House (9 page)

“Wh-what?” Jack felt the same consternation he saw in the others' faces. He raised his hands, not yet believing. “Stewart. What gives?”

“Against the wall!”

Leslie helped Randy off the floor. Jack guided Stephanie to the wall that separated the foyer from the dining room, putting himself between her and Stewart's line of fire. They fell into place like four deserters before a firing squad.

“Stewart, I don't want you ruining the plaster either,” Betty protested.

“Shut up!”

She took her place beside him and remained silent.

Stewart eyed them one by one with murder in his eyes. “You are the sorriest bunch of sinners I ever seen. Come in here acting like you own the place, all well-to-do like we can't tell what lies you're hiding. Filthy atheists! But you're guilty! Guilty as sin!”

Leslie turned on her most soothing, professional tone. “Stewart, perhaps we owe you an apology—”

With a blinding flash and a deafening explosion that mingled with Leslie's scream, Stewart ruined the plaster above Leslie's head. She cowered, hands raised in pleading surrender. Randy grabbed her to keep her from falling. Stephanie collapsed against Jack's legs, almost knocking him over.

“Oh, now you've done it,” Betty whined.

Stewart pumped the action again. “Stand up.”

Jack helped Stephanie to her feet but didn't let go of her. Her hands quivered in his. His heart was pumping so furiously he could hear it in his skull.

Stewart waved the barrel back and forth, the very picture of murdering madness. He jerked his head at the crumpled wreck embedded in the entry. “We know all about this killer, more than you ever will, so we know it's you that's brought us the trouble. You brought it in here like a dog carrying fleas.”

“But we're more than happy to leave,” said Jack. “Just let us go and—”

“
Go?
You think he's gonna let anyone out of here? You ain't goin' anywhere till Mr. White gets what he wants.”

“But don't you see? This
is
what he wants, for us to harm each other.”

“So what's wrong with that?”

Randy looked to Betty. “Betty. You understand what's going on, don't you?” He nodded toward Stewart. “Tell him.”

She looked at the mangled truck and what was left of the front entry. “Tell him what?”

“Betty. Are you too stupid to—”

That got her attention. Her icy glare clipped his sentence like a pair of scissors. “What do you want me to say, smart boy? That we do what we have to do?” She eyed Jack. “That life's just a big joke?”

“No . . . ,” Stephanie cried, her hand over her mouth.

Betty reached out and tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind Stephanie's ear. “Or maybe we should just sing a song and make the trouble go away.” Stephanie let go of Jack, doubled over, and retched.

“Betty,” Leslie said, her voice barely audible, “we're all human beings here. We can be reasonable.”

“Human beings?” Betty looked injured. “Sweetheart, this is what human beings do.”

Stewart grabbed a fistful of Betty's dress and yanked her back. “That's enough talking. We got ourselves to think about.”

“As if I could think of anything else,” Betty murmured, sidling up to him.

“But you don't all need to worry,” Stewart said. “Just one of you.”

8

JACK CONCENTRATED ON STEWART'S EYES, trying to detect the slightest hint of a bluff, a ruse, even a joke. The eyes were glassy, the red vessels distended, and behind them lay a darkness that was eerily familiar, like the hellish depths he'd seen through the window of the back door, through eyeholes cut in a metal mask.

This was no bluff.

Stewart wiggled the barrel toward the hall. “Get moving. Into the kitchen.”

Betty moved into the hallway, holding the lamp high, showing the dim way while casting long shadows. Jack exchanged a glance with the others, then followed, hands raised to indicate surrender, to prevent a haphazard shooting. They followed Betty in single file, first Jack, then Stephanie, Leslie, and Randy, all with hands raised. Stewart lumbered behind them, shotgun level.

Jack made a conscious effort to walk slowly, hoping the others were searching the hallway, the doorways, anywhere, just as he was, for any ideas on how to escape. There were plenty of places to flee from this hallway—the kitchen, the dining room, the stairs, the living room. Stewart couldn't possibly contain all four of them if they bolted, and the darkness would hide them.

But Stewart could kill one for certain, two if he could pump another round in time, maybe three or even all four if they could find no other way out of the house.

Jack kept walking, looking, hoping, waiting for
the
moment.

They entered the kitchen, Stewart prodding them from behind.

“Betty,” Stewart rumbled, “open up the meat locker.”

Stephanie gasped then started bawling. “No. No . . .”

Stewart jabbed her with the shotgun and kept her moving.

Betty said nothing. She only scowled at them—and Stewart—as she went to the far end of the kitchen, raised the latch on a thick wooden door, and heaved the door open. Wisps of chilling fog poured into the kitchen and snaked along the floor.

“Nooo!” Stephanie tried to bolt, but Stewart grabbed a fistful of her long hair and yanked her back. She screamed, stumbling. Jack took hold of her, put her in front of him and out of Stewart's reach, and stepped into the locker. The others followed, crowding and stumbling in the dark. Betty stepped in last, closing the door with a
thud
as the orange glow from the lamp filled the room.

The meat locker was much larger than Jack would have expected, made of sawn timber with bins and shelves for holding produce and slabs of meat. There was a huge ax hammer leaning against the far corner, the kind with one blunt end for knocking out cows and one sharp end for cutting their heads off. A bloodstained workbench featured an assortment of butcher knives and meat cleavers; meat hooks dangled from the ceiling.

Jack could see his breath. He rubbed his hands together for warmth.

We can't run from here. We shouldn't have let them take us this far. We should have tried something.

“Turn around, hands on the wall,” Stewart ordered, and the four faced the wall, hands raised and flat against the rough boards. They were frosty and bloodstained.

“What are you going to do?” Randy asked, his voice high and shaking.

“Can't you read?” Stewart said. “What do you
think
we're gonna do?”

Leslie began, “But we don't deserve—” Stewart pressed the gun barrel against her neck, and she went no further.

“Another lie. Ain't found a sinner yet who thought he deserved it, but they get it every time, now don't they? You all deserve it.”

Jack peered over the women's heads and met Randy's eyes. They were frantic, vacant, like a trapped animal's.
Randy, come on. I need you to work the problem with me. We're after an idea, any idea.

“But we can make this fair,” Stewart said. “The killer only wants one, so we'll only take one.” He paced behind them, down to Randy, back up to Jack. “And we'll even let
you
decide which one it's gonna be.”

They glanced at one another. Stephanie was weeping now, her tears dripping onto the floor.

How could we possibly make that kind of decision? But this is life, right? Just one cruel absurdity after another,
Jack thought
.
“You know we can't do that.”

Stewart's voice dropped an octave. “You don't fool me. I know what you can and can't do. I know what you are.”

Betty piped up, “No sense talking to him. He thinks it's all a bad joke.”

“I don't—”

“How about you, country star?” Stewart moved sideways, touching the barrel to the back of Stephanie's neck, making her flinch. Her crying intensified. “You think there's nobody here you wouldn't trade for your own life? Know what I think we oughta do with you? Leave you right here to freeze to death, long and slow.”

“Please help me . . .”

“Now wouldn't that be justice?”

“But it wasn't my fault!” she screamed.

And then she looked at Jack.

Jack's very soul froze at Stewart's words, Stephanie's cutting gaze, his own memories: he'd had such thoughts about her. He'd told himself such things over and over. He never said them; he only thought them.
Justice. I don't know. But if the accident wasn't her fault, the breakup of our marriage sure was.

“That's more like it, boy,” Stewart murmured.

Randy spoke up. “Stewart, listen, this whole situation could work out really well for you. You have the advantage; I have money. We can work out an arrangement. You could be a rich man.”

“Ohhhh, yeah.” Stewart stood behind Randy, the barrel of the shotgun just under Randy's ear. “Just how did you come by all that money, anyway? By making choices just like this one, am I right?”

It took Randy a moment to formulate an answer. “Good businessmen weigh the alternatives.”

“Well, here's an alternative for you: pick somebody to die, or I will.” He clutched a fistful of Randy's hair and slammed his head against the wall. “And I'm liking you for the part more and more, so you won't get off easy. No going quick. I'm gonna
drown
you, just like an old cat I wanna be rid of. You think about that!”

He poked Leslie, who stood silent, eyes closed, resolutely bearing up. “As for you, little Miss Taken, we'll wait till Pete's through with you, and then we'll decide.”

Leslie maintained her stony expression, but her jaw began to quiver.

“I've chosen!” Jack shouted. He had no idea what his next move would be, but he tried to catch Randy's eye.

He caught everyone's eyes. Now what?

“Well, I'll be. Maybe writer boy really does care,” Betty said.

“No,” Jack said, meeting Betty's eyes with a boldness that surprised even him. “You were right the first time. I don't care. Life
is
a big joke.”

Stewart bored into him with those hateful dark eyes. “This boy's got quite a philosophy.”

Jack turned and faced Stewart, his hands raised. “If life made any sense at all, we wouldn't be here having to make this ridiculous choice, and that sadistic killer wouldn't be outside waiting for a body.” He allowed himself a short chuckle and caught Randy's gaze. Randy was paying attention at least. “Listen, I've tried to understand why things like this happen to people, and I've given up.” But Randy didn't appear to be with him yet. Jack engaged Stewart's eyes. “There's no point to life, and if that's the case, you're right, Stewart, what's so wrong about us harming each other? Why not?”

Randy, Leslie, and Stephanie were staring at him, hands still against the wall. Their eyes were full of questions.

The muzzle of the shotgun filled his vision as Stewart said, “All right. Who's it gonna be?”

Jack shot a nervous glance toward Randy. “Uh, who do you think? I mean, it's obvious.”

Come on, Randy. Work with me.

Stephanie's voice was weak. “Jack, you can't possibly mean what you're saying!”

Thanks, Steph. Why don't we have another marital spat right here while Stewart's trying to kill us?

“Don't tell me what I mean!” he shouted at her, trying to stay in character as he moved out from the wall a few inches. “Look around you, Steph. Do you see anything good happening in this room? Do you see any point to any of this? And where's God, huh?” He inched sideways, looking down the barrel of the shotgun that never strayed from his face. “If God cared about us at all, he'd do something about this fix we're in, but guess what? No God, no help, no rescue, no point.” He looked at Stewart, even leaned toward him just a little, and said, “And no guilt either. There's no guilt because there's no right or wrong, no sin—there's only that shotgun.”

Stewart shoved the barrel at him. “So maybe it oughta be your brains all over the wall.”

Betty slapped the back of Stewart's head. “Stewart! Do it outside or you clean up the mess.”

Stewart's closing in gave Jack an excuse to back up, moving along the wall, away from the others. The gun followed Jack.

“Hey,” Jack protested, trying to catch Randy's eye over Stewart's shoulder. “You said you were going to be fair, you were going to let us choose which one. Well . . .”

Just a few more inches. Jack didn't have to act scared—he really was—as he continued backing away, drawing Stewart's attention. In his worst nightmares he couldn't have dreamed up a story like this. “Okay. I choose me.”

“You? You can't choose you.”

Stewart turned his back on the other three.

Jack had to keep his attention. “Why not? Betty's right. I've lost the dearest thing in life to me, and my wife just wants to run off and be a country singer. I don't care if I live anymore.” Stephanie looked away. There. A light went on in Randy's eyes. His hands came off the wall. “So in the grand scheme of things, I'm not losing anything and you get your body.”

Stewart seemed a bit rattled. “You're supposed to pick somebody else.”

Jack looked at Betty, who stood against the workbench to his right. “Betty, talk to him. Doesn't it make sense?”

Betty glowered at him, but mostly at Stewart. “Maybe he ain't the right one. He doesn't seem to mind.”

“Shut up,” Stewart said, his eyes still on Jack, pushing that barrel in Jack's face.

“Or maybe he is. Drowning the other guy'd take too long.”

Stewart looked her way. “I said
shut up.”

Now!

Jack brought both arms down and grabbed the barrel, sweeping it aside.