“Okay, but I still can’t just—”
She grabbed his crotch.
He jumped in surprise. His body, however, hadn’t moved. Suddenly he was floating three feet away from it, his psyche intermingled with a shelf full of cleaning products. Malice still had her hand on his crotch. His body’s jaw went slack, and then it began to slump. Malice grabbed it around its chubby waist and lowered it to the floor so that its back was propped against the washing machine.
“Get out there,” Malice said to it. His eyes had rolled back in his head, but his face retained an expression of amazement.
He spun in midair and zipped through the room full of children, through the metal blinds, and into the backyard. His family was gathered by the tree. Mom and Frankie were trying to hold back Loretta, while Buddy hovered nervously behind them, his hand resting on a machine. Across from them stood two men: the bartender from the tavern, and the old guy with the fifties hairdo who’d been in Mitzi’s office. Ancient Elvis. He was waving a gun, and Matty thought: He’s going to shoot Loretta.
Then Teddy stepped in front of the men, and Matty thought: No, Elvis is going to shoot my grandfather.
TEDDY
When he was younger and stupider, Teddy thought that getting gunned down would be the perfect capstone to his career. The Sun-Times would write up his life story, and the world would finally learn about the greatest card mechanic in Chicago. But that was before he met Maureen, before she gave him these children—who, unfortunately, had all decided to congregate in front of a madman.
“You can’t win,” Teddy said. “You’re outgunned.”
Nick laughed. “You mean that guy?”
Archibald still aimed the micro-lepton gun at Nick. But the weapon was less than useless to a non-psychic. He’d been lying when he said it caused stroke and paralysis. Teddy believed in the power of suggestion, but Nick was beyond suggestion, and well into the realm of mania.
“No, I mean—” A flash of light, like the reflection off a watch crystal, distracted him. It flickered from the house to a spot in front of him. Which made no sense, because light had to reflect off something to be seen, and this will o’ the wisp—was already gone. A trick of the light. Or of his aging mind.
“He means us,” Irene said. “We’re the Amazing Telemachus Family, asshole. And you’re screwed.”
“Step aside,” Nick said.
“No dice,” Teddy said. Suddenly Graciella was beside him. He said, “Honey, let me—”
“Honey?!” Nick shouted.
“Go home,” Graciella said to Nick.
“Oh, I’m going home. Go get the boys. They’re coming home with me.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Graciella said.
“I’ll kill you where you stand,” Nick said. “I’ll kill all of you.”
Without turning his head, Teddy said, “Irene?”
She put her hand on his shoulder—and did not squeeze. Not a bluff, then. Nick really was that crazy. Teddy would have to appeal to a higher power.
“Barney,” he said. “You really going to go to the electric chair for this guy?”
The bartender sighed deeply. Then he said, “Come on, Nick. Let’s go.”
Nick wheeled on him. “What did you say?”
Barney grabbed the pistol in both hands, and yanked it out of Nick’s grip. It was the bravest thing Teddy had ever seen.
“We’re done here,” Barney said.
“God damn it!” Nick screamed, and he threw himself onto the bartender.
Both men had their hands on the pistol, Barney at the grip, Nick with both hands around the barrel. Nick wrenched it sideways, and for an awful moment the gun was pointed at Teddy. Then for a worse moment it jerked toward Graciella. Teddy pulled her to him—
—and the ground exploded beneath their feet.
He didn’t have time to even shout.
IRENE
Later, when she had time to think it through, she still wouldn’t be able to decide what had occurred in what order. In the moment, however, everything seemed to happen at once: she screamed, her father and Graciella vanished, a gun fired.
The gun. Nick and Barney were still fighting over it, grunting like bears. She couldn’t tell who was winning. The men had become a tangle of arms, a furious, tumbling mass.
What the hell had happened to her father? A hole had appeared where they stood.
No, reappeared. Buddy had dug it early in the summer. But hadn’t he filled it in? Irene and Frankie and Loretta stood frozen. Two more feet closer and they’d have fallen in, too. And Buddy—
Buddy lay on the ground behind her.
For a long moment, her body was paralyzed. Then, with no memory of moving, she was on her knees beside him. Buddy lay still, his head turned away from her. Frankie and Loretta hadn’t noticed he was down; their attention was riveted to the fighting men.
The gun went off a second time, followed by another sound. She flinched, and then realized the second sound was the sha-ring of metal on metal: a ricochet.
Buddy’s eyes were open. He was looking at the orange canister. His hand rested against its side as if it were a dog that needed soothing. His other hand lay on his chest.
She touched his face. “Are you okay? Talk to me.”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Was anyone else hit? I couldn’t remember everything. I couldn’t see it all. I’m so sorry.”
Anyone else? Irene thought. She looked down at his hand, the way he was pressing it to his shirt.
“It’s almost time,” he said.
She realized that he wasn’t looking at the canister, he was looking at his watch.
Someone screamed in rage. She looked up. Nick Pusateri had gotten the gun. He held it up as if it were a starter’s pistol. His toupee had been pulled back from his scalp, but it was still stitched to the back of his head; it hung over the back of his neck like a pelt.
Barney lay on the ground, holding his throat.
“Fuck you all,” Nick said. The barrel of the gun jerked in his unsteady hand. Pull the trigger, and he might hit Frankie or Loretta. Point a few degrees higher, and only the tree would get it. Drop a few degrees, and Irene and Buddy could be shot.
Irene had time to think, Yes, he’s telling the truth. We are all fucked.
FRANKIE
He couldn’t take his eyes off the gun. It twitched and weaved, commanding his attention like a pinball. The fact that a man was holding it was almost immaterial.
Buddy lay on the ground behind him, probably shot. Irene perched over him, talking, though he couldn’t hear what she was saying. The gun was everything.
When he played pinball, there’d been many moments when the ball was moving too fast, pinging around the table, responding only to the physics of bumper and rail. Every game, no matter how good it had been up till then, ended the same way: the ball dropping between the paddles, heading for the drain, and not a thing he could do about it. The waiting almost made him drowsy.
He sensed Nick’s hand tensing on the trigger. He saw the gun nose toward him. It was a relief, really. Then the mouth of the barrel moved a few centimeters, and he realized that the bullet would miss him.
The gun fired. And fired again, and again. That quick.
Loretta said, “Oh.” She looked down, and her eyes widened.
A wad of silver hovered in the air a few inches from her chest. The bullets had nestled together. As she watched, they became mercurial, smoothing into a perfect little ball bearing. Then gravity resumed, and the ball dropped to the ground.
“Jesus fucking…” Nick stepped back, mouth slack, unable to finish the curse. He was afraid. Afraid like Lonnie. Then he turned and ran toward the house, still holding the gun.
Irene said, “Frankie.”
He glanced behind him. Irene crouched beside Buddy, who lay on the ground holding his chest.
“The kids,” she said.
Oh God. The children were in the house.
“Get that fucker,” L
oretta said.
Nick had reached the back patio. Archibald stepped forward and Nick shouted and pointed the gun at his face. Then he yanked open the door and vanished inside. Frankie heard a second shout a moment later.
“Take care of Buddy!” Frankie yelled to Loretta, and sprinted for the house. He lurched inside and had to stop short. A dark-haired man knelt on the kitchen floor, holding a hand to his bloody mouth. It was the guy Irene had been having sex with in the station wagon.
“Guh,” the boyfriend said.
“He’s got a gun. I know.”
“No. Guh.” The boyfriend lifted his hand. He was holding Nick’s pistol.
“How the hell did you do that?”
“That way,” the guy said, and pointed toward the living room.
Nick had reached the front door. Were the kids out front? Then Nick pushed through the door—and went tumbling. His feet flew into the air, and he hit the ground.
People used to say to Frankie, You look like a wrestler, ever do time on the mat? And Frankie would tell them fight stories, about how it was nothing like professional wrestling. Nobody flies off the ropes. Nobody throws “atomic drops.” No, a real wrestler puts you on the ground and chokes you out.
Frankie had never been a wrestler, real or otherwise. But he’d watched a lot of TV.
Two seconds later, he launched himself from the front door and dropped onto Nick Pusateri like Andre the fucking Giant.
24
BUDDY
He’s trying to concentrate despite all the distractions. The pain in his chest is terrifying, and Irene’s tearful face makes him want to soothe her, but there’s no time.
He squints at his watch. The second hand is climbing, climbing. Finally it reaches the notch that stands for the twelve. It’s 12:02. He imagines the sound of the magnetic lock disengaging on the basement door, but he’s too far away to hear it. Worse, he has no memory of the children emerging safely from the bunker he built for them. He only can remember the next sixty seconds.
It’s not an interesting memory. Mostly it involves him lying here on the ground, with Irene crying over him. And he remembers his father calling out for help.
So far, the plan is working, if obeying the dictates of faulty memory can be called a plan. For the last seven months he’s lived in a state of stress, constantly worried that he was forgetting a key detail, or that he’d misunderstood some part of the vision. The rest of the time he was afraid that he was remembering too much, locking in the future when he needed to leave more in the shadows, allowing free will to…be free. Either way was a trap. When he was a boy, he saw so much, and changed nothing. Nothing to the better anyway. What if, by trying to see less, he made everything worse?
Irene brushes the tears from his eyes. “It’s okay,” she says. “I’m here.”
“I’m glad,” he says.
Loretta, weeping mascara, leans over him and says, “I’ll call nine-one-one.” He doesn’t tell her he’s already called them. It will make her feel useful if she can help.
Irene puts her hand on his. “I’m going to need to take a quick look, okay?”
He remembers this moment, so how can he stop her? Soon she’ll do whatever she wants. He moves his hand out of the way.
She sees the hole in his shirt. She frowns.
“It’s okay,” he says. Meaning it doesn’t hurt, too much.
She undoes a button, then another. “What is this, Buddy?”
“Mom gave it to me,” he says.
She lifts the medal from his chest. He winces, because the impact has bruised him. Then she looks at his skin. There’s no blood.
“You’re one lucky son of a bitch,” she says.
“No,” he says. “I’m not.”
MATTY
He slammed back into his body so hard that it shook the washing machine. He opened his eyes, and Malice was squatting in front of him, her worried face inches from his.
“I heard gunshots!” she said. “What’s happening?”
Oh God, what wasn’t happening? “There was an explosion, and Grandpa Teddy fell, and then your dad got shot—”
“What?!”
“But not shot! Now he’s in the front yard, and they’re fighting—”
Julian yelled, “The door opened!”
Malice bolted from the laundry room. Matty pushed himself to his feet, feeling dizzy. The kids had stopped playing with Mr. Banks. Jun cradled him in her arms. The other kids looked scared.
Malice ran out the door, and Polly and Cassie chased after her. “Front yard!” Malice yelled.
“Don’t go out there!” Matty said.
Julian gave him a scornful look and left the room. Matty turned to Jun. “You’re in charge. Don’t let Luke and Adrian go up there, okay?”
“I’m older than she is!” Luke said.
Matty ran up the stairs, and saw Malice, the twins, and Julian running toward the front door. “Stop!” he yelled. “They have guns!” They ignored him and ran to the front lawn.
Frankie straddled Nick Pusateri, punching down. Nick had his forearms up, protecting his face.
The twins screamed. Frankie glanced over his shoulder. His face was covered with blood, as it had been when Matty had seen him in the backyard. The girls screamed again. “Get back,” Frankie said.
And in that moment Nick hit him hard across the jaw. Frankie fell onto his side. Nick pushed himself to his feet. He looked twice as old as he had a few minutes ago. The toupee had vanished, exposing a skull that was hairless except for a fringe at the temple.
“That’s the guy who shot your dad,” Matty said. Shot at, he should have said. He hadn’t had time to explain what he’d seen.
Nick stepped to Frankie. Malice yelled, “Get the fuck away from him!” The twins resumed their miniature screams. Nick raised a boot. The pants pulled up, showing the red flames stitched onto the black leather.
Behind Matty, Julian said, “Pop-Pop?”
Nick glanced at the door, lowered his boot. Maybe it was seeing his grandson. Maybe it was finally hearing the sirens. Either way, he stepped back, breathing hard. Then he looked around as if getting his bearings. He turned and shambled toward a gleaming, finned sedan that looked like it had just driven off a Plymouth showroom in 1956.
Frankie moaned, tried to sit up. Matty said, “He’s getting away.”
Malice said to the twins, “Girls. Look at me.” Cassie and Polly were crying, but they listened. “Girls, you know that thing that you’re never supposed to do?”
Cassie nodded. Polly pushed a hand across her nose.
Malice pointed at the car.
“Really?” Polly asked.
“Do it,” Malice said.
“Okay,” Cassie said.
Nick got within twenty feet of the Plymouth when the hood catapulted from the frame in a shower of sparks. It spun away, end over end. The car battery was on fire. And then the entire engine burst into flame.
Nick stopped walking. He stared at the car for a long moment, and then he sat down in the grass.
TEDDY
Dying by gunshot was one thing. But he’d never expected to be blown up.
There’d been a whump, and then the ground opened beneath their feet, and he and Graciella had plummeted. They landed, tangled in each other—and bounced. Then they came down again, and her elbow slammed into his ribs. It was the pain that convinced him he wasn’t dead.
They’d landed on a stack of mattresses.
Dirt pattered upon their faces. Before they could get the air back into their lungs, they heard gunshots. He’d never used the word “fusillade” before, but he’d just experienced it. Then Frankie had run past the hole without looking down, and there was no noise except for the distant peal of sirens.
Finally they wiped the dirt from their faces, and got breath back into their lungs. Graciella asked the obvious. “What happened?”
“Buddy,” Teddy answered.
“We’ve got to get out,” Graciella said. “The boys are
up there.” Even covered in dirt, even wild with anxiety for her sons, she was beautiful.
He looked for a way up. The hole was more than a hole; it had structure. The dirt walls were lined by four-by-fours, spaced every few feet and cross-braced. A wooden frame at the mouth anchored an array of hydraulic pistons. Those had been keeping the door closed, until they suddenly, and violently, weren’t.
It was a God damn tiger trap.
Teddy had known about the hole, he’d watched Buddy dig it, but he’d thought the kid had filled it in, not covered the trapdoor with turf. Somebody could have been killed!
“Can you climb out?” Graciella asked him.
“Hmm,” he said, as if seriously considering it. If he were younger, he might be able to scamper up those cross-braces until the handholds were blocked by the door, then leap manfully and pull himself up. He wondered if he’d ever been that young. Or manful.
Instead, he yelled for help. And again. Eventually two heads appeared at the lip of the grave: Archibald and Clifford.
“Is everyone okay?” Graciella said.
“I was going to ask you the same question,” Archibald said.
Clifford said, “The shooting’s over. The police are here. Destin’s wounded, but he’s fine.”
“The children are fine, too,” Archibald said.
Graciella didn’t look relieved. “Get me out. Now.”
“Is there nobody under seventy up there?” Teddy asked.
“Do you want help or not?” Archibald said.
Teddy made a basket of his hands, and stooped to allow Graciella to step into it. The men above hauled her up and out. Goodness, she had lovely legs. He was almost sad that they hadn’t spent more time down here, trapped like miners after a cave-in. They could have bonded while they waited for lunch to be lowered on ropes.
Archibald and Cliff had to lie on their bellies to reach him. “Just a moment,” Teddy said. He plucked the Borsalino from where it had come to rest against the dirt wall. He brushed it off and set it firmly on his head.
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