The Other Brother (33 page)

Chapter 70

L.J up his nostrils, seared his lips. He couldn't see. Couldn't t V hite-hot tongues of fire attacked Isaiah's eyes, exploded breathe. He could still hear-and all he heard was a terrible shrieking, more like an animal's cry than a man's.

It was coming from him.

Gabriel, that motherfucker, had sprayed him with mace or some shit like that, and it was the most incredible agony Isaiah had ever experienced in his life. Like sticking his head in a barbecue pit. It was worse than dying.

Although he was screaming, some deep instinct of his mind that was still plotting survival kept his grip fastened on the Glock. He charged forward, not sure where his legs were taking him-it was as though they functioned independently, commanded by the sheer drive to live-and when he felt cold water splashing across him, he was grateful. The lake. Of course. Water might counteract or shorten the incapacitating effects of the spray.

He dove in headfirst.

Chapter 71

s Isaiah howled and rushed into the lake, Gabriel scuttled lup the hillside to retrieve the shotgun. Due to his rough fall, his muscles protested at the effort, each step bringing a fresh jolt of pain. But he pushed on. Isaiah was helpless for the time being, but Gabriel wasn't sure how long the pepper spray's effects would last. Isaiah had once averted a violent death; he would surely conquer the pepper spray, with perhaps superhuman vigor.

Gabriel wasn't feeling quite as heroic. His shoulder, still oozing blood, grew number by the minute, which made it difficult to raise his arm. And the blood loss was sapping his strength. If he did not get medical attention soon, he would be of no help to Pops at all-assuming he ever made it back to the cabin.

Behind him, Isaiah thrashed in the lake, shrieking. It was impossible to tell whether he was in pain or enraged. Probably both.

Gabriel ran harder.

The Mossberg was tangled in weeds. Gabriel grabbed the gun. Raising it to his shoulder was like lifting a hundredpound barbell. He almost fell underneath its weight.

He swiveled toward the lake, where Isaiah continued to flail. Although Gabriel used to believe in a crude code of honor, believing you had to look a man in the face as you shot him, he disregarded all those noble notions. This was a lifeand-death struggle, past the time for any of that code-ofhonor crap. Isaiah surely would not have paid him the same respect.

Gabriel fired at Isaiah.

Wings of water sprayed upward. Isaiah beat the surface once, with his hand and then his movements ceased and he sank underwater.

"I got him," Gabriel said, unable to believe it.

Except for a few outward ripples, the aftereffects of Isaiah's desperate struggle, the waters had become tranquil once more.

He had killed Isaiah.

He dropped to his knees. He wanted to weep. But he was in too much pain to even cry.

He looked out to the lake. He expected to see Isaiah's corpse float to the surface. But it did not appear. His clothes could have become caught on rocks. Or ...

Make sure he's dead, Gabriel.

That quiet voice of intuition, which had not steered him wrong yet forced him back to his feet. Drawing in heavy breaths, he trudged to the shore. He looked for Isaiah's corpse.

He did not see it.

Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, he waded into the cold water. After a dozen footsteps, it was up to his waist. He saw dark material bobbing below the water's surface. He fished it out.

It was Isaiah's torn shirt.

But where was the rest of him?

Chapter 72

saiah was swimming. .I

iHe'd learned to swim as a child at the local YMCA on summer breaks from school. The big Olympic pool would be sparkling clean in the morning and polluted with piss by afternoon, the result of the bad-ass neighborhood kids who thought it was funny to urinate in the water. Those same knuckleheads, older than him, would throw him, screaming, into the deep end. He learned to swim under duress. For survival.

Just like now.

When Gabriel fired the shotgun at him, Isaiah immediately went under. The slug smashed into the water near him, narrowly missing his thigh. Still blinded by the pepper spray, knowing that Gabriel would keep shooting until he'd killed him, Isaiah tore off his shirt, dove deeper, and began to swim away in a direction he saw from memory, not from sight.

His lungs yearned for air, but he stayed underwater until he'd swum a good distance and then quickly poked his face above, pulled in a deep breath, and went under again.

As he swam, eyes open, his vision slowly returned. The water was murky, vegetation rippling like tentacles around him. Several fish peeled by, darting out of his path as though he were a great white shark, there to invade their peaceful habitat.

They could sense a predator.

Isaiah quietly broke the surface. Treading water, he looked around.

He wasn't far from the shore. Maybe twenty feet. Turning back, he saw Gabriel, far behind, wading in the water just offshore, searching the lake for Isaiah.

His little brother was a helluva lot tougher than he'd thought. The guy would not quit.

If their lives had turned out differently, if they had grown up together, they would've made quite a pair, would've terrorized the block. As it was, one of them was probably going to die before this was all over.

First Isaiah had to take care of his main responsibility: their father.

As stealthily as possible, he stroked back to land, where a rocky outcropping provided cover. He rose out of the water.

His eyes and nasal passages were clear of the pepper spray. He checked the Glock, which he had stuffed in his waistband. A few rounds left.

For Pops, he needed only one.

He ran into the woods. Back toward the cabin.

Chapter 7 3

abriel could not find Isaiah. I

He'd swept through a section of the lake, perhaps twenty feet in diameter, and found only Isaiah's mangled shirt.

It didn't make any sense. He had shot Isaiah. Hadn't he?

He thought about what he'd seen.

He'd fired into the water directly at Isaiah. Isaiah had thrashed once and then the waters had calmed. Which meant Isaiah's corpse should be nearby.

Unless he had miraculously escaped. Eluded Death. Again.

But where had he gone?

Gabriel looked farther down the shore. He didn't see Isaiah.

He sloshed back to dry land. As he shuffled, the makeup compact crunched in his vest pocket. He pulled it out.

A jagged crack ran down the casing. Great. This was Dana's favorite compact. She'd be pissed.

He opened the compact. As he'd worried, the mirror was smashed to pieces. But one of the shards, perhaps an inch long, and shaped like a crescent moon, might be able to give him a look at Isaiah.

He concentrated.

He fully expected to see Isaiah in another region of the lake, a waterlogged corpse, eyes bloated and mouth hanging open.

But Isaiah was running, shirtless, through the forest. He had his gun. His face was drawn and resolute. He didn't appear to be wounded at all.

The cabin, Gabriel thought. Pops.

Gabriel looked to the peak of the hill and the wall of forest beyond.

His wounded left shoulder was completely numb. His left arm, which he could barely move, felt like a lead weight, pulling down the side of his body. He was no longer bleeding, but he felt light-headed.

He wanted to lie down there on the rocks. Relax. Take a nap. He had never been so exhausted.

But he couldn't. This wasn't over yet. He had to tap into a reserve of energy and get moving.

He stood still for a few seconds, head bowed.

Then he lifted his feet and started walking.

And, soon after, running.

Chapter 74

"heo had almost cut himself free.

His work on slicing the ropes progressed at a slow pace; he fumbled the utility knife to the floor every few seconds. But each time he dropped the knife, he tried to pry his wrists apart to test the strength of the bond. As the rope grew increasingly slack, his heart soared.

He was going to get out of here. Alive.

In his excitement he'd nearly forgotten the pain that throbbed at a hundred different points in his body. Lips pressed together, stinging sweat leaking into his eyes, he worked the blade against the rope, making small but steady movements. His fingers ached but he labored relentlessly. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

As he cut, he thought about his family. Marge, Nicole, Gabe. He badly wanted to see them again, wanted to hold them in his arms and tell them how much he loved them. If one good thing had come from this horrifying experience, it was his newfound appreciation for his family. He wanted to be a better man for them.

The knife slipped out of his fingers and clinked to the hardwood.

Theo attempted to pull apart his wrists.

The rope resisted, for a beat-and then loosened, threads shredding. He twisted his arms out of the slot in the back of the chair and swung them around in front of him. He examined his hands and wrists. His skin was chafed from the rope, but he didn't care.

He was free.

He reached behind him, grasped the knife, and bent to cut through the rope looped around his ankles. It took less than a minute to free them.

He kicked the chair aside.

He lay there on the floor, panting. He was so exhausted he didn't want to move, and getting free had brought a fresh awareness of the injuries that riddled his body. His lip was sore from the fishhook, his jaw throbbed from when Isaiah had punched him, and every other part of him hurt from the electrical shock Isaiah had delivered.

But he wasn't out of this madness yet. He had to push on.

He slowly got to his feet, dizziness blowing through him and nearly causing him to lose his balance. He swung toward the doorway, paused, and then dragged his feet toward the toolbox.

Underneath the rope and duct tape, he found pliers, a hammer, and a screwdriver. The stun gun lay inside, too, but Theo didn't want to fuss around with that. He was hoping to find a real gun. But he didn't see-

A door banged open at the front of the house.

Isaiah, he thought, fear spinning through him. That psycho son of mine is back.

Footsteps hurried inside.

Frantic, Theo grabbed the utility knife off the floor.

He hid behind the half-opened bedroom door.

Isaiah ran inside the cabin. He had a feeling-one of those unquestionable gut feelings-that Gabriel was going to realize he was still alive and come after him.

Little brother could come if he wanted. It was going to be too late for Pops.

Isaiah ran down the hall. The door to the bedroom in which he'd tied up Pops was partly open, harsh white light spilling outside and onto the hallway floor.

"I'm back, Pops," Isaiah said, approaching the doorway. "I know you missed me "

Isaiah shoved the door open with his shoulder.

The chair lay toppled on the floor. Empty. Cut ropes lay nearby like shorn hair.

"What the hell..... Isaiah said.

His father popped from behind the door like a jack-inthe-box.

"I'm sorry," Pops said.

He thrust something metallic deep into Isaiah's exposed abdomen.

Fuckin' utility knife, Isaiah realized as the blade bit into his flesh.

Isaiah grappled with his father to pull the knife out of his body. But Pops, in a shocking show of strength, pinned Isaiah against the wall and drove the blade deeper.

"I'm sorry," Pops whispered. Tears ran down his weathered face.

Groaning, Isaiah felt as though he were gushing blood. But he wasn't going out like this. Fuck that. He'd gotten out of tighter spots than this, had survived a bullet in the chest. He refused to die, and especially at the hands of this man.

No matter what...

Growling, he closed his fingers around his father's neck. He squeezed.

Pops gagged. His eyes bulged. He stumbled away from Isaiah and fell to the floor, choking and coughing.

Isaiah pulled the knife out of his stomach and threw it away. Dark blood flowed, covering his hands.

Damn, he got me good.

His legs weakened. He leaned against the wall for support. He dug into his waistband for the Glock, pulled it out, was reassured by its lethal weight.

Lying on the floor, Pops looked at him. His face said it all: Game over.

"I promised Mama," Isaiah said. He raised the gun.

Something cold pressed against his temple.

"Put it down," Gabriel said. He held a shotgun to Isaiah's head.

Gabriel didn't want to kill Isaiah. But to protect his father, he would.

Isaiah, still aiming the gun at Pops, cut his gaze toward Gabriel.

"Knew you were coming, little brother," Isaiah said. He sounded short of breath, and Gabriel noticed that a wound in his abdomen bled profusely. "What took you so long?"

"Drop the gun," Gabriel said.

"I need to do this, man." A tear slid down Isaiah's cheek. "Don't stop me ""

"How much do you wanna bet that I can blow your brains against the wall before you pull the trigger?" Gabriel said. "I don't want to kill you-but I will, if you force me ""

"Both of you, please put away the guns," Pops said. His voice was slurred, likely due to his swollen lip. He drew a chair toward him, set it upright, and settled into it heavily. "There's something both of you need to know."

"What're you talking about?" Gabriel asked. Isaiah, too, was frowning.

Pops wiped his lips.

"I'm talking about what I was going to tell you at home today before your brother here abducted me," Pops said.

"He's not my brother," Gabriel said. "Doesn't act like it anyway."

Isaiah sneered.

"Yes, he is your brother, Gabriel," Pops said. "Not your half brother either. Your full-blooded brother."

"What?" Isaiah said.

Gabriel couldn't gather enough air to speak.

"You and Gabriel," Pops said. "You have the same mother, too: Naomi Battle. May her soul rest in peace"

Gabriel lowered the shotgun. Isaiah dropped his pistol and slid to the floor, pressing his hand against his stomach. Blood continued to seep between his fingers and his breaths came shallow. He was fading.

Gabriel sat on the floor, too, but it was due to shock. He felt as though he'd been whacked over the head with a sledgehammer.

"H-h-h ... how?" Gabriel said.

"Naomi gave birth to twins," Pops said. "You and Isaiah are identical twins. Isaiah, you were born first. Gabe, you came a few minutes later. What a handsome pair of boys you were" A wistful look came into his eyes.

Gabriel looked at Isaiah. Not wanting to believe. But knowing it was true.

"Why'd you separate us?" Isaiah asked. Pain pinched his face. Speaking seemed to demand all his energy.

"Marge-who Gabe grew up knowing as his motherwasn't able to have children," Pops said.

"But Nicole-" Gabriel started.

"Nicole was a miracle baby," Pops said. "Before her, Marge and I had tried for years to have a child. We got frustrated with the situation and then with each other. I got involved with Naomi during a business trip to Chicago when Marge and I were on the brink of filing for divorce. I never planned for Naomi to get pregnant, but it happened. And when I found out that she was carrying twins ... well, I got to thinking this could be the solution to our desire for children. After Naomi gave birth, I offered to take both of you and raise you as my own children in Atlanta." He looked at Gabriel. "Naomi named both of you boys, by the way. She insisted."

"She did?" Gabriel said. He'd always thought Pops had given him his name.

"And Mama was okay with you ... you taking him?" Isaiah asked, glancing at Gabriel.

"It was a compromise," Pops said. "I wanted both of you, as I said. She was willing to give me only one. So she gave me Gabriel. I promised to take care of you, too, Isaiah."

"But you didn't!" Isaiah shouted, and then he stopped, delicately holding his stomach. "You left us."

"I tried to pay child support, Isaiah. She never told you that, did she? I've never wanted to tell you this, because I know how much you loved your mother, but soon after I took Gabriel home with me, I sent her money. Three times. A few thousand dollars each time. She sent the checks back to me. I called her and demanded to know why she refused the money. Do you know what she said? She thought if she took the payments, I would use that as leverage to take you away from her. She was afraid I would go to the courts, have her declared an unfit mother, and demand custody." Pops chuckled bitterly. "As though I wanted my personal life raked over the coals in a courtroom. I was trying to do the right thing and provide for my child. But Naomi ... I always think she was frightened of the influence she thought I wielded. She told me she'd rather raise you herself in the ghetto than lose you to me"

"You're lyin'," Isaiah said, but his face didn't back up his words. Doubt had crept into his eyes.

"What about Mom?" Gabriel asked. "She knew all this?"

"When I brought you home, Gabe, she just fell in love with you. I think you're the only reason she didn't demand a divorce from me, because she loved you so much. You're her baby, in the truest sense of the word"

Tears had begun to fill Gabriel's eyes.

"Why him?" Isaiah said. Tears wet his cheeks, too. "Why the fuck did he get to go live with you? Who chose?"

"Naomi made the decision." Pops had slipped out his handkerchief. He blotted his eyes. "She gave me Gabriel. You were her heart, Isaiah. She wanted to keep you"

Sobbing, Isaiah lay on the floor. Gabriel noticed that blood had spread like an oil spill around Isaiah's body.

Gabriel crawled to him.

Only a couple of minutes ago, he had been ready to kill this man. Now he felt a kinship with him he'd never felt in his life with anyone.

His twin brother.

It explained their psychic connection. It explained everything.

He cradled Isaiah's head in his lap. He looked at Isaiah's face, so much like his own-yet Isaiah's features had been hardened by such cruel experiences, and Gabriel's softened by such good fortune, that neither of them had been able to see that they were much more than brothers, were really twins.

Gabriel pried Isaiah's hand away from his stomach. The wound was deep and ugly.

"I never meant for this to happen" Pops said quietly. "I didn't want to hurt him, but he had gone crazy.... I was only trying to defend myself... " Pops began to sob.

Gabriel pulled off his shirt and pressed it to Isaiah's wound to stem the flow of blood.

"Just grazed your shoulder with that bullet, little brother," Isaiah said. He smiled bitterly. "You'll be all right. You always were the lucky one"

"We'll get you to the hospital. You've just gotta hang on, okay?" Gabriel said. "Pops, can you call an ambulance?"

"I'm on it." Pops stumbled out of the room.

Isaiah watched their father leave and then turned his head to Gabriel.

"Dig in my pocket," Isaiah said. "Right, front pocket. Get ... wallet."

Gabriel slipped his hand into the pocket of Isaiah's jeans, being careful not to move him too roughly. He retrieved a brown leather wallet.

Isaiah took it from him, unfolded it open. A faded photograph slid out: the photo of Naomi and Pops, taken so many years ago at a Chicago hibachi restaurant.

"Don't care what Pops says," Isaiah said. "Mama was ... good woman. You ... you would've loved her."

Isaiah pressed the photograph into Gabriel's hand. Gabriel studied his mother, a woman he had never known and never would. Grief kicked in his chest and fresh tears pushed at his eyes.

"You keep it now," Isaiah said, closing Gabriel's fingers over the picture. "Take care of it."

"You aren't gonna die," Gabriel said. "You've lived through worse stuff than this. Just hang on, man"

"Sorry for all the ... fucked-up shit I did," Isaiah said.