A Rush to Violence (33 page)

Crouched low, he moved quickly across the street and pressed his back against one of the cars parked curbside. Its alarm blared. Head- and taillights flashed. He looked down at the burning car and knew what was coming. That car was cooking the car beneath it. The moment its hood got too hot, it would collapse, which would mean another explosion. Given how close the cars were parked, there was the possibility that others might ignite.

Time against him, he cut a diagonal path to the building at the left of the townhouse. He pressed his back against it and held his gun close to his chest. He glanced over and could see that the left basement window was shattered. Earlier, he told Beth to create a distraction. She likely broke that window and shot one or more of the cars to sound their alarms.

Smart girl.

Part of him wanted to go to that window. Part of him wanted to crawl on his stomach, stick his face inside and tell them that he was here, that the police were on the way and that it was going to be all right. But he couldn’t. There was a chance that Decker’s men might have overcome them. There was a chance that they were down there with them, waiting for a possible hostage situation. Expecting it. If he showed his face, they’d shoot it off.

Plan.

No other way inside the house but through the front door. He looked across the street and saw people peering through their windows at him, which wasn’t good because it meant that if they were watching him, anyone inside the house would know where he was. He listened to the night and heard above the sirens that the police cars were drawing closer. They’d be here in five, which was too late. He didn’t have five minutes. He looked down the street and saw no signs of Jennifer. She actually listened to him this time. It was a miracle.

Go.

He ducked, ran up to the door and was surprised to find it just shy of being closed. It either was a trap to invite him inside or, if they left when the car exploded, it was possible they didn’t swing the door hard enough in their escape. Safer to assume the former. With his right foot, he pressed down on the bottom of the door so it would crack open, all the time keeping the rest of his body concealed by the door jam. The door creaked when it parted. He winced at the sound, listened but heard nothing thanks to the car alarms.

Gun poised, he leaned in and checked the hallway.

Empty, but ornate. Sconces on the walls. Chandelier above him. The original inlaid hardwood floors gleaming as if they were new. Off to his right, a grand mahogany staircase swept dramatically up and to the left. At the base of it, an intricately carved newel post stood tall among the room’s many exclamation points.
No trident
, he thought.
Smart move.

Off to the left, about ten feet ahead, a room. Lights on. He could see the side of a stove. He took a step forward, waited for the floor to groan beneath him, but it didn’t. At least he thought it didn’t. The car alarms were too loud.

He took another step forward and strained to hear something, anything that didn’t make sense beyond the sound of those alarms, but it was impossible, which unnerved him. He started moving slowly toward the room. If they were here, they were being as quiet as he was. But were they as fast as he was? As nimble and as accurate? He didn’t know.

He approached the doorway, pressed his back against the wall, lifted the gun to his chest. Took a breath. Swung inside. Left and right. Scanned the room. Nothing. But there was a door. And he bet it went to the basement. He was tempted to approach it, but resisted.
Check the rest of the first floor first. Make sure you’re alone.

He did so. By the time he finished, he was almost convinced they were gone. But then someone made a mistake. Someone upstairs. A loud sneeze—unmistakable in spite of the alarms—betrayed the person’s presence. He moved to the base of the stairs, crouched low, but held his gun high.

“Police!” he shouted. “Put down your guns now and come down the stairs slowly. Hands up and in front of you where I can see them. Move.”

Movement on the stairs. Not down, but up. Was it an opportunity? If he went to the basement, called to them and told them to flee, would they be safe.
No. It would be worse. They could shoot them from the upstairs windows. Go upstairs. Find them. Take them out first. Then go to the basement.

He was on the second step when the house shook to the point that the chandelier in the entryway jumped and swung as the front door burst open.

Marty reeled around as glass exploded into the room, the kitchen and the parlor from the windows that faced the street. He turned away from it, but pieces of glass nevertheless bit into his back, neck and arms.

Outside, there was a ferocious roar. Upstairs, a woman screamed. Below him, for the first time, he heard his family. Some were shouting. One cried out in fear. He was certain it was Katie.

He could feel the air being sucked out of the house. He could see a tunnel of flames spiral down the street, creating a maze of shadows before the fire lifted and evaporated. The smells of smoke, gasoline and burning rubber flooded the house, making it difficult for him to breathe.

The car beneath the burning car exploded.

The question now was if the cars parked near it would follow suit.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Grace Miller opened the door, saw her brother, Michael, saw Camille standing behind him, and saw a man she obviously didn’t recognize because her eyes narrowed the instant she tried to place him.

A millisecond later, the situation struck.

As Grace’s lips parted, Camille Miller launched into action before Grace could shut the door or say a word. She slipped past Michael, placed a finger to her lips, and pressed her gun firmly against Grace’s forehead. In her sister’s ear, she whispered, “Is my daughter safe?”

Grace looked up at the gun and shook her head.

“Is she dead?”

Another shake of the head.

“Greet Michael. Bring him to wherever the others are. Tip anyone off and you’re dead. That’s a promise. Go.”

Her sister was shaken to her scrawny core, but even in a situation as dire as this, it never ceased to amaze Camille how quickly Grace could compose herself. Apparently, all that good breeding hadn’t gone to waste, because even now, Grace didn’t miss a beat.

“You’re early as usual, Michael. Thanks for showing up.”

“When am I ever on time, Grace?”

“Never.”

“So, why bitch about it? Where’s Scott?”

“In the back of the house.”

“How did he die?”

“It’s best if you see him.”

“Why?”

“Because that will answer your question.”

When Camille and Sam confronted Michael on the street, he told them that Scott was dead. He didn’t know how, but Camille knew. Emma killed him. There was a chance she was wrong, but she doubted it. Her daughter came here for a reason and that reason was to exact revenge on those people she was certain killed her grandfather.

When they met Michael at the cab, he said that Grace called everyone in, but that was hours ago. He was at a party downtown and, for reasons Camille couldn’t care less about, he couldn’t get away until now.

Before she entered the house, Camille looked down the hallway that led to her brother’s living room. With the exception of the ornate furniture, the Tiffany lamps and all the paintings that put a gilded stamp on a life lived to the grand extreme, there was no one in sight. She and Sam crossed to the far right wall and stood in shadow as they watched Grace and Michael walk down the hallway and turn right into the room.

“Oh, look,” Laura said. “It’s Michael. What a relief. I’m sure you’ll make all the difference in helping us sort this mess out.”

“Did you at least get her number, Mike?” Tyler said. “You know, whichever whore you were talking to at whatever bar you were at tonight? We’d feel awful if you weren’t given the chance.”

In spite of the sarcasm being directed his way, when Michael spoke, his voice was thin. “What happened in here?” he said. “Why is there so much blood?”

“Emma happened in here,” Laura said. “She shot Scott and she shot Sophia. Each in the head. Each is dead.”

Camille put her hand to her mouth. Her daughter killed two people. Her aunt and her uncle. It was incomprehensible to her. Why had she done this on her own? Why couldn’t she have waited? Was she reacting against her mother’s own past, which she just learned about today? Or did she really believe she could root out whoever killed her grandfather and make them pay for it?

She looked at Sam and saw that his mouth had become a tight line. He shook his head at her and she knew from the past what that meant. Don’t get emotionally involved. Stay focused. Listen. Create a plan of action. Act.

He’s right.

They were talking.

“Where are they?” Michael asked.

“Emma instructed Grace to put Scott in the kitchen pantry. We decided if that was good enough for Scott, of all people, who probably never stepped foot inside that pantry, then it was certainly good enough for Sophia, who used to spend most of her evenings passed out on floors all over Manhattan. Wherever those two ended up—heaven or hell, you decide—they’re probably enjoying one of his ridiculous Sobranie Cocktail cigarettes right now.”

“Are you really that cold, Laura?”

“Are you really that naive, Michael? We all wanted our father’s money. Don’t act as if we didn’t.”

“Sorry,” he said. “But I didn’t want it and I told you so. I made it clear I wanted no part in this.”

“That’s right,” she said. “You went on record with that, didn’t you? Forgive me, but we both know it’s a load of bullshit. You
need
the money. Just like the rest of us.”

“I never agreed to this, Laura. Could I have stopped it? Not a chance. By the time you approached me, you already were in bed with Pamela Decker and her thug contacts, and things were set into motion.”

“Should I draw a halo over your head, Michael? Would that make you feel better?”

“What you need to do is hand over your gun.”

“Why? It obviously works. Emma brought it with her. Look how successful she was with it. We might just use it on her.” She paused. “Or maybe even on you.”

“You’re threatening me now?”

“You’re not on board. You’ve got a guilty conscience, which nauseates me because it means you’re weak. That weakness could become an issue. It could lead you to talk to the wrong people, such as the police, who are trained to get the truth out of people like you. We can’t have that.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Actually, I’m not.”

“Give me the gun.”

“Why don’t you try to take it from me?”

“Give him the gun,” Grace said. “Stop escalating this, Laura. You’re being foolish. And turn off that laser. I’ve seen what that thing can do twice tonight. It’s deadly.”

“This from the other person who wouldn’t get on board? That’s precious. Thanks, Grace.”

“Put down the gun.”

“What should we do with them, Tyler? They don’t deserve the money. Why should they get their share? We’re the ones who suited up that day, not them. I took a goddamned vase in the chest, not them. I blacked out while you had to kick our father down the staircase, not them.
We
took the risks. We
continue
to take the risks. Why should they get any of it?”

“Are you serious?” Grace said. “We’ve kept your secret. I saved us all from Emma a moment ago. She could have killed us.”

“But she didn’t.”

“Because I intervened.”

“Throwing a crystal apple at Emma is hardly worth the money you’re about to inherit, Grace. That was just a showy gesture. Nothing more.”

“What that gesture did was put that gun in your hands, which I now regret.”

“Bring me a violin.”

“You know what, Laura? Michael was right. We didn’t want anything to do with this, but anyone who knows you knows that when you get something in your head, there’s no stopping you. You just push forward. To hell with anyone else. Michael and I just stepped out of the way while the others followed in your path. You would have done this with or without us. We all know it.”

“Which makes you an accomplice, Grace. It makes you no better than us because you could have said something. You could have gone to Camille, for God’s sake, and what a party that would have been. Imagine. Camille going back to her roots to take us all out. She could have done it, too, but you chose not to tell her. Why? If you were so against it, why say nothing? One call to Camille, our father would be alive and we would be finished. But you kept your lips shut. Did you make a mistake? I think you did. I don’t think you’ve earned your share of the money. Tyler and I have. Scott offered up the money to contest the will, so he deserved his share. Sophia came up with the plan to use Blue as the scapegoat, so she deserved her share. The four of us worked together to try to find Camille and Emma. Now we’ve got Emma and she’s going to die. Pamela’s men will find Camille and she’ll die. Each is on borrowed time. And once they’re dead, I’m not convinced that you or Michael should receive anything from this. The only other person who deserves what we promised her is Pamela. She’ll get her money because she came through for us. She’s been nothing but supportive, helpful and enthusiastic throughout this entire experience.”

“I wonder why?” Grace said. “But let me make this easy for you. Leave me out of it. Keep your money. I don’t want any of it.”

“Same here,” Michael said. “Take it.”

“But that’s not how it works,” Laura said. “Whoever is left after Camille and Emma are dead will inherit their shares. I have no control over that other than killing you now to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Camille started to move—
had
to move,
had
to stop this—but Sam grabbed her by the arm and held her back. She turned to look at him and watched him press his hand down, a signal for her to step back and let this play out naturally. She mouthed Emma’s name, but he pressed his hand down again before lifting his hand to his ear.
Listen
, he was saying.
Wait.