****
“Close your mouth, Quinn,” Rex drawled. “You’ll catch flies.”
“Oh, my—Michael!” The room swayed. She grabbed the brass handle.
Tied to a straight-backed chair, her brother strained against the rope and made frantic, unintelligible noises through his gag. A crimson welt stood out on one cheekbone.
“Isn’t this nice? A family reunion.” Rex sat at the foot of the king-sized bed. He kept his birthmark turned away from Quinn.
“Wh-what’s he doing here?” she croaked.
Blood rushed to Michael’s face, and the vein in his left temple throbbed as he tried to speak. He rocked his chair back and forth on the thick carpet in a frenzy.
“Family reunion?” Rex’s visible eye glittered. “You can see how excited ole Mike is.”
The chair tilted on two legs and Quinn’s throat jammed shut.
“Mike simply couldn’t stay away.” Rex crossed one leg casually over the other, keeping his birthmark turned to the wall. He could pass for a model in a men’s glossy magazine.
The gun he pointed at Quinn looked shiny and lethal.
“What’s going on?” she whispered. “Where’s Pierce?”
Rex leveled the gun at Michael. Her heart flip-flopped. “Hear that Baby Bro? She’s more worried about His Pierceness than she is about you.”
Michael’s blue eyes danced with fury. His response was garbled. A purple bruise intersected with the wound on his cheek.
“Is Pierce hurt?”
“What if I told you he was dead?” Rex arched a brow.
Because her trembling legs were about to collapse anyway, Quinn slid down the wall. Her ears rang. Little black dots danced like gnats in front of her eyes. “You’re-you’re lying.”
“Aren’t you gonna say you’d know—if His Pierceness was dead?” Rex taunted. “You hear that line all the time on soap operas.”
“I don’t watch soap operas.”
“Go ahead, Quinn. Rub it in. You have a life.” Rex sniffed and raised his chest. His voice came out in falsetto. “Oh, no, Pericival, you’re lying. Reginald couldn’t possibly be dead. I’d know, you see, if...he was dead.”
“Wh-where is he?” Quinn felt about as tough as a squashed bug.
“Where you always wanted him,” Rex drawled. “At your feet.”
Her back against the wall limited her view, but she could see Pierce wasn’t lying between Rex and the bathroom. Standing meant she’d fall down, her brain warned. Her legs paid no attention to the old cliché, where there’s a will, there’s a way. There was no way willpower could heave her to her feet.
Michael kicked the floor and grunted like a four-year-old having a major tantrum. A vein jumped in his temple, and his eyes pled with her. Through her lashes, Quinn watched Rex watch her. Dammit. He knew she couldn’t resist the bait he’d thrown her. The only way she’d know if Pierce was hurt—or dead—was to see for herself. Michael had to wait.
Head down, staying wide of Michael’s flailing feet, Quinn crawled toward the far wall. A sweet, metallic smell hung in the air. Her heart jammed in her throat. She rounded the corner of the bed and tasted salt. She put her hands over her mouth. Her stomach bucked.
“Alas,” Rex sighed. “Beauty is only skin deep, right, Mike?”
Pierce lay on his back, his arms wide. Purple and red bruises tattooed both eyes—which were swelled shut. A flap of skin dangled from his right cheek. His bottom lip looked like a wet, black caterpillar.
“Mike swears you don’t faint at the sight of blood,” Rex said.
Her stomach rolled. The skin on her arms and neck was clammy, and her fingers felt as useable as fresh sausages. “I don’t faint. Period.”
“Blood gives a nice sheen to black hair, don’t you think?” Rex ran his stubby fingers through his yellow crewcut.
Quinn swallowed her nausea. “His nose looks broken,”
“You should see the other guy.”
Warm air chilled her neck. Heart lurching, she whipped around.
Rex leaned over her shoulder. “Our Pierce looks like he didn’t survive the train wreck.”
“What’s wrong with him?” The question clanged in her ears, too loud, too tinny.
“I’d say a concussion.”
“Why’d you hurt him?” Pierce’s harsh breathing constricted the air in Quinn’s lungs.
Rex clicked his tongue. “Something bad happens and the ugly guy’s always it. Is that your logic, Quinn?”
“You hate him,” she flared, terrified to touch Pierce.
“Right.” Rex moved the little silver handgun up and down. “I forgot.”
“He needs a doctor.”
“You think?” Rex pursed his lips.
“If he dies—”
“Boo hoo, boo hoo.” Rex wiped away an invisible tear and threw Quinn a ghoulish grin. “Not to worry. Pretty faces are a dime a dozen. In some cases, several dimes.”
“You signed on to BOTN and got a shock, right?”
“Not a shock. A surprise.” He parroted Pierce’s speech pattern with near perfection.
“Once you killed Tony—”
“Hard to do when I was amusing your hoity-toity friends into the wee hours. Brittany alibied me to the cops.”
Michael made choking noises.
“Goddammit.” Rex spun around and held his arms straight in front of him—probably the way he’d seen on TV—both hands wrapped around the gun’s butt.
Quinn squeaked once—a tiny, pitiful sound.
Waving the gun, Rex looked over his shoulder.
Sweat dripped off her eyebrows, but she widened her eyes. Wide eyes failed to divert him, and despair dropped like a boulder in her stomach. What now?
She crabbed a couple of feet after him. “Who besides Brittany gave you an alibi?”
“Wanna bet, Michael, the next question is where did you entertain the friends?” Rex leaned over Michael’s shoulder. “Could be a toss-up. Maybe it’s how long did you entertain them?”
Suddenly, from under the cream-colored bedspread, a tiny razor whipped out, slicing Quinn’s thigh. She gasped, but a soft groan from Pierce sent her scrabbling backwards, dismissing ridiculous concerns about rabies.
“What’s wrong, Michael? Are you pouty ’cuz Big Sis has forgotten ya?”
“Stop saying that.” Quinn found Pierce’s thready pulse. “I thought you were his friend.”
Rex cackled. “Who says we’re not best buds? Who says I wouldn’t do anything for my ole bud Mike?”
In the middle of his bluster, Rex laid the gun on Michael’s jaw, stared at Quinn, taunted, “Didn’t I trek into the mother of all storms to save my ole bud’s ass?”
“They could make a TV movie based on your odyssey.” Quinn held his gaze and oozed sincerity. Had she imagined Pierce’s groan?
“Damn right.” Rex nodded. “Hear that, Mike, ole bud, ole bud?”
Silently, Quinn begged Michael to nod. He squeezed his eyes shut and bobbed his head. Pierce lay absolutely still. Floyd peeped from under the bedspread.
“How’s that for an endorsement?” Rex crowed and pranced toward Quinn.
The big orange and white head disappeared.
“A ringing endorsement.” Her obvious phoniness terrified her he’d become suspicious.
“Careful now,” Rex towered over her. “That comment teeters on sarcasm.”
Quinn swallowed, speaking slowly. “I’m tired. But I meant what I said.”
“Well, Missy, being nosy does take a lot of energy.” Mimicking John Wayne in speech and action, Rex twirled the gun on the end of his finger.
Her heart slammed into her rib cage. “Stop that!”
“Not to worry. I’ve got a license. Plus, I’m a damn good marksman. One of my many unappreciated talents.”
A whisper of sound raised her scalp and froze her vocal cords. The flattery she’d intended to lay on him clogged her throat. God, she should’ve told Pierce how much she loved him. Wanted to marry him... Grow
old with him.
Rex cocked a hand behind his ear. “Hark, methinks Sleeping Handsome wakens.”
Quinn whipped around to check. “He needs a doctor.”
She caught the tiniest ripple of the bedspread out of the corner of her eye a breath before Rex sauntered closer.
“Poke him.” Rex stood on tiptoe, looking over Quinn’s head. “He’s playing possum.”
Floyd, hissing, claws curled, scraped Rex’s exposed ankle.
“Jesus!” Rex kicked sideways.
The next flash of claw was accompanied by a hair-raising yowl.
Rex backtracked, hopping from one foot to the other.
Floyd stuck his head from under the spread, bared his incisors and streaked between Rex’s legs.
Stars gyrated behind Quinn’s eyelids.
Maybe her rep as a hard head was overrated. She’d never had a gun bounce off the top of her skull. Unlike feisty female cops on TV, she didn’t leap instantly to her feet.
On the other hand, neither did Rex.
Writhing and punching and screaming failed to dislodge twenty pounds of feline fur and fang. Floyd clung to Rex’s neck with the ferocity of a mountain lion crossed with a Rottweiler.
Dazed, Quinn squinted. Nothing came into focus. Panic snaked down her spine. Where the hell was the gun?
Across the room, Michael went nuts. Neck muscles bulged as he screamed into his gag. He kicked his feet, bucked his body, jerked his head up and down.
The gun’s barrel protruded from under the bedspread.
Quinn telegraphed Michael she understood. She saw the gun—and almost wished she didn’t. She’d never seen a real gun until half an hour ago. Dummy that she was, she’d expected to live her whole life without seeing or touching one.
Michael stamped his feet—a non-verbal command. Pick up the gun.
Easy for him to say...tied up like a Thanksgiving turkey. She wobbled up on all fours. The room whirled. Her stomach dropped. She swallowed, glanced over her shoulder, froze.
Rex’s screams had died to whimpers. His fetal position brought little relief from Floyd’s full-fanged assault. Strangled screams from Michael demanded her attention. She crawled toward the bed.
If she watched more TV, she’d know how to pick up the damned gun. How to handle it.
Muscles and nerves trembled. Fear spread through her like a mutant virus. A little stretch—two, three inches at most—and her fingertips could graze the gun’s barrel. Her heart stopped. She’d rather kiss a snake than touch that cold metal.
What about Pierce?
Would she rather let him die than pick up the damn gun? He’d never know she loved him and wanted to marry him.
Shaking all over, she formed pinchers with her thumb and forefinger and dragged the gun by its barrel from under the bed. Michael bucked his chair across the thick carpet. She picked up the gun by the butt and faced Rex.
Before she got the feel of the handle, he rolled onto his back. Floyd clung to his arm. Rex screeched and hammered a fist down on the old cat’s head.
Quinn screamed. Floyd dropped to the floor. He lay unmoving. Eyes closed. Chest still.
“Bastard.” Tears stung Quinn’s eyelids. She gripped the gun, felt for the trigger and let her gaze stray for half a nanosecond to the motionless cat.
In that fraction of a moment, Rex’s foot shot into the air. The toe of his shoe connected with her wrist, then smashed into her calf. The gun flew out of her hand. Her knees crumpled. She collapsed on top of the weapon. The barrel stabbed her ribs like a stake.
Rex piled on her back—bleeding and sobbing and swearing—a parasite determined to survive. He pummeled her spine and ribs with wild, frenzied blows.
She chewed her bottom lip. Tried to breathe. Couldn’t. Her ears felt ready to explode. Rex pounded her. “Don’t you know...a gentleman never...hits a lady?”
“Bitch.” His voice thickened with tears. “You’re like all the rest, bitch.”
The ultra-thick carpet was smothering her. She risked a concussion and turned her face sideways, whispering, “Bitch is politically incorrect, you know.”
Then, she tried to buck him off her back.
Her attempt earned her a harder rib-jab and a smack to the back of her head. She sucked in air, but tears rolled down her cheeks. The carpet swam in and out of focus.
Unconsciousness...one more head blow away. She bucked again.
“Give it up.” Rex cuffed her on the temple for a little variety.
“...can’t breathe.” She huffed, her ears roaring.
“Poor baby.” He wiggled a hand under her chest in search of the gun.
“Shiiit.” She bit back a shriek.
His fingers were like having a snake crawl down her blouse. Years of yoga came back. She stopped fighting, balanced on her left wrist and raised her neck and shoulders in a modified salute to the sun.
The movements distracted him enough he pulled his hand out from under her. She whipped her head out of range of his open palm. Somehow, she grabbed his little finger between her teeth. He screamed. She bit down. Bones crunched.
He rolled off her back, moaning, “Oh my God. OmyGod. Oh. My. God.”
He rocked back and forth, his finger in his mouth. Michael made noises and kicked his heels. Warning her, she supposed. A broken finger wouldn’t stop Rex now. He had to have the gun. To get it, he’d kill her and Pierce and his best friend.
Sweat spurted off her. She groaned and made another tripod. Her ribs felt like burning fuses. Michael banged his chair like a wild man against the side of the bed.
“Give...a...minute,” she gasped.
A minute wasn’t nearly enough time to refine the plan. The basics emerged clear and rational. Retrieve the gun. Untie Michael.
The details didn’t quite come together in Quinn’s aching head. A mental movie unwound. She saw Michael call the police while he kept Rex in line with the gun. She took care of Pierce. The most important part of the movie was more nebulous.
How could she untie Michael and hold the gun and guard Rex?
Sucking his mangled finger didn’t fool her any more than his hair-raising howls. Instinct warned her he’d spring on the gun the instant she lifted her body off it. If she moved her limbs and upper body any slower, they’d all die from old age. Her mind sorted and prioritized.
Call an ambulance and the police. Take care of Pierce and Floyd. Don’t take her eyes off Michael and Rex.
The cat’s lifeless body brought a sting of tears. Michael yelled incoherently into his gag, his face an unhealthy purple. Quinn inhaled and pushed upward. Rex halted his hysterics and watched. Watched her weak wrist collapse. Watched her slump back to the floor.
Then Pierce moaned.
Her heart yo-yoed. God, what if he’s choking?
Muscle-memory from yoga ignited. Slowly, slowly, slowly, she lifted her hips. Her fingers closed around the gun butt, then around the trigger. Rex slithered sideways like a snake. Sweat soaked her clothes, threatened to blind her, slicked her fingers, but she pulled the gun from under her trembling body and pointed it at Rex’s heart.
Her wrist shook, terrifying her she’d drop the gun. She whispered, “Don’t. Move.”
Rex cringed. “You’re making a big mistake.”
“A line from the soaps?” In her mind, she measured the distance to Michael’s chair.
Understanding flashed in her brother’s penetrating gaze. He frowned, dug his heels into the carpet and pulled his chair toward her like a mutant snail.
“You don’t understand.” Rex sounded like a small, scolded boy trying to make his mother feel guilty for his punishment.
“On your stomach.” Quinn tracked Michael’s progress out of the corner of her eye.
“You should listen—”
“On. Your. Stomach.” She pointed the gun barrel at a spot on the floor. “Slide under the bed.”
“Are you nuts?” He eased down on one elbow.
“Bingo. Slide under all the way.”
> Propped on his elbow, he said, “Your hand’s too weak to pull the trigger.”
“Maybe.” A million hot needles stung her wrist. He kicked harder than a kangaroo. “But I’m pretty sure Michael’s feet aren’t too weak to stomp the shit out of you.”
Grunts and muffled roars reinforced her assertion. Rex’s mouth twisted. He must’ve realized she’d shoot him. He wedged an arm and leg under the bed.
“I can’t go all the way.” His voice rose in a poor-me whine.
“Of course not. Not a hulk like you.” Quinn motioned Michael to turn his chair so she could reach him easier.
“Get your head under there, and turn your face the other way. It makes me sick.” Fool that she was, she felt a jab of guilt speaking this truth.
Another groan from Pierce.
Her heart lurched. “Hurry.”
Fire burned under her ribs. She bit down on her bottom lip and curled her fingers around the back of Michael’s chair. Her calves and thighs shuddered, but she rose to her knees. The effort froze the air in her lungs. She swayed like a drunk. Behind her, Rex giggled. The sound snapped in her brain like an over-stressed rubber-band. Rage steadied her. She yanked the gag off Michael’s mouth, nearly decapitating him. His ragged gulps echoed her own labored breathing.
“Don’t talk, okay?”
Eyes glittery, he nodded, then croaked, “You’re toast, Rex.”
His wrists were a violent red, the skin raw and bloody from rope burn. Every time Quinn touched the knots, he flinched. Even supported by the chair, her whole body shook from staying on her knees. Her fingers fumbled at the Gordian knots Rex had woven.
“Pull the rope over one thumb,” Michael ordered.
“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” With the right side of his body under the bed, Rex slapped his left hand on the carpet, then imitated the spine-tingling laugh of The Shadow. She and Michael had listened to tapes of the old radio program for hours.
“Shut up,” Michael said, his voice low, disquieting.
“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.” Rex threw Michael’s own voice back at him.
She tugged at the ropes and shivered. Rex’s voice switches came one after the other, sounding eerily natural. Attempts to keep up with each of his personality changes frayed Quinn’s nerve-endings.
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