13 1/2

by Nevada Barr

  “They are not babies,” Polly said more sharply than she intended. “They are too old to be carried around like sleepy toddlers.” Why she wished to make her daughters seem more mature and independent, she didn’t know.

  “Never too old to be carried,” Danny said, scooping Gracie into his arms. She was awake-Polly could tell in the way mothers can always tell-but pretending not to be in order to get a ride up the stairs. Emma was truly asleep. Her noodley form draped over Polly’s shoulder as she gathered up her bare legs. Emma was growing coltish, long-legged.

  She would be taller than Gracie.

  The incredible sweetness of her child, nestled into the crook of her neck, struck Polly through the numbness that had overtaken her. There was an edge to this child-love that was so sensual, right and good, a true connecting.

  She should have left them with Martha, away from whatever was coming.

  She had them with Martha; Danny had taken them, taken them without asking her permission, though she was a cell phone call away.

  “Wait,” she cried as he started for the door into the cellar. Suddenly, she could not bear to have him carry Gracie into the black beneath the duplex. Terror that she would never see her daughter again gripped her and she yelled, “Wait, goddamn you!”

  Danny stopped and looked back. “Of course I’ll wait. Are you okay?”

  “Thank you,” she said as politely as she could. She didn’t answer his question. It was absurd.

  Why on earth would anyone expect her to be okay?

  37

  Light came sudden and hard into Marshall ’s eyes. Lost in the past, he hadn’t heard anyone coming.

  “Marsh!” His brother’s voice was harsh with the shock of seeing him there. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

  Old memories and hard light cleared from Marshall ’s eyes, and he saw Danny with his daughter nightgowned and draped in his arms like Faye Wray. Gracie’s eyes were open and her face blank. She was trying to figure out what the adult world was up to. With the sixth sense of a child, she knew not to demand answers in her usual, forthright manner.

  Marshall ’s fingers closed over the remnants of his childhood still held in his palm.

  “Get down, Gracie,” he said in a neutral tone. “Uncle Danny can’t carry such a big girl for too long.”

  Polly, Emma clutched to her side, stood at Danny’s shoulder. Stainless steel lamps loomed behind them, reminiscent of a dentist-chair nightmare.

  “Polly, take the girls upstairs and put them to bed,” Marshall said. It was not a command; it was a plea.

  “Don’t do it, Polly,” Danny said. “God knows what he’s got upstairs. Stay with me. Otherwise, I can’t keep you safe.”

  He sounded so certain, so sure of himself, for a moment Marshall was Dylan again, and Dylan believed himself capable of any horror.

  Gracie struggled. Danny set her on her feet but kept her close to him, one arm locked across her chest protectively. “Polly, I think it’s time you met your husband. The girls, too. It will help them with the transition,” Danny said.

  “Dylan Raines,” Marshall said to his wife. “I’m Dylan Francis Raines of Rochester, Minnesota.” The words tasted like a lie. He’d not been Dylan Raines for too many years. “And I’m Marshall Marchand, the man you married.” He was sounding schizophrenic. He could see alarm growing in Polly’s eyes. He didn’t dare look at Emma or Gracie.

  “Tell her how you murdered our parents and our little sister.” Danny said this with a sadness that hummed along Marshall ’s bones.

  When Danny spoke again his voice was pitched for the ears of children. “He didn’t do it to be mean but because he went into mental illness for a while. I’m not telling you this to scare you,” he said and kissed Gracie on the top of her head, “but because my brother is sick again. He’s been losing time-doing things that he forgets he did. When that happens, people get hurt. The people closest to him get hurt.”

  The clear, mossy green of his wife’s eyes was icing over.

  Polly believed Danny. Dylan believed Rich.

  Remembrance of who he’d been as a boy, how things were, was slipping away.

  Marshall opened his hand and held it out. His brother looked at the pieces from their mother’s jewelry box without recognition, and Butcher Boy slid up close beside Marshall ’s spine, a sword into its scabbard.

  Danny opened his mouth to speak, then closed it abruptly. He’d realized what Marshall held. In that single, unguarded moment, Marshall read his own innocence in Rich’s face. Not in Danny’s, or even Richard’s, but Rich’s-the old face from when he was a boy, before he learned to hide the pleasure he took in torturing the younger kids, in manufacturing accidents.

  Rich saw the tiny gold crosses, the wedding ring and the hockey pin and, for a heartbeat, a smug, sly smile flicked across his lips like the tongue of a snake. In that instant, he looked into Marshall ’s eyes and gloated.

  “What are those?” Polly asked, breaking the moment.

  “They are trophies,” Marshall answered evenly. He couldn’t take his eyes off of his brother, and he could not block the thoughts that flowed like lava, hot and inexorable, through his mind. Half a century of thoughts.

  “They are trophies,” Danny repeated. “Dylan took them off the bodies of our family. I found them clutched in his hand, just like they are now. I took them so the police wouldn’t find them. Do they bring back memories, brother?”

  Marshall started to stand up. The fear on his wife’s face stopped him. She could not see the pride in Danny’s stance or the satisfaction in the set of his lips.

  “Don’t believe him, Polly,” Marshall said, but he had little hope. If Danny-Rich-had bothered to hide his delight in what he had done to Dylan’s life, Marshall might have believed him too.

  “Polly, please take the girls upstairs. Let Danny and me talk.”

  “Stay,” Danny ordered. Pressure was building behind Danny’s mask. Marshall felt it in his own skull, a sharp bite of need. Polly bristled at Danny’s tone. Marshall hoped she would rebel and leave the room with her daughters.

  Danny’s arm tightened around Gracie. “Polly, did Marsh tell you what happened-almost happened-to his fiancée? He tried to kill a pet dog she had. Why do you think he didn’t want Gracie to have a kitten?”

  Marshall watched his elder daughter’s face close against him. Talk of old murders had not affected her. That was too much like the movies. Killing a little animal was within her child’s grasp of consummate evil.

  “He drugged the girl with doctored champagne and put her dog in the freezer to die,” Danny said.

  The champagne, the peace offering from Danny. That’s how he had done it without waking them. Marshall was not even allowed the small triumph of knowing he’d figured it out. Danny had just told him.

  Danny wanted him to know. Danny wanted credit.

  “Hidden your light under a bushel too long, brother?” Marshall asked.

  Danny smiled. It might have read true to someone who didn’t know him. To Marshall, it stank of mockery. He’d seen it when Rich lectured Charlie about water safety when they’d visited him in the hospital, when he swore to Ricky’s parents that he had no idea their son was afraid of snakes.

  When he told Dylan how sorry he was that Phil Maris got booted. “Polly, why did you come back tonight? Why did you bring Emma and Gracie home?” Marshall demanded suddenly.

  “Danny got the girls… ” Polly started to speak. Then her voice trailed off.

  “Why did you bring my wife and daughters here tonight?” Marshall asked his brother. This time he did stand, but the way Danny’s forearm pressed against Gracie’s windpipe kept him from closing the distance between them. “You figured I was knocked out on Ambien. Why would you bring them here when I was out?”

  “I was afraid for them, Dyl, afraid you intended to do what you’d done before, clean house, kill everybody but your brother.” He smiled his old crooked smile and carefully, gently placed one hand on Graci
e’s hair. It could have been a caress, but Marshall knew it wasn’t.

  Danny was going to snap her neck.

  38

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Polly hissed. “Come on girls; let’s let Uncle Danny and Marshall work things out between them.”

  Marshall watched helplessly as she turned and walked toward the bedroom door. “Polly… ” he began, but what could he say? It’s not what you think it is? Better she should leave. He prayed his brother would let Gracie go.

  Danny, a half smile on his face, his hand still on Gracie’s hair, looked at him over her head.

  “Come on, Gracie,” Polly said. Emma tugged her mother to a halt. “Not now, honey.” Again Emma tugged, and Polly leaned down to catch a whispered confidence.

  I’m scared. Daddy’s crazy. Was that what his elfin daughter was saying?

  Polly lifted her head and looked at Danny standing with his back to her, Gracie in his arms, and then at Marshall standing by the bed. A world of emotion passed through her face. Marshall could read none of it. The look of determination when it was done was unmistakable.

  “Danny, darlin’, I know you and Marshall have some talking to do,” her voice was petal soft and so beseeching Marshall hurt hearing it. “But would you be so kind as to help me get the girls tucked in? What with one thing and another, we would feel more secure if you didn’t leave us alone right now.” The last words were said in a voice that turned Marshall to water, a voice he doubted many men could stand against.

  Danny could, but he didn’t. It was the opportunity he’d been waiting for.

  “Sure thing. I’d rather you weren’t alone. It’s just not safe.” He winked at Marshall and backed toward the door, Gracie moving awkwardly with him. Before he turned and followed Polly out through the kitchen, he smiled at Marshall and stroked Gracie’s hair. “You wait here,” he said.

  Marshall knew precisely what he meant.

  Then they were gone; he heard the door to the backstairs close behind them.

  He could call 911, but if the police came, sirens blazing, Danny would surely kill Polly and the girls. If he followed his brother, he would snap Gracie’s neck without a second thought. If he did nothing…

  If he did nothing, it would happen all over again.

  Twitches wracked his body, a seizure of conflicting orders. Shaking, he took one step, then another. From overhead, he heard a faint thump-his kitchen door shutting. Footsteps whispered on the backstairs.

  Was Danny coming back, Gracie’s slender neck in the vise of arm and hand, listening to see if he followed?

  Marshall moved again, softly this time, careful to make no sound on the hardwood floor. In the kitchen, he stopped and listened. Silence was not reassuring. The uneasy twitching of his hands worsened. Marshall was more frightened than he’d been since his parents were killed. He’d grown unaccustomed to physical fear. One of the perks of being a stone-cold killer was that one didn’t worry much about other predators. He wasn’t afraid for himself, but fear for his family was a solid thing, an entity, pumping so much adrenaline into his body he couldn’t stay still.

  A crash sounded overhead, and he was out the kitchen door and halfway up the stairs. A noise from below, from the cellar, turned him around. Black and panting, a troll’s shape rushed upward.

  “Danny,” he said, and his brother stopped. The stairwell was dark but for the light from the street coming through the garden window. It was enough to see; Danny had the axe in his hands. Faint light glistened on the planes of his cheeks and across his flat brow. It flashed dully on his teeth as he smiled. Not his matinee idol smile. This smile was detached from his humanity, a cold mockery of amusement, of the weaknesses and failings of others.

  “Put it down,” Marshall said. His voice shook as badly as his hands.

  “It’s necessary, brother. You made it necessary. I’m just here to clean up after you. Like always. It’s me and you, the Marchand brothers. I told you not to fuck that up. Now you’ve done it. You’ve killed them again.”

  The Marchand brothers, identical twins, dead at birth. Marshall took a step down toward Danny.

  “No sense in it, brother,” Danny warned him. “It’s over. It’s done. They’re already dead. Easy pickings, so soft and sweet. I just got the axe for the finishing touches, history repeating itself. Juries love that. But I won’t call the cops, not if you don’t force me to.”

  All Marshall heard was, “They’re dead.” With the howl of an injured animal, he hurled himself at his brother. The blade of the axe cut into his cheek. He felt the force but not the pain. Before Danny could strike again, Marshall had the handle, his hands between his brother’s on the shaft. The stairwell was narrow and twisted; Marshall ’s shoulders smashed into the walls as they struggled. Danny’s face, still lit from the window, was as smooth and calm as if they played at cat’s cradle.

  Blood poured from Marshall ’s cheek, onto the back of his hand, leaking onto the axe handle, making the wood slick. His brain burned. His body was a machine gone amok. Another cry burst from him, and he heaved upward with all his strength. Surprise registered on Danny’s face as his hands slipped from the newly slickened handle, and he began to fall backwards. Shadows took him, as he slammed onto the lower landing where the steps turned again into the cellar.

  Sudden and complete silence filled the space. Then came a whisper, no more than a breath of sound.

  “Dylan?”

  Axe still in hand, Marshall slowly descended the stairs.

  “Rich?” Time folded in on itself. Mack the Giant was but a few minutes away. Rich was crumpled at the bottom of the flight of stairs, his head propped up against the wall at the corner. Light from the window didn’t penetrate far enough that Marshall could read his face.

  “Help me, Dyl.”

  Marshall crouched down beside his brother, the space so tight his butt hit one wall and the head of the axe the opposite. “Are you hurt?” It wasn’t Marshall asking, it was Dylan. Marshall heard the concern in his voice and hated it.

  Dylan loved his brother.

  “I broke something. You made me a fucking cripple.” Danny started to laugh and the sound seared the last of Dylan from Marshall ’s soul.

  Marshall rose and ran up the stairs toward his apartment, the staccato laughs following him in a poisonous swarm.

  39

  Marshall took the stairs three at a time and slammed into the door to his and Polly’s kitchen. Danny had locked it. Marshall swung the axe and heard the frame splinter. A kick, and he was in. Lights were on in the kitchen and dining rooms. Both were empty. He ran for the stairs and, for once, climbed them without feeling the clamp of Mack’s hand on the back of his neck, his rasping insults at every step.

  The upstairs hall was empty. His office door stood ajar. The master bedroom door was shut. Adrenaline drained out of him as fast as it had shot through his veins.

  Like then, like Dylan, he did not want to see what lay in the bedroom. Visions of black-and-white photographs of his dad in the double bed, his face cloven in two, crowded Marshall ’s vision, shifted, became Polly’s face. Lena appeared, her tiny body destroyed. Lena drifted, became Emma.

  Sirens.

  The police had arrived. Marshall was holding a bloody axe, the only one standing after the bloodbath. Danny-Rich-lay wounded at the foot of the stairs.

  Like before. Just like before.

  He was still standing there when two young policemen came upstairs, guns drawn.

  “Put down the axe! Put down the axe! Put down the axe!” they shouted at him. Marshall turned toward them.

  “Put it down,” one of them screamed and pulled the trigger.

  The sharp report of gunfire released Marshall ’s fingers. As the bullet smashed into the wall six feet from his head, the axe fell from his hands.

  “It’s down! It’s down! He’s dropped it, for Christ’s sake!” one cop shouted at the other. Both were kids, both looked scared.

  “It’s okay,” Marshall heard
himself say. “You’ll need to look in the bedroom. You can handcuff me if it will make you feel better.”

  His compliance reassured them, allowed them to move from scared to angry.

  “You’re damn right we’ll cuff you. You’re goddamn right,” the shooter growled as he walked crabwise up, his pistol still held on Marshall.

  “Could you radio for an ambulance? My brother’s hurt, he’s on the backstairs. I think I broke his back.”

  “Proud motherfucker, aren’t you?”

  Son of Mack the Giant.

  Cuffed and pushed face down on the hall floor, Marshall turned his head to watch them open the bedroom door. It was good to be manacled. Prison would be good, too. No, not good, Marshall thought. Not good or bad. Nothing, really. Just one long unbroken nothing. Without Polly, life was his prison.

  He wished they had put him where he wouldn’t be able to see in. Because he could, he had to.

  “God damn,” the cop huffed as the door refused to budge. Son of Mack pulled out his sidearm again, readying to shoot the lock like they did in police shows.

  “Oh, stop, would you stop with the gun?” the other policeman said. “It’s not locked. Something’s wedged against it.”

  Both of them put their shoulders into it, and the door opened a foot or so. Another shove and whatever was blocking the way toppled with a crash that reverberated through the floorboards and quivered in Marshall ’s bones. The door swung wide. The policemen stood to the sides, guns drawn, backs to the wall. Marshall could see in.

  Polly was there. And Emma and Gracie. The girls were on the king-sized bed and looked no bigger than fairies. Polly, her face white as wax and hard as granite, was at the foot, standing, facing the door. She had a cell phone in one hand and a carving knife in the other.

  Ready to die for her children.

  But she hadn’t, and Marshall began to cry with relief. In the past weeks, he’d cried more than he had since he’d been little. These tears came easily from joy; they neither blinded him nor choked but flowed warm and comforting.