As Night Falls (25 page)

“H
arlan, get me a knife from the kitchen.”

Sandy's heart galloped upon hearing the command. She whirled around.

Hark and Anita lay facedown on the shoe-abraded rug on the floor in front of their shabby couch.

“Just for a little while,” Nick was saying as he wielded the roll of duct tape. “Once my friend and I are good and gone, Cassie—um,
Sandy
—here will come back and free you.” He smiled down at his captives, a light lifting of his lips that looked more menacing than a scowl. “That's what neighbors are for, huh?”

Tape,
Sandy thought.
He just wants to contain them for a while
.

The medication didn't seem to be having any effect. Perhaps it was too soon. Or perhaps Nick was so fueled by adrenaline that it would've taken a boatload of pills to subdue him.

“Harlan,” Nick said. “A little help here.”

Harlan edged by Sandy, handing Nick a short, sharp knife and placing one of his boots upon Hark to hold him in place. The expression on Harlan's face was wide and placid. His boot covered most of Hark's back.

Suddenly, Nick paused, sticky lengths of tape dangling from his teeth. His back had straightened and his eyes gone wide, ears all but pricked. Sandy shot a look around, wondering what he was responding to. The kitchen drawer where Harlan had gotten the knife snagged her attention. It hung open, a tempting silver array inside, blades and teeth and tines.

Sandy took a step in that direction, already picturing her choice of weapon, and what she would do with it. Nick first. His throat. She couldn't waste time on warning or an ambivalent attempt. With Nick gone, the threat Harlan posed would disperse like sand blown into the wind.

Sandy squinted as she drew closer. There were other knives in the drawer, and what looked like skewers of some sort.

“Harlan,” Nick said. “Take hold of my sister.”

It was as if she'd been given the ability to fly. One moment Sandy was contemplating a move of desperate brutality, the next she was in Harlan's arms and hovering above the floor.

“And then all of you shut up,” Nick added.

He stayed quiet, breathing, listening.

With a single slice to the pieces of tape he'd applied, Nick set Hark and Anita free. Sandy frowned, watching her brother help them both into sitting positions.

Only then did she hear what her thwarted attempt to pilfer a weapon had made her miss.

Outside, the twin thud of boots.

“Listen up and listen up good,” Nick said. “I think we can all agree that if I wanted to kill you or your wife, I would've done it by now, right?”

Hark and Anita twisted to look over their shoulders at the door.

Nick got down on his hands and knees and crawled forward until he was close enough that his spittle flew into their faces. “I said, listen to me!” They both jumped, and Nick went on without a hitch. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would've done it. I'm good with the gun.” He touched the knife to Hark's throat, who sat stone-like, refusing to wince.

It wasn't true—their father had actually once called Nick a clumsy shot, impatient and unstill—but Sandy couldn't see what difference that made at such close range.

“Put her down,” Nick told Harlan.

The first thing Sandy did was scan the room for Ivy.

Her daughter turned away from her.

Nick spoke again to Hark. “Be perfectly calm while you get rid of whoever's here.” A beat. “With no suspicions raised. Just act like this was a normal night while you say bye-bye.” Nick got to his feet, brushing off his hands. “And in case you get the idea to make a run for it, signal or anything, I think I'll keep your wife by my side for a little extra insurance.”

Anita's shoulders sloped. Her husband reached out to her.

“I can shoot her and Cassie while Harlan disembowels the kid,” Nick said. “All before your guests even make it into the house.”

Anita shut her eyes and a slow tear slipped out. Hark released his wife. “I won't let that happen,” he said, and Sandy felt her own eyes fill at his vow.

“Oh, and just one more thing.” Nick handed over his coat, indicating that Hark should put it on, then held up a scarf. He wound the length of wool around Hark's neck, dressing him like a child.

When Hark frowned, Nick pointed to his own bare neck in explanation.

“Yours looks a little sore,” he said. “I think we should make sure that no one has any reason to worry about you.”

They huddled in a tiny, under-the-staircase bathroom; Nick, Sandy, Ivy, and Anita. Harlan couldn't fit, so Nick placed him in the mudroom, which looked out onto a back field, now hillocked over with snow.

Letting the cramped conditions serve as excuse, Sandy edged closer to her daughter. It was a relief to feel the slim wand of Ivy's body beside her, warm and alive. But then Ivy took half a step away, all the small room would allow, and chill air filled the space between them.

Nick nudged the door open so that they could hear what was going on outside.

“Sorry to barge in on you like this, Mr. Nelson,” a male voice said.

“Not a problem, Chief.”

The police were here. Every muscle inside Sandy coiled and tensed.

Nick laid a hand on her arm, heated as an iron brand.

“You headed out somewhere?” asked the chief.

A minute pause, not long enough to be noticed.

“Just want to keep on top of my plowing,” Hark said.

Silence, maybe a nod in response.

“Tell you why we came,” the chief went on. “This is Officer Bishop, by the way. She's new to these parts and to the force.”

“Welcome,” Hark said after a longer pause.

“Thank you,” came a youngish-sounding woman's voice.

I'll shoot both her and Cassie while Harlan disembowels the kid.

“Anyhow…” Throat clearing. “I just paid a visit to your new neighbors. The Tremonts, right? Up there on the hill.”

“That's right,” Hark said.

“Mind if I ask you a couple of questions about them?”

After a moment, “ 'Course not, Chief.”

At some point, Nick's hand had dropped from her arm. Sandy now stood unimpeded. And by taking that step away from her, Ivy had wound up closest to the door.

Sandy ticked off the steps in her head.

Shove Ivy and Anita out and onto the floor. Bolt through the doorway herself, screaming for the police and for everybody to get down.

“Have you seen them tonight?” the chief said.

“Can't say as I have,” Hark replied swiftly.

Swiftly enough that it might raise suspicion, put the officers on alert. The distances in this space were minute. If Sandy acted fast, the risk would be slight.

“Would they usually be home at this hour?” the chief asked.

“Can't say that either,” Hark replied in a tone that commanded finality. “We really don't know them all that—” Then he changed course. “Actually, they do often go out at night.”

“That right?” the chief said.

“Into town maybe,” Hark concluded with faint dismissal. “For dinner.”

After his initial stumbles, this delivery was Oscar-worthy, composed of shielded dislike blended with mountain manners.

“One more question,” the chief said, “and I'll leave you to your night.”

The gun wasn't near her now. Nick held it pressed against Anita. Sandy made sure that even her eyes remained still as she went through the steps. No barely perceptible twitch of her body would reveal what she intended.

Hark gave a grunt of agreement.

And then Nick's voice wound a silky scarf around Sandy's ear. “Sure you want to try it?”

It was as if the blood in her veins solidified, cementing her in place.

“When we're all so close to going free?” Nick went on at a whisper.

Sandy's shoulder sagged, admitting defeat. How had he known?

The chief said, “Can you think of any reason why the Tremonts would've emptied out their kitchen?”

This time the silence went on and on, long enough to wear thin.

Sandy's flesh broke into prickles and she reached involuntarily for Ivy's dangling hand, which her daughter snatched away without a sound.

Finally Hark supplied, “They just finished moving in.” He sped up, relief palpable in his tone. “Maybe they haven't unpacked everything yet.”

“Makes sense,” the chief said. “Thanks for your time. And good luck with the plowing.”

Boots then, in retreat.

Nick reached for the powder room door, and Sandy and Ivy and Anita all crowded forward.

When the chief's voice sounded next, it came from farther away. “Almost forgot to ask.”

Nick halted, and the three of them stumbled against the hard rack of his spine.

“What's that?” Hark asked.

“How many cars do the Tremonts have?”

Sandy saw her own feeling of confusion mirrored on Anita's face, although Ivy seemed unaware, folded so deeply into herself that the goings-on around her didn't make an impact.

And then the chief's meaning came clear. He had gone to their house first—that's how he knew they weren't home. So he'd seen both cars there. And Hark had said they were out.

Anita took a step around Nick into the doorway.

A vicious scrawl transformed Nick's face, and he drove the gun toward Anita in a warning strike. But she had gotten some distance away, and the gun didn't quite make contact.

Sandy suppressed a scream. She grabbed Ivy—never mind her daughter's resistance—and shoved her deep into the powder room, away from the chaos of Nick and Anita and the gun at the entrance. Ivy's hip and shoulder banged against the tile wall, and her mouth opened in an O of outrage before shutting soundlessly.

Nick's hand moved in a blur, the safety making an audible
snick.
Nick sighted on Anita, who had come to an instant stop as if a line were pulling her up short.

“Three,” she sang out.

There was silence from the kitchen.

Anita bent over, gasping for breath.

“Mrs. Nelson?” called the chief. “That you?”

“I'm sorry, Chief.” Anita snatched a towel from a bar by the sink, and braced her hand against the powder room doorway. “I'm just doing a little cleaning back here.”

Nick touched the snout of the gun to Anita's neck.

Ivy sucked in a breath.

“You were asking about the Tremonts?” Anita trilled in a pleasant voice that made her husband's earlier performance sound like a kid in a grade school play. “They have three cars.”

Hark rallied then. “As if anybody needs three cars.” He let out a snort. “Those people get rich off the backs of folks who come up here on the weekends.”

The declaration seemed to lend a final needed note of authenticity.

“Ah,” the chief said. “That explains a lot.”

“The wealthy are strange,” added the younger cop.

“You can say that again,” Nick muttered under his breath.

Boots clopped off once more. This time Nick waited until the door clicked shut and the sound of the car engine had died out.

Then he came out clapping.

“Excellent job, both of you,” he said. “Now give me back my coat, and then you can resume your marks.” He laughed at his own joke before pulling open the door to the mudroom.

Harlan reentered the house, and the group moved back to the living room, Ivy still keeping her distance. As soon as Hark and Anita drew close enough, they embraced as if their bodies were braided. Then they both got down on the floor untold.

“Not on the rug,” Nick told them, and they shifted onto the wooden floorboards, wriggling over until their shoulders touched.

Nick uttered instructions, and Harlan yanked Hark's arms back. Rolling him about as easily as if he were moving a broomstick, Harlan bound both wrists together, then did Hark's ankles before moving on to Anita.

“Their mouths, too,” Nick said, and Harlan pulled up on Hark's and Anita's hair, lifting their heads off the floor at the same time, and applying silver rectangles to their mouths.

“Now move them back,” Nick said in a voice that almost sounded kind. “Close to each other. Like they wanted to be.”

Harlan straightened effortfully. “I'm tired, Nick,” he complained. “I'm all worn out.”

It took more work for Nick to move the pair than if Harlan had done it, but Nick nudged both bound forms over until they were touching.

Anita's eyes flashed gratitude as she nestled against her husband.

Kneeling, Nick put the gun to the back of Hark's head and shot him. His body thrashed a few times, like a fish on a dock. It had settled beside Anita's by the time Nick killed her, too.

W
hen the shots were fired, Ivy felt her own body buck as if she had been hit. The stupidest, most babyish phrase kept circling around in her head like a gnat.
But you promised.
She stared at Nick, at her uncle—that disgusting, piece of shit monster was her uncle—until her eyes ran and she couldn't see him anymore.

She blinked, and saw that he was gazing at her, too.

He did a loop-de-loop with the gun, and it wound up aimed at Ivy. Her mother tried to step between them, but Nick pushed her aside.

A torrent of words spilled out of Ivy's mouth. “But they were just going to lie there! They're all taped up! They couldn't stop you!”

Nick scoffed as mercilessly as Darcy ever had. “Oh, come on. You don't think that man planned to make trouble for me first chance he got?”

Ivy's lip trembled so hard that she bit it. “You didn't have to kill them.”

It seemed impossible that the Nelsons were dead. It was only after Ivy had opened and shut her eyes a few times to clear her vision that she saw wreaths of blood around their heads.

Except the blood didn't look real either. It was like out of a movie. At any minute the Nelsons would jump to their feet—Ivy ignored the troublesome interference of the tape as she allowed herself to slip into her fantasy—and their performance would be complimented. Even better than the one they had put on for the police chief.

Again, Ivy's eyes blurred. Mr. and Mrs. Nelson had done what they were told. They had thought they were going to live.

She swiped at her face hard enough that it hurt. Back at the house, Ivy had spoken so callously about the idea of Nick hurting the Nelsons, who were annoying, did nothing but give her parents grief. Like that'd be a real loss, she had said. Something like that.

But Ivy had had no clue what someone getting hurt really meant, what it would be like to see people die. She stared at the terrible sight on the floor, trying to freeze herself inside.

“That's the thing, princess,” Nick told her, flicking one hand at the bodies. “I didn't have to. I just decided to. I can do whatever I want.” He paused. “Bet you used to think the same thing about yourself.”

“I never thought I was anything like you,” Ivy spit out. “Not
anything
.”

Nick regarded her. “Well, maybe the princess does have a few brains in her head after all. Because it's true. We're not alike. Nobody's like me.”

Ivy looked away.

“I'm not subject to the same rules other people are,” Nick went on. “I live outside all of that.” His voice grew louder. “I do what I want, or don't do it, say what I want, or don't say it—” He leaned closer, eyes red-rimmed, spittle sizzling on his lips. “—do nothing, do everything, and you know what?”

Ivy began to back away.

“It doesn't matter!” Nick shouted. “You get that, princess? Whatever I do, it will never, ever—” He broke off for a moment, panting. “—fucking matter!”

Nick walked off toward the fireplace, his breath coming in heaves and hitches. He punched the mantel with enough force that ashes flew up from the grate in a hazy film. When Nick withdrew his hand, it left behind a spatter of red.

Ivy became aware of her mother, watching her with a weight of sorrow in her eyes. She stepped forward tentatively, like Ivy was a prickle bush or something.

Ivy drew in a shuddering breath. And then she walked into her mother's arms.

Her mother tilted her head forward until it touched Ivy's.

“It's not okay,” Ivy said. “It's not okay. It's not okay.” She couldn't stop saying it.

“No,” said her mom at last. “It's not.”

A shushing noise came from behind, and they parted to see Harlan dragging both bodies off by the scruff of their collars, one in each hand.

Nick kicked the rug over a few feet to cover the bloodstains on the floor.

He had planned everything out, right down to making the Nelsons not lie on the rug.

“What do they say about more hands making less work?” Nick asked. “I'd say that one Harlan makes a lot less work.”

Ivy wiped a swampy brew of tears against her mother's shirt and looked up.

There came a terrible bellow, so loud it shook the room. It was as if a dinosaur was dying. “Niiiiick!”

Even utterly unflappable Nick started, though he quickly smoothed out his features.

He aimed a finger trigger-style in their direction. “You two stay there.”

Nick headed toward the mudroom. Cold air shot in from that direction. Harlan must have gone outside and left the door ajar.

Her mother looked at her with a heated, intense gaze. Ivy frowned.
What?
she mouthed.

But it hit her. Harlan was outside, in the rear fields, occupied with both bodies. Ivy's heart gave a lurch, but she couldn't let herself think about the poor Nelsons right now. Because Nick had gone after Harlan, telling Ivy and her mom to stay. And why should they listen to him?

Ivy twisted around to look at the front door. Then the kitchen door, which opened onto a spot higher on the road. All she and her mom had to do was run up the remaining length to their driveway. And Ivy still had the keys to her mom's car. She withdrew them from her pocket, looking down in wonder, stifling their clink.

Her mother's face broke into a curve of sheer joy. She closed her hand over the clump of keys. “How on earth did you get—” She broke off with a quick shake of her head, pocketing the ring. Then she grabbed Ivy and moved them both in the direction of the kitchen.

Soundlessly, her mother drew open the door.

Outside, the snow had ceased coming down in great muffling curtains, giving way to sporadic spurts of flakes. Black branches pitchforked the sky.

She and her mom would send help for her dad. If he even needed it. Part of Ivy didn't believe that her dad was really up there, staying put because he was hurt. More likely he had gotten away, but didn't know where they were. He would never guess they had gone over to the Nelsons. It struck Ivy then, a sunny blip of hope. Maybe her dad had sent the police.

Her mother spoke in a whisper from behind. “Walk or run?”

Ivy understood the dilemma immediately. Should they go fast, put every ounce they had into it, or attempt to make as little noise as possible, scurrying along, trying to stick behind trees?

“I say aim for speed,” she whispered back.

They launched into an all-out sprint, taking the stoop steps, then hitting the road and swerving to avoid a wall of snow the police car had left behind. Their shoes beat flat the accumulation on the road, and a wave of white flew up behind them. The snow that was still falling made it hard to see. Ivy slapped at the flakes as if they were bugs, trying to keep her gaze focused.

She and her mom moved at an identical pace, white puffs coming from their mouths, though her mom's breaths sounded louder. Suddenly her mom thrust one hand out to the right, and Ivy nodded, understanding. The field at the back of the Nelsons' house where Nick and Harlan had gone lay that way. The road crossed right beside it, and so would Ivy and her mom.

Ivy jerked her head to the side, trying to make eye contact with her mother through the scatter of snow and her heaving breaths. She was panting now, too. She'd never run this fast in her life. But maybe they should slow down, move off course, even belly-crawl for this portion. That stretch of field was so wide, and they'd be completely open to it.

It was too late, both she and her mom were moving too fast to pause. They seemed to duck instinctively, running with their backs almost horizontal, and then they were past the juncture at which they'd been exposed.

Ivy felt a swell of laughter build. She could see the lights of her house now. She had never been so happy to see its huge, hulking form. She pushed on, passing her mother, covering the final distance to the cars.

Her mom's—the one she had the keys for—was partially buried.

Ivy's knees sagged and she fought not to fall.

It would be difficult to get the door open against the weight of snow that had accumulated against it.

How could she not have realized? The snow had begun falling hours ago. If this had been a normal night, her dad would've gotten the shovels and scrapers out of the basement, maybe completed one pass with the plow.

Tears made tiny divots of melt as Ivy went down on her knees and began to claw up great armfuls of snow, throwing them behind her. Crusted clumps slid down her coat sleeves, but Ivy hardly even felt their burn as she dug and dug and dug. Powdery masses blew over her: the wind sending back almost as much as she shifted. Her mom joined her, throwing herself onto the hood and using her hands to clear the windshield.

Ivy crawled across the uneven ground to begin scooping out the other two tires.

“I think I can get out now!” her mother panted. She battled with the passenger door, tugging it open against the remaining white, and all but shoving Ivy inside.

In a headlong rush, her mom ran around to the driver's side.

Ivy saw him before her mother did.

Nick, lunging through the snow, kicking up mounds before him, and panting as he fought to catch up.