The House That Death Built (25 page)

1:39….

The keypad felt strange in his
hands, and he wasted a full second –

(
1:38….
)

– trying to figure out why. Then
he realized it was the keypad itself that was strange – it was the fact he was
looking at it while the owners looked on without crying or screaming or –

(
dying
)

– any emotion at all. They just
watched. Stared.

He turned to his task. His
fingers wrapped around the back of the device automatically, like it was
nothing more than a phone and he was just going to compose a text to Dee.
"Srry will B late tonite. Don't wait up 4 me – busy dying. Luv, Me."

The fingers that went around the
back of the keypad touched something. He flipped it over.

Another piece of photo was taped
there.

Aaron wanted to go back to the
keypad. To watch it count down and be hypnotized into numbness so he wouldn't
feel the end when it came. Instead, he tore away the bit of photo. Everything
tonight had had a reason.

This was no exception. And while
looking at the picture might be just one more step to his death – might it also
be a step to his return to life? Not just out of this house, but out from under
Rob's thumb. Free not only to be with Dee, but to just
be
.

He pulled the other bits of photo
from his pocket. And now, with this final piece, he saw how they would fit
together. He put the pieces on the floor, then, using the tape each one still
had on it, he put them together.

It was a crime scene picture. A
body with yellow evidence markers around it. Blood on a white carpet. Suits and
dresses visible around it.

The boy. The son.

Aaron looked at the man and the
girl in the hall. Tears pushed behind his eyes. "I didn't mean…. I never
meant for any harm to come to you or your family. You have to believe me."

The man nodded. Thoughtful.
"And I never meant to give you the wrong number." He shrugged.
"Shit happens, right?" He pointed at the keypad. "Though I'm
afraid this lock isn't as generous with mistakes as my safe was. You only get
one chance to get it right."

The pit bulls, still standing
behind him and his daughter, began to growl. The girl laughed that mad, merry
laugh.

Aaron looked at the keypad. It
jittered back and forth in his trembling hands. "How can I possibly guess
–"

Then he stopped. He flipped over
the photo. On the back, nearly forgotten in the moment, were the numbers. He
flipped the photo over again, noting the placing of the pieces in the order
they'd been found.

"1," then
"5," then "6," then "7." There was no number on
the back of the fifth piece, just a blank space

He looked at the keypad. The LED
counted down. Twenty seconds.

Aaron entered the numbers.

Nothing happened.

He began to panic, then saw a
green "Enter" button in the lower right corner of the keypad. His
thumb went to the button.

Everything slowed.

Everything stopped.

He didn't hit the button.

"This is the
combination," he whispered. He looked at the pair in the hall. "This
is the combination to your safe upstairs."

He noted the keys that were
smeared under the light, then took out a grease pen and wrote the numbers on
the front of the safe: "1, 2, 5, 7….

"But that didn't have four
numbers," he said. "It had five." He waited a moment. No one
moved. No one spoke. "What's the last number?" he finally asked.

Nothing. Even the dogs were
silent.

"
WHAT'S THE LAST NUMBER?
"

The room was a tomb, and the dead
did not speak.

0:10….

0:09….

The man finally spoke. "Hard
to remember the small details when you're under so much pressure, isn't
it?"

Aaron realized in that moment:
the numbers had been in a different order on the safe upstairs. An order he had
no chance of remembering. And if the numbers on the keypad corresponded, he was
dead no matter what.

So what did he do? Clear the
numbers he'd already entered and put in new ones? Or did he simply enter them
in in the order they'd been given to the thieves via the photos.

Aaron closed his eyes. He had
nothing to rely on but instinct. Nothing to rely on but hope.

He stabbed down on a number. The
"8." And there was no reason for his choice other than what he hoped
was muscle memory.

He hit the "Enter"
button.

He waited. Then opened his eyes.
Looked down at the LED.

0:02. Blinking, blinking. But no
longer counting down.

He heard clicking and clacking,
and it took him a few seconds to realize what it was: every window, every door
in the house opening.

The game had been won.

"I really am sorry," he
said. "For all of it."

He heard the door open behind
him.

Turned.

But didn't move. Just stared at
what waited for him there.

"Dee?"

She's here. Why is she here?

Dee stood a few feet away,
separated from Aaron by a wide streak of blood that began in front of the door
and disappeared around the side of the house. She had been staring at the
blood, clearly taken unawares by it and unsure what to do when the door opened
and she saw him.

"Aaron?" she said. She
saw the people beyond him. Confusion wrinkled her face, then terror, and he
knew she was taking in his blood-spattered clothing, the dangling feet in the
hallway beyond him.

"Who…?" Again, she
couldn't complete her thought.

Aaron sensed something behind
him. He turned. The man and his daughter had come closer.

"You had to be last,"
said the man. "Because you were the only one who could possibly understand
what it was to love, to nearly lose, the love of your life." He paused,
then said, "You know what's worse than pulling a trigger?" Aaron
didn't reply. He couldn't. His mouth was dry, his throat constricted.

The man nodded, as though Aaron
had just said something wise. "Worse than pulling the trigger," he
said, "is having the power to stop the trigger from being pulled – or at
least to give enough of a damn to
try
– and just letting it happen."

As he spoke, the girl began to
cackle again. Low at first, then higher and higher, louder and louder. Then she
stopped and said, "You should know that no matter what numbers you
entered, this was going to happen." Then she snapped her fingers.

The dogs surged forward, growling
and barking.

Aaron screamed. Threw up his
hands as they barreled into him.

And then rushed right
past
.

He realized what was happening.
Knew what was about to happen.

"
NO!
"

The girl spoke as the dogs
passed. The words a scream punching their way through the holes in her dancing
laugh. "There is always madness in love," she shrieked.

And, behind him, Dee had time for
one short scream before she disappeared beneath the mass of dogs.

Then one more scream. This one
much longer.

Aaron couldn't look.

Silence took the world.

He wept, and, weeping, looked at
the man and the girl in the hall. Together they said, "And the worst
thieves…

An empty room. A note on a table
before a mantle that should have held pictures of family, memories of smiles,
but instead held nothing at all.

the worst thieves....

"… steal only time,"
they finished.

The silence again. Even the dogs
were held breathless.

Then the girl raised her hand.
She snapped her fingers.

Aaron felt something change
behind him. Huge presences crowding close.

He heard the growl.

Then he, too, screamed.

And then, after a long time…

… all was silent.

This is the life the man once
had. Before he ever entered a house of mazes and traps, of death and darkness.
He once had a life, and once made a choice. Never understanding the ripples
that such decisions make in the still waters of our lives.

The woman woke up, and he knew
that she was healed. The cancer had been beaten. And so what did it matter what
he had done? What did it matter the cost?

She was back. That was worth any
price.

She looked at him and smiled and
he saw in her eyes that she was his and he was hers once more.

"Hi," she said. Her
voice was dry, cracked from long silence and the medicines that had healed her
while she slept. Dry, jagged as fragments of a broken glass.

And, to him, beautiful.

"Hi," he whispered
back. His voice was dry, too, though for different reason – for the jobs he had
done, the things he had stolen, the lives he failed to save. For what he once
was, and never could be again.

He began to weep. "I thought
I'd lost you," he said through his sobs.

"Me?" she asked.
"Never." She reached a weak hand to his head. Touched him gently.
"You chose me," she said. And she added words of love, words meant to
warm. But they only brought a chill to his body, and made fear writhe in his
heart.

"And you'll never be free of
what you chose."

So in that moment, long before
the night it all ended, before the house that death built swallowed him up, he
felt darkness surround him.

A single choice.

A single moment.

A single "yes" to what
turned out to be the first of many dark nights.

And everything shifted from what
could
be…

… to what must inevitably come to
pass.