Nothing happened. Of course.
Little light slipped in through the large kitchen window. A black night; that’s what it was. Seldom was it so black.
“Technology,” she said, making her way across the kitchen. “Miserable, unreliable technology.”
“Yeah, ain’t it a bitch?”
She was immobile with terror for a fraction of a second until she realized that she’d been trained not to freeze, that freezing could get you killed, and she whipped around, her fist aimed at the man’s throat. But he was shorter than she was used to. Her fist glanced off his cheek. He grunted, then backhanded her, sending her against the kitchen counter. She felt pain surge through her chest. She was reaching for her SIG even as she was falling.
“Don’t even think about doing something that stupid,” the man said. “It’s real dark in here for you but not for me. I’ve been used to the dark for a real long time. You just slide on down to the floor and don’t move or else I’ll just have to blow off that head of yours and all that pretty red hair will get soaked with brains.”
He kicked the SIG out of her hand. A sharp kick, a well-aimed kick, a trained kick. She still had her Lady Colt strapped to her ankle. She eased down, slowly, very slowly. A thief, a robber, maybe a rapist. At least he hadn’t killed her yet.
“Boy, turn on the lights.”
In the next moment the house was flooded with light. She stared at the old man who stood a good three feet away from her, a carving knife held in his right hand. He was well dressed, shaved, clean. He was short and thin, like the knife he was holding.
He was Erasmus Jones.
The boy came into her vision. It was Marlin.
They weren’t in Ohio. They were both right there, in her kitchen.
34
“HI, MARTY. How’s tricks?”
Dillon would miss her in another forty minutes, maybe thirty-five minutes. He’d be worried. It would be an unspecified worry, but worry he would. He might wait another five minutes, then he’d come here. She looked from father to son. She smiled, praying that only she realized it was a smile filled with unspoken terror. “Hey, tricks is just fine, Marlin. How long have you and your dad been squatters in my house?”
Erasmus Jones answered as he hunkered down to be at her eye level. “Three days now. That’s how long it took us to get from Boston to here. We had to be real careful, you know?”
“I would imagine so. Lucky I wasn’t here.”
“Oh no,” Marlin said. “I wanted you to be here. I wanted you, Marty, but you’d gone. Were you with that cop? Savich is his name, right? You sleeping with him?” He said to his father, “He’s a big fella, real big, lots of muscles, and he fights mean.”
“I bet he ain’t as mean as your mama were,” Erasmus said and poked the tip of the knife into the sole of Lacey’s shoe. It was so sharp that it sliced through the sole and nicked her foot. She winced, but kept quiet.
“Mama was a bitch, Pa. I remember her. She was a bitch, always cussing and back-talking you, always had a bottle in her hand, swigging it even while she was hitting me in the face.”
“Yep, Lucile were a mean one. She’s dead now, did I tell you that?”
Another rabbit hole, Lacey thought. Forty minutes, max. Dillon would come over here in no more than forty minutes now. Then what? He wouldn’t be expecting trouble; there was no reason for him to. Erasmus and Marlin were supposed to be in Ohio. So he’d think she just needed help moving stuff. He’d be vulnerable. She wouldn’t let them hurt him. No, she had her Lady Colt. She’d do something. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, let anything happen to Dillon.
“Ma’s dead?” Marlin asked as he sat down on one of Lacey’s kitchen chairs.
“Yeah.”
His father was telling him this now?
Marlin said, “No, you didn’t tell me that, Pa. What happened?”
“Nothin’ much. I just carved her up like that Thanksgiving turkey she didn’t make me.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then. She deserved it. She never was a good wife or mother.”
“Yeah, she was just like all those women who walked the walk for you, Marlin. That maze of yours, I sure do like that. You got that from that game we used to play in the desert.”
“Yes, Pa.”
“Well, we got this gal here now. Let’s off her and then get out of here. There’s no more food anyways.”
“No,” Marlin said, and his voice was suddenly different—strong and determined, not like the deferential tone he’d used with his father since he’d come in. “Marty’s going to walk the walk. She’s got to be punished. She shot me in the belly. It hurt real bad. It still hurts. I got this ugly scar that’s all puckered and red. It’s her turn now.”