Housebroken (37 page)

The blade slid deftly between soft tissue, warm blood bursting and covering her hand and arm, splashing onto her leg. It felt like an egg breaking, its yoke dripping out in a continual flow. Drew staggered, turning slightly toward her. In her horror she let go of the handle, yet the blade remained wedged into the flesh just below his chin, sticking straight down.

Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth. He tried to speak, but only a gurgle came out, thick with froth. He wore an incomprehensible expression on his face as if he couldn’t understand why she would do what she had done.

“You were wrong. This whole time? You were
mine
,” she said.

He dropped, legs giving out, his head connecting with the rail of her bed, and with it Jenna heard the scalpel drive through his skull, rail becoming hammer, scalpel the nail.

His face, completely motionless, rested atop that rail, his body propped against the bed as if he were kneeling in prayer. His unseeing eyes somehow still conveyed a sense of surprise.

Jenna broke down and cried like she had never cried before, huge gasps of grief, relief, revulsion, rejoicing. When she thought she had regained herself, she pressed a finger against Drew’s forehead and pushed. His body slumped to the floor, hitting the wheelchair on its way down.

When the nurse finally came in to check on her, she found Jenna laughing hysterically lying on the tile floor in a pool of smeared blood. Her “husband” was in a similar state with one major distinction: he was not laughing.

Next to Jenna’s hand, partly immersed in a pool of red, was an old flip phone.

Joje’s phone began to ring to the unmistakable tune of the Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil.”

Woo-hoo
,
Blake thought.

Joje stopped at the foot of the landing, pulling the phone from his back pocket and holding it out. “Do it now!” he yelled into the speaker. “I want him to hear her die! Kill her now!”

Silence from the phone.

“Dwew!”

“It’s not ‘Dwew.’”

That voice, that angelic voice, broke through every dark cloud swirling over Blake’s head. “Honey? Jenna!”

“Here,” she answered. “And I’m not going anywhere. Drew’s dead. In case you were wondering.”

Blake couldn’t keep the smile from his face. “I love you,” he shouted. The words were unfamiliar. He hadn’t planned on saying them, but they were words he didn’t regret.

“Love you too dar—”

Jenna’s voice cut off midsentence, but her message had been received. Loud and clear.

The phone dropped from Joje’s hand, bouncing off the first step to the carpeted floor below. He was trembling. “Where’s Adam?”

Blake looked back—both Adam and Lucy were gone. They had used the call as the distraction they needed to get clear of Joje. A smoldering pillow atop the bed was the only evidence of their attempted diversion. That and the strong aroma of sweetened alcohol.

Joje was bent over, a fist held to his mouth. It was so odd to see human emotion on that face. Blake half expected Joje to break character at any moment, laughing or shouting.

Or smiling.

His grief for Drew looked heartfelt. “This is all wrong!” he shouted. “All of it! It wasn’t supposed to go this way.”

“Cops are on their way. You must know that,” Blake said. “Probably seconds from our door. Go. Leave. We can still both walk away.”

“Adam,” Joje said, squaring his shoulders. “Are you coming with me?”

“I—I don’t know,” Adam said without raising his head from behind the side of the bed.

Joje exhaled a long breath. “It’s not the journey, it’s the destination that matters.”

“Dad—get down!” Adam yelled, jumping up and over the corner of the bed to pull Blake back.

The roar of the gun echoed in the room. Blake felt the vibration of a bullet skim just past his face, a loud thunk following as the projectile meant for his skull sunk into the bed’s headboard. He had time to see Lucy standing by his nightstand, clear liquid flinging from the glass in her hand, then he hit the bed, and the room exploded.

The initial blast of heat went up with a whoosh that seemed to suck the air right out of Blake’s throat. Adam was propelled off the bed. Blake slammed into the corner bedpost. The post suddenly burst into flames, fire consuming the cologne Blake had poured down its side.

Blake rolled from the bed, falling forward and dragging himself down the three steps to the lower level of the room. Above him orange and yellow flames billowed out across the ceiling like clouds set to fast-forward. Joje was on the ground, hands covering his face, the gun nowhere to be seen.

As quickly as the burst began, it ceased, a vacuum drawing the flames back. And then a second wave rushed forward. Like the tide of the ocean. The bed was ablaze, front bedposts now flaming pillars, the ceiling above turning a cancerous black.

“Adam!” Blake shouted, but before he could move, Joje was on his feet, rushing toward him. He didn’t have the strength to fight back, not anymore. The crisp smell of rising smoke, the crackling of flames.

Joje stepped over Blake, rushing up the steps onto the landing that had become a roaring furnace. Jenna’s dresser and the silk curtains along the window had caught fire, oppressive heat now pushing against Blake like a physical presence.

Joje was down, crawling beneath the bed. Blake climbed back to the upper landing, another roar sending him to his knees as flames licked the air above his head. Joje slowly backed out, dragging with him his fourteen-year-old brother. Thick swaths of gray smoke followed in their wake.

Blake pulled his son up, wrapping one arm around his shoulder to keep him standing. Adam was unresponsive, his feet bent back on the floor, arms dangling at his side. Joje stood, wrapping his arm around the other side. A silent agreement seemed to pass between them as Blake looked at Joje, and then together they walked Adam carefully down the steps.

Joje bumped into Jenna’s armoire, a drawer crashing out, bracelets of gold and silver and dark exotic stone spilling onto the floor.

A body slammed into Joje on his right side. He lost his hold on Adam, Blake falling against the doorframe as his son’s full weight rested upon him.

Lucy stood from the ground, her shoulders and arms covered in black streaks. She steadied herself against the wall, staring at Joje, who was still on the ground.

She brought her leg back and kicked him in the stomach, then groaned, clutching at her bare foot. Joje rolled to his other side, facing away from her. Blake could see in her face the intense desire to kill the man who had taken her.

“Wait,” he said. “I need him . . . help carry my son.”

The look she turned on him was so reproachful Blake almost cowered back.

And then Joje’s hand shot out. He grabbed her by the ankle, pulling her to the floor. She screamed, falling atop him. Joje rolled over to pin her beneath.

“Let me go!” Her hands flailed. She must have connected, because the next moment she scrambled out from beneath him.

Joje lunged forward, his fist coming down like a hammer. It barreled into Lucy’s right ankle and foot, catching her just as she was bringing the foot up and forward. The scream that followed was louder than the crackling flames behind them.

Blake hefted Adam back up, placing both his arms beneath his son’s armpits. Adam lay limp, his head lolling back and forth. A blast of hot air surged forward, and Blake didn’t have to look back to know the fire was spreading, and fast.

With the tiniest of steps, he shuffled forward, his back groaning with every movement. Lucy was up, hopping on one foot while leaning against the wall as she made her way down the hall. Joje was just getting to his feet but wouldn’t be long behind her.

An earsplitting alarm shrieked just overhead, the sudden noise causing Blake to almost drop his son. “George! I need your help!” he called, words lost in the pitch of the alarm. “
Joje!
”

He either heard or sensed Blake’s cry for help. In that momentary glance back, Lucy left the safety of the wall, limping toward the banister and staircase.

“Help me!” Blake shouted again as Adam sagged lower to the floor.

Joje wobbled. He took a step toward Blake, turning to look behind him, then froze. Blake saw the tension in his body as his muscles prepared to launch. He shot back toward Lucy in a full sprint. The look on her face as she saw him tearing toward her was a look Blake would never forget. It was also her last.

She took the first step down, still staring back, that look of terror distorting her normal beauty. Blake wasn’t sure if in her speed she miscalculated the spacing of the stairs or if perhaps Joje gave her just enough of a shove to send her off balance, but he watched her pitch forward at an unrecoverable angle and then disappear below his line of sight.

Her disappearance did nothing to mute the sounds of her quick descent.

Like a strand of fireworks all tied together, the chain of repetitive thunks as Lucy’s body bounced from mahogany rail to ebony stair seemed like it would never end. The staircase must have elongated, adding steps between steps, the shrill shriek of the Whistling Pete stopping almost as abruptly as it began. But that scream was no firework. Each collision caused Blake to shudder and crawl a little further back into his mind. Bones crunching, limbs breaking, Blake saw it all without being close enough to witness. Hearing was seeing.

A final plomp as Lucy’s body came to a state of rest followed by an even louder silence. Joje stood at the top of the staircase looking down.

“Help,” Blake croaked, unable to drag his son forward another step. He could feel Adam slipping. He tried to reposition himself but ended up on one knee instead. Smoke clung to the ceiling above, descending in wisps like dangling spiders. Blake’s vision was narrowing, turning black on all sides, becoming a slowly shrinking tunnel.

Adam was being pulled from Blake’s grasp, slipping, slipping. Blake’s eyes shot open and he stood, careening into a wall. The heat pressing at his back prompted a forward movement. After a few gangly steps, he felt solidity return to his body, enough to continue moving at least.

Joje was still at the top of the staircase, though now Adam was flung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, his head and arms hanging limply down Joje’s back.

“It really is a beautiful home,” Joje said.

“Wait, I’m coming!”

“Beautiful home, beautiful life. Thank you for letting me be a part of it.”

“No, wait!” Blake stepped forward, tipping to the right. Bracing himself on the wall, he continued. Joje had already begun walking down the stairs. Blake made it across the hall, clinging to the banister.

At the top of the stairs, he took a moment to survey what had become of his house. The smoke swept into the foyer and high ceilinged antechamber like a waterfall in reverse, fire spreading to the outer walls of the hall. At the bottom of the staircase, Lucy’s body lay, her head twisted at an angle Blake had only seen achieved on Barbie dolls in the clutches of tormenting brothers. The artwork and decor on the walls all had gouges and tears through them, lines that could be traced with a missing sword. The remnants of the chandelier lay in a heap like the carcass of some wild and forgotten beast.

Blake took the steps down, careful not to pitch forward and follow Lucy’s lead.
Just one more name to add to the list of deaths I’m responsible for
, he thought.

Halfway down he had to stop, the cough leaping from his throat doubling him over. Blake heard the front door wrench open and watched as Joje stepped through, exiting with his son.

“Wait!” He clambered down the remaining steps, pausing only a moment before stepping over Lucy’s body. There was no rise or fall from her unmoving chest.

“Joje! Wait!”

Blake stepped outside, tromping down the path from their door leading to the driveway, slapping away palm fronds.

“George!”

He rounded the corner, the trickle of water from the fountain in the corner anything but soothing. The Mercedes was already backing out of the driveway.

“
Wait!
” Blake yelled, running to catch the vehicle that was transitioning from reverse to drive. “I’ll do what you say! I’ll do whatever you say!”

As he hit the sidewalk, he saw the window on the passenger side roll down. Adam looked out at Blake, his eyes foggy, unclear. Joje leaned across him, one arm wrapped around Adam’s head in a brotherly gesture.

“Remember, Bwakey, it’s not the journey, it’s the destination.”

The car accelerated, speeding up the curved road toward the gated entrance at the end of their street. Sirens were circling nearby, squawking like angry seagulls. Blake stood alone in the middle of the road, surrounded by darkness and the plush shadowed landscaping of empty homes. A flare of pain shot upward and into his head, a viper snaking its way through his nostrils and into his brain. And then biting. He screamed his son’s name until his voice produced only threads of whispered air.

And then he screamed some more.

The hard metal chair had gone from uncomfortable to unbearable. There were only so many positions you could rotate through when forced to sit for eight hours straight.

The hard plastic table in front of Blake had three words etched into it, a feat that should have been impossible, considering anyone in this chair would only have their fingernails to work with. But like the weathering of rocks over time, the thousands of occupants seated in that unendurably hard and rust-stained seat had each etched their part, tracing those lines until plastic spec by plastic spec they were as engrained as if they had been chiseled.

Blake ran his fingertip along each letter.

“DIE PIG DIE”

There was no mirror on the wall, with people hovering behind, sipping coffee, and telling jokes about each other’s ex-wives. This room was bare. Four brick walls, one door—locked—the table, the chair, and a small camera mounted above the door and pointed directly at the seat Blake was in. When the detectives had been in the room, they stood, a simple gesture that not only made Blake feel powerless, but let him know they weren’t here to be his friend. No good cop, bad cop routine. This was pissed-off cop and his even more outraged partner. They had left two hours ago, by Blake’s count. With no clock in the room, it was hard to tell.