by EC Sheedy
And alone. So many years now, that being alone was habitual. His partner, Joe, called it his “hermit habit.”
Deanne had come to him, asked for a short see-how-it-goes-with-us effort. He’d wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her senseless, hold her forever. Instead, he’d done what he always did. He’d kissed her off.
His hermit habit had kicked in hard.
Because he’d sensed risk, a fork in the road—glimpsed a path he’d never been tempted to travel—before Deanne. Meeting her changed everything. Brought back memories of the family he’d loved and lost, made him feel again, made him want—made him ache. So he’d tossed her offer aside—to protect his habit. His useless fucking heart.
“Terminal, sir?” the driver asked, turning the limo onto the airport entrance, unaware he’d used a loaded word. Terminal? Fatal? Incurable?
Christ, he hoped not. Julius didn’t answer. Instead, he watched the blur of trees and buildings outside the window. In a couple of hours he’d be on a plane and then on to The City of Light. Paris. The perfect distraction—fine wine, incredible food, beautiful women—exactly what he needed.
Exactly what he didn’t want.
Joe was right, he did think too much.
And he finally figured out why; it was a hell of lot easier than feeling.
CHAPTER 19
“Hi, Kurt,” Deanne said, adding, “And thanks for knocking.” She said the last with a forced smile. Like she was trying hard. When she’d closed the door behind him, her smile disappeared when she looked at him. “You okay?” she asked. “You look a little white. We don’t have to do this tonight, you know.”
“No, I’m good.” Kurt wished he could think of something smart to say, something quick and funny, but his tongue was stuck on the part of his brain trying to organize what he had to do in the next fifteen or so minutes. Nothing funny there—and his stomach hurt like hell.
Samba, barking like a wild dog from inside the laundry room off the kitchen kind of filled up the empty talking space, anyway. That dog hated him. Even dogs knew a loser when they saw one.
“Let me go quiet her down. And just so you know, she barks at anyone who comes around,” she said, like an apology or something. “Because of the puppies, I suppose. So don’t take it personal.” Deanne went into the laundry room where the dogs were. He heard her talking softly to Samba and her pups.
When Samba shut up, Deanne came back into the kitchen, closing the laundry room door behind her. “She’s good now.”
“I, uh, brought the movies,” Kurt said. “Two of them.”
“One’s all I’m up for tonight. I’m a bit tired.”
She looked tired, Kurt thought, more than tired; like she was kind of depressed or something. Her eyes were red, too. Like she’d been crying.
“That’s okay. I just brought two so you could pick the one you liked best.” He held them up to her.
“Okay, let me see—” she cocked her head, “—Now, Voyager with Bette Davis or Back Street with Susan Hayward.” She shook her head, mumbled, “Star-crossed lovers themes. Perfect.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. But when it comes to chick flicks, I have to say, your mom has good taste.”
“Had good taste.” Kurt shot the words out, then got uncomfortable, but he just didn’t want any good talk about his mom. She was a bitch, like his dad said.
Deanne’s eyes softened in that weird way girls’ eyes do sometimes when they look at kittens or puppies—or freakin’ babies. “Have you heard from her lately?”
“No. She’s with some new guy and his kids.” He glanced down at the floor to hide his embarrassment, the shame at his mother choosing kids other than him. Thinking about it made his ears hot, his teeth lock. “Doesn’t matter. Do you have any pop?”
She looked like she was going to say something, then changed course. “Sure. In the fridge. Why don’t you go get yourself one, while I put—” she looked at the DVDs again, “Now, Voyager in the machine.”
“Okay.” He went to the fridge, the roofies in his pocket a pair of hot, jagged stones. “You want something?”
“There’s some orange juice in there. I’ll have that. Thanks.” Her voice came from the living room, kind of muffled like she had her back to him. Probably messing with the DVD player.
It was the perfect time. All I have to do is stop thinking about it and do it. Then it will be all over, and I won’t ever have to think about it again.
He got the pop and the juice, and set them both on the counter beside the fridge. Everything was going good until he pulled the pills from his pocket. He couldn’t stop looking at them. Fuckin’ paralyzed.
Move your ass, Kurt, move it or lose it—and your dad’s frickin’ house. Get this thing done. You’ve got no choice here. No choice at all…
Kurt took a breath—it went down his throat like napalm—then broke one pill and stirred it into the orange juice. Exactly what they’d told him to do. Dissolves faster that way—Wheeler should know. Fear wound around his neck like a metal cable. A thick vomit soup boiled in his belly. He was going to do this…Had to.
“Movie’s good to go,” Deanne called from the living room.
“Be right there.” He dropped the other pills, stepped on them and kicked their leavings under the table. He might have to drug her, but he wasn’t going to kill her.
Samba barked again and Kurt freaked out of his skin. There was a light tapping on the glass in the kitchen door.
“Who’s that?” Deanne called.
“Nobody. The dog, I think.” The sound of his own voice—how calm it was—surprised him. Considering his brain was a train wreck.
Jesus! Jesus!—and he said the name in prayer. It was them. Wheeler, in front, squashed his nose against the glass, making his face uglier than it already was. Then he pulled back and grinned like the Joker.
Gutter was up next. Quietly opening the door a couple of inches, he shoved his cock through, fully erect. “Ready for makeup,” he said. Kurt heard the others trying to stifle their laughter, and smelled the beer-reeking breeze they sent into the kitchen.
Kurt shook his head violently, put a hand palm out toward the door, telling them to get back. Go away. “Not yet,” he mouthed, holding up the orange juice. With his other hand he made four full-fingered flashes to indicate twenty minutes, and gave them a nothing-I-can-do-about-it shrug.
“What’s going on in there, Kurt?”
“Nothin’,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m, uh, just getting a glass, is all.”
Wheeler gave him the finger, used his fingers to sign fifteen minutes and made a cutting motion across his throat before the four of them disappeared into the darkness behind the window.
Kurt tried to stop shivering, but he was so damn scared he trickled in his pants. Thinking he might puke again, he went to the sink and hung his head over it. For a long time all he did was breathe.
Then his brain exploded.
“No. No. No!” he said to the sink drain, words which meant nothing and everything. Samba barked and growled from inside the laundry room.
“Kurt? Are you okay?” It was Deanne, leaning with her butt against the counter, looking at him as if he had a dozen heads.
The phone that sat on the counter between them rang like a burglar alarm. At least to Kurt. Deanne took her worried gaze off him long enough read the call display.
Guardian, Inc.
And while her worried gaze morphed to some woman-look he couldn’t read, Kurt snatched up the phone.
“You’ve got to come here. You’ve got to come here right now.…No…. Not hurt…yet…. No time. You gotta come. Just come for fuck’s sake! And hurry!”
Kurt slammed the phone down and looked at Deanne, who pretty much looked as if she’d been freeze-dried. And that was okay, because he didn’t want to talk anyway. Instead, he ran to the back door and flipped the lock on and opened the door to Samba Land.
Samba stuck her head out—and wonder of wonders—didn’t growl
at him.
Deanne stared at Kurt and looked down at Samba, who’d left her puppies and trotted over to sit by his feet.
Unless she was losing the last of whatever marbles she had, Kurt had just talked to Julius and told him to come here. Fast. As if there were some kind of emergency. “What’s going on? Why did you tell Julius to come here? Not only is that not your decision to make, I don’t want him here.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Instead of answering, Kurt pulled her to the side of the kitchen farthest from the door. His Adam’s apple was bobbling like it was going to pop right out. “I can’t tell you, but you’ve got to like lock yourself in somewhere or something. Is there anywhere like that in the house?
“No.” Something in his face made her nape prickle. “For God’s sake, Kurt, what’s this about?”
He started to cry. “It’s all my fault. I never should have—”
He didn’t finish before her back door splintered open and four big men in ski masks strode into her house.
Julius checked his watch, leaned forward and said to the cabbie, “Shave another ten minutes and there’s two hundred bucks in it for you.”
“You got it.” The cab picked up speed.
He’d be there in less than fifteen minutes. What the hell was going on at Deanne’s place? If that Kurt kid had hurt her he’d…
He had no idea what he’d do, but it’d carry a life sentence.
Deanne’s stomach reeled and tilted along with her stunned brain, a brain frantic to assimilate what was happening. She pressed her back against the wall and stared, told herself to drag air into her frozen lungs. Kurt stood beside her like a stone statue.
The four masked men had taken up positions around the kitchen. They’d looked around, but so far that’s all they’d done; it was as if they hadn’t planned any next step. Kurt, his breath sounding asthmatic in the eerily quiet room, began a slow slide to the floor.
One of the men, the only one who had a skull face on his ski mask, used a booted foot to kick a chair toward Kurt. “Sit down before you fall down, you dumb fuck. We’ll get to you. Later.”
As the chair skittered across the floor, Samba lunged and sank her teeth into the skull-man’s boot. He shook her off, kicked her toward a corner. Samba yelped, fell back and went down on her haunches at Deanne’s feet, the stance of a sheepdog watching the flock, fully alert, fully engaged—and not about to make a stupid move. Skull-man looked at Samba, tilted his head and spoke to the dog. “Oh, yeah. I remember you, bitch,” he said. “And I’ll bet you remember me.” He paused. “Got some nice little babies now, huh? Gotta have me a look at those.”
He faced her then, his eyes as dark as his mask, eyes that would be impossible to see if they didn’t catch some glitter from the overhead kitchen light. “Where are they?”
Her mouth thawed enough to allow speech, but she wasn’t about to answer his question. “Who are you?” she said. “And what do you want?”
“I think I hear them in there,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. He jerked his head toward the laundry room. “Get ’em, Towman. Put ’em in my truck.”
“Are you crazy?” Deanne’s voice rose, held an edge of hysteria. Her puppies. Samba’s babies. This was insane. And not going to happen.
One of the men took a step toward the laundry room.
Deanne didn’t stop, didn’t think; she got in front of him and blocked the half-open door. “You’re not touching those pups.”
“Yeah, right.” He grabbed her shoulders, twisted his body and tossed her behind him as if she were a sack of laundry.
Then Samba was on him, snapping at his calves, tearing at his ankles and finally latching on to his thigh—her teeth in deep and hard.
“Ow. Get this bitch offa me!” He spun and twirled, tried to shake her off, but Samba hung on so ferociously she’d have made a pit bull proud. Blood coursed down the side of the man’s jeans.
Skullface slammed the dog on the side of the head—with a gun.
Samba hit the floor with a dull thud, lifted her head once, whined and went down. The skull pointed the gun at her.
“No!” Deanne screamed and dropped to Samba’s side, shielded her.
Skullface grabbed her arm, yanked her to her feet and pressed the gun against her temple. “You don’t want me messin’ with your dog? Then how about we go straight to the main event.” With that he dragged her toward the living room.
Cold and sharp against her head, the gun didn’t need to fire to shoot panic into her brain, fragment her thoughts. When she stumbled, he tightened his grip on her arm, his fingernails digging into her flesh, and yanked her forward.
Fight the fear. Always fight the fear. No one can control you if you don’t agree to it.
“Don’t, Wheeler. Don’t.” Kurt yelled. “Let her go. Burn my house. Burn anything you want. Cut me. Beat the shit out of me, but leave her alone.” He spun to face one of the smaller guys. “Dev, you gotta stop him. You have to.”
The man he talked to held a video camera; he said nothing.
“Shut up, asswipe,” the one he’d called Wheeler said. “None of this would have happened if you’d done what you were fuckin’ s’posed to do.”
Deanne dully registered that Kurt knew who these men were—and they knew him. She didn’t have any more time to process before the skull man tossed her onto the sofa. When she made to get up, he hit her so hard across the face, her breath tanked.
“Jesus, Wheeler.” the cameraman said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he said. “Towman, you get those pups and put ’em in the truck like I said.”
The one called Towman, pressing his hand over his bleeding leg, headed for the kitchen.
Oh, God. Samba’s babies…
“And you—” he waved the gun at the camera holder as if it were a casual open hand rather than one filled with a deadly weapon, “—you got that camera ready?”
“Why not leave the dogs, Wheeler. I mean—”
“Did I ask you for a fuckin’ opinion?”
“No, but—”
“I asked if the camera’s ready. Right?”
“Right.”
Wheeler waved the gun again. “And your answer is?”
The boy called Dev said, “It’s, uh, ready, Wheeler. Locked and loaded.”
“Just like this.” Skullface grabbed his crotch, and for the first time she realized his voice was young, fat with arrogance. He was a boy, she thought. They were all boys. Ugly, mean and dangerous boys.
Wheeler shoved the coffee table away from the sofa, stood directly in front of her. He dangled the gun at his side, his voice and stance full of swagger—and menace.
“Now,” he said to Deanne. “Let’s get this party started—take it off, babe. Take it all off.”
CHAPTER 20
One of the masked creatures still in the room laughed, his chuckle vaguely nervous. The other one, holding the camera, stood mute as stone.
“Oh, shit. Oh, God.” Kurt put his face in his hands, closed his eyes and started to rock.
Even Deanne’s shell-shocked brain got the skull’s meaning and his intent. Rape. He was going to rape her. Her blood iced up in her veins. She had to think…to delay. Figure a way out. Stay calm. “What did you say?” She played the dumb card. Time, I need time.
“You heard me. You and me are going to do the dirty, have ourselves a real fuck fest—and my, uh, pal here is going to video us for your scrapbook.” He laughed low in his throat. “And maybe a Web site or two…or a thousand. And ya know?” He glanced at the boys leaning against the same white wall that until this afternoon had hosted Clancy’s paintings. “I think it’ll be better without the roofies.” He turned back to her. “More lively, huh?” He undid his pants and pulled down his zipper.
“You want lively. I’ll give you lively.” With the perfect target centered between his macho-spread legs, she kicked his balls to his butt and beyond. Before he had a chance to recover, she head-butted his
stomach.
Kurt took the cue and launched himself low, grabbed Wheeler by the knees and brought him down. Deanne heard the crack of his head on the hardwood floor. She and Kurt fell on him in a squirm of arms and legs.
But their victory was fleeting…
Someone pulled her hair so hard, she felt her scalp lift. Still holding her by the hair, he threw her against the coffee table. Her cheek slammed into its edge. “Dumb bitch!”
“Gutter, don’t. Let her go. Let’s get out of here.” It was the boy with the camera.
A voice boomed from behind her. “Stay where you are. All of you.” The words hit the room like an ice storm, freezing everyone in place.
Julius. Deanne nearly fainted with relief; instead, her knees buckled in fear. “Julius, the gun!” With her hair still held by Gutter all she could do was point.
Julius rounded the coffee table, just as Wheeler shoved Kurt off him and tried to get up. Not fast enough. Julius planted a foot on his wrist. Bending down, he lifted the gun from his hand, then looked around the room. His foot still on Wheeler’s wrist, he said, “All of you, stay put. You—” his cold eyes leveled on the boy holding her hair, “—let her go. Now.” His voice was hard and mean. And big as the boys were, Julius was bigger. And more threatening.
Gutter let go.
“And you, you no-good piece of shit—” Julius grabbed Wheeler by his belt and hauled him to his feet, “—consider yourself lucky I don’t take an hour or so and beat the sick crap out of you.”
Still holding a dazed Wheeler, Julius handed Deanne the gun, and for the first time their gazes met. His softened. “Try not to shoot them before the cops get here, okay?” he said in a voice lower and more gravelly than ever. Then he stared down Gutter and Dev. “Take off the masks. Lie facedown on the floor—and stay there.”
They went to ground with the speed of dropped sandbags.
“Fuck you!” Wheeler spun and threw a punch.