bird and fly, or I will kill all of them right here, right now. As for you—” He swivels his gun back on Harriet. “Do what you can for my man there.”
I twist to escape my father’s grasp, slapping at him with my good hand while Jonathan tries to calm me. As I squirm, though, I catch sight of Jackson. I’ve never seen him so afraid, so hurt. So I close my eyes, and I breathe deep. Then I grab my father’s shoulder. He wraps an arm around my waist and hoists me up.
“You … you’re going?” Jackson cries. “You’re just going to leave us?”
“I have to,” I murmur. My words slur together, and I slump against my father.
“No you don’t! You’re part of this family!”
Harriet strokes his hair. “It’s okay, Jackson. She can go.”
“And leave us to die? After everything?” He pushes Harriet away and stands up.
Through blurred, bloodshot eyes, I level a vicious stare at him. Arturo does considerably more. I watch as he calmly approaches, lashes out with the back of his hand, and catches Jackson on the cheek. The force of it knocks him into Harriet’s lap, where he lands, weeping.
“We do not have time for these theatrics, boy. Even if the alarm company is satisfied, the marshals won’t be. You’re only distracting your mother, who is now reviving my associate.”
He points to the slowly stirring man, and Harriet lets go of Jackson. She kneels, swabbing the thug’s cut and bleeding forehead with the sleeve of her pajamas.
“Come now, Nicki,” my father says, and he leads me away. Every step feels shackled, every heartbeat pulses fresh pain through my arm. I cling to my father, though, feel his strength, and with his help, manage to reach the door.
Then I stop.
“What is it, honey?”
“Please, Dad,” I whisper, turning around as best I can.
“Nicki, we have to move!”
Gripping my father’s shirt, I point up the stairs. Then I find Jackson’s eyes. Miserable and furious, he meets my gaze.
“We can go,” I promise. “But not without Fancypaws.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Arrivederci
“What the hell is Fancypaws?” Arturo says, though his attention, and gun, never leave Harriet. She has the man sitting up now, and he’s angrily pushing her away.
“Her stuffed toy. When she was little, she took that cat everywher
e. Honey, we don’t have time.…”
“She’s just … just on my bedside table. I can get her if you carry me.”
My father looks at Arturo, who shrugs cavalierly. “You have until he’s ready to go. If you’re still here when my man is standing, I shoot you both.”
The injured man grins and immediately tries to get up. However, he swoons, crumpling back down to the floor and groaning. With an exasperated growl, my father picks me up and strides to the stairs. Every thudding step jostles me, and the narrow passage forces my feet and head to scrape along the wall. He tries his best to maneuver, but I still take the brunt of it.
“To the right,” I murmur when we get to the top.
As we slip into my room, I grab poor Fancypaws by the ear. I press her to my chest with my wrapped hand, being extremely careful not to squeeze too tightly.
“Got her,” I say, and my father spins about. Before leaving, though, he gives the space a once-over.
“I would have liked to have given you a room like this, Nicki.”
“But you didn’t. And I waited.”
I can feel the breath leaving his body as he sighs. “You’re going to ask me why I never came, aren’t you?”
I look at him. Even in the dark, I can see that his beard hides several scars along his jawline and cheeks, and I can’t remember if they were there before. I search for signs of something to hate, a feature or tic to make him the demon I’d convinced myself he was. All I see, though, is a confused, tired, and trapped man, and I find that there isn’t anything there to hate.
Or to love.
“No, Dad,” I say softly. “There’s nothing you could say that makes it okay.”
He closes his eyes. “I suppose not. I just wanted to keep you away from my world. I can’t really tell you why. To protect you? To make my life easier? So I could forget about the mistakes I made? It doesn’t matter now, I guess.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I reply, and I rest my head on his shoulder. He adjusts his grip, and I use the opportunity to say good-bye to my hexagon, to my crystals, to my hiding drawer, and to my beautiful maple. In the hallway, I have to squint; I know it’s more than just the darkness that’s making it hard for me to see. When we reach the steps, I have to count them from memory.
