As Night Falls (27 page)

T
he snow finally stopped for good as they all left the Nelsons' cabin. Sandy looked up at the sky, which stared back blankly, and she shivered. Would Nick and Harlan leave now, execute Nick's stated design from the start? A murky reality began pulling at Sandy from behind: one that said that even if this could've ended easily once, the time for that was gone.

Although Nick was walking confidently now, leading their tired clump at a good clip. There seemed an urgency to his step as he mounted the road back to the house. Nick held the gun in his gloved hand, keeping it handy.

The moon finally showed itself in the opaque sky, and Harlan cast a shambling shadow across the roadbed. Sandy was less afraid of the gun Nick palmed than she was of Harlan. Bullets could miss, or be dodged, or survived. Whereas Harlan, shuffling along next to Ivy, was unavoidable.

How could Sandy set Harlan against Nick, help him to start making his own decisions? If she could do that, it would be an explosive weapon on its own. She needed another pill or two inside Nick, so the effects of the drug would obscure her machinations.

She trotted forward, snow entering the cuffs of her jeans. Sandy nudged Ivy, and the two of them quickened their pace. Conversation between Nick and Harlan drifted over on a cold current of air.

“We'll take it slow,” Nick said. “We can make it in three days. Or four.”

Sandy let Ivy drift ahead, camouflaging her daughter's departure with her own body.

“I don't know if I can make it at all!” Snow on the ground flew in response to Harlan's exhalation, and he snuffled in miserably. “All that country out there. We're gonna get lost. Or die.”

All Harlan would've had to do was reach down, encircle Nick's neck with one of his hands. He could have broken it with a single squeeze, changed this whole situation with the twitch of one limb. But Harlan had no idea. His was a mental prison, keeping him from acting.

“We're not going to die,” Nick said. “I won't let that happen.”

Harlan plodded along uphill. “That's what my daddy said. Before I got caught that last time. We both knew I was facing life. ‘I won't let you get caught,' he said. And look what happened.”

“Out here I can make sure he never tells you what to do again,” Nick said, his tone a brutal razor. “But not if we go back. What if your daddy got locked up too? Likelihood seems pretty high without you to help him out on jobs. You might even have to share a cell.”

Sandy tried to minimize the fluffs of snow she kicked up, the white puffs of air she emitted. She leveled out her breathing and her tread. Ivy had almost gained the steps of the front porch, and Sandy was just behind.

Harlan's head bowed, his tears striking the snow in patches large enough to blotch. Nick patted his back, losing his hand amongst the folds of cloth.

Sandy took off. Snow cascaded up in waves, blowing into her mouth, her nose, her eyes as she ran. The porch was before her now; she would take the stairs at a leap, push Ivy ahead of her into the house. They could barricade themselves inside, lock Nick and Harlan out—

“Ivy!” she bellowed. “Get inside—”

A bullet clapped the air, and Sandy stumbled, almost went down in the snow. When she righted herself, the first thing she saw was Ivy, ducking behind one of the stone pillars beside the porch steps, a cornice of white concealing her.

Sandy turned around, hunting the source of the shot.

Nick stood a few yards away, gun aimed at the sky.

“That one was a warning,” he said. “The next shot will hit the princess in the spine. You'll be feeding her through a tube for the rest of her life. Or yours.”

Barnacles of snow had crusted Sandy's wrists when she went down. They were beginning to melt, bitter, burning pustules.

“Now move along,” Nick said. “It's almost time for us to set out.”

Back in the house, Sandy gathered her daughter into her arms, rubbing her up and down, trying to erase the shivers. Ivy squeezed back, clinging to her.

Nick took off his shoes and tossed them aside, brushing a layer of snow off the lower legs of his pants. He looked around, then pulled on the pair of Hi-Tecs he hadn't been able to get on before. But his air of satisfaction vanished when he began to examine Harlan. Nick let out a horse snort of frustration. He had clearly kept their departure in mind while outside, but Harlan had wallowed in the snow during the burial of the Nelsons, sat down and rolled around in his distress. Now he was soaked head to toe.

“Dry, not wet, Harlan.” Nick's voice began to climb. “We have to be dry, not wet, remember?”

Harlan shook his head, then stopped and began to nod.

Nick released the wet expanse of Harlan's shirt bunched up in his grip. Freed, Harlan took a step back, nearly bumping into Ivy, who pirouetted.

“You're going to go upstairs with Harlan, give him a quilt or something to wrap around himself,” Nick informed Ivy. “Then throw down his clothes.”

Sandy made sure not to let her gaze rest on Nick as Harlan and Ivy departed. She didn't want him to see in her eyes the chance he had just given her. Instead, she reached into her pocket and took out Hark's medicine bottle.

“What's that?” Nick said.

Sandy could provoke ire in Nick in any one of a dozen ways if she said the wrong thing. “Pain medicine. I thought it might help with your foot—”

A spark of suspicion on Nick's face. Whether from the effects of the one Oxycontin sprinkled in his coffee, or due to excitement over their imminent departure, Nick's foot was clearly behaving now, and Sandy couldn't let her brother think that she was trying to dose him.

She changed direction. “—or, you know, if something unexpected happens out there. Just add it to the first aid kit Ivy gave you in case of emergencies.”

Nick's face cleared. “Thanks,” he said, his tone perhaps the most authentic she had ever heard from him. Pocketing the pills, he said, “That was good thinking.”

“Mom!” Ivy shouted. “Here are the clothes!”

The garments fell to the floor in a small mountain. Sandy scooped up the mound, then headed for the basement stairs. Nick strode after her, grabbing her by the collar with one hand.

Sandy broke free. In the basement was Ben, and Sandy couldn't let him lie there for one more second, broken and discarded like her father had been after his last breath expired, and her mother had rocked Nick in her arms, comforting him while they waited for the police.

“You wanted me to dry the clothes,” Sandy said, flinging open the basement door. Her shoes clattered on the treads.

“Not all by yourself,” Nick drawled. “Plus, you forgot something.” He held out one of Harlan's socks, the length of cloth dangling to his elbow.

Sandy reached for it, and Nick snatched his hand back.

“Suit yourself,” Sandy snapped, starting forward again.

Nick grabbed her from behind, and Sandy went down hard, her shoulders hitting the lip of one stair, head banging against another.

“Me first,” he said.

Nick hauled her up a few steps, but it didn't matter.

Sandy had reached the middle of the flight, far enough down to see.

Ben no longer lay there.

H
ope crested inside Sandy. Her shoulders ached from striking the stairs, and her skull felt knocked about as well, but Sandy was only faintly aware of both injuries.

She turned to Nick, making sure to mask her discovery. “Actually, you know what? We don't have to go down there at all.”

“No?” Nick replied. “You going to dry Harlan's clothes on the line?”

He sounded normal, just like Ivy had when she threw down the clothes. “Of course not,” Sandy said, striking a note of casual ease. “But the better dryer is upstairs. It gets the load done much faster.”

Nick regarded her. “Something you might've mentioned before,” he said, then added, “You have better and worse dryers?” He shook his head. “Rich people really are nuts.”

Sandy allowed him the sharp smile at her expense.

When her back was to him, she smiled, too.

“So where is this
better
dryer?” Nick asked once they'd reached the second floor.

Again, Sandy endured his mirthless grin, wondering what was behind this brotherly banter. Jubilance at his imminent exodus? Or did Nick have some additional idea in his top hat of tricks, a final goodbye ploy?

She needed a failsafe, a plan of her own.

The dryer up here was actually a much worse one, part of a mini stackable unit for quick washes or single items when they didn't want to troop all the way down to the basement. The excess suddenly struck Sandy as egregious. Why would anybody need two places to do laundry in the same house?

But being upstairs would allow whatever Ben might've set into motion to proceed.

“Dryer's in here.” Sandy pointed to two louvered doors. “I'll take care of it.”

Harlan's outfit would more than fill the compact drum, but Sandy would just have to overstuff it and hope for the best.

“Holy shit,” Nick said, crossing into the bathroom. “Look at this thing. It's bigger than the one for my whole block.”

Sandy looked up, and an idea grabbed her. “Yeah, I know it's a little much.” Don't sound braggy in any way, she cautioned herself, or remind Nick of what he doesn't have. Tempt him with something, but make him think he had the idea to take it. “Did you see the shower?”

When Nick responded, his voice came from farther away, and it echoed. “It's the size of a whole damn room.”

“Right,” Sandy called back, injecting a rueful note.
No one needs such a thing. How stupid and blind and greedy we were.
Then Sandy added, “Dryer's started. It'll run for about ten minutes now. The clothes weren't that wet.”

That was a palpable lie; even a single shirt couldn't dry in ten minutes. Plus, Harlan's outfit had been soaked. But let Nick believe they had some super space-age appliance to suck the moisture out of clothes. Sandy didn't need for Harlan's clothes to emerge toasty; she just needed a few minutes to talk to him.

Nick didn't respond. Sandy wished she had gotten him to down a few pills, she could've used their cotton muffling effects on her side. Her hands clenched, holding on to the side of the louvered door. “You probably haven't gotten a bathroom to yourself in a while.”

Her brother's voice drifted back. “Maybe I should rinse off while the clothes spin,” he called, and Sandy's mouth went so dry with urging that she couldn't answer. “Take the first shower alone I've had in twenty-four years.”

“Sure,” Sandy said, the word emerging as a nearly inaudible hiss. “That's a good—”

Then her brother was before her, his eyes like twin spears, anything normal or friendly gone from his mien. “Idea?” he said. “Was that the word you were going for?”

Sandy stared back at him, a slat on the door cutting into her palm.

“What'd you think, that I would just have a leisurely soak? While you tried in some other half-assed way to screw me over? Don't forget who invaded whose house,” Nick said, edging closer, into her space. “I own this palace, I own your kid, I even own a part of you.”

He flicked a finger toward the twist of scar tissue on her wrist and Sandy recoiled.

“Anyway, a shower's not what I need.” He looked down at himself. “Where can I find some waterproof pants? There'll be a foot of snow on the ground for the rest of the night.”

Sandy swallowed, regrouping. She could still snag a minute or two. She'd just have to work fast. “You can take Ben's softshells. They're the best ones he's got; he keeps them in his closet.” She gestured toward the master bedroom. “Harlan will have to make do with trash bags and duct tape. We just don't have anything that will fit him.”

Nick nodded, considering. Then he sauntered off down the hall.

As soon as he was gone, Sandy entered Ivy's bedroom.

Harlan lay swathed in blankets. Like an enormous emperor, comfortable and overindulged, except that Harlan was more like a slave. He was stroking Ivy's pillow for some reason, or maybe it was an object on the pillow.

Ivy sat on the floor beside her bed, looking impossibly small below Harlan.

“You were right,” Sandy said, and both Harlan and Ivy looked up.

“Mom?” Ivy said. “What's happening? Where's—”

“It's freezing out there,” Sandy interrupted. “And the countryside is massive.”

Shirtless, Harlan lifted himself on the enormous bulb of his elbow and peered at her.

“You'll never make it all the way to Canada,” Sandy went on. “My husband does this for a living, and even he wouldn't take anyone out on such a trek.”

Ivy was fiddling with the edge of her dust ruffle. “Mom? What are you telling him—”

Sandy put one hand out to stay her. “Nick isn't going to be able to protect you out there.” She paused for the revelation, the startling truth she hoped Harlan on some level already knew. “But you don't need him to. You can protect yourself. You just have to stop Nick first.”

Harlan's pale gaze held hers.

“You can do it, Harlan.” Sandy spoke slowly and quietly to optimize the chances of Harlan comprehending. “You can keep Nick from taking you out into that endless wilderness. And you can prevent whatever harm he intends to do here before he goes.”

Ivy's head jerked up at that.

Sandy tried to telegraph reassurance for her daughter along with the words she had to say next. “He means to hurt us, Harlan. In one way or another. I think you know that. Nick's hurt a lot of people tonight.”

Harlan nodded, once, then twice. “But I can't do anything about it.”

“Oh, sure you can,” Sandy said softly. It was the statement she made to patients who were just about ready to take some leap, make a change they were realizing they'd always had in them. “You can stop him, Harlan. You always could.”

Ivy craned her head, watching Sandy with an expression she hadn't worn in years.

“No, I can't,” Harlan said, his voice leaden with disbelief. He lay back down, pulling a length of fabric tight against him.

“You can!” Ivy interjected. “I've been watching you this whole time. I saw how you didn't want the Nelsons—” Ivy's voice hitched, and she smoothed it. “For them to be hurt. You have morals, Harlan. You know the difference between right and wrong.”

Harlan's eyes stayed shaded, doubting. He twisted his hands, the section of blanket he held disappearing in his grasp.

“Think about your sister,” Ivy added in a hush. “She knows you, Harlan. And she thinks you're good, and kind, and strong.”

And with those words, Sandy knew the change had come. When Nick returned, he would find himself facing the solid wall of their objection.

Sandy gathered breath. “All you have to do is stand up—”

Harlan got up from the bed, disentangling the blankets around him.

“—and walk over to Nick,” Sandy said. Literal. She had to remember how literal Harlan could be. “Then stay with him, and keep him in one place—”

Harlan rose to his full height while Ivy remained seated on the floor, her head at his knees. Harlan tucked one of the quilts around his massive form, toga-style.

“—so that I can get help. Medical help for my husband,” Sandy went on in the same level tone. “He's going to die otherwise.” Sandy sought to catch Ivy's gaze, trying to impart the knowledge that this was at least half manipulative strategy on her part. “And I know you don't want for that to happen.”

Harlan's features bunched, and he shook his head.

Sandy could sense Nick behind her in the doorway now, but she didn't flinch, or look, or even remark upon his presence. She simply stared up at Harlan, breath caught in her throat.

Two long steps took Harlan away from the bed to arrive at Sandy's side.

Then one more, and he reached Nick.