Gingerbread Man (43 page)

So he was ready. His duffel bag was on the
floor, up against the wall on the far side of the room. He’d
returned the blanket and pillow to Mason’s bedroom, and unrolled a
sheet of plastic on the sofa and out across the floor for several
feet all around it, because this was his brother’s place, after
all. He didn’t want to ruin it entirely. And he always had plastic
in his truck. For moving them. His letter was written, and though
it was short, that had taken the longest, ‘cause what could you
say, really?
Sorry?
Sorry didn’t even begin…

Didn’t matter.

The long line of driver’s licenses was on the
coffee table, one neat straight row. He’d texted Mason. Mason would
know what to do. He would take care of everything. He always
did.

So…it was time.

He picked up the gun in his right hand. It
was heavy. He’d rarely used the thing, kept it just in case. He’d
avoided the question, in case of what? It wasn’t really his gun. It
belonged to the rat. But he was going to use it now.

He was shaking hard as he pressed the barrel
to his temple. It worried him how hard he was shaking. He didn’t
want to mess this up. He didn’t want to suffer. He didn’t want to
feel it. Barrel in the mouth didn’t always work. He’d read that
somewhere, hadn’t he? So, to the temple. And it wasn’t like he had
to be too precise, anyway. The gun was a .44. He wrapped his left
hand around the barrel to keep it from bucking with the recoil and
just blowing off the top of his head. And yeah, it would burn his
hand—that barrel would be hot. But he didn’t think he’d feel it for
more than a second or two, and it was better than letting the gun
buck and not getting the job done. That wouldn’t be pleasant. He
might survive that.

Gotta do what must be done, burn my hand on
the red-hot gun.

God, I’m scared.

He had to do it. Mason would be here soon. It
had to be done before Mason got here to stop him.

Is there really a hell? God, what if there
is?

He took a deep breath. Then another.

It’s gonna hurt. I know it’s gonna hurt.

He heard footsteps outside. Hell, Mason was
already here.

Just do it. It’ll only hurt for a second.
Just do it already. For Jeremy.

“Yes, for Jeremy.”

The rat was scratching frantically now. Its
claws had broken through. It was ripping away the plaster. If it
got out, it wouldn’t let him go through with it. He knew that.

Do it do it do it!

Mason’s heavy steps came to a stop just
outside the door. Then the door opened and his brother’s eyes found
him sitting there. They went wide with horror as Mason lurched
forward, reaching out with both hands, yelling, “No, no, no!”

Eric squeezed the trigger, felt his brain
explode in one all-consuming white-hot mixture of deafening noise
and blinding pain. And then as blackness descended, he felt the rat
squeeze through the hole in the wall and plop onto the floor. Or
was that a handful of his brain?

He never did feel the hot barrel burning his
hand.

A COP CAME to the hospital to take my
statement. It wasn’t Detective Brown, though.

My imagination and sixth sense had joined
forces and decided to visualize Mason Brown as gorgeous, buff and
sexy as hell. He probably had a wide, strong jaw and a corded neck.
No long rock-star hair, though. Not on a cop.

Another cop, a short fat one, I guessed, was
sitting in a chair by my bed writing down my answers to his
questions. He wore glasses. I could hear him adjusting them over
and over, up on his head, then down on his nose again. Up when he
was addressing me, down when his pen went scritching across the
notepad.

“You should just give in and get bifocals,” I
said.

He looked up, or that was what I guessed by
the sound: movement, then stillness.

I loved this. Shocking people by showing off.
It was almost like I was a magician doing parlor tricks for the
crowd. Some of the blind—okay, visually-impaired is the PC term,
but I’m not
visually impaired
, I’m fucking blind—hated being
under-estimated by the sighted. I enjoyed letting them think I was
some kind of wonder-kid. It was good PR and amused me to boot. And
amusing myself was hard when I was in the hospital and therefore in
public, and therefore forced to play my Positive Polly role to the
hilt. No slips allowed. BW would have my head.

BW, by the way, was my agent. Belinda
Waubach, aka Barracuda Woman.

“Those are store-bought glasses, right? You
got them off a rack at a Walmart or a CVS, didn’t you?”

“Price Chopper. I only need them for close-up
stuff.”

“It’s the corneas. You need a transplant to
fix it. Sadly, they save them all for people like me—not me
specifically, of course. My body hates foreign corneas. Rejects
them almost before the surgery’s over.” I smelled sweet pea and
jasmine. “Are we about finished? My sister’s here to see me.”

“You—” He stopped, and I heard him shift
positions, probably to look behind him at the doorway where Sandra
stood.

“Is she messing with your head, Officer?” she
asked.

“She’s amazing,” the cop said, thereby taking
off ten pounds in my mental image-maker. Hell, he’d earned it. He
still had bad acne scars and a hint of rosacea, though.

“Amazing my ass, she smelled my body wash.”
Sandra came close, leaned over, we hugged, yada yada. “One of these
days I’ll switch brands and screw you up royally, Rache,” she
threatened.

“It’s not bad enough you pick a fragrance
worn by a third of the women who shop at Bath and Body Works?”

She straightened, and I pasted a smile on my
face and hoped my eyes weren’t doing anything stupid. Sandra and
others had assured me that they didn’t, but I didn’t believe them,
which is why I am rarely seen without sunglasses. I mean, why tell
me, right? It’s not like I could check in the mirror and prove them
liars.

“How are you, sis?” she asked softly.

My sister, Sandra, was my only claim to
normal. She was a soccer mom in the best sense of the word. She had
twin teenage daughters bearing the ridiculous names of Christy and
Misty—no, I am
not
kidding—and a husband named Jim who
worshipped at her feet. And why is it every great husband I know is
named Jim? Anyway, this particular Jim was a pharmacist. Sandra was
a real estate agent. Independent. Office in her basement and doing
pretty damn well for herself. She and her family were so perfect,
it was amazing I didn’t have to check my blood sugar around
them.

“Bruised rib and a concussion,” I said.
“Nothing big, but they want me overnight and they took my
fu
-—
”
Oops.
Cop’s still sitting there.
“They
took my darn glasses.”

“Did you give them hell?”

“Only a little,” I lied.

“We need to get you home before you destroy
your career.”

“You’re right. I’m not even gonna argue. I
was going to go hunt the glasses down myself as soon as Officer Bob
here finishes with me.” I tilted my head his way. “That was your
cue,” I whispered.

He laughed a nervous laugh. “Okay, I have all
I need. And, uh—here.” He moved again, getting up, and then a
plastic bag rattled. “It says personal effects, and I see some
sunglasses in the bottom of the bag.”

I took it from him, and felt my glasses in
the bottom. “Hey, thanks. I guess I should have asked you to begin
with.” I fished them out fast and pushed them onto my face. My
relief was so intense I felt like I melted in the bed a little.

“I hope you recover fast, Ms. de Luca.”
Sincere and mildly amused. He thought I was cute. I hated being
thought of as cute.

“Oh, I know I will,” I told him. “I’ll just
raise my vibe until my body has to rise up to match it.” Oh, my
agent would have
kissed
me for that one. Funny how no one
ever responded with the obvious question; “Why the hell are you
blind, then?” Maybe they did, behind my back. Who knew? I didn’t
care, as long as they kept buying the books. And the affirmation
cards, and the annual calendar.

The cop should have left then. He really
should have.

But instead he said, “If there’s anything you
need, don’t hesitate to call.”

“I need my brother found, Officer. I think
I’ve told you that already.”

“I know, I know. Look, it’s not my case, but
I’ll see who I can nudge, all right?”

“No. It’s nowhere near all right.”

My sister swung her hip sideways, bumping my
bed hard enough to shake it.

“But it’ll do for now,” I added. “Thanks,
Officer.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. de Luca.”

I waited until I knew he was gone. It’s funny
how you can feel a person’s presence or absence. Human beings give
off some kind of…I don’t know, energy or force field or something.
You can sense it clearly and easily if you aren’t too busy looking
for them with your eyes. At least, that was my explanation for it.
I didn’t remember noticing it until I’d gone blind. Then again, who
remembered details like that prior to age twelve?

“So?” Sandra took the cop’s former chair.
“What happened?”

I told her what she already knew from my
phone call. “Got run over by a cop. Not that one, though. A much
better-looking one, according to my built-in TV. A detective,
even.”

“You should sue,” she said. She reached out
to take my glasses from my face, then put them back a second later.
“Crooked,” she said. “You’d get a zillion.”

“I already
have
a zillion. You know,
give or take. Besides, it was my fault, so—”

“You weren’t in the crosswalk?”

“I speed-walked into the crosswalk without
even pausing. The guy couldn’t stop. I was pissed. About
Tommy.”

“I know.”

“Besides, how is the ‘make peace with the
pain’ guru going to look in a big messy lawsuit? It would cost me
more than I’d gain.”

She sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“So I’m here for the night.”

“Yeah, well, you’d better stow the attitude,
then. People talk.” And then she was leaning over the bed,
apparently forgetting the part where I’d mentioned that I had a
bruised rib, and hugging me again. “God, when I think what could’ve
happened… We don’t know where Tommy is. Mom and Dad have been gone
ten years now. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

“Mom and Dad went the way they would’ve
wanted to. Together and on vacation.” Cruise ship capsized. It was
all over the news. “And we almost never know where Tommy is, so we
should be used to it by now.”

“I know.”

“You won’t lose me, too. I promise.” I
grunted, because she was still hugging me and the rib was still
bruised. “I’m fine. And I’ll stay that way if you’ll quit trying to
break the rest of my ribs.”

Warmth on my face. Tears. Hers, not mine. I
didn’t believe in them. They didn’t serve a hell of a lot of
purpose except to rinse the eyes, and I could do that with Visine,
thanks.

“So they’re letting you go tomorrow, then?”
she asked, sniffling, unbending, releasing me from her killer
hug.

“Probably tomorrow, they said.”

“Why only probably?”

“I don’t know.”

“I want to talk to the doctor.”

“Well, you can’t, big sis, because I’m of
age, and that health care proxy I gave you doesn’t kick in unless
I’m incapacitated. So you’re going to have to take my word on this.
I’m fine.”

“Hell.”

“I’m
fine
,” I repeated. “And the last
thing I want is a fan club vigil in the waiting room or, God
forbid, the press showing up. So keep this to yourself and tell my
right-hand Goth to do the same. Got it?”

“Of course I’ve got it. And I’ll tell Amy.
You know me, honey.”

Yeah
, I thought.
That’s what I’m
afraid of.

* * *

MASON HAD WORRIED all the way to his place.
He’d jogged up the stairs with his heart in his throat, assuring
himself that Eric was fine, but something—that same intuition that
made him an uncannily successful detective, maybe—was telling him
that he wasn’t okay at all. The apartment was the second floor of a
two-family house, and the family who owned it rarely used the
ground floor but kept it vacant just in case.

More money than brains, maybe, Mason didn’t
know. He’d always figured if he held out long enough, they would
get sick of keeping it and rent him the whole damn thing.

When he got to the top step his heart was
pounding and his mouth was dry. Then he opened the door.

It was like a curtain parting on a nightmare.
His brother was on the couch with a .44 Magnum jammed to the side
of his head, just above the ear, awkwardly holding the piece with
both hands, tears streaming from his reddened eyes. Eyes that shot
to Mason’s for an instant, eyes so full of pain Mason could feel it
himself.

He lunged and shouted and the gun went off.
Ear-splitting, that shot in the confines of the small room. The
blood spray was like an explosion.

He halted midway to his brother, tripping
over himself and falling to his knees in time with Eric falling
over sideways on the couch. Rumpling the plastic with which he’d
covered it.

“Ahh, God, what the fuck, Eric,
whatthefuck
…?” He scrambled closer on hands and knees, over
more plastic on the floor. There was very little left of his
brother’s skull, and he just knelt there with it at eye level,
shaking all over, frozen. He was also at eye level with the coffee
table, so he saw the note and an odd row of driver’s licenses. And
then he started moving again, fumbling for the cell phone in his
pocket. Somehow he punched in 911. And then he was talking, giving
the address, automatic functions kicking in while his mind reeled,
as scrambled as if the bullet had gone into his own brain.
Why?
Mother. Marie. The boys. Why?