by Jax Abbey
“One or the other. Your choice,” Valerie said.
Stella sighed and scrubbed at a particularly tough spot on the counter. “She smelled like a freaking ashtray. I bet our dad doesn’t even know she smokes.”
“So what did she want?” Valerie repeated. She stopped wiping and put a hand on her hip.
“She wanted money for some ‘show’. I’ve already told her that I barely make enough money to pay for the trailer, feed myself and her, and put gas in Josie. So I told her to get a job, and suggested she work here.”
“And how did that go over?”
“She called our uniforms stupid and said she didn’t want perverted old men slapping her ass.”
Valerie shrugged. “Can’t say I blame her about the old guys.” Valerie looked down at her dirndl and tugged at a ribbon. “But I think these outfits are pretty cute. Sometimes I wear mine and role play ‘naughty serving wench’ with Paul.”
Stella shuddered and left the bar to check on her customers. She loved Valerie like a sister, but some information was better left unshared. She made a mental note not to borrow Valerie’s uniform in the future.
FINN, 9:27 P.M.
Finn crouched behind a hedgerow at the bottom of a small hill. He was ready to rip off the thin sliver of fake mustache tickling his upper lip and the muttonchops adhered to the sides of his face. Alex suggested he dye his sandy-blond hair a dark brown to match the faux facial hair, but Finn had to draw the line somewhere. Nobody messed with his hair. He compromised by adopting a ridiculous shoulder-length wig, a baseball hat, and prescription-less glasses. He was pretty happy with the result: he could’ve been Mike Meyers’s stunt double in Wayne’s World.
Finn rose and peered over the hedgerow. From his position, his view of the mansion on the hilltop was shielded by a copse of trees. The images he and Alex found using Google Street View hadn’t shown much of the house either, but it didn’t matter. Finn studied the blueprints for hours—practically memorized them. He knew the inside of the house like he knew his own condo.
Keeping low to the ground, he crept alongside the shrubbery and up the hill. If everything was happening according to plan, Alex should have been hidden by his own set of shrubbery behind the house. Two blocks away, near the neighborhood’s entrance, Billy should be sitting in a nondescript, black sedan, ready to drive them back to Julian’s. Finn glanced at the watch on his wrist, placed a reverent hand over the dog tags beneath his shirt, and stood. He strode purposefully up the drive, stopping several feet away from the front door. Neither the low-resolution photos nor the blueprints prepared him for the sight before his eyes.
Enormous limestone columns featuring carvings of nude female figures flanked the arched doorway of the mansion. More limestone columns stood guard at the breezeways along the front of the house. Floor-to-ceiling windows dotted the first-story façade. The curtains were drawn back from the windows, spilling light out into the yard. Finn guessed curtains weren’t really necessary since the tiny forest of trees and the fence blocked the house from the street. He snorted. Being rich clearly didn’t equate with having good taste; this house had Vegas written all over it.
One of the massive double doors swung open.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” a man—Julian said it would be von Rothschild’s right-hand man, Stefan—asked gruffly. His hair was so blond it was almost white, and was closely cropped to his scalp. His steel-gray eyes regarded Finn with scorn. An ugly, puckered scar started at the bridge of his nose under his right eye and ran to his lower lip.
Finn fixed his face in what he hoped was an apologetic frown. “I came to see Mr. von Rothschild about a business matter.”
“You think I am an idiot? You do not have a car, so you must have climbed the fence. What do you really want?”
Stefan moved the left side of his jacket back slightly, exposing a revolver tucked into the waistband of his pants.
Finn risked rising on his tiptoes to glance over the man’s shoulder and through the open door. Right about now, Alex should have been climbing the trellis leaning against the back of the house. Finn needed to keep Stefan occupied for as long as possible.
Stefan took a menacing step forward. “You need to leave. Now.”
Finn swallowed and raised his hands in surrender. “Wait! Wait! You asked what I wanted! I wanted to know whether your mom charges by the act or by the hour? Do you think she’d call me Daddy if I asked?”
Stefan stared at Finn in confusion before the meaning of the words dawned on him. He let out a primal growl before lowering his head and charging. Finn feinted to the left before diving to the ground. He swung his leg around and connected with Stefan’s thick ankle, sending him tumbling. Finn dove forward and grabbed the gun. Stefan clawed at Finn, wresting the glasses from his face. Finn scrambled away, unscathed, as Stefan put out his other arm to break his fall. His wrist made a sickening crunch when it connected with the concrete, and he let out an anguished howl. Despite the injury, Stefan growled again and picked himself up. He lumbered toward Finn, his eyes broadcasting his intent to break him into pieces.
Finn felt the back of his waistband to reassure himself that his own gun was still there before he hurled Stefan’s into the trees. He bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to anticipate Stefan’s next move. Stefan ran at him and Finn lunged to the side, sending Stefan barreling into the thorny rose bushes in front of the house. Before Stefan could catch his breath, Finn ran at him and looped an arm around his neck. The large man put up a serious struggle, thrashing like a fish caught in a net. Beads of perspiration broke out on Finn’s hairline, but he managed to keep a firm grip. He only released his chokehold when he felt Stefan go limp, then disentangled himself from the unconscious man and wiped the sweat from his brow. Those sparring lessons with his roommate in juvie still came in handy sometimes.
“Jesus Christ,” Finn muttered as he got to his feet. He raced through the open door of the house and into the middle of the multi-story rotunda in the mansion’s center. With the von Rothschilds at the opera, Stefan incapacitated outside, and the housekeeper enjoying a day off, the house should have been empty—with the exception of Alex. “Got it yet?” Finn called.
“Not yet. I’m still looking,” Alex’s voice floated down from the second story.
Finn glanced back through the doorway where Stefan was still lying prone. He hesitated and then raced up the curved staircase. He ran along the polished marble hallway and into the library, where he thought he’d heard Alex call from. He found him peering up into an empty fireplace. Finn stepped toward his friend, who jumped, startled.
“What are you doing up here?” Alex hissed. “Where’s the guard?”
“I knocked him out. Use some common sense, Alex; there’s no way von Rothschild would keep the chalice in a fireplace!”
“Well, if you’re so fucking smart, where would it be?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not going to be in a fireplace!” Finn dug in his jacket pocket for the lock-picking kit he’d had since middle school. He tossed it to Alex. “Try his office. I’m going back downstairs.”
He took the stairs two at a time and breathlessly made his way back to Stefan, who was still on the ground, now groaning. A cell phone lay next to his uninjured hand. Finn took his pistol from his waistband and leveled it at Stefan.
“It seems we’re at an impasse.” Finn paused. “Actually, it’s not much of an impasse, since I have the gun and can easily shoot you any time I want. But I don’t want to have to do that, so don’t make me, okay?”
Stefan glared up at Finn and grunted as he clutched his wrist.
Without warning, the gates at the end of the drive creaked open. A black Lincoln Town Car glided up the winding path toward the two men.
“What the fuck?” Finn exclaimed. “Alex!” He walked backward into the house, his gun trained on Stefan, and one eye on the car, which came to a stop at the crest of the hill.
“I’m still looking for the chali
ce!”
“Forget about it; von Rothschild’s back!” Finn shouted as the rear door of the car flew open.
Christoph von Rothschild calmly stepped out in an expensive-looking tuxedo and brushed off his jacket. His driver got out of the car as well and leveled a gun at Finn from behind the driver’s side door. Von Rothschild’s much younger wife, Elizabeth, peeked out from around the rear car door. Even at age sixty, von Rothschild was an imposing figure. He stood six feet tall, the moonlight glinting off his shiny dome, and his blue eyes glittering with detached curiosity.
He puffed out his chest and lifted his chin. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked, his Austrian accent still familiar to Finn after all these years.
Finn swallowed. None of their planning accounted for von Rothschild catching them at the house. Billy was supposed to have been watching out for von Rothschild’s car near the neighborhood’s entrance just in case he returned early. Why hadn’t he warned them?
“Well? I’m becoming impatient. Aren’t you going to give me some kind of explanation before I have you shot?”
“No one has to get hurt,” Finn said.
“No, but it might be more fun that way.” Von Rothschild smiled, showing a lot of teeth, and looking perfectly at ease despite the gun at Finn’s side.
Finn quickly ran through his options. He could tell von Rothschild the truth—that Julian sent them to steal back the item von Rothschild originally stole from him. He could say they were robbing the place, or—
Finn raised his pistol and fired, intentionally missing. The shot rang out, and von Rothschild dropped to the ground. His driver immediately began firing in retaliation. Finn dove behind the one closed front door of the house. He peered around it, his gun cocked. The driver advanced toward the house with von Rothschild close on his heels.
Finn aimed at the arm with which the driver held his gun. He pulled the trigger and the bullet ripped into the driver’s shoulder, propelling him backward and knocking von Rothschild off balance. Finn quickly fired again, sending a bullet in von Rothschild’s direction. The bullet hit its mark. Von Rothschild crumpled to the ground, holding his bleeding right leg.
“Christoph!” Elizabeth screeched from behind the open car door. She turned her rage-filled eyes on Finn. “You bastard!” she screamed. “Someone call for help!”
“Elizabeth, dear, calm down and call Dr. Albrecht,” von Rothschild commanded through clenched teeth. “Go after him, Tobias.”
The driver cradled his injured arm and continued approaching the house, cautiously this time. Finn sent another shot around the door. When Tobias ducked out of the way, Finn took off into the rotunda.
Alex raced down the stairs with the much-coveted chalice. All of this over a stupid silver cup, Finn thought. “Out back!” he shouted.
As Alex reached the bottom of the stairs, Finn fired at the doorway. He put the safety on his gun and took off for the sitting room. A set of French doors led onto the veranda and out into the backyard. Finn reached the doors at the same time a gun went off. He turned back to see Alex doubled over, clutching his torso. Alex stumbled toward the sitting room. Another shot rang out, the bullet hitting the doorjamb next to Alex’s head. Without hesitating, Finn ran over to Alex and hoisted him up. He wanted to check how badly Alex was injured, but they didn’t have that kind of time.
With shots pinging all around him, Finn half dragged, half carried Alex through the yard, his grandfather’s dog tags drumming a beat against his chest. “No soldier gets left behind,” the old man had repeated over and over throughout Finn’s childhood. As a kid, Finn imagined his grandfather pulling wounded comrades to safety in World War II as an American flag waved proudly under a cloudless blue sky and an eagle soared overhead. His grandfather had been loyal, faithful. He was a hero. Young Finn wanted to be a hero, but his life had ultimately detoured from that path. At least nobody could deny Adult Finn’s loyalty.
He adjusted his hold on Alex, breathing hard. Finn quickened his pace. “You’re gonna be alright. It’s just a flesh wound.”
THURSDAY
..................
STELLA, 12:23 A.M.
Stella pulled her badly rusted 1968 orange VW Beetle up to a beige-and-brown single-wide trailer, which, like the car, had seen better days. She used a hand to still the fuzzy dice dangling from the rearview mirror, glanced around the car, and smiled. The upholstery mimicked the shell of a ladybug—red with black dots.
She got out of the car—affectionately named Josie—and patted it fondly on the hood. Dragging herself up the rickety wooden steps onto the postage stamp–sized porch, Stella frowned at the Gerber daisies wilting in planters on the narrow railing. She sighed, unlocked the front door, and entered.
She’d been renting the mobile home for two years, and despite the fact that she’d shampooed the carpet within an inch of its life and scrubbed down the walls with bleach, the stale smoke and flowery perfume of past residents faintly invaded her living space. Stella was forced to find other ways to make the trailer feel like home. Not an easy thing to do on a shoestring budget.
The first few months after she’d signed the lease, the trailer remained mostly empty. Stella spent her free time scouring Craigslist and visiting yard sales, determined to find pieces that spoke to her. Two years later, she’d finally amassed a jumble of pieces that didn’t quite match, but worked with one another. She was proud of her hard work; it was her own version of shabby-chic.
“Phoebe? Are you here?” Stella called, flicking on the lights. She removed the elastics holding her pigtails and shook out her hair as she walked into the middle of the trailer.
She stopped in front of the TV and spied a Post-it note that read “Out. Back later.”
Grinding her teeth, Stella kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the shabby floral couch. She picked up her cell phone and dialed Derek’s number. As she waited for an answer, she massaged an aching foot.
“Hey, fiancée,” a smooth baritone greeted her. The tension in Stella’s body immediately started to ease. She pictured Derek sitting in his favorite plaid armchair with his dark hair curling onto his forehead, blue eyes sparkling mischievously behind his glasses.
Stella sighed. “Hey.”
“What’s wrong? Is it Phoebe again?”
“Gee, how did you guess? She showed up at work earlier today to ask me for money. Now she’s wandered off again. At least this time she left a note saying she was out. Can you please remind me why I agreed to do this?”
“Well, the note is progress, right? And you agreed to it because you are an amazing woman with a giant heart who wants to bond with her half sister. You know so little about her.”
“I’ve decided I don’t want to know her,” Stella declared. She picked up a lacy pillow from the couch and flung it across the room.
“Sweetheart, give it time. It’s been, what, a few weeks?” There was laughter in his voice.
Groaning, she picked up a thick white binder from the scarred top of the coffee table and reclined against the back of the sofa. “I don’t want to talk about her anymore. Let’s talk about the wedding.”
Derek let out a groan of his own. “I don’t want to talk about the wedding. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Okay. We can talk about how I’m dreading having brunch with your mother on Sunday. That woman totally hates me.” Hate was an understatement. Recently Stella had started having nightmares about Diane Warner standing up and objecting during the marriage ceremony. “Do we have a part like that in our ceremony? If so, we need to take that out.”
“She does not hate you.” He paused. “She just takes time to warm up to people.”
Stella pushed her hair out of her face. “We’ve been dating for a year and a half.”
“I know,” he sighed. He continued with forced optimism, “She’s going to come around. She just hasn’t spent enough time with you to see you for the awesome person you are.”
“Oh, that’s what it must be! O
f course it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that I’m just a lowly bar waitress.”
Derek groaned again. “Stella, don’t start. I’d rather talk about the wedding.”
Stella bit her lip and thought about keeping up the argument. Instead she flipped a page in her binder. “For the reception, I was thinking of a chocolate fountain—” She stopped midsentence as the front door of the mobile home flew open. Phoebe muttered a greeting in passing as she slunk toward the guest bedroom.
“Derek, I’m gonna have to call you back. Phoebe just got here.”
“Go easy on her, Stell. You remember what it was like to be a teenager.”
Stella rolled her eyes and murmured a goodbye before clicking off the call. She got to her feet with a weary sigh and traced Phoebe’s path. She rapped once on the bedroom door before flinging it open.
“Where have you been?” she asked. Her jaw clenched as she forced her arms to remain down at her sides.
Phoebe kicked off her boots and pulled a hoodie over her head. She turned her back to Stella. “I left a note.”
“Yes, I saw your note, but I told you to ask me before you go out somewhere. Just because I let you stay here doesn’t mean you can traipse around the city doing God knows what with God knows who!”
Phoebe spun around. “What am I supposed to do? Bring the few friends I’ve made here to the Leaky Stein so you can ask, ‘Do you want fries with that?’ and then have everyone laugh at me? I don’t think so.”
Stella flushed. “Phoebe, I wouldn’t embarrass you like that. I remember what it was like to be your age—”
“You don’t know anything about me! Okay, so we share a father. Besides that we have NOTHING IN COMMON. The only reason I’m even here this summer is because my parents decided to go off on some romantic getaway and didn’t have anywhere else to dump me,” Phoebe shouted. She took a menacing step toward Stella, who backed out into the hallway.
