by Ian Hiatt
Thomas holds his hands out slowly. “Calm down, Angie. Come on. We can talk this out. What’d they lie about?”
“About him! About what he did! It’s the Donahue name we’ll ruin!” The last words not her own.
“Who?” Thomas asks, genuine concern on his face.
“Where’s the deed, Thomas? All he wants is the deed, and he’ll let me keep the rest. Everything will be mine, and Dad can’t take it away. He can’t tell me what to do. I decide now.” She steps closer, bringing the barrel of the gun inches from his forehead. “I decide who lives, and who dies. Me.”
I refuse to move. Feeling like a fly on the wall and terrified at the finality of losing him. And what I’ll do to her if that happens. A gut shot wouldn’t be near enough.
“What did Dad do, Angie? Come on, we’ve always been able to talk. What’d he do?”
Angie’s hand shakes, the gun wobbling over his forehead. “Okay, fine. If you won’t tell me to save your life…” She moves the pistol away from him. And points it at me.
“Angie, don’t.”
“No. Screw you, Thomas. You know where it is, and you don’t want to tell me. You’re just like them.” She sidles over next to me but stands just out of reach. The gun is pointed at my right eye, and while I’m sure a shot to the chest might be survivable by my kind with our somewhat improved healing, I’m certain a bullet in my brain would not be a dust-yourself-off injury.
“Angie, please. She has nothing to do with this.”
But she looks at me now. “Did he say anything? When he died?”
I keep my lips tight. There’s no point in talking to her. Instead, Thomas talks.
“Who?”
She laughs, a pathetic and deluded thing. “Our dear cousin. He was in line behind you, you know. To inherit everything. It wasn’t me. Dad didn’t give a shit about me. I bet he begged for his life before you killed him, right?”
Her eyes have the crazed look of a man dying of thirst, desperate for the one drink that will sustain them just a little longer.
If I die, she still has Thomas, who she’ll keep here until he tells her what he clearly does not know. I consider my options, the best way to kill her to make sure that even when she finishes me, I take her with me.
“Did he beg?” she screams.
Get her close.
I shake my head. And gamble. “No. He didn’t. He stumbled into traffic and died on impact. He was too drunk. Between all the drinks we had… and the sex…”
She flinches. Nerve: hit.
I go on, making it up as I go. “When I lured him out of the club, I couldn’t figure out how to kill him. So I had to buy time. He took me behind the club and he held me down.” I hold out my wrists, like I’m testifying. “And he took me right there… next to the dumpster… His last words were, ‘Oh God, yes…’“
Her eyes water over as she nods. “He got what he deserved then…”
I shake my head. “No, he didn’t. Because I wanted him. I let him have me because I wanted him just as bad…” I sigh. A slow blink later and I see the fury on her face. “You didn’t want him, did you? I can’t imagine why. He was amazing. Did he wrap his hands on your throat, too?” He seemed the type.
She marches toward me and puts the gun against my skull, the barrel pressing tight. “Shut up. You. Shut. Up.” The gun presses harder and jabs against my skull. I have to back up until I’m against the wall. “I never wanted him. He was sick. He was disgusting. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t breathe. And then Dad found out and he didn’t…”
“He didn’t understand why you couldn’t take it like a big girl?” I pout. “Poor Angie.”
My knife moves up, ready to glide effortlessly into her neck. Sever the carotid and let her bleed out here in the basement before she can even think of hurting her brother anymore. She’ll pull the trigger and paint the wall with my brains in her death throes.
And I’m okay with that.
hanks, Paul,” the peppy news reporter says, her brunette hair flitting only a little bit in the wind as she grips a fine parka. “I’m here at Mother of Mercy’s cemetery where the body of Angela Donahue will be laid to rest beside her parents and brother, in spite of the protests of the District Attorney.”
The camera zooms in to show the headstones of the Donahue parents, Madeline and Richard, dating back to the fifties and up to the double digits of the new millennium. Loving Mother. Devoted Father. Various flowers anoint both. Nearby, the headstone of one Andrew Donahue sits with flowers a little less crisp due to age. And beside them, with no difference in regard, the headstone of Angela Donahue.
“Of course, police are unwilling to give many details about the turn of events involving the Donahues and the tragedy that’s befallen the family, but what they have released is nonetheless disturbing.”
A thin man, grizzled and sporting a stubble-beard, stands in front of the camera at a pretaped conference, dressed in police blues. “What I can confirm,” he begins, clearing his throat. “Is that in the early-morning hours today, shots were fired at the Donahue home, reported by a neighbor. The Saint Roch Police Department responded with multiple units. Thomas Donahue was found alive, with minor injuries and in severe dehydration.”
A reporter speaks out loudly. “Sergeant, is it true that bodies were removed from the home?”
The cop holds up a hand, a vague attempt to settle his audience. “I can confirm that the body of Angela Donahue was found at the scene. It is the belief of the District Attorney,” he says with some contempt, “that the murders of Madeline and Richard Donahue, along with their guests on the night of December 12, were committed by Angela Donahue, as well as the disappearance of her twin brother, Thomas.”
“I said, bodies, sergeant,” the reporter says.
He holds up his hand again. “I cannot give any further details regarding this ongoing investigation.”
The picture flicks back to the peppy reporter who, despite the tragic events, manages a cheesy smile. “And it was just an hour ago that Thomas Donahue returned from the hospital, driven by a friend of the family.”
The camera shows a recording of Thomas Donahue in the passenger seat of a Lexus, shielding himself from the camera as the gates of the manor that now belongs to him opens wide to permit his entry. The wrought iron bars close behind the car, locking out the world.
“We talked to some of the neighbors here, and they had this to say.”
Interviews flit on the screen of polo-sporting boys and blouse-wearing women in a comfy studio or perhaps even their own homes, so well adorned that they appear to be set dressings.
“The Donahues were wonderful people,” a young girl says, quietly wiping a tear that escapes her eye on command. “And this community is in mourning for their loss.”
An older man, who sold his company a month before a fatal flaw in the software he developed was discovered, says with a fond smile, “They were great people, so generous to those in need. I’m sure Tom will carry on the family name with pride and honor.”
The last is an elderly woman, wealthy on the still-lingering profits of the prohibition era. “I heard two shots. Pop. Pop.” Her floppy hat waves at the camera as she reenacts the moments. “And I thought, well, maybe they’re working on a fireworks show for the New Year. They were always so nice, putting on parties for the neighborhood like that. And then I heard another one. Pop! And then another. Pop! And I thought, Muriel, that young girl is up there all by herself. You should make sure she’s okay. So I called the police.”
“That’s the kind of neighborhood you have here, right? Watching out for each other?” a male reporter says, the microphone wavering before the old woman.
She nods, proud, hat moving like a flag on her head. “And when I heard the other two pops a little while later, I knew I did the right thing!”
The picture goes back to the peppy reporter. “We’ll be sure to keep you updated on any developing details of this story. Until then, back to you, Paul.”
&
nbsp; Paul comes up on the screen, his toupee somewhat askew. “Thanks, Patricia! Our next story, the body of a man was discovered on the North End of Saint Roch in what police are calling a grisly murder―”
I lift the remote and flick it off, sick of hearing the same reports over and over. The room―Thomas’s bedroom―is much bigger than I’m used to though, and the television was helping me feel somewhat less out of place. But in the silence, all I can focus on now is Thomas, his steady breathing beside me punctuated only by his light snoring from time to time. I lift up his pain medication to the bedside lamp and check the dosage again, making sure I haven’t given him too much.
He did fall asleep pretty quickly.
As I turn off the lamp, dropping the room into darkness, I crawl closer to Thomas, draping an arm over his side and bringing my body against his. He presses back, still deeply asleep. I can’t imagine what his waking thoughts are like, nor would I want to. I’ve killed hundreds. Most deserved it. Probably a few who didn’t. But I never hesitated.
I have to wonder a little, though. With Angie’s finger on the trigger, the barrel pressing so hard against me, did he hesitate? Did he pause before he snatched my gun from the table? Did his finger stroke the trigger before he pulled it? Did he pause when the first bullet struck her chest, hoping it would end there? And the second bullet, that ended her life instantly, did he reconsider everything then?
His heart beats beside mine, and I finally know what true fear is.
ery few places in Saint Roch are as clean as the plush red carpet stretched from the entrance of the Crux to the curb where the wealth-drowned old men and their expensive dates are dropped off by their drivers. I want to call it pure, looking at the blood-red fabric, somehow untouched by the filth that washes down every other avenue of the city, but I know what goes on inside.
A car blacker than the moonless night arrives to the valet, and a haughty and plump man jostles out of the backseat, clinging to his blonde purchase of the evening. The girl, young enough to be his granddaughter, looks to be trying her hardest not to grimace, and I don’t envy her income methods.
While the car entrance may have been the way to go, I refuse. I want to make sure I’m noticed tonight. Cameras flash as the local media tries to capture every big name stepping into the club.
The governor, largely elected through funds laundered through the Crux.
The actress from one of the latest films to be flushed out of the West Coast. Sprouting a cup size since the last time Joe Public saw her.
The pitcher who came close to a no-hitter three nights ago at the stadium only a few blocks away.
Robert Nox owns the stadium as much as he owns the rest of Saint Roch City. And the Crux is his club. His Shangri-La. The glitz of the flashing lights and the glow of the neon signs make my eyes hurt, but I push past it. Just as I push past the clacking cameras. My dress swishes before the top-heavy actress, and I see her catch her breath. My hair, decidedly crimson, casts a wave to her, and she licks her lip.
Huh. Never knew she swung for both teams.
She stumbles as I walk ahead, the camera flashes pausing for a moment, the crowds dropping off to silence before surging back with sound. My picture is taken dozens of times. The photographers all grab on to one another, and I can read their lips and their eyes.
“Who is she?”
“She’s in that new movie, right?”
“I’m in the wrong business…”
“Damn!”
I pose. I flirt. I flaunt.
The velvet ropes lining the magma-colored carpet strain against the crowds, and I have no doubt that some of these men will charge the door after me. I only pray that Nox’s bouncers can handle a few desperate fools.
The governor looks back to me, and he can’t seem to face forward, his wife looking more than a little bothered by his salivation. My gown billows toward him as I walk into the club. I pucker my lips at him, and his breath catches.
I pass the plump man and his barely legal plaything, and he lets go of her to clutch at his chest. A momentary flicker of joy at being released crosses the blonde woman’s face, followed immediately by loathing.
They do tend to hate me. I’m okay with that.
The doormen, suited up and sporting sunglasses, are easy to spot. The casino floor could be robbed right now as all of them follow me with their eyes. I’m certain that not a single one of them is thinking I’ll rip off their boss. Rather they’re thinking how they’d rather rip my clothes off right then, consequences be damned.
I know this club. I know this casino. I even know a bit about the brothel fifteen floors up. Thomas let me look at the blueprints after he spoke to the family’s attorney and learned of the storage container his father had kept off the books. I know where my quarry is right now. Because with a little effort, I now have access to the security system of the building.
Thomas’s building.
Over the noise of the clanging slot machines and the blackjack dealers informing the players they should have picked another way to spend their evening, I can only just make out the whispers. The stares. The maps that the men and more than a few women are painting over my body with their eyes. How badly they all want me. How easily I keep them at bay.
Jerking the leash of starving dogs.
The blue curtains of the VIP rooms are just before me, and the statuesque guards standing before it glare forward. No signs needed. This is a no entry. Abandon all hope ye who enter here. But I strut forward. I know it’s not a lack of fear. I can feel my knees quivering just beneath the realm of visibility. My heart rattles around my rib cage like an epileptic canary.
It’s not out of courage, either. I’ve spent most of my life surviving by lurking just beneath the surface. On the fringes of the city. Picking only enough flesh from the rotting corpse to survive. I’d be much more comfortable fleeing to somewhere new.
But fear and courage have a fairly close relative. And it’s coursing through me, buzzing like a thousand pissed-off bees.
Robert Nox. He’s done it. I’m Very. Fucking. Angry.
The brute to the left of the door steps forward, gravelly voice so low it vibrates the floor around us, but somehow being heard clear over the cries of the club. His skin looks about the color of pale stone. Not human.
“Best turn around, missy. Nothing for little girls back here.”
I smile and step forward. “I just need to see the big guy.” I let my eyelashes flutter. He balks, but only barely.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Nox isn’t expecting any entertainment tonight. Move along.”
The other guard watches, silent. The music in the casino seems to double in volume as we three stand, frozen. Waiting for one side or the other to make a move.
I sigh. Hand to the granite cheek of my enemy, I nod. “Mr. Nox really should want to see me.”
His hand drops down and snatches my wrist.
“You better leave. Witch.” He practically spits the accusation at me.
I snicker. “Bad guess.”
I look to his partner, pink in the face as any average human would be. Or close enough to human, anyway. His self-control is admirable. I smile at him and gasp at being grabbed. “Are you going to hurt me?”
Pink-In-The-Face puts a hand on Stone-Skin. “Earl. Just show her out.”
Earl glares at his weaker partner. This is getting me nowhere.
“Shoot him,” I say to the only human out of the three of us.
He pulls his gun and fires a round into Earl’s side. The shot is loud, almost deafening, but over the music pounding out above us, not a single soul on the casino floor even looks up.
“Damnit!” Earl says, doubling over. To a mortal man, it’d be a lethal shot. Earl will walk it off. I step over his prone body and put a palm to the human’s cheek.
“Thank you.”
He smirks for a moment before my boot knife slips between his ribs and he collapses.
I part the blue curtains.
Th
e table is adorned with food and drink. Rare steaks, bright red wine. Or at least it’s meant to look like wine. The room is filled with people. Or rather, beings. I have very little doubt that no human has ever entered this room and lived to describe it. And there’s not a single one of them in there tonight.
And at the head of the table, he’s sitting. Atop his throne. One arm around a young girl who bears his eyes and sardonic grin. Robert Nox.
With both in the same room, I see the resemblance as the young girl beside Nox stands and points at me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Wearing a grin of pure joy, I stroll forward to her side of the table. “I see you’ve healed up nicely. Thomas and I were worried when your body disappeared from his living room.”
The failed assassin gives me a look that should burn, but doesn’t. The laws of what works from Inhuman to Inhuman are shaky at best.
“Julia, be nice to our guest,” Robert says in such a charming tone that I have to admit my knees quiver and not out of fear. “Please. Sit.” He gestures to a chair beside his daughter.
I stay standing. “I’m here with an offer.”
His daughter still broils, fists clenching. It’s been a week since I put two rounds in her gut and one in her knee, but she looks just fine with her skimpy dress and bright features.
Nox folds his hands. “And what might that be?”
“Something I’m sure you’re not used to. A truce.”
He laughs. Not forced, not even as evil as the man behind it. My body count is what Robert Nox racks up in a month. He―quite literally―finds me funny. “Why on earth would I need to have a truce with you?”
“You know who I am.” I nod to his daughter. “You know what I’m capable of. And thanks to a friend of mine, I’ve got a very captive audience.” I hold up my purse to reveal a small blinking light, and then my watch. “Enough plastic explosive to make this room look like a meteor crater, triggered if my heart stops for even a second.”
Nox’s smile turns into a clenched snarl. He doesn’t speak.
“I know what you want,” I continue with my prey, exhilarated to be the predator again. “And I’m here with some bad news: you’re not going to get it.”