by JA Huss
“Hundreds. But listen, man, turns out that apparently there may be nothing to do here and no one to do it to.”
“What? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that the plans, all the scenarios we considered, were predicated around the manor being occupied, and… it may no longer be.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“As cancer, my bru.”
“Fuck. Do you think that’s true?”
“That no one is here?”
“Yeah.”
“Not one bit.”
“Me either,” he says. “So, well… OK. What do you want to do?”
Still smiling, I say, “I think we may have to improvise.”
There’s a pause, and sure as I’m grinning like a Cheshire Cat, I’m certain I also hear a smile in his voice when he responds with, “Copy that.”
Emerging from the wooded surrounding area, past the not-currently-electrified fence, and stepping into the open grassiness of the estate itself, I do have a bracing moment of stiffness. That hitch one gets when one is certain they’ve emptied their pockets of all metal but still aren’t sure if the metal detector is going to go off or not. If a spotlight were to suddenly illuminate all of us and our bodies were to be riddled with bullets, I would be less than shocked.
But that does not happen. No light. No bullets. No riddling. Something does catch my attention out of the corner of my eye. A rabbit. A tiny, white bunny with what appears to be a handful or more of bunny children. I didn’t know rabbits were nocturnal. I certainly don’t think baby rabbits should be out this late. It must be well past their bedtime.
Ach, look at that, I sound like a parent. A parent wearing a five-thousand-pound suit and carrying a T91 assault rifle, stalking the grounds of an eerily deserted-seeming mansion with the intent of finding and murdering his own brother.
Well… at least I’m not some type of bosbefok circus acrobat like Andra’s mother. That’s just strange.
“It really does look empty,” Christine says, regarding the darkened, monolithic colossus of a structure here in the midst of nowhere.
“It does look that way,” Eliza offers.
“You think it’s a trap?” Russell asks.
“I always think everything’s a trap,” Eliza says. “Which is why I’m still alive.”
“Are you fucking quoting The Princess Bride?” That’s Christine. Eliza smirks. “Just… fucking don’t. I love that movie. I want to still be able to.”
“Brilliant,” Russell chimes in. “Let’s be careful, shall we?”
“I don’t like this at all,” Christine says. “It doesn’t feel right.”
Before I lead our way, I give her a kiss on the head and assure her that no matter what, we’ll all come away from this intact. Every one of us. And while I have made a vow to no longer lie to her… or Danny… in this one instance, I’ll make an exception.
Where did you go, Lars?
Where are you now?
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT - CHRISTINE
There is an air of competitiveness between Eliza and me and I hate it. I used to enjoy it. A little. Back when I first met her. I used to think she was so cool. So smooth. So in control. So slick. I thought she was the mistress of thieves. She might even have been my role model.
Which now makes me want to gag.
But that was before I found out she was falling in love with my Alec.
He is mine.
There is no doubt.
I know this, she knows this, he knows this.
So why do I let her get to me?
Jealousy, I suppose.
Which is why, when Alec leads the way across the lawn, she and I power-walk, silently competing with each other to be directly behind him.
I can practically feel Russell rolling his eyes because he hangs back a few yards, stalking forward alone.
“I’m sorry,” Eliza whispers into the night.
“What?” I hiss back.
“I said I’m sorry. I didn’t know about you and… well… I didn’t know. I thought we had an agreement.”
I huff out some air, shaking my head. “About?”
“Alec. I thought… you knew. As long as we were in England it was fine. I thought you knew.”
“Are we really having this talk right now?”
“I’m just trying to make peace before… whatever happens, happens.”
What does she think is happening? “Fine. Whatever,” I whisper.
“You knew about us, right?”
“Yes,” I hiss. “It wasn’t about you, Eliza. Don't flatter yourself.”
“I know that now,” she says, turning her head to find my gaze. We continue to power-walk but the air of competitiveness has dissipated a little. “But I had no idea that you—”
“Just shut up, OK?”
“I have always liked you, Christine. Have always respected you. We were friends.”
“Just… later, for fuck’s sake.”
“I know he’s yours. I understand that. Accepted it long ago. Before Andra came along. Before any of that. He has always been yours. He has always belonged to you and Danny. I never had any illusions otherwise. I just want you to know I’m not a threat. OK?”
I don’t know what to say. I want to hate her with every fiber of my being. I want to give in to the loathing and the blame. Make her my archenemy for life.
But the truth is… it’s no one’s fault. No one did this to me. No one made me into this person, or forced me into this life, or took anything away from me.
It just happened.
And if I really take a good hard look at things… every one of these people here gave me something more than what I had. Alec and Danny are my family. We are married to each other. We are in love. We are a team. It’s us three against the world.
But the Watsons are like family too. They have been around us for several years now. We’ve done jobs together and we played the game of who can steal it better. Sometimes we won, sometimes they won, but the fact is… they’re here. Right now, with us, doing this.
And we’re all here for the same reason.
Some might say we’re all here for Andra. And I guess that’s true. No one wants her to be collateral damage in the shit we do. But that’s not the only reason we’re here. We’re here for each other.
We might never admit it. We might even hate it. But it’s the truth.
So I say, “OK,” and leave it at that. Because we’ve made our way across the lawn and are now on the walkway that leads around the house.
There truly is no one here. No lights on in the mansion, no outside lights on the walkways, no cars in the driveway. No one and nothing moves except us.
I spot Danny, Charlie, and Brenden on the other side, coming in from their neck of the woods.
Charlie and Brenden are clowning around like twin brothers. Jabbing each other, smacking each other, and generally being fucking idiots. They aren’t loud. Not in any real sense of the word. But they are loud in this world of thieves we’re in right now.
They chuckle and joke as we make our way down the dark pathway toward the front of the house. Danny probably wants to murder them. He catches my eye and shakes his head.
Why do you like this asshole? that shake says.
He’s fun, my silent look back replies. And he was there for me.
Which makes Danny sigh as our two groups meet up at the front door.
The front door.
Which is ridiculous.
“Dun. Dunt, dunt, dunt, dun. Dunt. Dun. Dunt. Dun,” sings Brenden as they close the last few yards between us.
“Neener neeer. Neener neer. Neeener neer. Nit net,” adds Charlie.
We all just look at them like… Mission: Impossible song? Really?
Danny’s look says: How the fuck these two idiots are still alive, I’ll never understand.
My look says: I got nothing for that.
Russell slaps them both upside the head and says out loud, “Shut the fuck up.”
To which Brenden replies, “Look, the arseholes didn’t even bother locking up.”
We all turn to stare at the door, which is slightly ajar.
“What the hell is happening?” Eliza asks.
“It’s a trap,” Russell says.
“Or,” Charlie adds, “blokes have up and left,” and pushes past us to give the door a shove. “And there ain’t no fucks left to give about security because there ain’t no one here.”
The door opens wide with a creak that seems oddly out of place and creepy as fuck at the same time. Beyond is just a hazy darkness. The outline of a grand staircase. The faint moonlight passing through a long hallway coming from a window on the far side of the house.
And silence.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE - DANNY
Everything about this plan is wrong and every one of us knows it.
Even Charlie and Brenden have gone quiet. Alec steps forward, crossing the threshold, and it takes all my self-control not to pull him back by the sleeve of his suit coat and tell him it’s not worth it. Whatever it is he’s looking for, that’s not what we’re gonna find here. We should just back up and leave.
But of course, that’s not what happens.
Russell pushes past me and follows him in and then, as if we’re connected by some invisible tether, we all step inside.
I hold my breath. Waiting for it. Waiting for the bullets to come streaming from the rooms on either side of the foyer. Waiting for the hot sting of death, and the inevitable collapse to the ground to bleed out.
But it never happens.
And then there’s a rush of air as we all exhale and look at each other.
For some reason I find Eliza’s gaze and she finds mine. We lock eyes and I read her.
She’s scared.
As she should be. I think we’re all scared even though there is no apparent reason for it.
Something happened here. Something is still happening here.
“Well,” Russell whispers, respecting the silence. “Now what?”
Alec tilts his head, looking up the staircase. And then without speaking he walks towards it.
This time I do reach out and grab his sleeve. “Let’s just leave,” I say.
“No,” Alec says, shrugging me off. “I have to go up there. I need to see.”
“See what, mate?” Charlie asks. “There’s nothing to see.”
“Shhh,” Alec snaps, still looking up the stairs. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Christine says. “Alec, I don’t—”
“Shhh,” Alec says again. “Listen.” He points a finger up the stairs. “Do you hear that? Sounds like… clicking. Like a pattern of clicking.”
“Oh, shit,” Eliza says.
“What?” Christine asks, moving in closer to her.
Eliza looks down at Christine and says, “It’s code. Can’t you hear it?”
“Oh, shit,” Christine says.
“What?” I ask. I want to shake them both and make them talk.
“It’s Morse code,” Russell says. “Listen.”
We all crane our necks. Let the silence wash over us.
And then… in the stillness comes a tapping.
S. O. S.
Alec starts up the stairs. I reach for him again but he’s practically running and the chance to go back disappears with him as he enters the darkness ahead.
The rest of us have no choice but to follow.
There’s a collective drawing of weapons. Someone beside me, maybe Brenden, maybe Christine, loads a round into a chamber.
At the top of the stairs Alec hesitates, arm out in front of us, telling us to stop.
He looks up towards the third floor and we all follow his gaze.
S. O. S.
He starts running again. His long legs taking the stairs three at a time. I do the same and overtake Russell, then bound up past Alec because I see now that he is not holding his weapon. He’s being drawn upward by some spell and he’s forgotten to arm himself.
“It’s a trap!” Russell yells. “Alec! Alec, stop, it’s a trap, mate!”
But Alec doesn’t stop and neither do I. I reach the top of the stairs first, gun panning back and forth as I move forward, checking the empty rooms, finding nothing.
The tapping is coming from the end of the hallway to the right, and I move forward quickly, jostling with Alec to enter the last room at the end.
But I get there first. Gun drawn, high ready, finger about to squeeze the trigger…
And I stop.
Because I have no idea what I’m looking at.
CHAPTER FIFTY- ALEC
“Stop!” That is my voice. I know it is mine because I can hear it ringing out into the world as the word leaves my mouth. Simultaneously, I see my hand striking at Danny’s weapon, knocking it from its position of readiness. My voice, my movements, my thoughts are happening, I know it, but they are all occurring in some type of fugue state. And though I am no seer and cannot presume to predict what this moment might augur, I do know that in the years to come I will look back on this scene and wonder if I was really there.
As I guessed might be the case, Lars did not leave. Whether he stayed with the intention of confronting me, as he surely knew I would return, or whether he never even really had awareness that I was gone in the first place, I shall likely never know. I would ask him. I would query him and hold him to account for his betrayal of me and his manipulation of Christine in such a state as she was in at the time. I would seek to know the answers to these and so many more questions. I would, if it appeared he could provide any type of response.
But he cannot, it would seem. Because sitting, as he is, in a wheelchair, wearing silk pyjamas identical to the ones in which I was outfitted for the last four or almost five months, he appears in no state to provide anyone with anything.
“What the fuck?” Danny whispers. Or possibly says at full volume but lands on my ear as a susurration after traveling down a long, smoky corridor of confusion and—if I am interpreting my emotions correctly—regret.
The other members of our collective arrive now at our stern and they all stop short. Danny holds them back with his arm. I think. The only thing I can make out for certain is a gasp that sounds like one of Christine’s and an, “Alec?” which is definitely Christine’s. I turn my head to note her expression and I speculate that it is a mirror of my own.
I turn back to see my brother—my baby brother who I never knew that well, who I was charged with caring for after our parents died, and who many years later would attempt to kill me—in a near catatonia, his arms and legs strapped to the wheeled, metallic perch on which he sits. He appears to have been beaten. Badly. His eyes are swollen, and his lips are bloodied. He struggles to take in air. He is a marooned guppy.
“Alec…?” I hear again. Again, it is Christine’s voice. Looking back once more, she appears in need. The Watsons all stand in stock-still silence. I fear that none of us know what to do exactly. We wildly, and some might say foolishly, concocted a plan to come here tonight for our own various reasons. All of us bound by whatever it is that binds people. All of us with our own set of expectations for what we might find when we arrived. We planned for myriad scenarios. And when we materialized here, it looked like nothing we anticipated. And now what’s before us looks like nothing anyone could have anticipated even if you had drawn an explicit diagram of what we would find.
The clicking we heard stops. Placed under the fingertips of Lars’ bound left hand is a pistol, the barrel striking the arm of the chair as it pecked out an anemic call for help, the sound that drew us here. S.O.S. For over a century, the universal code for maritime distress. A nonverbal cry for aid from sailors at sea. How violently poetic.
Christine summons herself forward, passing Danny who tries to take her arm, but she pulls free and stands next to me. After a moment,
Danny draws ahead as well and joins us. One of the Watson okes starts, “Do you—?” But I put up my hand and whatever question he was about to ask is stopped short. Now that the tapping has ceased, it is almost aggressively quiet in the house, save for the strained rattle coming from Lars as he tries with only marginal success to breathe.
“Watch behind us.” I don’t turn around to address Eliza and her brothers directly, but I will assume they know I’m talking at them. I take a tentative first step. Christine and Danny step with me. A second step. They follow in kind. A third step and I now see Lars attempting to open a tumescent eyelid. Four, five, six steps in quick succession and we are now knelt in front of and beside him.
“Lars. Lars, man. What the fok, bru? What happened? Bru? Bru?”
His head swivels a bit, his chin tracing his chest like a ghoulish metronome. He makes the suggestion of a sound. It is indescribable and possibly an attempt at words.
“Lars?” Christine. “Lars? Where is everyone? The men who were here? Your men?”
His metronomic head swivel manages five percent more energy, and through a clenched jaw he mumbles out what sounds like, “Aaaawaaaay…” Then a breath in through his nose and, “Nnnnot… nnnnnot…”
“Not what, bru?”
“Nnnnnnnot… mine.”
And it is now all I can do to wrestle down the lightning strike of energy that wants to overtake me. I do. I breathe. I expand. I need to become bigger than I am. I need to consume all the space around me. Danny, spying something that I missed, reaches up to the pocket of the pyjama shirt and withdraws what appears to be a hastily scribbled note.
“What is that?” I ask. He doesn’t respond, just unfolds the note and reads, his brow furrowing as he whispers, “What the fuck…?” Then his entire face contorts into a mask of rage. “Motherfucker!”
The sound of his shout echoing around the emptiness of this place is jarring. Eliza darts into the room. Christine startles and says, “What? What is it?”
Danny thrusts the note at me. I take it. Look down at the slapdash penmanship.