Brother

by Ania Ahlborn

  “Surprise,” Reb said. He rose from his seat and met Michael at the head of the table, then patted him on the back as if to wish him well. “We were worried you wouldn’t make it. Woulda been a waste of perfectly good cake.”

  Michael smiled at the sparkling confection despite himself. It shone like a supernova, and again he swore he saw Misty thrown into relief. He blinked, his smile wavering as he did a double take.

  “What? You see somethin’?” Reb raised an eyebrow at the darkness on the opposite side of the room.

  Michael was ready to shake his head and deny he’d seen anything. It was just a trick of the light, his imagination bringing his sister back for a special occasion. It was easy to forget that she was gone for good. That she wouldn’t be playing her records upstairs or dancing in the hallway or beaming at him when he gave her a new piece of pilfered jewelry. But before he had a chance to dismiss it all, a muffled cry came from the far side of the table.

  Michael’s head snapped to the side.

  His heart stopped dead as Rebel’s smile morphed into a serpentine leer.

  “So, I know you’ve been havin’ doubts,” he said. “Stuff about leavin’ us, about wantin’ to run off in search of somethin’ better, whatever that means. So I got to wonderin’, why does my baby brother want to go lookin’ for somethin’ better than what he’s already got? What’s he missin’ that he thinks he can find somewhere else? And then I realized . . . shit, it’s probably my own damn fault.”

  Michael was only half-listening over the thud of his heart. His eyes were fixed on the dark side of the room, trying to see past the glare of sparklers and into the shadows there. Reb, however, was a fan of undivided attention. He slapped his hand onto Michael’s shoulder and gave it a rough squeeze, drawing his brother back to him.

  “I mean, I kind of rub it in your face, huh? The whole adopted thing? That can’t feel good. Shit, of course you want to leave.” Reb almost looked solemn in the flickering glow, but Michael assured himself it was only a trick of the light. Rebel never looked solemn. It was as if he was physically incapable of it. “And now with Misty gone, you’re lonely. I admit, I ain’t the best big brother I could be.”

  Michael swallowed, his mouth dry. He couldn’t help looking back to the shadows. There was something terrible in that darkness, and he was terrified to know what it was.

  “So, to be a better brother, I got you two presents instead of one,” Reb announced. With that, he stepped over to the cake and gave it a shove across the tabletop.

  Michael watched the plate skitter across the wood, the blinding brightness of the sparklers decaying the gloom.

  For a moment, he was sure it was Misty come back from the dead—a miracle, like Jesus resurrected. But then the girl shook her head, trying to cry out past the silver duct tape that covered her mouth. Her hair tumbled across her shoulders as she attempted to wriggle free, but it was no use. She was bound to the chair by loops of tape—wrists to armrests, ankles to chair legs.

  “Lucy was supposed to be for me,” Rebel explained, “but this is better.”

  Michael couldn’t speak.

  His pulse thudded in his ears.

  The flare of sparklers hurt his eyes, like looking into the sun.

  He turned to face his brother, shook his head in silent refusal.

  No, he wouldn’t do this.

  No, he wouldn’t go along with it.

  No. He wouldn’t.

  Not this time.

  No way.

  His eyes searched the room. Momma remained where she had been all along, gripping the chair, but Wade was nowhere to be seen.

  “I had a feelin’ you’d get overwhelmed. It happens,” Reb said. “You know that rifle you used to hunt with when we were kids? I got that thing for Christmas one year, and I was so surprised to get it that I ran upstairs and cried all faggy like a girl. I guess I couldn’t get over the fact that it was for me, or maybe I felt guilty that I was the only one who got somethin’ great while everyone else got shit.” He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know, but I got all goddamn weepy about it and nearly told Wade to take it back. I guess you could say I was a sensitive little fucker, just like you.” He smacked Michael on the back. “Consider this my way of sayin’ sorry for being such an ass for so long. I think them fancy folks up in New York City would call it divine inspiration; a little push in the right direction, since you’ve been so damn confused . . .”

  When Wade stepped into the dining room, Michael’s gaze darted to him for help, but Wade wasn’t alone.

  A scream clambered up Michael’s throat.

  Alice twisted against Wade’s grasp, taped up like Lucy, mascara running down her cheeks. He swore he could hear her yelling his name deep in her throat—desperate pleas for help. Suddenly it all became clear. Wade had been waiting outside, bent over his truck, staking Michael out the way he and Reb scoped out marks. Wade had been waiting for Michael to come home as part of the surprise.

  Michael made a sudden move for his father, ready to tear Alice from his grasp, but Rebel intercepted him. He pressed his palms firmly against Michael’s shoulders to hold him back, his cold smile dancing in the light.

  “Whoa whoa whoa, take it easy, Mikey. Nobody’s gonna hurt Alice.”

  Michael stared wild-eyed at Reb’s grinning face.

  The room fell into a sickening spin.

  His breath came in ragged gasps.

  “Calm the fuck down, huh? I worked a long time on this. Don’t ruin the fun.”

  Wade pushed Alice further into the dining room, and she cried harder when she saw Lucy at the far end of the table. The tears in her eyes flashed like wildfire. Her head whipped around to look at Michael for a second time, and despite the tape that covered her mouth from cheek to cheek, her terror was unmistakable.

  Reb’s fingers dug into Michael’s shoulders to keep him in place. “You wanna be a Morrow, don’t you? Bound by blood and all that shit? Only problem is, your blood ain’t ours. But Lucy’s will do.”

  Momma placed a gingham-checked tea towel onto the table, unfolding it flap by flap to reveal the same knife she had used on Misty Dawn. The blade winked with a warm orange glow. Both Alice and Lucy released a communal moan of fear and disbelief, but there was no doubt as to what the Morrows expected to happen here. Alice tried to jerk out of Wade’s grasp again but she hardly gained an inch. Lucy thrashed against the chair, her face twisted with animalistic fear. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t so much as make the chair legs rattle against the hardwood floor.

  “No,” Michael whispered, his gaze frozen on the knife.

  Rebel drew in a breath and plucked the blade off of the table with a disappointed look. “Refusin’ gifts is rude, Mikey,” he murmured. “And, see, I wouldn’t mind so much if this whole thing hadn’t taken so much effort to put together. It’s not easy keepin’ somethin’ like this a secret when you’ve got someone shadowin’ your every move.” He slapped the knife against ­Michael’s chest, the tip pointing up toward his chin, the wooden handle crushed against his sternum. “I guess you could say this gift is nonrefundable.”

  Reb gave Michael a push toward Lucy, who screeched when they both inched toward her. She fought against her restraints, her face puffy with tears, her hair glued to her wet cheeks.

  Michael kept his distance, but Reb continued forward. He stepped behind Lucy, then placed his hands on her shoulders with a thoughtful expression. She shrank away from his touch, but Reb either didn’t notice or care. He leaned down, pressed his cheek against hers, and flashed Michael a smile as though the two were posing for a gruesome photograph. Lucy gagged and wept while Rebel waited for Michael to take it all in.

  “I told Momma about your plans to leave us, and she got real upset,” he explained. “She almost got teary-eyed thinkin’ about her baby boy runnin’ off into the big bad world. It’s dangerous out there, you know.” His dour expression grew into wicked amusement. “She got worried, Michael, that maybe you wanted to find your real momma, and
if you did, you’d forget all about us—forget all about her.”

  Michael’s eyes darted to Momma, but Momma’s face was blank. It was that same hollow-eyed emptiness he’d seen just before she dragged the knife across Misty’s throat.

  “That’s a common fear of parents who adopt kids, you know,” Reb continued. “Losin’ the kid they raised as their own to the assholes who dumped ’em like a bag of trash along the side of the road. You were too young to remember, but I remember. You, sittin’ out there with a sign, sellin’ rocks, like you were tryin’ to prove you were worth somethin’ . . .”

  “I don’t wanna leave.” Michael spoke the words into the room, imploring for her to believe him. “Momma, I don’t . . . I swear, I don’t.” He did, but he wouldn’t. Not if it cost Alice and Lucy their lives. He’d let that dream go. He’d forget the postcards. Forget Times Square. Forget that bright-pink hotel on the beach.

  “Except you’re lyin’.” Rebel looked disappointed. He stepped away from Lucy and returned to Michael’s side, looping his arm around his shoulders. “We all know you’re lyin’, and that’s against the rules. Now you gotta make it up to us. Time to prove you really are worth somethin’ after all.”

  The room tilted on its axis.

  Had Reb not been close, Michael would have toppled against the table, his knees suddenly refusing to serve their purpose.

  Reb tapped his finger against the blade of the knife that Michael hugged against his chest, then leaned over to speak quietly into his ear. “You take that and you show Momma she raised you right. Or forget all about it and tell us that you don’t wanna be part of this family after all.”

  “And if I do that . . . ?” Michael asked, his words parched, cracking beneath the strain of his own fear. He already knew the answer, but he had to hear it to know it was true. He needed to be reassured that this wasn’t some terrible nightmare, that he hadn’t fallen asleep next to Misty’s grave, that this wasn’t his worst fear realized, conjured by an overactive imagination, by grief and anger and stifled hate.

  “Well, if you do that, it ain’t gonna be such a happy birthday,” Reb murmured. “If you do that, you and Alice are gonna be together forever, but not in the way you want. And Lucy’s gonna stay right here.” He winked at her. “After all, there ain’t no use in wastin’ a perfectly good strawberry blonde.”

  Sick with the thud of his own heartbeat, Michael shot a look over at Alice. As soon as their eyes met, she shook her head frantically as if to say no—whatever Reb had told him, he didn’t have to do it. There were other options. But that was wrong and Michael knew it. There was no choice. It was down to Lucy or to the three of them together. Alice still had a chance. She would hate him, but he could still save her, offer her some shred of salvation.

  “Do it, brother.” Any shade of amusement was now gone from Rebel’s voice. He was all business, and his patience was waning. “Prove yourself and we’ll keep Alice in the basement for you. She’ll probably hate you for a while . . . but if she don’t love you yet, I’m sure she’ll learn.”

  Michael took a single step forward.

  Alice screamed behind her gag in protest.

  Lucy thrashed and wept, desperate to get away, but the chair didn’t budge.

  Michael hesitated as she fought to loosen her restraints, hoping that the tape would give, that somehow she’d jump up and make a mad dash for an exit without someone tackling her to the ground.

  Reb slapped an encouraging hand between Michael’s shoulder blades. “You’ve seen ’em struggle before. She ain’t any different.”

  But she was different. She was Alice’s best friend. If ­Michael killed her, Alice’s life would be spared—at least for the moment. And that was all he needed, a moment; just enough time to figure out how to get her out of there, how to get her free. But it also meant that Alice would hate him. She’d never look at him the same way again.

  “I’m gettin’ bored here,” Reb complained.

  Michael swallowed, his fingers tightening around the hilt of the blade. He considered spinning around and slicing where Reb’s leg met his torso, cutting right through his femoral artery and watching him drop like a wet rag. But it would have been no good. As soon as he did it, Wade would be on him. And Momma wouldn’t spare any of them. Even if by some miracle he managed to get away, he’d be running from that farmhouse alone. Alice and Lucy would be dead.

  But if he killed Lucy, maybe he and Alice could live.

  “Do it,” Reb growled behind him. He gave Michael a forward shove.

  Michael stumbled toward Lucy, who was now staring at him with impossibly wide, imploring eyes.

  No choice.

  “Do it.”

  No way around it.

  “Fucking do it.”

  It had to be done.

  Michael lifted the knife with a shaky hand.

  Alice exhaled a muffled cry.

  Lucy stared up at the blade, her face a mask of desperation.

  Michael squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Do it or Alice is dead,” Reb said. “But not before I bury myself inside her.”

  Michael’s arm began to wobble. His fingers began to loosen, ready to drop the knife.

  An involuntary act of defiance.

  A revolt.

  “Fine,” Rebel hissed. He was suddenly moving across the dining room toward Alice and Wade. Alice gave a shriek when she saw him coming. Michael shot a look to his side, watching Reb approach the pair with impatient steps. Reb reached into his pocket and drew out his switchblade.

  “No,” Michael said, but there was no volume in his voice. “No!” he repeated, but it was nothing but a whisper, nothing but Reb upon Alice.

  Alice weeping.

  The blade popping out of its handle.

  Michael turned back to Lucy.

  Every sound in the room was muffled.

  Every move elongated like a slow-motion movie reel.

  Lucy shook her head, her hair fiery in the muted light, her eyes squeezed shut as the butcher knife cut through the air.

  Her eyes darted open.

  The blade slid into her stomach.

  Shock replaced fear.

  She stared at him, wordless.

  You killed me. You . . .

  He drew the knife out of her flesh, deep burgundy blossoming beneath her billowy top, weighing down the silken fabric with its heavy, sopping wetness.

  He pulled back.

  Stabbed again.

  Lucy threw her head back, a cry ripping from inside her throat.

  He thrust the knife into her again. A third time. A fourth. A sixth and a tenth. Until her moans fell silent.

  He stabbed until he was sure she was dead.

  Until the suffering was through.

  Only then did the knife fall from his grasp and clang against the floor.

  Michael stumbled backward. His eyes were fixed on the dead girl taped to the dining room chair. A pool of blood bloomed around her feet. It dripped down the wooden chair legs and crawled between the floorboard cracks. His attention only wavered when Alice released a sound so desperate that he was sure Rebel had killed her anyway. But Reb was standing a few feet away, his switchblade clean, his eyes fixed on Michael, that leering grin having returned.

  Wade shoved Alice out of the room. Michael urged himself to follow, but he couldn’t move. Momma silently drifted out as well, mostly likely to help Wade with the storm door, with the chains beneath the house, with securing Alice to the wall down there.

  They left Rebel and Michael staring at one another, a dead girl between them. Finally, Reb reached into his pocket and slid a folded scrap of paper onto the table along with the keys to the Delta, the eight-ball keychain smacking the tabletop.

  “Your real present, from me to you,” he said. “Happy birthday, baby brother.”

  Reb stepped out of the dining room, and Michael was left staring at the keys. It was only after he swept the folded scrap of paper off the table that he realized the Delta was merel
y a means to get to his gift.

  On the paper, a crude map: a sketched drawing of where Michael was headed.

  A lopsided little house, green shutters flanking the windows.

  26

  * * *

  MICHAEL HAD DRIVEN a few times in his life, but despite the foreignness of Rebel’s car, he didn’t have time to be nervous. He climbed into the driver’s seat, shoved the key into the ignition, and threw the car into reverse. The Delta peeled down the dirt road toward the highway that would take him to the address scribbled across the top of the paper. The idea of that house he had gazed upon from atop a peaceful hill tied his stomach into knots. The thought of running down to the basement to check on Alice had crossed his mind, but he hardly considered it. The key to Alice’s safety was in that cottage ten miles away. He understood now that everything was happening by careful design; this was Rebel’s master plan. If Michael wavered, Reb was liable to call the whole thing off and carve Alice a brand-new smile.

  But by the time he reached the intersection where the dirt road met a lonely West Virginia highway, he leaned back in the driver’s seat, shifted into park, and fell apart. The sobs tore out of him, one after the other, coming so quick he couldn’t catch his breath. He pressed his forehead against the steering wheel and cried into his blood-streaked hands. For Alice and how scared she must have been. For Lucy and that final pleading look she had given him, knowing that he was the only one in the world who could have spared her life . . . and yet he hadn’t. He wept for all the girls, from his present to his past, each one unique in their own way. Their smiles turning into screams. Their wrists and ankles bound. Their faces turned up to the sky in search of God—as if he could possibly exist in a world where men like Rebel and Michael Morrow were allowed to live.