Housebroken (27 page)

He went to tip the two men on their way out, then remembered he didn’t have a dollar to his name. He looked to Joje but found no help.

“I, uh, apologize,” Blake said. “Don’t have any cash on me.” He felt like a complete asshole as he closed the door softly behind them. He sunk down to the floor, head resting against the door’s frame.

Two deaths
.

A deliberate act of terror.

The weight pressed down on him, a thumb squashing an ant, boot snapping a twig. When the cops finally caught up with him, there’d be no question where Blake would spend his retirement.

Checkmate.

He could almost hear the word spoken in Joje’s lisping voice.

“Where’s Jenna?” he asked.

“Who?”

“My wife,” Blake said.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure who you’re talking about,” Joje said.

“
Jenna!
” Blake called for her as he got to his feet. “Where is she?”

“You must have hit your head one too many times, Bwake. Jenna’s my wife. You’re in my home. And I’m growing rather tired of your ‘visit.’”

“No. No, no, nooo! Tell me where she is!”

Joje stood at the lip of the step down into the living room, a white sea of carpet behind him. “I’m making sure she’s safe, something you failed to do. I’m not even sure I should bring Adam home, with all your recent failings. But there’s no need to concern yourself with my problems. Let’s concentrate on yours. Like what you’re going to do about the payment to your Internet whiz kid.”

“I don’t give a crap about him. I have done everything you’ve asked, given you everything you wanted. Now bring my family back!” Blake’s finger stabbed at the air as if he could puncture Joje with it.

Joje just peered back at him with derision. “I need to be going.”

“Are we getting Adam first or Jenna?” Blake asked.

“We? There is no more
we
. This whole pwoject? It’s failed. It’s over! What can I possibly learn from you? How to lose a job? Check. How to screw up a marriage? Check. How to be an absent father? Raise a kid who resents you? Check! I may be partly to blame—I did choose you as my mentor—but you have failed! You’ve dug your own grave with the golden spoon you were handed—thinking you earned this . . .” Joje shook his arms, indicating the house. “Deserved . . . any of this? In one week, Bwake—less than a week—you’ve been brought down to nothing! And I’d love to take credit for it, I really would, but I give credit where credit’s due. So congratulations!” He clapped, hands turned sideways. “We’ve been witness to the fall you’ve been building toward your entire life.”

White heat rumbled inside Blake; he was almost surprised it wasn’t shining from his fingertips. Joje could see the change in his face; he drew up, planting his feet on the wooden floor in front of the step down. They both knew where this was going; it was where Joje had guided Blake from the beginning, a channel allowing the water to think it flowed where it wished.

Joje’s tic pulled at the left side of his face. He didn’t bother trying to make it go away, not this time. “There you are, Bwakey. Welcome back.”

It felt good to be back.

Joje slipped the gun from behind his back but instead of pointing it at Blake he released the cartridge, stepping down onto the plush carpet. Walking backward, he set both pieces on the piano, in the run where sheet music would have been had anyone in the house known how to read sheet music. His eyes were wild.

“I won’t stop,” Blake said.

“I always hoped you wouldn’t.”

Blake screamed—a primitive cry so ancestral no words were needed for it to be understood. He lunged forward, a hurricane of fury. There was no premeditation, no plan, just an outpouring of indignation. Joje had been expecting Blake to take a swing, what he hadn’t expected was all of him.

Blake barreled into Joje with such force it drove him back, lifting him from his feet, his back colliding with the spine of the grand piano. The propped up lid fell, crashing down with an awful clack, piano strings vibrating with a low twang as Blake drove Joje harder into the polished surface. A tall lamp tilted and fell, Joje sliding, Blake following him down until he landed on top of him against the padded carpet.

Joje slammed his open palms against Blake’s ears. Specks of white light floated across Blake’s vision.

Blake drove his knee upward into Joje’s crotch, and a howl escaped from the diaphragm Blake rested atop.

Joje tried to flip himself beneath Blake, but the muscle memories of Blake’s wrestling days were kicking in. He pinned Joje back to the floor, swiping at the hands flying toward his face.

Instinct drove him. Ignoring the flaring in his burned hand, he brought his head down, forehead barreling into the bridge of Joje’s nose. Blood erupted, spouting up, almost drowning out the noise of crunching bones.

Joje cried out in pain. Blake scrambled off his opponent and crawled back on the floor. His hand reached up onto the piano bench, higher, striking a random key, a reverberating bong sounding in low E, searching, higher, fingers scraping against wood, searching, his side pressed into the bench, ribs aching, hand shaking, searching, searching . . . 

And finding.

He scrambled to his feet, the click of the clip snapping into the butt of the gun, sounding as righteous as a church choir.

The freckled kid with orange hair was now glistening in blood. Streams streaked down the varied peaks and valleys of his face, speckling the carpet below. He was up on his elbows, blinking hard, his legs stretched out in front of him. A red-stained handprint was matted into the threaded carpet, yet still he smiled, his teeth covered in a slimy, bloody glaze.

“That was a good one, Bwake,” Joje said. “You got me.”

Both his hands came up, palms out, one a pink fleshy color, the other rippled in blood.

Blake walked forward, not nearly as confident with the gun in his left hand, yet at point-blank range he could have been holding it with his toes. He trained it on Joje’s chest. He had been waiting for this moment so long he was worried it wouldn’t live up to the anticipation.

A phone buzzed, vibrating in Joje’s pocket.

“Give it to me. Slowly,” Blake said.

With one hand Joje reached into the pocket of his jeans, drawing the cellphone out. Jenna’s phone.

“Pwabowee Dwew, checking in.” Blood sputtered from his mouth as he spoke.

He tossed it to Blake, who caught it with his burned hand, grimacing. He glanced at it for only half-second intervals. He couldn’t afford to take his eyes off Joje.

“You said you were done with that. Checking in.”

“I lied,” Joje said.

“I thought you never lie.”

“Guess I learned something from you after all.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me where my son is and where Drew has taken my wife, then we are going to go get them. If anyone even tries to stop us I will put a bullet through your head—something I’ve learned from watching you.”

Joje was shaking his head. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, smearing it across the carpet. “You need me more than I need you.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Then good luck finding your family.”

The phone began vibrating again, this time in Blake’s hand. He looked down at it, only for a second. A text message, same as before, but completely undecipherable:
D2*D3VIRA
.

“What does it mean?” Blake asked, holding the phone for Joje to see.

“They’ve arrived. If he doesn’t get the right text back, you won’t have to bother looking for your wife,” Joje said.

“I will make you feel more pain than you have ever felt. What do I text him back? What do I say!”

“Doesn’t work that way.”

“
Tell me, damnit!
”

“You might as well shoot me,” Joje said, resting his hands back on the carpet.

“You think I won’t?”

“Come on, pull the trigger! Right here!” Joje tapped at his forehead furiously.

Blake’s hand ached from his tightening grip on the barrel. “Last chance! Please, Joje, tell me where they are.”

“Come on, you can do this.” Joje lifted his head, back straightening to look squarely into the barrel. In the reflection of his eyes, Blake caught a glimpse of himself—bruised, battered, bloodied, and as insane as the man he was staring at. The reflection of a complete stranger.

“One,” Blake said.

With his busted nose and blood slithering down his face, Joje’s smile was the creepiest it had ever been.

“Two,” Blake shouted.

Joje closed his eyes, face held high.

“
Three!
”

Blake pulled the trigger.

“Steady your shoulders, now slide your head forward, that’s it, nose touching the charging handle—it won’t move on you. Now deep breath, exhale partially, hold . . . and squeeze that trigger like your lady’s thighs.”

The M4 burst in a staccato of automatic fire, Adam’s arms through his torso vibrating all the way to his bones. He kept the nozzle from rising and watched as the aluminum hull of a rowboat disintegrated.

The clip ran dry. He let the gun drop in his hands, admiring his handiwork. Bullet holes began in a migratory path, then condensed in one area, punching a much wider gap through the metal. Brush and wild weeds could be seen on the other side.

“Pretty awesome, huh?” Stu said.

“Yeah. One more round?” Adam asked.

“Thirty more rounds—one more clip. But that’s it.”

Adam handed the automatic machine gun back to Stu, who discharged the spent clip.

“There’s no cell reception up here?” Adam asked.

“Not out here in the boonies,” Stu replied.

“So how will we know when I’m supposed to go back?”

Stu squinted, looking off into the distance and avoiding Adam’s eyes. He wiped down the rifle with a black cloth, pressing it into the empty chamber where the clip had gone. “We wait till we get word. No more questions unless you want to go back in the shed.”

“You’ve gotta have some way of communicating. Do you have, what do you call those radio things?”

“Walkie-talkie?”

“No, the one you need a license for?”

“Oh, a ham radio? No. Milt or Gary go down once a day to get messages. George ain’t our only client, you know. But we prefer staying out of reach,” Stu said, handing Adam the gun. “This time I want you to try making an
X
.” He stood back, arms folded, allowing Adam to do it on his own.

Adam pushed the butt of the gun into the crook of his shoulder, lining the sight up and bringing his head forward. He was able to control his breathing, but his heart was racing, turning the last corner with the finish line in sight. Now or never, it screamed.

Would he be heralded as the boy who saved his family from these monsters or become a monster himself?

A light breeze jostled the scraggly weeds topped with little purple flowers, as if that little color could hide what they really were.

Now or never.

He spun his body toward Stu, gun positioned so tightly it didn’t move, his heart thumping louder, ghetto-blasting his intentions as the bearded young man began to rise, eyes widening, realizing exactly what Adam was planning.

“The hell you two doin’?”

The voice shouted from the bottom of the hill. Adam broke his gaze to track the other gunman.
Gary
. He was unarmed, a hand held to his head to block the sun. Stu ripped the machine gun from Adam, a silver pistol appearing in his other hand, catching the sun’s rays and sending them back out.

Adam forced himself to exhale.

“What do you need, Gare?” Stu shouted, his eyes never leaving Adam’s face.

“You teachin’ him to shoot or becoming the target?” Gary called back, a cold laugh following.

Stu nodded at Adam to walk back down in Gary’s direction. In that look Adam knew no matter what he said or did he was no longer “just a kid.”

“Milton wants the boy,” Gary said as they got closer.

“He can have him,” Stu said, shoving Adam in the back. The ground came out from beneath him. He fell, stickered weeds and hot dirt raking his hands and arms as he tumbled the remaining few feet down the hill.

The blindfold was lifted over Jenna’s head. A dull light revealed walls that had aged from white to the color of bone—a shade not quite white, not quite gray, but equally disturbing. She moved to fix her hair, then thought better of it. She didn’t care how she looked to these assholes.

Drew hadn’t been gentle in getting her out of the house. Thankfully the bruises on her arms and aching in her legs were all she had suffered from his wrath.

At least so far.

She felt his breath against the back of her neck. His hands clamped down on the handles behind her shoulders as he turned her chair, the fold-out metal stops her legs rested upon scraping against the side of that pale wall.

The carpet was thin and ancient, a light purple with dried splotches of white paint near the baseboards. She didn’t recognize where they were, passing a tiny bathroom on the left, its hard yellow-tiled walls and small taupe-colored toilet reminding her of her grandmother’s house in Nebraska. Even at five years old she had known the reek in that house had been of old people, no cinnamon candle or potpourri sufficiently able to mask the stench.

She could almost smell that candle now, that sweet scent mixed with the delicious aroma of wood chips burning in the stove . . . and then the smell began to change. Cinnamon warping into the rot of burning meat, flesh going black, charcoaled and continuing to burn . . . Her legs blistered beneath her, the meat’s juices dripping between the openings in the grill, flames leaping higher, smoke rising to her mouth and nose, slipping down her throat, tendrils grasping, clutching, puncturing, and no matter how she turned her head, she could still smell herself cooking, melting beneath the flames.

She wiped at the dampness on her forehead. There was nothing she could do about the moisture beneath her arms or between her legs. Did this house have no air conditioning?

The hall ended in a plain white wooden door, round brass handle no longer holding a speck of its coppery shine. Drew reached over her, his gut pressing into her face, to open it. He banged the wheelchair forward against the door. The room caused her breath to catch.