Unthinkable

by Brad Parks

The man with the bushy white mustache. Only now he had two neat holes in his forehead. The back of his head was mostly missing. It was slowly leaking a dark fluid—almost like motor oil—onto the black pants of the man in tactical gear.

  Jenny had a strong stomach. She had helped her father process chickens on the farm. She wasn’t going to allow herself to stop and think about how very different this was.

  It was Parker she worried about. Jenny stopped halfway down the steps, blocking Parker’s path, hoping the little girl either hadn’t seen it, or hadn’t been able to understand what she saw.

  “Isn’t it nice of him to help that man inside,” Jenny said a little too loudly, hoping that would sate a three-year-old’s curiosity.

  The man in tactical gear, now breathing heavily, finished dragging the body inside, then laid it out in the entryway.

  “Don’t leave that there,” Jenny said sharply, then jerked her head to the left. “Dining room.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the man said.

  Almost like they had been talking about a piece of furniture.

  “And tell Rogers to put the other one in the dining room too.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Jenny waited until the man had dragged the body away, then continued downstairs, herding Parker to one side of the entryway so she wouldn’t traipse through the blood slick.

  They rounded the corner. As they neared the kitchen, which now had lights on, Jenny could see another gory trail.

  And Rogers.

  He was seated at the kitchen peninsula, calmly swiping at his phone, his clothes unwrinkled. Likewise, it seemed, was his conscience.

  Jenny stopped for just a moment, feeling her insides go subzero at the sight of him. It was one thing to read Machiavelli. It was something else altogether to have him sitting in your kitchen.

  Then she suppressed her revulsion, and with Cate still on her shoulder and Parker crowding her legs, Jenny walked through the kitchen with her chin high as always, summoning her best impersonation of supreme motherly command.

  “I’m going to put the girls in the car,” she said, as if she was marshaling a grand effort to keep her composure. “I have to get them out of here.”

  “I understand,” Rogers said, looking up for a moment before returning his attention to his phone.

  On the porch, Jenny passed a man in tactical gear. She ignored him, going straight to the Range Rover. She buckled in Cate, who stirred for just a moment before settling into her car seat. Parker remained wide eyed as she was snapped in.

  “Mommy will be right back, okay?” she said, keeping a forced confidence in her voice that she hoped would be reassuring. “And then we’ll take a drive.”

  To where, she didn’t know.

  That would be Rogers’ call.

  She shut the door to the car, then walked back into the house, again passing the man in black tactical gear, who was still keeping watch, though on what might be called low alert. He was slouched in the same chair that had, until recently, been occupied by Jenny’s other guard, the man with the gray flattop. It was probably still warm from his body heat.

  Behind the chair, splattered against the siding, was a dark stain. The man in tactical gear appeared unbothered by it. The general mien of Rogers’ team seemed to be that the difficult part of the operation was now over. They had neutralized all the threats and were just waiting to be given the order to move out.

  Jenny again entered the kitchen. She sat at the table, slumping as if enervated. Rogers joined her.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “How do you think?” she shot back.

  She rested her forehead on her hands, as if the weight of her head was too much for her neck to support, and stared down at the table.

  Rogers seemed to be waiting for more, so she obliged him: “He came into the room at nine forty-five, just like you said he would. I still didn’t believe it. Even when I saw the gun in his hand with the silencer, I still thought I could, I don’t know, talk him out of it.”

  “And did you try?”

  “I did, yes. I told him not to do it, that it wasn’t worth it. Not for twenty million. Not for any amount of money. He denied it had anything to do with money, just said he had to do this. It was kind of mixed up, but he was saying in some ways he had already done it, and there was no free will, and . . . something about Omaha, Nebraska, and next Tuesday? I couldn’t really follow it, to be honest. He was . . . basically delirious.”

  Rogers bobbed his head up and down. “I know this is hard to believe, but I really think that twenty million dollars almost induced a kind of insanity in him. Money can be an incredibly corrupting influence on the mind.”

  “I still didn’t think he was going to go through with it. He seemed to be willing to talk at first. But then he started rambling about nine forty-seven, how he had to pull the trigger at nine forty-seven. I have no idea what was so magical about nine forty-seven. I just kept trying to stall him. And then nine forty-seven came and went, and I thought I was going to be able to talk him out of it. He even lowered the gun at one point. And then he brought it back up and I realized he was going to use it . . . and . . .”

  Jenny covered her face with her hands, hoping her act was convincing. She put extra effort into breathing heavily. “I just . . . I shot him. I actually shot him.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” Rogers cooed. “I wish Mr. DeGange were wrong sometimes. I really do. But—and I don’t know if this will make you feel better—I’m not sure we could have left him alive anyway. The membership would never accept someone who hadn’t been properly initiated.”

  Jenny rubbed her eyes so they would be red when she took her hands down.

  “Well, thanks for not saying ‘I told you so,’” she said, expelling a long breath.

  “I know this is going to be difficult,” Rogers said. “And there is probably a lot you’re going to have to work through in the coming weeks and months. But this chapter in your life is over now. You’re just going to have to put it out of your head as best you can. You have a lot to learn in order to develop your abilities. It’s vitally important you focus on that. The Praesidium needs you to continue its work. The world needs you.”

  “I understand,” Jenny said.

  She breathed out again.

  “However,” she said, “we need to talk about what happened after I shot my husband.”

  “Which part?” Rogers asked.

  It wasn’t difficult for Jenny to summon anger. “Those two men. Why did you kill them?”

  “You really think your rent-a-cops were going to let you walk away with a bunch of strangers in the night? They either would have refused to let you go, or they would have insisted they come with us. Either way, it was a problem. It had to be taken care of.”

  He said this as if it was the same as unplugging a drain in the bathroom, or some other nettlesome domestic chore.

  “You can’t just go killing people because they’re in your way or they’re inconvenient,” Jenny said. “Maybe that’s the way the Praesidium used to do things, but it’s not going to be that way anymore.”

  “We can discuss that, yes,” Rogers allowed.

  “It’s also reckless. What are we going to tell the police? I can explain that I shot my physically abusive husband in self-defense. How am I going to explain two dead bodyguards?”

  “Your husband killed them when they tried to protect you. It will actually bolster your self-defense claim, because he was clearly in a murderous rage already. You had every reason to fear for your life.”

  “He killed them with a very professional, very expert double tap to the forehead?” she said, incredulously. “My husband. The man who’s never even handled a gun before. You think the police are going to buy that?”

  “We have a cleanup plan that will take care of that.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “There’s going to be an explosion in a short little while,” Rogers said, evenly. “We’ll do
it in a way that the authorities will think it was a gas leak. Don’t worry. We’re very good at this sort of thing. We’ve done it many times.”

  “You’re going to blow up my house?” Jenny said. It didn’t take much acting skill to sound panicked.

  “Yes. We can blame that on Nate too. His plan was a murder-suicide. He turned on the stove. After he killed you, he was going to blow the place sky-high, taking him and the girls with him. You, who were just trying to flee the house with your daughters, didn’t realize that part of his plan. The explosion and the ensuing fire will either destroy or badly confuse the evidence. The fire department will find three bodies, as expected—one you will have admitted to killing in self-defense, the other two killed by your husband. For as messy as it will be, it will actually put a rather tidy bow on the whole thing. And don’t worry about anyone else getting hurt. The row houses on either side of you will be damaged, but as you’re aware, they’re unoccupied. The fire department will be able to respond in time to put out the fire before it spreads beyond that.”

  Jenny sat very still, trying to think of how to respond.

  She couldn’t exactly say, That sounds good. Do you mind if I just go upstairs and tell my dead husband about it first?

  “There . . . there has to be some other way,” she stammered.

  “There might be. But this way really is best.”

  “No,” she said. “I can’t have you blowing up my house.”

  “Jenny,” he said softly. “I know this is a lot to process, but this isn’t going to be your house anymore. You’re with the Praesidium now. And, trust me, your housing situation will improve dramatically. Mr. DeGange spares no expense. And lord knows he has the money. We’ve got a suite prepared for you and the girls at the main house. You’ll be just down the hall from Mr. DeGange. When we travel, we go first class. He’s never once balked at what we spend. We literally have a blank check. You’ll be treated like royalty. No more cooking. No more cleaning. You’ll want for nothing. It’s a great life. You won’t need this place anymore. Why would you even want it?”

  Jenny sagged, like she was allowing herself to be convinced.

  “I’m not in this for the perks,” she said sulkily.

  “I know. But, trust me, the perks are really something.”

  Her mind was still racing as to how she was going to get Nate out of here. The obstacles were formidable: there was Rogers in the house, a man out front, a man in back, and undoubtedly more men somewhere out there in the night, a mere block or two away.

  As soon as Jenny was clear, those men were going to move in and stage their explosion. Could Nate slip out unnoticed while they worked? Would he even have the opportunity?

  It seemed hopeless.

  She had to get him out of here. Somehow.

  “Okay,” she said, sighing heavily. “Let me just go up and pack a few things before you blow it all up.”

  “There’s no need. The Praesidium will provide everything for you.”

  “I know. I just want to grab a few sentimental things. Some pictures and whatnot.”

  Jenny stood up.

  So did Rogers. Like he was going to help her.

  Jenny put a hand on his arm.

  “No. Please,” she said. “I want to do this alone, okay? Let me . . . I just need to say goodbye, okay? To him. To everything. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

  Rogers studied her for a moment that, to Jenny, felt like a week.

  Then he said, “All right. But don’t take too many things. There has to be a lot of rubble for the fire department to sift through. It can’t look like you cleaned the place out first.”

  “Got it,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll be here,” Rogers replied.

  I know, Jenny thought. That’s the problem.

  CHAPTER 39

  NATE

  The right side of my face had gone numb from being pressed against the hardwood floor.

  My joints had started to ache as well from being held in that awkward position—arms akimbo, legs splayed.

  If this was what fake death was like, I didn’t want to know how real death felt.

  It was difficult to estimate how long I had been locked in that position. I tried to tell myself this was just like one of the countless times I had played hide-and-seek with the girls.

  That’s all this was. Just a game.

  One with deadly consequences if I lost.

  Still, I didn’t dare move. I didn’t even shift my weight. This house was too old. I didn’t trust the floorboards not to squeak.

  The only comfort I had was that the girls were safe. All of them. I had heard Jenny take Cate and Parker out of the house, out of harm’s way. And Jenny herself would also be protected.

  The Praesidium wouldn’t dare let harm come to someone with the gift, would they?

  From downstairs, I could hear voices—Rogers and Jenny, I assumed, because it was a man and a woman. They seemed to be having a casual conversation, but I couldn’t really make out what they were saying.

  Then I heard someone coming up the stairs. This set my heart to pounding, which was inconvenient, because it also made me want to quicken my breathing, which was something dead men weren’t supposed to do.

  My ears told me it was just one person, moving fast. The door to the bedroom was ajar, so whoever it was would be able to see me soon enough. All I could do was remain as inert and lifeless as possible and hope my spilled-water blood pool looked at least a little convincing.

  I had my eyes open—dead people did that, right?—but still couldn’t see much, because it was dark, and because I was turned in the wrong direction. The door opened. I slowly, soundlessly took in a breath and held it so my body wouldn’t be moving at all.

  It didn’t seem to be working. The person walked straight toward me, bent down over me, and I thought for sure I was going to be killed for real.

  And then I smelled Jenny, and heard her whisper, “You have to get out of here. Rogers is going to blow up the house.”

  “How am I going to do that?” I whispered back.

  “I don’t know. Rogers thinks I’m up here packing a bag. That will buy us a little time, but not much.”

  She raised herself back up, turned on a light, and then went into the closet.

  Slowly, I lifted myself off the floor. I was still being cautious, but I didn’t need to worry quite so much about making noise with Jenny shuffling around. She had grabbed a bag and walked back toward her dresser, where she was now sifting through her jewelry box, taking out some items, leaving others behind.

  Softly, I padded over toward her.

  “Where are the girls?” I whispered.

  “Buckled into the Range Rover. They’re okay.”

  “Where is Rogers taking you? Do you know yet?”

  “No clue. I’ll be fine. Worry about yourself. Can you jump out of the window or something?”

  “I guess I’ll have to,” I said.

  It was either that or the stairs. And the stairs would never work. Not with Rogers in the kitchen and other men coming in and out of the house while they set about blowing it up.

  I thought about the logistics of a jump. The drop was higher than a typical two-story house, on account of the first floor’s twelve-foot ceilings. And while it wasn’t so high as to be deadly, there was still a chance of injury—a broken leg, a twisted ankle, something like that—that would make it difficult to flee.

  Even more worrying: that someone would either hear or see me. Two hundred pounds wouldn’t exactly fall like a feather.

  Then there was the question of where I jumped from. Each of the girls’ rooms had one window that opened to the front. Our bedroom had a window, as did our bathroom. Both of those were on the back side of the house.

  There were no windows to the side. Not in a row house.

  In the front, I’d land on some bushes that decorated either side of our entrance. The crash would be noisy. And I’d have to extricate myself fro
m the bush before I could run, potentially making me an easy target.

  Out back, I’d hit either the porch, if I jumped from our bedroom, or a small patch of grass, if I jumped from the bathroom. The bathroom struck me as the best option.

  “Who else is here besides Rogers?” I asked.

  “There’s men on both porches. They both look like they mean business.”

  I grimaced. “That’s not good.”

  “They won’t be expecting someone to fall from the sky. You might have a few seconds to run away.”

  “But then the Praesidium would know I’m alive.”

  “True. I guess we’ll have to hope they don’t notice you.”

  “Hope hardly seems like a plan.”

  “Sometimes,” she said, “hope is the only plan.”

  It was a thoroughly Jenny Welker thing to say, a decidedly Jenny Welker attitude to take. My can-do wife, can-doing.

  Our faces were a few inches apart. All I wanted to do was grab her, kiss her, fall into bed with her. But that luxury seemed like a long, long way off.

  “I love you,” I said.

  “Don’t start with that,” she replied. “Escape first, then love me.”

  It was when she said the word escape that I suddenly realized the best way out of this. For each of the girls’ rooms, the nervous new father in me had purchased a three-story fire escape ladder—lightweight, fire retardant, guaranteed not to tangle, free shipping with Amazon Prime. It suddenly seemed like the smartest $49.99 I had ever spent.

  I could climb down, hidden by the shadows, then vault over our fence and disappear into the night.

  “Come with me into Parker’s room,” I whispered.

  She nodded, then led the way. I crossed the hallway quickly, staying directly behind Jenny so our footfalls would sound like they belonged to only one person.

  As soon as we entered the room, Jenny stopped and looked at me expectantly. I didn’t break stride on my way to Parker’s bed, just lowered myself onto my belly and lifted the bed skirt.

  The fire escape ladder was exactly where I’d left it, packed in its neat little bag. As soon as I pulled it out, Jenny’s face registered comprehension. She gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.