As Night Falls (13 page)

S
andy stared at the sheets of paper Ben had covered with scrawl. There was a lot of information to convey, and Sandy had convinced Nick to loosen the tape so that Ben could write it all down. Ben's speech hadn't improved, but he still had perfect command of language, and his fine motor skills seemed all right, so long as he used his left hand.

When the door to the garage opened, Sandy felt relief rush over her. She ran to gather Ivy up in her arms, and Ivy clung to her so tightly it seemed they both might be swept away.

“Okay?” Sandy whispered.

“Okay,” said Ivy.

Ivy wriggled free, dashing over to hand a stack of maps to her dad. Ben bent down and set to work, marking prospective routes. After a few minutes, with Sandy content to simply stand beside Ivy, Ben offered up the maps to Nick. They were folded imprecisely, lumpy and creased, either due to rage or to his injured right arm. But Sandy could make out the dark slashes of lines that would take these men out of their lives forever, and her need for them to go felt so urgent that the notes she'd been reading trembled in her grip like leaves in a strong wind.

Nick bound Ben's wrists tightly behind his back again, then turned around and said, “So. You have some things for us, princess?”

Ivy's slim back was trussed with one of Ben's backcountry packs, and Harlan wore one too, so small upon him that it looked more like a schoolchild's knapsack.

“Good,” said Nick. “Let's see what we've got.”

Both Ivy and Harlan shouldered off their packs, Harlan's making the long drop down from his shoulders to the floor and landing with a clang of equipment. The zipper whined as Ivy drew hers along its track, while Sandy held up the sheaf of papers and shook them straight.

Ivy got down on her knees to pull items out. Harlan sat on the floor beside her, awkwardly positioned like an overgrown lion, as Ivy exhibited things and Sandy read aloud, a duo in some gruesome game show.

Ben's notes covered a range of requirements: calorie minimums given energy expended, ounces of water per day for different conditions, the necessity of layers. Ivy continued to take pieces of gear out one by one, displaying each with a flourish.

“The biggest danger is getting wet,” Sandy read from Ben's jerky, left-handed jottings. “Even from sweat. You can run out of food or even water, but if you get wet, hypothermia will set in and you'll die within hours.” She saw Ben's fury in the words he had scrawled, dark slabs against the paper, and it shaded her intonation.

Nick made a hand-waving gesture. “Dry not wet. Got it.”

Sandy looked down again. Ben had started to write another long bullet point, with the heading
Naismith's rule
. But he'd stopped in the middle to scribble a series of numbers. Sandy squinted to discern what was meant.

Nick took a step closer, and it was all the prompting Sandy needed.

“Figure a pace of four miles per hour because you'll be descending,” she said, making sense of Ben's sums. “Five hours to the border, which will not be marked. Another forty miles to Montreal. Two-and-a-half-day hike approximately…”

It occurred to Sandy, as she continued to read, that this compliant, information-providing incarnation didn't sound like her fighter-by-nature husband. Sandy's voice began to trail off, the sound of a record slowing down

He's a guide
, she argued with herself.
And he's slipped into that mode to get us all out of this.
But the words sounded weak inside her own head, and her body felt as if it were filling with icy cold water.

Sandy looked down. Harlan was helping Ivy wrest items into place, his maneuvers clumsy and awkward beside Ivy's careful stacking.

Nick let the top of his jumpsuit fall to his waist, tugging a thin skin of Gore-Tex over his head. His chest was a graffiti wall of blue and black tattoos, delineating the muscles that reinforced his frame. Nick donned a second shirt, then bent and touched a spot on his leg before adding a third. Sandy pressed her eyes shut, hard enough to be headache-inducing. When she opened them again, Ivy was also averting her eyes, while Nick pulled on bottom layers. Clad, he used one foot to nudge a pile of clothing in Harlan's direction, issuing a command to get dressed.

“Wait,” Ivy said. “Don't forget this.” She took a black unit from a pocket on the pack, and held it up. “Mom? Did Dad write anything about this?”

Ben shifted forward on the couch, sitting on its edge.

Sandy looked down, frowning. She read a few lines at the bottom of the page. “You'll want a GPS. Topo maps are for emergency losses of charge, but this device will give you your location and get you where you need to go.”

Harlan got to his feet, struggling to pull on a pair of pants that, though ballooning and expansive in their girth, fit like cling wrap around his legs and couldn't be buttoned over the waist.

“How do you use it?” Nick asked, taking the GPS and turning it over in his hand.

Ivy stood up and walked over to him. There was a sashay in her step that made Sandy cringe. Her legs looked long in their pasting of jeans, although they still brought the top of Ivy's head only to the height of Harlan's belly button. Her shimmery shirt was too low cut and sheer. Why was Ivy wearing that shirt to hang around the house on a school night?

“Simple,” Ivy said, a shrug in her voice. She took the gadget out of Nick's hand and upended it. “Power here.” She touched a button at the top. “This is us.” She displayed the screen. “You can zoom out…” Her finger slid. “See? That's the house at the bottom of our hill.”

Nick peered down at the miniature map as if Ivy had split an atom in front of him. “You're telling me we're looking at the place where we are right now?” He took a look around. “How is this thing finding us?”

Ivy frowned. “What?” She glanced over her shoulder. “I don't know what you mean.”

Nick took the device out of Ivy's hand. She leaned close to him, and touched it again. “Anyway, you zoom in like this. And if you want to enter coordinates—tell it where you want to go instead of seeing where you are—you do this.” A few final taps on the screen.

Nick crossed to the other side of the room, still holding the GPS. It had powered down, and he shook it before remembering the button at the top. After a few tries, he brought the device to life again. Nick looked at the screen, then through the sliding glass doors, from screen to doors, back and forth. Finally he pocketed the GPS, and pantomimed a soundless, exaggerated clap. “Quite a little tutorial. And I have to thank you for the use of such pricey gear. We'll be sure to return it.”

On the couch, Ben's shoulders tensed and rose.

Nick grinned down at Ivy, who was back on the floor, loading everything up, and her daughter offered a smile back, flicking her sheet of hair over her shoulders.

Oh, honey. You shouldn't placate him. And you certainly shouldn't
like
him.

“Let me give you a hand there, princess,” Nick said. He was visibly pleased. Sandy realized that he wanted to be out of here as much as they wanted him gone.

Nick got down on his knees and picked up several pouches of freeze-dried food from the floor, pulling one of the packs forward.

“It's okay,” Ivy said. “I don't mind doing it—” She grabbed for the pack, flushing furiously as her hands glanced across Nick's.

Sandy felt her stomach give a sick roll at the sight of her flustered, blushing daughter.

But Nick ignored her, thrusting one arm into the open mouth of the pack. He drew his hand out slowly. “What's this?”

In his hand, a second black unit winked like a flirtatious eye.

“It's a GPS,” Ivy said after a moment. “I just showed you.”

Nick rose to standing above her. “Why do we need two?”

“Backup,” Ivy said. “In case one loses charge.”

“Loses what?” Nick asked.

Ivy looked at him.

Nick grinned. “I'm just kidding. I know they run on batteries. I was in prison, not the Middle Ages.”

Ivy offered up an uncertain smile.

“So,” Nick said, leaning close to her, “wouldn't it be simpler to give us a few extra double A's instead of a whole new machine?”

Ivy took a swift look over her shoulder at Ben, and when she did, a bolt of understanding hit Sandy. She couldn't have said exactly what this device did, but it had been hidden, buried in the pack, the one object not put on display. And she recalled the moments when Ben had spoken to Ivy, what he must've told her to do.

Ben,
came a cry that split her head.
They were leaving
.
Oh, Ben, I told you to stop!

She bit back a sour rush of fluid, stepping in front of her daughter to shield her from Nick.

Nick stared down at the piece of electronics, flipping it over in his hand. “This one doesn't look the same as the other.” He glanced up. “I think it does something else.”

“Then just take the one,” Sandy said. “Or don't take either. You have everything you need to be on your way.”

Harlan was ready, made wider around by the layers he'd swathed himself in, and seeming to finally grow a little impatient himself, shoes aimed in the direction of the door.

Nick nodded slowly, appearing to give the matter more thought. “We could do that. We could. But you see—while I haven't had access of late to the most recent developments, I did have a few interesting exchanges with a younger man who has. He gave me information. Facts I had to pay for, you understand. So I really wanted to make sure I understood everything he told me. Got my money's worth, so to speak.”

Sandy suppressed a nod.

“And that's why I think that this particular item”—Nick palmed the small device—“might allow someone out there to know where we've gone. Maybe even where we are right at the moment. This thing, it tracks us.” Nick brought the gadget up to his face, gave it a twirl. “Why, it's even turned on already. Isn't it, princess?”

Ivy's body quivered behind Sandy.

Nick shrugged. “That's okay. I don't really need any confirmation. The only thing I'm wondering now is…” He peered around Sandy. “…who was responsible for this little plan. Did the princess have the idea when she went into the garage?”

Sandy felt Ivy's knees sag. She reached back to keep her daughter upright.

“Or was she instructed by Rocky over there to do it?”

Ben got into a standing position, using the edge of the couch to support the backs of his legs as he steadied himself. He took a twisting hop forward.

Watching the maneuver, Nick said, “I think you've answered my question. Unless you're just trying to protect your daughter from her own initiative.” He paused. “That will stand the princess in good stead, assuming she lives long enough to use it. I hear initiative is in short supply these days.”

“Please,” Sandy said. “Just take the rest of the gear and go.”

Nick went on as if she hadn't spoken. “But I'm going to choose to believe that the man of the house was responsible.”

Sandy felt a trickle of relief—the amount of air someone in the early stages of anaphylaxis might take in—as Nick's attention coasted over Ivy.

He strode to Ben, pushing him in the direction of the basement door.

“I think I like the downstairs part of your house best,” he remarked. “It will be easy to keep you out of the way there.”

A second slow drip of relief, liquid feeding into an IV bag one bead at a time. Ben could stay in the basement, no problem. Let Nick and Harlan resume getting ready, check that no other measures had been put into place, and that everything was to their liking. Once they left, Sandy could take an injured Ben out.

Nick came to a stop at the head of the flight, Ben propped up in front of him.

Ben twisted his head around, the look in his eyes lucid enough to call to mind years long gone, and days just past. His gaze sought out Sandy's and he mouthed,
I love you.

Sandy's chest clenched. She felt for Ivy with knotted hands.

“Don't you want to say you love him back, Cass?” Nick asked, the words slow and syrupy.

Sandy jerked her head up.

Ben stood precariously over the top step. “Wha—?” he began. There was a blur of uncertainty in his eyes.

Sandy spoke in the loudest voice she had mustered yet. “Don't call me that. That's not my name.” The itch in her hands had returned, swelling to maddening intensity.

Nick rolled his neck around, gaze settling on her. “No? What should I call you, then?”

“Don't call me anything,” Sandy said, marshaling scorn. “You don't know me, and you never will.”

Her husband, looking so lost at the top of the stairs, managed to give her something like a smile.

Nick gathered the back of Ben's shirt into a twist in his hand. “Funny,” he said. “You just sort of look like a Cass to me.”

Deep wells appeared on Harlan's forehead. “I thought you said—”

Nick cut him off with a wave of his hand. Jerking Ben around by his balled-up shirt, Nick waggled his eyebrows and touched the tip of his tongue to his lip in a
watch this
kind of leer. Then he placed his foot on the small of Ben's back, and kicked him down the stairs.

S
andy felt as if she screamed forever. Her throat was a raw, red lava bed. Her screams crowded out the sound of Ben's body hitting stair after stair, his helpless, hopeless plunge.

Then, when he reached the bottom, silence more dreadful than any noise.

Sandy turned and faced Nick. He was reaching down, touching the top of his shoe and frowning. Inked symbols wreathed his neck, while light glinted off the steely brush of his close-cropped hair. Everything about him was metallic and hard.

“Okay,” Sandy said, one muddy, boggy word. “You can go now.”

Returning to the remaining items on the floor, Nick began stuffing them into the pack, as Harlan stared down at him.

Sandy went over to Ivy and touched her on the shoulder. “It's all right,” she whispered, but Ivy flinched and turned away from her.

“It's not all right,” she hissed fiercely. A spill of tears slipped out. “How can you say it's all right? Did you see what he did to Dad?”

Sandy recoiled as her daughter hunched over, hugging her arms around herself.

“You know how strong Dad is,” Sandy said, needing to offer Ivy some semblance of reassurance. “He's going to be okay.”

Ivy's shoulders sloped and she stared down at the floor. Sandy looked at the men, packs now hoisted, fitting fingers into gloves. She watched them head out of the kitchen. After a moment, as if by unspoken agreement, a mutual need to see, Sandy and Ivy traced their own path to the front door.

Nick drew it open.

As soon as Sandy got a glimpse, she knew.

The men weren't going to leave. Not now, and not anytime soon. And there wasn't much hope of help coming either.

Outside, everything was a whirling frenzy of white.

A cold and pelting snow had started to fall.

“This might work out even better,” Sandy said through lips that felt thick and numb. The air rushing in had injected her with anesthetic. Her words came sluggishly; she couldn't feel Ivy standing beside her. “No one will be searching for you, they'll be too busy with the storm.”

Nick let out a roar as if she hadn't spoken. “Goddamnit!” He slammed the door shut, but it banged against the frame and flew back open. Snow soared inside, a stinging wind. “Goddamn!”

“Nick,” Harlan said. “We can walk in this.” He stared at the snow in seeming wonder. “It's so beautiful.”

A muscle jumped in Nick's neck as he forced his fists to unfurl. He took in a hissing breath. “Boots,” he said tonelessly. “And galoshes.”

Harlan's wooly eyebrows knit.

Nick turned to Ivy. “Your dad will have a pair that fit me,” he said. “And galoshes can stretch over Harlan's shoes.”

Ivy nodded.

“Go with the princess, Harlan,” Nick instructed.

The two of them walked off, silhouetted side by side. Nick turned and headed over to the leather couches in the TV area. It was only then that Sandy registered the slight hitch in his step.

Nick removed a glove with his teeth, then stripped off the other one.

Ivy returned, letting Ben's pair of Hi-Tecs drop to the floor with a
thud
. Galoshes followed in a squashy heap of black.

Nick leaned down and pulled off his left shoe. He drew on the first of the boots, lacing it up snugly. Then he went to take off his other shoe, and they all saw.

The top of Nick's foot had swollen monstrously, a whale hump forcing up the cloth of his sock. There was no way he'd be able to stuff his foot into a boot—Sandy was amazed he was walking around at all. While they stared at him, Nick clawed out the bottle of Advil, opened it, and chewed the remaining pills. He tossed the empty bottle onto the couch cushion, before forcing his foot back into his shoe and removing the boot he'd put on already.

“You heard the man,” Nick said, standing up. He licked white grit from the pills off his lips. “Our biggest risk is getting wet. I can't walk through this.” He paused for a moment, appearing to wrestle some awareness down. “I mean, we'll have to wait out the storm.”

Sandy felt her shoulders deflate. She could sense Ivy next to her again, and reached for her daughter's hand. Then the four of them turned and headed back to the kitchen as if it were some sort of base. Nick went last, Harlan slowing his pace to shuffle along beside him.

They were all in this together now. Until they could get out.

“Nick?” Harlan mumbled. “Can I take these clothes off? They're too tight.”

Nick gave a single nod.

There came a tearing sound, a harsh ripping of cloth. Then a pile of fabric sank to the floor like a parachute. Nick pulled his cap from his head and hung his coat on the back of a chair. Beneath the leg of his pants, the gun bulged.

Sandy fought to shuck off the resigned pall that had draped itself over her, and forced herself to think. She couldn't tell if Nick's foot was broken, or just badly bruised. Either way, nothing from Ben's store of first aid supplies, brace or splint or tape, would work a miracle cure.

Ivy sat down on the floor, her back against the wall, and her legs stretched out in a long triangular vee.

“Hey,” Nick said, tracking Ivy's course. “Why the long face?”

Sandy looked at him, disbelieving.

He switched his gaze to her. “Nothing has to change really. We just get out of here a little later than I'd planned.”

Sandy dropped her head, felt it shake back and forth.

“Just keep quiet, do what I say, and”—Nick let both fists fly open, making a
poof
with his mouth—“we'll be out of your hair and your house and your life in a few more hours.” He gave a nod. “Really. Think of this as some kind of freaky slumber party.”

Sandy reached down and pinched her arm where the skin itched madly. A droplet of blood welled up, and she studied it with cold appraisal.

“I would say we've got some housekeeping to do,” said Nick. “Seeing as it looks like we'll be playing house for a little while.”

Sandy stared at him with a hatred as icy and deep as the storm outside. The hatred was soothing. It cooled her throat and chilled her hands. She looked down and saw how dry and bone-sharp her fingers looked. Like tools.

“Careful,” Nick remarked mildly. He reached down without taking his eyes off her and lifted the cuff on his pants to display the gun. Taking the weapon out, he placed it on the table.

It faced Sandy like a dare. She could imagine what would happen if she reached for it, how Nick's fingers would feel closing over hers, his serene tone of reproach hiding a wellspring of danger. “Please,” she said. “I have to go check on my husband. He needs medical attention. And I work in a hospital. I might be able to do something.”

Nick regarded her. “I thought we already established that your medical skills are less Marcus Welby, more Dr. Doolittle.”

“Please,” Sandy said stolidly. “At least let me check.”

“Ask me one more time,” Nick said. “And then
I
will go down. And if your husband isn't dead already, I'll finish the job.” Amusement sparked on his features. “Unless there's a better way to stifle your infernal demands.”

The words cast an eerie echo, and Sandy's belly went cold and vaporous.

Nick reached up to scrub the short stubs of his hair.

In a single svelte move, straight out of yoga or a long ago gymnastics class, Ivy lunged for the gun on the table, one arm extended, her back a flat, graceful plane.

Nick observed her, while Sandy moved as swiftly as her daughter had.

“Ivy! Give it to me!” Sandy shouted, and Ivy handed the gun over, fast, as if it burned.

Nick's arm came around Sandy like a seatbelt locking. Sandy used her free hand to try and prise Nick's fingers apart, but it was as if they'd been forged from steel. Even his hands were muscular; he must've spent hours practicing his grip. She writhed in his grasp.

“Let go. Please. Please! You can have the gun,” she said and, satisfied, Nick released her.

He pulled at his sock. He scooped up a few metal oblongs, then let the bullets clatter out onto the floor. He'd just been toying with them; the gun wasn't even loaded.

“Scoop them up,” Nick instructed Ivy.

Ivy crouched, no less nimble, but angry now at her mistake, her face red and fuming, breath coming audibly out of her nose.

Nick palmed the pistol as he waited for the bullets, then inserted each one calmly. “You guys just keep making things worse for yourselves. Bad things can happen with a loaded gun around, you know. How many times do I have to tell you that all I want to do is
get the hell out of this place
?”

The air seemed to ripple, as if Nick's shout had been a rock cast into the sea.

Sandy fought to take in breath, her ears ringing.

Nick spun the barrel of the gun. “All of this has got me a little tense,” he said. For the first time, Sandy noticed faint lines across his face, etched by pain or the wear of the night. “I could use a smoke. In your room, princess?”

He looked to Ivy.

A wriggle of confusion appeared between her brows.

“Cigs,” Nick said patiently. “Cigarettes. Coffin nails—”

Dismissal painted itself across Ivy's features. “I don't smoke.”

Nick frowned at her. “What kind of teenager doesn't smoke?”

Sandy spoke up. “My husband,” she said. “He'll have a few cigars.”

Nick switched his focus to Sandy. “Nice,” he said, sliding the gun back into his sock. “Two birds with one stone. We can tend to a few matters upstairs, and get me my smoke at the same time.”

Faint hope lofted inside Sandy. Upstairs there might be chances.