The House That Death Built (3 page)

Tommy Leigh wasn't doing
anything. Not really. Just a little fun.

He'd had his gun on the woman –
some rich whore who'd never known what it was to struggle, whose biggest
concerns were probably whether to use a fifty or a C-note to light her
cigarettes. That was what his job was in this room: he watched Momma Bear, and
Kayla watched the two little piggies she'd shot out into a life just as
privileged as hers.

But it got boring fast. He liked
watching the bitch cry, curled up on the floor and weeping dime-sized tears
onto some kind of carpet that Tommy'd never get to use if he did a thousand
jobs. But after a while the cries got lower, she just ran out of gas.

Boring. Boooooring.

He nudged her with his foot. That
was worth another little wince, a short binge of bawling.

Too short.

He nudged her again, not really
expecting anything interesting to happen. What he really wanted to do was put a
bullet in her head. Then he could have some quality time with the kids.

How come Kay gets all the good
jobs?

He glanced at his sister. She had
her gun trained on the teen boy and his little sister. Both of them were
silent, but Tommy noted with muted glee that they stared not at Kayla – not
even at her gun – but at
him
.

They know. They know who has the
power. They know who deserves everything they have.

Still looking at the kids, he
nudged Momma Bear again. And because he was looking, he saw the girl take a
half-step toward him when the woman at his feet gave a little cry.

His face tightened pleasantly as
blood rushed to his face – and other parts of him. He grinned.

The girl stepped back into her
brother's arms.

That was okay. That made it more
exciting. Enticing.

He kicked Momma Bear. Not a nudge
this time, a full-fledged slam into her side. She screamed.

He barely noticed. He was
watching the little girl. She screamed, too.

Oh, yeah.

"You like that?" he
said, staring right at the little girl. She was a looker. Long blond hair, huge
blue eyes that had just the right mix of pain and fear and adoration in them.
The braces added an innocence that he found entrancing.

The girl didn't look away. Even
when her brother tried to turn her head into his chest, she pulled away and
kept looking at her mother.

No. Not at her mother. At
me
. At the only one who
matters. The only one in the room with her.

"Tommy," said Kayla.
"Back off."

He ignored her. She would expect
him to – she was a good sister that way.

He kicked Momma Bear again. This
time he heard a rib crack. It was a beautiful sound.

Almost as beautiful as the little
girl, suddenly crying out.

"Mom!" She took a step
toward her mother – toward
Tommy
.

Come on over, baby girl. Let's
play.

The girl's brother held her
shoulders, but Tommy thought for a moment she might actually shake him off.
Might cross the room to Tommy.

And what came next would be
beautiful.

Then the bitch on the floor stuck
her nose in. "No!" she shouted. She had her arms crossed over her
stomach, trying to hold her damaged ribcage together. But still managed a loud
shout. And again, "No, Ashley! Stay there!"

The little girl – beautiful
Ashley – stepped back to her brother's embrace.

Tommy rounded on the woman. He
kicked her. Again. Again. She was screaming, and even the siren screams of
Ashley, the beautiful screams of a little girl learning about life, didn't make
him less angry.

"Shut up," he grunted
as he sent another kick into the woman's stomach. "No one asked you, so
shut
up
."

He was about to kick her in the
face. About to end her meddling – mothers always meddled too much, which was one
of the reasons Tommy had hated his own so much.

His foot hung in space. One kick,
right in the face. Boom. Lights out.

Then he could turn all his
attention to Ashley. And after her, her brother. The kid was old enough to be
less interesting, but still good for some quick fun.

"Tommy!"

The voice jerked him to a halt.
His foot still hung there, one motion away from an ecstatic release.

"Tommy!" The voice came
from the closet. Rob. And he was pissed.

Tommy wasn't afraid of Rob – he
wasn't afraid of anyone – but the guy did supply the jobs. Which meant he
supplied a lot of the best times of Tommy's life. So Tommy listened to him.
Mostly.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Whatever's happening out
there –
stop
it."

It should have made him mad.
Should have enraged him to have to stop at the height of terror, the apex of
joy.

But little Ashley was looking at
him. Staring with such terror, such fear and
adoration
, that he couldn't
find it in himself to be mad.

"Sure," he said. And in
that moment, he also realized something that made it easier to stop.

Rob had said, "Tommy."
Had called him by name.

And that meant he wasn't worried
about anyone providing information to the cops – or anyone else.

Tommy inhaled. Everything smelled
sweet, the darkness of the room cast thin threads of terror and pain and all
things wonderful.

He put his foot down.

"Sure, Rob!" he called.
Knowing Rob wouldn't care that he used his name.

Because everyone who lived in
this house was going to die tonight.

The sounds outside the closet
died.

James didn't understand what was
happening. Didn't know why someone would do this.

The night had started so well. It
was his and Beth's date night. They met after work at their favorite
restaurant. A bottle of champagne to celebrate another successful week's ride
on life's little merry-go-round. A return to the house they loved, to the place
where they had made a home with their children.

Evan and Ashley had been waiting
for them. They had each made a card that spelled out "WE LUV YOO" in
macaroni that had been glued to the construction paper and spray-painted gold.
A silly, ridiculous pair of "presents" that made James laugh so hard
he thought he might lose consciousness.

The cards had been Evan's idea,
he could tell. Evan, so tall, so strong. Smile and sense of humor just like his
mother's. Only that boy could come up with something so ridiculous, so
childish, so perfect.

James was blessed. A family he
loved – and who loved him back. A home where happiness could be found. Money –
which he couldn't deny was a nice thing to have, though it was a distant third
to family and hearth.

Then… awakened from a deep sleep,
body still pleasantly warm after some vigorous lovemaking with his wife after
the kids went to bed. Guns in their faces. Masked features. A man stomping his
heel down on James' leg so hard it felt like a hammer blow against denuded
bone.

What's happening?

He knew what was happening, of
course. It was a robbery. There were men who were willing to kill him and his
family to get what they wanted – the money and jewelry that the safe held.

Even so, his mind kept fluttering
on moth wings back to that thought:
What's happening? What's happening?

What THE HELL is happening?

The screams from the room beyond
the closet – the room that now held the sum of his existence – silenced after
the guy with the gun shouted for "Tommy" to stop whatever he was
doing.

But they didn't stop in James'
mind. Shrieks of pain and shock and terror, and under it all:

What's happening?

The man with the gun pushed it
down on top of James' head. He could feel the bore, the black circle on his
head a brand that burned through hair and flesh and scorched his skull and the
curled brain matter beneath it.

"Now get the safe open,"
said the man. His voice was tight. Under control for now, but ready to burst
into mayhem at any moment.

James looked at the other man in
the closet. The man kneeling beside him, close to the safe. The man with the
eyes that said he didn't want to be here, didn't want to be doing this.

"Please," whispered James.
Not knowing what he hoped the sad-eyed man would do. But
something
–
someone had to be able to help them.

The sad eyes stared at him for a
quick moment, then flicked away. Down. No help to be found.

The gun ground harder into his
head. "Listen carefully, James. If you don't get this safe open I will
kill you. But first I'll make you watch my colleagues kill your family.
Slowly."

James barely managed to process
the words. Everything was –

(
What's happening?
)

– a jumble. All was a blur.

"James. James?"

He managed to find the source of
the words. The sad-eyed man. "Please," said the man, gesturing at the
safe.

James nodded. The bobbly motion
of a man so terrified he can't reliably control his own muscles.

That was why he'd hit the wrong
numbers before. He wasn't trying to stall or keep the robbers away from the
safe's contents. They could have everything he owned as long as they left his
family alone. Alive.

But his fingers were twitching.
His body wasn't acting the way it should.

What's happening?

He reached a finger for the safe.

Get this wrong and the safe won't
open and we're all dead. Beth and the kids – gone.

(
What's happening?

They'll all die. Open the safe or
they all die.

What's happening? WHAT'S
HAPPENING?
)

"Come on, James. Think
hard," said the gunman. "Don't screw this up or –" The gunman
stopped speaking, and suddenly James was aware that the man had turned toward
the closet door.

"Bring in one of the
kids!" he shouted.

That penetrated. Ripped away the
fog and left James gasping.

"Please! No!"

"Wait, what –" said the
sad-eyed man.

"Shut up, Aaron,"
snarled the gunman.

Sounds erupted in the master
bedroom. A struggle.

The circle of hot metal
disappeared from James' head as the gunman pulled his gun away and moved to the
doorway. Reached out into the dark room beyond, then yanked a struggling,
screaming form into the closet with him.

"Evan!" The cry tore
free from James' throat.

The gunman threw James' son to
the floor, then stepped on the teen's back. The man's gun was no longer pointed
at James, but rather ground into his son's temple.

"We don't need –" began
the sad-eyed man. Aaron.

"Shut up," said the
gunman before returning his gaze to James. "Listen, Pops. I know you're
scared. But you've got two minutes to get this door open. And if you get it
wrong…." He shifted his grip slightly, then brought the butt down against
Evan's shoulder. Evan screamed, and beyond the doorway, out of sight, so did Beth,
shrieking in anguish.

She can see this. Can see him.

Can Ashley see it?

(
What's happening?
)

"Please," he said.
"No."

The gunman just stared at him.
Even without the mask James suspected he wouldn't have seen anything he
understood. These people – they weren't men, they weren't women. Just monsters.

"Time's a-wastin',
Pops," said the gunman.

James heard a low groan roll
through the closet space. Realized after a moment it had come from him.

He turned back to the safe.
Trying not to think about his wife and daughter, held in the room by people
willing to kill without a moment's thought. Trying not to think of his son,
bruised and crying on the floor only inches away.

Trying to get his hand to stop
shaking
.
His mind to
focus
.

The moan disappeared, replaced by
a shivering cry. Tears dripped down his cheeks; obscured his vision and made
everything seem like a nightmare and somehow at the same time more real than
anything James had ever before experienced.

He reached for the safe. For the
keypad.

A hand stopped him.

The sad-eyed man held his wrist.
Not tightly, not angrily, but firmly enough that James couldn't reach the safe.

What's happening?

"Just give me the
numbers," said the sad-eyed man. "I'll key them in."

Even the simple statement took
too long to make its way through the veil of tears and terror that had dropped
over James' gaze.

"I'll do it for you,"
said the man.

James finally nodded. "I'll
try," he managed. "Hard to –"

The gunman –

(
Rob? Didn't someone call him
Rob?

What's happening?
)

– slammed the gun down on Evan's
shoulder again. This time James' son didn't cry out. Just curled in a bit on
himself. Smaller, somehow less
there
.

James felt the blow as though he
had been the one under attack. He screamed. The sound barely made it out
through a windpipe pinched shut by terror and pain felt on another's behalf. He
barely registered the blood that still pumped from his leg, the pain centered
there.

He just saw Evan, drawing slowly
into a fetal ball.

"Stop screwing around!"
shouted the gunman – Rob. He had his gun trained at James again, and James felt
a strange relief at that fact – at least it wasn't being used on Evan. "If
I don't have whatever's inside that safe in my hands in…" he checked his
watch, "sixty seconds…."

He gestured at Evan with his gun.
And cocked back the hammer.

"Dad," whispered Evan.
And in that word, in three small letters, James heard every plea his son had
ever uttered. In that single syllable he felt the weight of a life that
depended on him as none other.

Oddly, the moment reminded him of
the first time he had held his son. Firstborn in his arms, hair still matted
from the fluid he had slept in for nine months, new father still unsure if this
was really so.

Then the baby's eyes opened. Just
a crack. Just a dark slit against a so-red face.

He saw a glimmer. And
knew
.
This was his to have, his to hold. A life to love, an existence to cherish.

A son to
protect.

"It's okay, son," he
said. "It'll be okay."

He tried to make himself sound
sure. Strong.

He failed.

He took in a breath.

What's happening?

Steady. Steady. Strong. They need
you.

"Come on, Pops. Time's
a-wastin'."

James did his best to ignore the
harsh words, the sound of a man who wanted to kill him.

He turned to the other man – Aaron.
For a moment he considered pleading for help from the other man. Begging for
him to switch sides and help instead of harm.

But a single look convinced him
that would never happen. The sad-eyed man didn't look like he wanted to be
here. But he
was
here. And he was afraid of Rob. Not just because of the
gun – there was more to it than that.

There was no help here. Only James
himself.

He nodded. "Okay," he
said – more as an attempt to calm himself than to notify the man at the safe
that he was ready.

But the sad-eyed man nodded. Sent
a quick glance toward Evan as though to encourage the father to protect the
son.

"One," said James. Aaron
entered the number. "Seven." Again, the beep of a key being
triggered. No red lights. All good. "Seven."

Beep. All good.

What's happening what's happening
WHAT'S HAPPENING?

For a moment, panic welled.
Reality and any semblance of control spun away from James' grasp. He fell into
a fog. And heard himself say, "Eight," and realized he had slipped
back into the past – saying the weight of that newborn baby.

(
"Eight pounds, Mr.
Schaffer. Your son weighs eight pounds. And he's perfect."
)

Everything lengthened out. The
time between him saying the number and Aaron actually hitting it seemed like
enough space for a hundred families to grow old and die together. Enough time
for generations to laugh, love, and die.

But it wasn't enough for James to
say what needed to be said.

"No! Wait!
Nine
!"

But even as he said it, he heard
the beep. Then a deeper one. A click. A red light appeared on the LED.

Something
thunked
within
the safe. The sound of an immovable object sliding home with irresistible
force.

The three lights disappeared,
replaced by a countdown timer: 12:00:00.

Hours, minutes, seconds.

Twelve hours before the safe
could be opened.

James rocked back on his knees.
He moaned.

Silence ruled for an instant.
Then Rob spoke, rage barely contained behind a demon's grin. "I guess we
always knew at least one of you was going to die," he said. "Turns
out it's going to be even more."

The sad-eyed man gasped.
"Don't –"

At the same time, Evan rolled
over to his back. Looking up. Seeing what was coming.