They Won't Be Hurt

by Kevin O'Brien

  “You’ve got to! This Zared is the killer, I just know it. I’m sure of it . . .”

  “Okay, chill, for Christ’s sake,” Vic piped in. “Nice going, Teach. He’ll be bouncing off the walls for the rest of the night over this rape thing. You got any more jolly news for us?”

  She took a deep breath. “Joe stepped away from the phone, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, he just went outside for some air.”

  “Then I’d like to talk to my daughter now.”

  “Yeah, I figured,” he muttered. “I’m headed upstairs right now.”

  “Have they been locked in Sophie’s room all this time?” she asked.

  “Yep, best place for them.”

  Laura nervously drummed her fingers on the deck railing. She hated to think that Vic might be right. She’d seen last night how irritated he’d become around the children. They were probably safer locked in that room—out of sight, out of harm’s way.

  “We got a little surprise with that delivery this afternoon,” he said drolly. “I’ll let the prom queen tell you about it.”

  Laura wondered what he was talking about. She heard rustling and creaking in the background, and then Vic’s voice—a little distant. He must have been talking to them: “Holy hell, it’s hot! And it stinks in here. Did the kid crap in his pants?”

  “What’s going on?” Laura asked.

  “Four people in a warm room and we can’t open a window,” Sophie said on the other end, “that what’s going on.”

  “Four?” Laura repeated. “Wait. Okay, first, Sophie, how are you? How is everyone?”

  “We’re okay, Mom,” her daughter said. “We’re tired, but okay. And Nana’s here.”

  “What?” Laura said.

  “You got a minute, lady,” she heard Vic mutter in the background.

  “Laura, honey?” her mother said.

  Hearing her mother’s voice at this point was just too much. She couldn’t hold back the tears. “Mom? What are you doing there?”

  “It was supposed to be a surprise,” her mother explained. “Sean set it up. I was the special delivery. I was going to help you pack and take you to the airport. You had a six-forty flight to Seattle, and then a connection to Air France. I was going to stay with the kids for the next six nights while you and Sean did Paris. It was a big secret. Even the kids didn’t know about it.”

  Laura just listened and cried. All the horrible things she’d been thinking about her dear, sweet husband.

  “Anyway,” her mother said—with a sad little laugh. “Surprise . . .”

  “Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry,” she managed to say. “I’m sorry you got caught up in this . . .”

  “Honey, so far, we’re all okay—”

  “Gimme,” Vic interrupted. His voice was slightly muffled as he spoke to her mother.

  “She already knows that. The girl already told her.”

  “Mom?”

  “Your husband thinks you’re on your way to Paris,” Vic said. “I sent him a text from your phone—with your trademark ‘Hey you,’ at the start and your little X’s at the sign-off. It was a very romantic little thank-you note, and he bought it. He’s probably fast asleep, dreaming about you right now. Don’t go spoiling things by trying to phone him, because there’s nothing he can do, and you’ll just end up with a houseful of dead people.”

  “I won’t,” Laura heard herself say.

  “Call us after you’ve talked to the waitress,” Vic said. “And you better have something substantial to tell us—and not just your bullshit theories.”

  He hung up.

  Laura stood there, leaning against the railing for a few moments. She couldn’t see the lights on the shore anymore—just the dark horizon. It was three in the morning in France, but she wanted so much to call Sean right now. She wanted to tell him everything. But that wouldn’t do any good. He was practically on the other side of the world. What could he do?

  At this point, all she could do was hope that Martha could tell her something, the something substantial Vic and Joe wanted to hear.

  The wind cut through her. Laura hiked up the collar of her jacket and shuddered violently.

  She had a feeling her poor, dear husband would never see his family alive again.

  * * *

  Slipping the smartphone into his pocket, Vic headed out of the bedroom. But he stopped in the doorway and turned around.

  Sophie felt a wave of dread as he looked her in the eye and crooked his index finger, beckoning her. “Come with me,” he muttered.

  “What for?” she asked.

  “What do you want with my granddaughter?” her grandmother asked. James had been hiding behind his nana ever since Vic had stepped into the room minutes ago. She took hold of Sophie’s arm.

  “Not that it’s any of your fucking business, old lady, but she needs to call her boyfriend.”

  “Don’t talk to my grandmother like that,” Liam warned.

  Vic just chuckled, dismissing him. Then he locked eyes with Sophie again. “C’mon, move your ass.”

  “It’s okay, Nana,” Sophie whispered to her grandmother. She followed Vic out to the hallway.

  Shutting the door, he picked up the crowbar, which was leaning against the wall. He shoved it between the door and the doorframe. “I guess Lucky Matt just can’t get enough of you,” Vic said. “He must want it bad. He keeps texting. And a few minutes ago, he left a voicemail saying he’s coming over. You need to put a stop to that, princess.”

  He led the way down the hall toward her parents’ bedroom.

  “Where’s Joe?” Sophie asked. She’d thought it was strange that he hadn’t come upstairs with Vic earlier, when they’d talked to her mother on the phone.

  “Joe’s outside having a little much-needed alone time.” Vic stepped into her parents’ room, which was still a mess. He swiped her phone off the bed, which Sophie thought was a strange place to leave it. The nightstand lamp was turned on. He sat down on the bed, patted the spot next to him, and held the phone out to her. “Sit. Give Romeo a call . . .”

  Sophie took the phone from him. “I can talk to him standing up.”

  “Sit down!” he growled. “Don’t be so goddamn full of yourself. You know the drill. I need to be in on this conversation.”

  Sophie didn’t budge. “My mother and I had a long talk last night. She said you pulled this same routine with her when she talked to my dad. She said you practically felt her up. I’d just as soon stand, thanks.”

  He let out a snort. He seemed to focus on her breasts. “I see you changed your shirt for me,” he whispered. “Nice. Your tits look good. You shouldn’t cover them up in those loose sweaters . . .”

  “Charming,” Sophie muttered. She crossed an arm in front of her. “I’m wearing a T-shirt because it’s hot and muggy in that bedroom, and you’ve nailed shut the windows. So—what do you want me to say to Matt?”

  He adjusted himself at the crotch and then stood up. “Tell him the same thing you told that nosy neighbor this morning. You’re sick to your tummy, and you don’t want company.” He inched up close to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

  Sophie could smell his foul BO. She moved her shoulder to discourage him from touching her. His hand swept down across her back and grazed her buttocks.

  She speed-dialed Matt’s number.

  He answered after two rings: “Hey, I was beginning to think you were mad at me or something. What’s going on? Are you feeling any better?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Sophie said, hating that Vic was listening in. He stood so close that he was practically pressed against her. She felt his hand on the small of her back.

  “Well, what’s wrong?” Matt asked.

  “I think we got some food poisoning from the fish we had for dinner last night,” she said.

  “Oh, God, that’s awful. Have you been—like hurling and everything?”

  “Yeah, it’s a regular barf-fest here. Anyway, we’re all still pretty sick. My mother talked to t
he doctor, and he said that with this kind of food poisoning, we’ll probably be feeling crummy for at least twenty-four hours.”

  “Did he prescribe anything?” Matt asked.

  “Yeah, and it’s helping a little. Listen, I really can’t hang on the phone. But you were sweet to leave those messages and the texts earlier. I just wanted to tell you not to come over. I really don’t want you seeing me like this. It’s not pretty.”

  She tried to take a step away from Vic, but he stuck by her—until she was sandwiched between him and her mother’s dresser.

  “You sure I can’t bring you anything?” Matt asked. “Chicken soup? I’ve got this great recipe. I open up the can of Campbell’s and pour it in a pan . . .”

  She let out a weak chuckle. “No thanks, Matt. I—I couldn’t keep it down. I probably won’t be in school tomorrow, but why don’t we talk around lunchtime? Okay?”

  “Well, all right,” he said, sounding a little forlorn. “Feel better soon, okay?”

  Vic put his hand on her shoulder again.

  “Thanks, Matt,” she said into the phone.

  “I really missed you today, y’know?”

  “I missed you, too. Matt,” she said hurriedly. “I’ve really got to go. Take care.”

  She clicked off—just as Vic started stroking her hair. She tried to push him away, and the phone dropped out of her hand.

  Vic reached over and pushed the bedroom door shut. He lunged at her, knocking her against the dresser. A couple of perfume bottles fell off the dresser top and hit the floor with a clatter. He started pawing at her.

  “Stop it!” Sophie shrieked, fighting him off. “Joe! Joe, help!”

  All at once, Vic lifted her up and hurled her onto the bed. She didn’t realize how strong he was. Before Sophie could get a breath, he grabbed her leg and spun her toward him. He started to climb on top of her.

  Sophie kicked and screamed. She slapped his face—hard.

  But he didn’t let up. He was relentless. He grabbed her arms and pinned her to the bed.

  As she squirmed beneath him, Sophie heard her grandmother and Liam down the hallway, banging on her bedroom door.

  “What are you doing to her?” her grandmother yelled.

  Liam was shouting for Joe.

  “Stop it, Vic!” Sophie screamed. She thought if she used his name, he’d actually listen. “Vic, think about—think about what you’re doing. If my mother finds out about this, she—she won’t help your friend . . .”

  “I don’t give a shit,” he grunted, hovering over her. His face was almost crimson. He let go of one of her arms for a moment and then reached for the front of her jeans.

  Sophie slapped him again. She tried to gouge his eyes, but he turned his head just in time. She felt his hand fumbling for the button and zipper on her jeans. But she kept wiggling underneath him. This isn’t happening, she thought, still trying to fight him off.

  With him panting over her—and all the shouting and thumping from her grandmother and brother in her room down the hall—Sophie didn’t hear anything else. She didn’t hear Joe running up the front stairs. She didn’t see him until he’d already burst into the master bedroom. But what she saw was him grabbing the vase-lamp from her mother’s nightstand.

  He slammed the lamp over Vic’s head. Sophie turned her face away and heard a crack as the lamp broke. The lightbulb went off with a pop, and the lampshade rolled across the rumpled bed. The room was suddenly dark.

  Stunned, Vic let out a groan and started to slump. But Sophie pushed him off her and he sank down to the floor. Pulling herself off the bed, she staggered to her mother’s dresser. She grabbed the first solid object she saw: a heavy, globe-shaped glass paperweight with a rose inside it. She wanted to bash Vic’s head in. She turned and rushed toward him, raising the glass paperweight in the air.

  “No!” Joe yelled.

  Before she knew what was happening, Joe snatched the paperweight out of her hand and grabbed her around the waist. Sophie struggled as he carried her down the hallway and pulled the crowbar out of the doorway.

  Her grandmother and Liam were still yelling and pounding on the door—until Joe flung it open. He hauled Sophie inside and set her down on her feet.

  She was so unhinged and enraged, she wanted to hit him. It didn’t matter that he’d just saved her. What mattered was he hadn’t let her kill Vic—or at the very least, knock him unconscious and put him out of commission.

  Joe stopped to stare at her for a mere second. Then he swiveled around and hurried out to the hallway. The door slammed shut, and to Sophie, it felt like a sudden punch in the stomach. She heard the squeaking noise and watched the door buckle. She knew he was fastening the crowbar back in the doorway. She couldn’t believe it.

  Even after he’d seen what his friend had tried to do to her, and even with Vic dazed and subdued in the other bedroom, Joe was still letting that son of a bitch call all the shots.

  “My God, Sophie, are you all right?” her grandmother whispered. “Did he hurt you?”

  She stood in the middle of the room with a hand over her heart, trying to catch her breath. She felt sick. She shook her head. “No, I’m all right,” she lied. “He just—he just mauled me a little.”

  James took ahold of her hand. She sank down to her knees and held him.

  Down the hallway, she heard angry muttering between the two men.

  She’d thought that once Vic was overpowered, Joe would somehow come around to helping them. After all, her mother had practically saved his life back when he was a kid—even to the point of making an enemy who slashed up her face. For a brief minute or two, Joe could have put a stop to all this. Instead, he threw her back into this bedroom and barred the door. He might have saved her from Vic’s assault, but she still felt betrayed. And she knew they couldn’t count on him anymore.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she heard Vic bellow.

  She couldn’t make out any words in the apologetic muttering from Joe.

  Then it was Vic again: “Goddamn it, your old teacher isn’t going to find anything on Lopez! Why are you wasting our time here? What the hell is the point? I know, you know, everyone knows—you killed them all. Jesus, Joe! You’re not fooling anybody . . .”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Tuesday—6:55 P.M.

  Lopez Island

  Martha’s block didn’t have any sidewalks, and the houses looked borderline ramshackle. But it also looked rather homey, with bikes out on some of the neglected front lawns and Christmas lights already up and blinking. The shiny black BMW parked across the street from Martha’s townhouse didn’t seem to belong there. People on the block were probably wondering who had a rich relative visiting.

  As she hurried out of the car and headed toward the front door, Laura noticed a few lights on inside the townhouse. She took that as a good sign.

  She’d been worried no one would be home. Martha had told her to come by at five-thirty. And here she was nearly ninety minutes late. Laura didn’t have Martha’s phone number. All she’d gotten was an address scribbled on the back of a grease-stained restaurant check.

  Laura knocked on the townhouse door, and then waited. She didn’t hear any footsteps. She knocked again. She only had about five minutes to talk with Martha and pay her for the information, then turn around and catch the 7:10 ferry. She hoped Martha would be less chatty than Randall.

  Laura still didn’t hear any activity inside the house. The waitress had already taken her for forty bucks. Was it possible Martha had given her a bogus address?

  By the doorway, Laura noticed a mailbox with a little window in it. She could see mail in there. She reached inside and pulled out a Comcast bill addressed to Martha Dressler. So at least she was at the right address. Laura tucked the envelope back in the mailbox and wondered why Martha hadn’t picked up her mail this afternoon.

  She knocked again, harder. The door squeaked and gave a little.

  It wasn’t locked, and hadn’t even been closed
all the way.

  Laura pushed it open farther and peered into the empty front hallway. “Hello?” she called. “Martha? Your front door was open . . .”

  With uncertainty, Laura stepped inside. From the smell, she knew Martha—or maybe someone who lived with her—was a smoker. One light was on in the living room, which was messy. The furniture looked like early, long-ago-expired stuff from Ikea. A string of Christmas lights was hung over a brick and wood bookshelf but wasn’t plugged in.

  Laura never would have barged into a stranger’s home like this, but she was desperate. She could hear water running in another part of the townhouse. She peeked into the darkened kitchen and looked at the sink. Nothing.

  Following the sound, she wandered to the bedroom and stopped in the doorway. The nightstand lamp was on, harshly illuminating a full ashtray just beside it. Clothes were strewn over a chair, and the bed hadn’t been made. The bathroom door was open a crack. Laura could hear the shower going. A trail of steam wafted into the bedroom.

  There was no time to be tactful, tiptoe away, and come back later.

  “Martha!” she called, still tentatively standing in the bedroom doorway. “Martha! It’s Laura—from the café today!”

  She didn’t want to walk through the bedroom and knock on the bathroom door. Part of it was politeness. But there was another reason for her hesitation. Laura felt as if someone was watching her. It was a strong, overwhelming sensation, and for a few moments, it paralyzed her. She called out to Martha again, but there was no response—just the constant roar from the stream of the shower water.

  Finally, Laura stepped into the bedroom and approached the bathroom door. This close, she could see the brown and beige waitress uniform in a heap on the bathroom’s tiled floor. She rapped loudly on the doorway frame. “Martha? Your front door was open . . .”

  She didn’t understand why the woman still couldn’t hear her. She was only a few feet away. Of course, she also couldn’t understand why anyone would take a shower while alone in the house and leave their front door open.

  Laura reluctantly moved past the bathroom door. It squeaked as she opened it farther. The shower had a semi-transparent curtain, closed all the way. But no one seemed to be standing on the other side of it.