Nevada Barr - 13 1/2

Danny, a half smile on his face, his hand still on Gracie’s hair, looked at him over her head.

“Come on, Gracie,” Polly said. Emma tugged her mother to a halt. “Not now, honey.” Again Emma tugged, and Polly leaned down to catch a whispered confidence.

I’m scared. Daddy’s crazy. Was that what his elfin daughter was saying?

Polly lifted her head and looked at Danny standing with his back to her, Gracie in his arms, and then at Marshall standing by the bed. A world of emotion passed through her face. Marshall could read none of it. The look of determination when it was done was unmistakable.

“Danny, darlin’, I know you and Marshall have some talking to do,” her voice was petal soft and so beseeching Marshall hurt hearing it. “But would you be so kind as to help me get the girls tucked in? What with one thing and another, we would feel more secure if you didn’t leave us alone right now.” The last words were said in a voice that turned Marshall to water, a voice he doubted many men could stand against.

Danny could, but he didn’t. It was the opportunity he’d been waiting for.

“Sure thing. I’d rather you weren’t alone. It’s just not safe.” He winked at Marshall and backed toward the door, Gracie moving awkwardly with him. Before he turned and followed Polly out through the kitchen, he smiled at Marshall and stroked Gracie’s hair. “You wait here,” he said.

Marshall knew precisely what he meant.

Then they were gone; he heard the door to the backstairs close behind them.

He could call 911, but if the police came, sirens blazing, Danny would surely kill Polly and the girls. If he followed his brother, he would snap Gracie’s neck without a second thought. If he did nothing…

If he did nothing, it would happen all over again.

Twitches wracked his body, a seizure of conflicting orders. Shaking, he took one step, then another. From overhead, he heard a faint thump-his kitchen door shutting. Footsteps whispered on the backstairs.

Was Danny coming back, Gracie’s slender neck in the vise of arm and hand, listening to see if he followed?

Marshall moved again, softly this time, careful to make no sound on the hardwood floor. In the kitchen, he stopped and listened. Silence was not reassuring. The uneasy twitching of his hands worsened. Marshall was more frightened than he’d been since his parents were killed. He’d grown unaccustomed to physical fear. One of the perks of being a stone-cold killer was that one didn’t worry much about other predators. He wasn’t afraid for himself, but fear for his family was a solid thing, an entity, pumping so much adrenaline into his body he couldn’t stay still.

A crash sounded overhead, and he was out the kitchen door and halfway up the stairs. A noise from below, from the cellar, turned him around. Black and panting, a troll’s shape rushed upward.

“Danny,” he said, and his brother stopped. The stairwell was dark but for the light from the street coming through the garden window. It was enough to see; Danny had the axe in his hands. Faint light glistened on the planes of his cheeks and across his flat brow. It flashed dully on his teeth as he smiled. Not his matinee idol smile. This smile was detached from his humanity, a cold mockery of amusement, of the weaknesses and failings of others.

“Put it down,” Marshall said. His voice shook as badly as his hands.

“It’s necessary, brother. You made it necessary. I’m just here to clean up after you. Like always. It’s me and you, the Marchand brothers. I told you not to fuck that up. Now you’ve done it. You’ve killed them again.”

The Marchand brothers, identical twins, dead at birth. Marshall took a step down toward Danny.

“No sense in it, brother,” Danny warned him. “It’s over. It’s done. They’re already dead. Easy pickings, so soft and sweet. I just got the axe for the finishing touches, history repeating itself. Juries love that. But I won’t call the cops, not if you don’t force me to.”

All Marshall heard was, “They’re dead.” With the howl of an injured animal, he hurled himself at his brother. The blade of the axe cut into his cheek. He felt the force but not the pain. Before Danny could strike again, Marshall had the handle, his hands between his brother’s on the shaft. The stairwell was narrow and twisted; Marshall ’s shoulders smashed into the walls as they struggled. Danny’s face, still lit from the window, was as smooth and calm as if they played at cat’s cradle.

Blood poured from Marshall ’s cheek, onto the back of his hand, leaking onto the axe handle, making the wood slick. His brain burned. His body was a machine gone amok. Another cry burst from him, and he heaved upward with all his strength. Surprise registered on Danny’s face as his hands slipped from the newly slickened handle, and he began to fall backwards. Shadows took him, as he slammed onto the lower landing where the steps turned again into the cellar.

Sudden and complete silence filled the space. Then came a whisper, no more than a breath of sound.

“Dylan?”

Axe still in hand, Marshall slowly descended the stairs.

“Rich?” Time folded in on itself. Mack the Giant was but a few minutes away. Rich was crumpled at the bottom of the flight of stairs, his head propped up against the wall at the corner. Light from the window didn’t penetrate far enough that Marshall could read his face.

“Help me, Dyl.”

Marshall crouched down beside his brother, the space so tight his butt hit one wall and the head of the axe the opposite. “Are you hurt?” It wasn’t Marshall asking, it was Dylan. Marshall heard the concern in his voice and hated it.

Dylan loved his brother.

“I broke something. You made me a fucking cripple.” Danny started to laugh and the sound seared the last of Dylan from Marshall ’s soul.

Marshall rose and ran up the stairs toward his apartment, the staccato laughs following him in a poisonous swarm.

Marshall took the stairs three at a time and slammed into the door to his and Polly’s kitchen. Danny had locked it. Marshall swung the axe and heard the frame splinter. A kick, and he was in. Lights were on in the kitchen and dining rooms. Both were empty. He ran for the stairs and, for once, climbed them without feeling the clamp of Mack’s hand on the back of his neck, his rasping insults at every step.

The upstairs hall was empty. His office door stood ajar. The master bedroom door was shut. Adrenaline drained out of him as fast as it had shot through his veins.

Like then, like Dylan, he did not want to see what lay in the bedroom. Visions of black-and-white photographs of his dad in the double bed, his face cloven in two, crowded Marshall ’s vision, shifted, became Polly’s face. Lena appeared, her tiny body destroyed. Lena drifted, became Emma.

Sirens.

The police had arrived. Marshall was holding a bloody axe, the only one standing after the bloodbath. Danny-Rich-lay wounded at the foot of the stairs.

Like before. Just like before.

He was still standing there when two young policemen came upstairs, guns drawn.

“Put down the axe! Put down the axe! Put down the axe!” they shouted at him. Marshall turned toward them.

“Put it down,” one of them screamed and pulled the trigger.

The sharp report of gunfire released Marshall ’s fingers. As the bullet smashed into the wall six feet from his head, the axe fell from his hands.

“It’s down! It’s down! He’s dropped it, for Christ’s sake!” one cop shouted at the other. Both were kids, both looked scared.

“It’s okay,” Marshall heard himself say. “You’ll need to look in the bedroom. You can handcuff me if it will make you feel better.”