“Slow down,” Malcolm said, craning his neck to look out the windshield, through the rain.
They approached a side street. A sprawling Victorian sat on the corner. Beside the house, set back a way, was a ramshackle barn with a pickup truck parked in front of it, and another vehicle alongside the barn, hulking beneath a tarp.
“Let’s go,” Malcolm said. “Turn out the lights and pull into the driveway. We don’t want anyone seeing an abandoned police car on the road. When we’re in, keep it as quiet as we can, but if trouble starts, remember, we don’t have time to be gentle.”
Jennie clicked off the headlights and turned into the rutted driveway. She let the car roll to a stop beside the pickup truck and killed the engine. They all paused, watching the house to see if any lights would come on.
After a moment, Malcolm nudged Violet, who reached for her door handle.
“There’s one thing,” Jennie said, and Violet paused.
“What’s that?” Malcolm asked.
“If Elias attacks you, and you hesitate, you will not survive. If it comes to it, are you willing to kill him?”
“To save myself, maybe not,” Malcolm replied. “But to fulfill this promise to Maggie or to protect Violet? Hell yeah. I’ll kill him a dozen times.”
Jennie looked to Violet. “What about you?”
Violet felt an icy trickle down the back of her neck. “That thing back there isn’t Elias.”
“Good,” Jennie said. “You’re learning. Stay focused and we might just survive this.”
They climbed out of the darkened police car, listening to the rain and the thunder of their own hearts.
24
Malcolm had done his army training at Camp Breckinridge, down in Kentucky. One of the drill instructors had been a six-foot-four sergeant the senior officers called Rosie. Sergeant Mark Rose could have eaten them all for breakfast, so none of the enlisted men called him anything butSergeantorsir. He terrified them into learning how to fight and, with luck, survive. Quick and quiet were hard to balance, Rosie had taught them, but when you needed both, you couldn’t ever sacrifice one for the other.
Sneaky motherfuckers tend to make it out alive, Rosie had said.
Those words were a mantra in Malcolm’s head now. Half crouched, he light-footed it across the driveway, glad for the cover provided by the sound of the rain. For a moment, he considered stealing the old Ford pickup, but he hoped to find something better under the tarp. In the pickup, the three of them would have to jam into the front seat together and put Maggie’s crate in the rear bed, which was far from ideal. Instead, he glanced into the back of the truck and spotted a rusty toolbox, from which he selected a heavy-duty flat-head screwdriver.
No time for second guesses, he trotted around the side of the barn to the silent bulk beneath the tarp and began to unveil what lay beneath. The spot was partly hidden from the house, but sound tended to carry in the dark.Sneaky motherfucker, he thought as the tarp slid off the van and puddled on the wet grass.
It wasn’t any ordinary van. He’d seen one of these before—a sleek, rounded, two-tone thing marketed as the Volkswagen bus,the family version of the company’s classic Beetle. Gleaming red on the sides, it had a white roof, with the white coming down into a V on the thing’s nose like a daringly plunging neckline. The minibus had a ring of windows around its circumference. It sure as hell wasn’t going to be the most inconspicuous vehicle, but still better than a police car.
Jennie gave a low whistle, gesturing for him to hurry. As if Rosie hadn’t drummed that into him. As a little boy, he’d had a strong relationship with his sister, but as they’d grown older, Jennie had stepped into another role—not maternal; more like a stern schoolteacher. With their father absent and Maggie so self-involved, Malcolm figured he and Elias had needed a certain amount of shepherding, but as a boy, it had made him bristle. And now, it had been so long that he didn’t know what his relationship to his sister would be.
Violet stood thirty feet away, using a thick ash tree to more or less hide her from view as she spied on the old Victorian. Malcolm glanced at the house, but no lights had come on. The air felt thick with possibilities, none of them welcome.
Wiping his eyes, he opened the driver’s door of the VW, grateful its owner lived out here, where nobody would think to lock up their car. The door hinges made a sort of squeak and then fell silent. Malcolm exhaled relief that it hadn’t been louder. He lay across the driver’s seat, thrust his upper body beneath the steering wheel, and used the screwdriver to pry open the steering column.
“Well?” Jennie whispered behind him.
Malcolm jerked upward, thumping his head on the steering wheel, and nearly cussed her out. He satisfied himself with a glare. “I can start it,” he whispered. “Let’s move.”
They hustled back to the police car. Malcolm glanced at the house, then at Violet. She watched them with urgent eyes, and he gestured for her to look at the house instead. They wrestled Maggie’s crate out of the rear seat and carried it to the minibus. Malcolm focused on every step, afraid he would trip and makesuch a ruckus that the whole house would wake up, but they managed to get the crate to the minibus without stumbling. Jennie got the back open, and they slid the crate inside.
As they set it down, Malcolm heard the bright, opening notes of “I’ll Be Seeing You.”
“Shit,” he whispered, turning to watch the house. The piano notes were subtle, but in the dark, they resonated, carrying a distance. The music seemed to quicken, the melody faster than typically played, and it grew louder. He shot a panicked look at his sister.
“What’s wrong with you?” Jennie rasped.
Malcolm closed the back of the minibus in a hurry, not careful enough to keep it quiet. The sound echoed, and Jennie grabbed roughly at his arm, turning him to face her.
“Get it together, Mal,” she whispered. “That was much too loud.”
