As Night Falls (31 page)

N
ick wasn't sure where the packs had gotten to, although it didn't seem to matter much anymore. Finding that gear would be like grabbing a rope once you'd already fallen off the cliff. It was too late for his plan to work out. A feeling Nick had never experienced before, not even the day he'd learned he was going inside, sank over him. There'd always been an air of unreality to everything that happened to Nick, and to all that he did. This moment, with his mother standing in that great canyon of an entryway, and his sister about to lose everybody she loved, was in some ways the realest he had ever known. It split the cocoon of medication that had sealed itself around him. Or that his sister had sealed around him? That idea hadn't occurred to Nick until now, and it triggered a smoky, howling rage.

He thumbed the cap off the bottle and downed another pill.

Harlan was dead and that beehive was back, filling Nick's mind with a furious cloud of activity, an electric, jangling hum. He needed Harlan. Harlan had kept him alive more than once inside. Tonight too, probably. He knew Cassie's husband would have killed him if Harlan hadn't been around. But it wasn't only reliance on Harlan's size and ability to intimidate that made it impossible for Nick to get his head around this bitter new reality.

He loved Harlan.

Harlan belonged to Nick.

He was going to strip Cassie bare, like peeling bark off a tree, leave her shivering and raw. First, he'd do away with her husband, assuming he still managed to draw breath. Then that freak-eyed mutt of a dog, who had scampered off like a bug when Nick raised the gun, although Nick was pretty sure he'd at least wounded him. He could hit a moving target.

And finally, Cassie's precious, pretty daughter.

The princess was lying broken and battered in the snow. No kid could manage a climb like that—he didn't care who her father was—and plus, Nick had seen when she started to fall. His vision had been fuzzy then, but it was clearing, as if the fuse lit by Harlan's death had finally ignited. The sight of the princess sliding down the side of the house came back to him as clearly as if Nick were watching it on TV. He felt as if he could've finished off the whole bottle of pills and remained clearheaded and focused.

Nick checked the number of bullets in the gun, then made sure the knife he'd taken from the neighbors was still jammed into his coat pocket. His father's slaughter had been a bloody mess, but in prison Nick had learned the value of neat, execution-style killings.

The princess wasn't going to get one of those, though. She deserved better.

Or worse.

And he would make his mother watch.

His mother had missed most of the action when Nick killed his father. Maybe that was why she'd been able to say what she did in court. This time, Nick would make sure she caught every last moment, in all its stark reality, no Technicolor or special effects. The screams would be real enough to blister her ears; she'd taste the metal of splashed blood.

His mother called out uncertainly once again.

Nick sent Cassie a wicked grin, then pushed past her into the hall. “Mama,” he said. “So glad you found us.”

“Nicholas?” she said. “What are you doing here?”

Her voice sounded uncomprehending, as if Nick had somehow teleported out of prison. Or as if she were the one on meds. But at last she seemed to put the pieces together.

“Why didn't you come home?” she said.

Nick felt his lips curl. “Sure,” he said. “Trade one prison for another.”

Pain flickered in his mother's eyes. She appeared to notice Cassie for the first time. “Cassandra? Is this why you called me?”

Cassie's face was white and unseeing.

Nick barked a laugh. “So that's how you knew to come.” He turned toward Cassie. “Still looking to Mama to save you, huh? When will you finally get it through your head that she's never going to do it? She doesn't even want to.”

Cassie's knees gave a jolt, but Nick kept her on her feet. He took his mother by the elbow, prodding her along, too.

“Come on,” he said, displaying his weapon. “We've got to see a man about a gun.”

His mother reached down and touched him on the hand. “I'm going to let you kids do this by yourselves.” She smiled at him. “While I take a look around this beautiful house.”

Nick smiled back. “Don't be silly, Mama. Of course you're coming with us.” He paused. “We couldn't do it without you.”

He led them both in the direction of the basement. Cassie appeared calmer now, and Nick had no idea why. She could've been in shock, but that didn't seem to be it. Cassie didn't trip or stumble. Her breath came regularly, and her arms hung loosely by her sides. They reached the stairs and started to descend, Cassie's footing sure.

Nick was seized by a savage impulse to kick her legs out from under her.

“Nicky?” his mother said at the bottom. “It's such a cold night. I'd love a cup of tea.”

There was a teething inside him, a gnawing that no tea would damp. Nick gestured with the gun, and his mother looked quickly away.

“Walk,” Nick said.

His mother took a few steps forward. Nick crossed in front of her, heading for the spot where Cassie's husband had last been seen.

He no longer lay there.

Cassie came to a stop, arms folded across her chest.

Nick wasn't sure if he was imagining the smugness and triumph on her face, but he pictured bringing the butt end of the gun down on her nose. Smashing it, sending slivers of cartilage into her brain. He had to hold on with both hands—as if gripping the side of a mountain—to the real goal. He wanted Cassie to be the last woman standing. To view her world in chunks and pieces around her, as if an atom bomb had detonated inside her palace of a house. Then he would kill her.

Nick craned his neck, looking around the dark, shadowed basement. He squinted, still having just the slightest bit of trouble seeing. Had he taken another pill, had he possibly downed the whole bottle? He couldn't remember.

A sliver of light on the floor appeared like a wavering line, and Nick stumped in its direction. The door was unlatched, and understanding dawned.

Nick felt a smile ride up his face. “At least now we know the answer to that infernal song.” The words he'd been meaning to say skidded away from him, and Nick clutched at them. “Who let the dog out?”

He entered the small room. Inside lay Cassie's husband. The guy had squirmed or wriggled his way over here, then got the door open using—what? His shoulder, maybe his chin? With a spike of satisfaction, Nick imagined how torturous the journey must've been. And for what purpose? To let out some mangy pet who had run away, tail between his legs, as soon as Nick faced off with him?

His mother gave a shriek that grated on Nick's ears. “My goodness. Who is that man?”

Cassie began to rush forward, but Nick placed the gun against her ear, or as close to it as he could get. His fingers felt clumsy and somehow thick, as if he were wearing gloves. “Back off,” he intoned heavily.

“He's dead,” she said. “Oh, please just leave him alone, he's dead, he's dead, he's—”

“Shut up,” Nick growled. He twisted to look over his shoulder. His mother was strolling away as if they were in a goddamned park instead of a concrete basement.

Cassie took another step forward, and again Nick held her at bay.

“You're right, I'm sure.” In his ears it sounded like he'd said
shore
. He must've taken another pill. Hopefully not more than one; he still had work to do here. Who let the dog out. Scooby-Doo. There was meaning there, some connection, but Nick couldn't grasp it. “But I'd better check.”

Cassie grabbed his arm, and Nick prized off her fingers. He reached down, deliberately feeling for the scar on his leg, and gave it a lethal twist. Pain arced into his consciousness, and with it came clarity.

“Not that I don't appreciate this moment of sisterly affection,” Nick said. “But I've got business to take care of.” He crouched, putting two fingers upon the man's neck, then let out a whistling breath. The guy had a pulse, faint but consistent, like the flutter of insect wings.

Cassie's sob was audible. Still squatting, Nick looked up at her. Cassie had hardly cried the day he'd killed their father, even though Nick knew she loved him. That wasn't why Nick had killed their dad, though. He'd done it because his father saw through him. Even a fatal stab wound wasn't enough to carve that knowledge out.

“Your husband sure can hang on,” Nick remarked. “He deserves a death worthy of a—well, of a first class lingerer.” He stared up at the lightbulb on the ceiling, blinking blurrily.

“Please,” Cassie whispered. “I'll do anything.”

His mother's voice sailed out from the cavernous space on the other side of the house. “Look at these lovely wrappings! Someone's getting ready for Christmas.”

Nick stared at Cassie. If he hadn't done it already, now was the time to uncap that bottle, swallow the contents so that they could pull him away like an animal dragged off its prey. At this point, he would welcome it.

“No,” he muttered. “Not yet you won't. But we'll find the princess, and then I bet you'll be ready to make good on that promise.”

He turned away from Cassie, placing the muzzle of the gun snug against her husband's belly. Wall-hard it was, ripples delineating each set of muscles.

Fighting weakness in his hands, holding on tight to the grip with both of them, Nick pulled the trigger, and the bullet exploded out of the gun.

Now Cassie was in shock more severe than any mood alteration Nick was experiencing. Her eyes had gone big and staring, and her fingers splayed out around the railing as she tried to make it back up the basement stairs. She fell a few times, going down onto her knees. Nick managed to stay straighter, nudging her upright with the snout of the gun.

The two of them stood poised at the entrance to the kitchen.

There was a light trip of footsteps from behind and his mother arrived at the top. “You'd better go now, don't you think, Nicky?” she asked, and Nick blinked at her, confused.

“You must have so much to do,” she went on. “Interviews for jobs. People longing to see you. I can't wait to hear all that you get up to.”

Nick's head bowed in a nod. He chambered the next round in the gun, although he could no longer remember who the bullet was meant for.

He turned around in place, then walked blindly toward the rest of the house.

The dog. The dog was supposed to be next.

But his mother had left the front door ajar when she came inside.

The possibility of failure kept hitting Nick anew. Like when he'd first gone inside and every morning he'd wake up with no idea where he was, disbelieving even once he saw the walls, the chrome toilet/sink combo, his thin and stinking mattress. For years, Nick had gotten written up, lost privileges, spent time on the SHU, because he went tearing around in fits, beating up his cellie before they'd given him Harlan, every time reality hit him. The idea that he wouldn't get what he wanted had always been a bit unfathomable to Nick.

“Goddamnit,” he roared. “Didn't somebody tell me that mutt won't go anywhere on his own?”

The dog had gotten away.

The pretty princess wouldn't.

He dragged the front door open. Nick prodded Cassie with the gun, forcing her outside. He didn't care where his mother was anymore. He and Cassie ran in a sickle shape around the house, arriving at the window where the princess had climbed out.

Cassie got there first, looking down at the ground, her chest and shoulders heaving.

The princess had made it farther than Nick had thought she would. His mental calculations seemed hazy, and he was finding it difficult to run, although at least he no longer felt the slow, lethargic beat of the injury in his foot. It was the snow that was slowing him down then, pasting the soles of his boots to the earth.

Still, the story of the princess' journey was hard to miss, told in footprints and deep pockmarks in the snow. There was a smooth, honed area a ways up ahead where she must have begun to pull herself along.

Nick followed the punctures, looking down to find the next one, then slip-sliding along beside it. He was in no hurry, and to tell the truth, he didn't feel like he could've hurried if he'd tried. It was okay, though. He knew what tracks looked like when an animal had dragged itself away to die.

The creek surged, drowning out whatever sounds the snow didn't silence.

Cassie clawed at him, trying to pull him back, make him stop.

They skidded to a halt by a deep, dark cradle of white. A scooped-out section that could easily have contained a body. Except a body wasn't there.

The footsteps they had been tracking, small ones made by light little shoes, had ceased abruptly. But larger shoeprints pierced the snow after that.

Cassie's cry carried up to the sky, loud even over the churn and froth of the water. Relief, joy, hope. Goddamned ever-present hope that Nick couldn't kill in her no matter what he did.

Understanding came to him in smashed-up bits and pieces. He was smart. Just not as smart as his mother had always led him to believe.

The heavy breathing he'd heard in the SUV they had stolen, not his own, not the woman's, and not precisely in time with Harlan's great breaths either. The hunched shape Nick had spotted in the back of the vehicle.

He had thought the newscaster had been wrong, an idiot when she made her pronouncement. But Nick had been the idiot.

Three convicts had escaped.

B
y the time the man arrived, Ivy had sunk into the accumulated snow, a thin pasting of white all over her body. She didn't know how she had been spotted. Ivy had become one with the landscape, just as she was one with the rock before her fall. Her disastrous fall. But she had been seen, she must have been, because Ivy felt herself picked up, then held aloft as whoever he was plodded along, his feet sending up clouds of snow with every step.

At first Ivy tried to fight, or at least protest. But her fists were so feeble, striking with the force of ping-pong balls. The man grasped both of them, holding on until she'd quieted.

Some part of her didn't think this was real. It was a fantasy borne of unspeakable pain, a kind of death-throes vision. Ivy's own personal version of the light everyone claimed to see, which in her case included an old man with wiry white twists of hair covering his hatless head and creases gouged deep into his dark face.

“How did you…why did you…” Ivy didn't recognize the sound of her own voice. She didn't believe she could make noises like that.

“Hush now,” the man said. “Save your breath.”

He trudged forward, not toward her house, but in the direction of a faint yellow glow that filtered through the branches of snow-clogged trees.

He held her in his arms like an infant. Ivy let her head fall back, dragged down by the weight of her hair. Her body was wracked with shivers, and a whimper of pain escaped her.

The man looked at her, the whites of his eyes shining. “You listen to me,” he said fiercely. “You listen to me as we walk. And you don't go nowhere. You understand?”

No, Ivy didn't understand. How could she possibly go anywhere when she was lying in the sling of this man's arms? But then she thought maybe she did know what he meant.

She was shaking so hard that the man had trouble hanging on to her; twice he staggered and almost went down on his knees. The snow had turned the whole world blank. Ivy herself was blanking out, breathing so shallowly that the cold air shocked her when it scraped against her throat. She jolted, and the world swam back into view for a moment before receding again.

The old man began to talk, making his voice loud, peering down at her instead of looking where they were going.

“Started out walking, but I turned back,” he told her. “Didn't get more than a few miles or so 'fore the snow got bad. Figured the police maybe might come here, so I wandered around a while, trying to find it again. In the end it was hard to miss, big place, all lit up like a castle.”

His words yanked her out of the white.

“Got no hat, no gloves, no matches even. And that's not all I don't got.”

Ivy tried to lift her neck, and couldn't. But doing so made her feel the temperature for the first time in what seemed like a while. “Wuh—”

“Hush now,” the man said again. “We almost there.”

Almost where? They weren't anywhere. Just two drifting forms through a featureless landscape, walking nowhere, except maybe to heaven.

“I don't think Harlan's got it neither,” the man said.

Ivy thought she might've hallucinated the word. It shot a burning dart through her head. How did this man know Harlan? Was he part of the same dark and dismal place Harlan had come from, which had been brought to Ivy's house, her life, sent her out through her bedroom window to fall through the night?

“Harlan's—” Tears began to seep from her eyes. They were beastly hot against her nice, cool skin. “He's…”

“I know what he is,” the man said, hard and final.

And then Ivy realized where they were.

At the Macmillans' camp. That was where the soft burr of lights had come from. Smoke lifted from the chimney and was carried away, the same color gray as the sky.

The man laid Ivy gently on a mat before the front door. Then he sat down, his back to the wall of the house. His shoulders quaked; he fought to take in breath.

“Thought I would like it,” he panted. “Being free.” Another arduous intake of air. “Turns out maybe I don't.”

“Cold,” Ivy answered, or maybe she hadn't said it out loud, for the man didn't seem to hear anything.

He looked at her, eyes still gleaming, his skin silhouetted against the snow. This man was of the night as she had been of the rock.

“Don't got many years left,” he said. “Think I'd like to spend them where I know how.”

Then he twisted around, lifted his hand, and thumped on the door.

The borders around the man's body had turned fuzzy. Everything faded until all Ivy wanted was this one last piece of information.

The answer came to her, borne on a cold current of air.

“They call me Old-School.”