The Brothers (25 page)

Think,
I tell myself.
Calm down. You did it before.

I breathe in slowly a few times through my nose. The air is foul, but I manage to stop panicking. The submerged chest shimmers at the bottom of the churning water. Scooting over, I tap it with my toes. It’s about the size of a shoebox, wooden and probably hollow. It holds something I need. A key? I try lifting the chest with my feet, but it’s stuck to the bottom. And with my hands chained to my ankles, this is going to be awful. But I have no choice.

I suck in a deep breath and go under.

When the shock of cold water fades, being below the surface is actually calming. It’s quieter here. The water calms my nerves. I reach down to the box and fumble with my fingers. No latches or hooks, just smooth sides. I crouch down further, wrap my hands around it, and pull my face closer.

Even through the water I can see that the box is beautiful—a rectangular wooden puzzle box with a mountain scene burned into the top and brown Chevron patterns scoured into the sides. But if it’s a puzzle, there should be seams, something to slide or something to flip. I pull myself through the water, batting my hair out of the way with my chained hands, and try to examine it. My lungs begin to burn, but I push away the need to breathe.

Every side appears seamless, especially in this murky water. None of the Chevron patterns are out of sync. I push on the box’s top, slide my fingers along the corners, and try to dig my nails in. Nothing. My lungs really burn now. I have no idea how much air might be left above. Still, every time I surface to breathe, I waste precious seconds. The panic creeps back, a storm cloud around my thoughts.

Then I see it—a small, thin line running along the top right corner.

I pull down to the box and use my finger to slide the section back. It moves! Now there’s a gap, something to work with. But the need to breathe is taking up too much of my brain. I plant my feet on the floor and push up.

I break the surface, gasping. The hose is spilling water into my box too fast. The water laps at my chin. How much air do I have left? Ten minutes? Less? I can’t focus on that. With a few more deep breaths, I plunge back under.

The box is there waiting for me as I swim down. With the slider pushed back, something else will move. But what? I push and prod. The right side slides up, ever so slightly. I tug on it, but the panel feels locked in place. What now? I look for more seams, more cracks, and find nothing. My hair keeps floating in my vision and my fingers are pruning.

I need to breathe. I can’t focus anymore. I’m going to die. I push and yank the box, but nothing’s happening.

Ready to scream, I push up for more air.

This time I have to stand on tiptoes to keep the water from dipping into my mouth.

I’m out of time.

I suck air and plunge down again.

When I pull myself to the box again, I want to smash it into a million pieces.

As I tug at the side that’s already shifted, I get nothing. I swim awkwardly around it again, looking for more seams.
Nothing
. I tug on the small piece that was the first to slide and it moves! It’s just like the box Robbie gave me back at the hospital. I push on the side, and it shifts slightly. Elated, I’m able to do this two more times, inching the slider and the box’s side open. My heart pounding, I shove fingers into the hole it has created. There has to be a key or—

Nothing. The socket is empty.

I want to scream, to punch something.

I’m going to drown.

I push up. This time, I have to tread water to breathe. The ceiling is perilously close and fogs as I breathe. I have no time. What about Tommy? Through the fogged glass, he’s just a dark shape huddled underwater, digging at his box.

We’re
both
going to die.

Through the murky glass, Prentice’s warped visage comes into view. He has the placid, amused look of someone being entertainment. Like the Breeders girls watching their TV shows.

I hate him. I
hate
him.

I have to win his game.

I plunge back down, swimming around the box again and again. There has to be another seam, another way to get in. I tug and pull on anything I can get my hands on. Nothing budges. I reach around the little socket. There’s still nothing there! Did he set us up to die? The crowd can’t tell there’s nothing in the box. But no. Prentice wouldn’t take as much pleasure in a rigged game. He’d want to watch us fail at a game we could win.

I do the last thing I can think of. I put my finger in the little socket and push.

I feel it give. Leaning around, I see a small drawer has opened up on the other side. And there’s something inside!

My fingers sweep the tiny drawer and find a small, hard object. I grab it and push up, knowing without looking it’s a key.

But when my mouth finally breaks the surface, my nose bumps into the top of my box. The air is almost gone. I have the key, but where’s the lock? Will I get to it in time? I suck, suck,
suck
at the remaining air as my eyes rove over the box. There, in the top right-hand corner, is a small glass window on a hinge big enough for a person to crawl through if it could be opened. And it’s secured with a keyed padlock.

How did I not notice this before? In my panic, I must’ve missed it.

I swim, but with my hands and ankles chained, it’s nearly impossible. It takes far too long to reach the window, and by the time I get there, the tank is completely filled. I bob up to the glass lock and figure out a way to get the key up to the lock by pushing off the bottom with my feet and curling them up as I float. When I have the lock in one hand, I cling on for dear life. I lift the key, aiming for the lock. My lungs burn, but this is it. If I get this key in, I’ll be home free. I feel metal slide toward the receptacle and catch. The key is in. I turn it.

But nothing happens. The key doesn’t work. I’m trapped.

How can it not work? How?

For a moment, my brain cannot compute what’s happening. There was a puzzle box to solve, and I solved it. There was a key, and I used it.

Unless I was wrong. Prentice never wanted us to survive. He wanted to punish us both with a rigged game.

Prentice’s face appears at the side of the tank. He smiles at me.

Bastard.

I swim to the side and bang on the glass.
Bang, bang.
It’s stupid and useless and it does nothing to Prentice. He’s still smiling. Meanwhile, my air is running out.

My lungs ache with the urge to breathe. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to open my mouth. Never have I felt a desire this strong—not for food, not for water, not for sex. It’s all there is, this need.
Air. Air. Air
. I fight it, but soon, the fight will be over.

I can’t even cry for my baby.

Swimming to the other side of the glass, I face the crowd. I want to see Bell. I want her face to be the last one I see.

But something isn’t right. Through the murky water, I can see the crowd surging back. People are fighting. People are running. Where is Bell?

A huge boom shakes my tank and something smashes through the tank’s glass. A
bullet
.

The tank cracks. I watch splinters run in all directions, my shock momentarily silencing my need to breathe.

The glass shatters.

It all happens so fast. The boom and the smash and the water flowing. I am sucked out by the world’s fastest river. The fall is fast, the landing hard. I spill out onto the platform. But there’s air here. I gasp and suck in big lungfuls. Rolling over, I push wet hair out of my eyes. Who saved me? My eyes land on a dark shape bobbing at the top of the tank next to me.

Tommy!

When I scramble up, the glass slices my feet. I pound on his tank. Tommy doesn’t move. He’s face down, floating. Frantically, I look for something to smash the glass. Prentice and his guards are gone, the crowd frenzied. I run around the stage and grab the stepstool. When I smash it into the glass, a tiny crack appears. I pull it back and smash it as hard as I can.

It reverberates in my hands. Another crack.

I haul it back and swing. It crashes against the glass. The glass shatters.

The water hits me like a fist, carrying me across the stage with it. I fall over, and the water rushes past.

Something large hits me next. Tommy’s lifeless body lands on top of mine. I flip him on his back and lean over him.

“Tommy?” I shake his shoulder.

Nothing.

“
Tommy
?” I tap his face. Then I shake his shoulders. His head lolls back and forth, but he doesn’t open his eyes. I need help. I look up, desperate.

Around me, there’s chaos—people shouting, people running. Tommy and I are alone on the stage, but on the ground, the massive sea of bodies surges and contracts as the people try to flee. But what are they fleeing from?

Tuning out the insanity around us, I lean down, place my mouth over his, and blow in like I’ve seen nannies do in their trainings with baby CPR. Then I lock my hands together, place them over his chest, and push down. How hard I should do this or how often, I don’t know, but I keep trying.

“Please,” I murmur. “Please, please.”

His pale, lifeless face tilts to the side. It’s all I can do not to break into uncontrollable sobs.

He cannot die. I love him.

Tommy twitches.

I stop pumping and watch, not breathing.

Tommy lurches up and spits rancid water. He turns, retching. I’m so happy he’s alive that I hug his shoulders as he vomits onto the platform.

When he’s done, he rolls over and stares up into my eyes.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey,” I say.

“My savior.” He reaches for my cheek. “Janine, the dynamo queen.”

A horrible bang echoes through the place.

I whirl around and see the crowd is lurching our way. Bodies scramble up and over the stage. Their faces are wild with fear. Gunshots drive them toward us like frightened cattle. They claw through glass, bleeding streaks of red, but keep coming. They’ll trample us.

I curl over, not knowing what else to do. I’m smacked, pushed, and kicked as they clamber past. Tommy huffs and curls in toward me. We lay like that, circled in toward each other. When the kicks and shoves diminish, I uncurl. The crowd is mostly gone, but not what is chasing them.

Standing at the bottom of the stage are men with guns. And behind them? A man I never thought I’d see again.

“Hello, Jan,” Dr. Houghtson says.

All the blood drains from my body. I stare at Houghtson, at his windblown hair and tanned face. He looks like he’s spent days out in the desert. His beard has gone to ruin and there’s a giant, black gun clutched in his hands. He’s wearing plain clothes—a T-shirt that says “The Good Life,” jeans, sneakers, and a baseball cap. But it’s him. Those eyes, those calculating, clutching, all-consuming eyes, lock on me.

I can’t stand. I can’t speak.

Tommy sits up, coughing. “Who’re you?”

With the guards flanking them and guns aimed at Prentice’s men, Bashees and Houghtson takes their time tromping up the steps. Their feet sound like thunder on the rickety, wooden steps. Each is a staccato blow to my heart. Houghtson. He can’t be here. He can’t.

When he gets to the stage, he stands over us. “I, young man, am her husband.”

Tommy’s jaw drops.

“No!” I shout before I know what I’m doing. “No, no, no!” I stand up and Houghtson’s eyes narrow. He grips the gun handle tighter.

Dr. Houghtson clears his throat. “Janine D Hall, you are the property of Albuquerque Research Hospital. You and your nanny will return with me immediately. Anyone who stands in our way will be dealt with.” He eyes Prentice’s men.

Houghtson leans toward me. “I found you. I’ve been searching all over for you, Jan. Do you have any idea how many piddly little towns there are?” He narrows his eyes, and when I don’t answer, he chuckles. “Too damn many. But when I heard of a girl who was good at puzzles, a clever,
conniving
girl,” the humor drains from his face, “I knew it was you.” His voice is so cold that my hands start to tremble.

Tommy stands up. “Leave her alone.”

Houghtson aims his gun. Tommy raises his hands up in defense.

Prentice and his guards edge closer on the far side of the stage. They look wary, but calculating. I know they have guns, but none as good as the Breeders’ weapons.

“I’m not yours,” I whisper. My words are paper arrows.

Houghtson grabs my arm. “That baby might not be mine,” he nods at my stomach, “but you were bought and paid for.”

I freeze. Everyone stares at me. Now they know my secret. My hand finds my stomach as if I could shield my child from their eyes. I don’t want to see Tommy’s face.

“That’s enough,” Bell says from below.

My nanny mounts the stage. Guards aim guns at her, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her swollen lips are purple and grotesque, dark blood dries at the corners of her mouth, and I know each step hurts her stab wound, but she’s a wall of granite.

Houghtson glares at her. “Bell. So great to see you again. And it looks like all my prayers have paid off. Someone finally took care of your foul mouth.”

Bell smiles with puffed lips. “My mouth’s still plenty foul, you hair pie.” Her words come out thick and muffled, but her eyes could kill.

Houghtson runs a hand through his wild hair. “Jan is mine. I bought her.”

Bell narrows her eyes. “Your mother must be
so
proud. I bet it was her dream for her son to have to buy someone to love him.”

“My mother’s dead and she can rot in hell. Right beside you.” He aims at Bell.

No, not Bell.

My body coils and releases perfectly. Arms out, I land on Houghtson’s back. The gun goes off with an awful boom that ricochets into the rafters. I feel the recoil reverberate through his body. I cling.

Other gunshots erupt around the warehouse. Both sides have started shooting because of Houghtson’s gunfire.

The place breaks out into madness.

Houghtson totters under my weight, and then rights himself.

“Get off me!” He grabs my shirt and pulls. I let him tug and slip my arm out of the shirt. Clinging with one arm, I use the other to punch his head. My fist cracks against skull, sending amazing pain up my arm, but I keep hitting as he keeps clawing.