As Night Falls (7 page)

“Ma-ma! I—want—ice cream!”

But Nicholas' heart clearly wasn't in it anymore. His throat sounded hoarse, and his cries were croggy. The boy had tired himself out; his small body appeared to be wilting.

It was one way to end a tantrum, Barbara supposed. Just outlast it.

“I thought about spanking him myself,” Glenda said, turning briskly. “There's nothing wrong with this child that a little discipline won't cure.” She paused, then swiveled back, a note of portent in her voice. “Not now there isn't. Where he'll be in a year or two,” she added darkly, “I couldn't say.”

She didn't walk off, but continued standing there, quietly observing. Barbara was left with no choice but to lift Nicholas into her arms and leave the store. She got them both into the car, whose internal temperature had risen to a baking heat. It was only once she'd twisted the key in the ignition that Barbara realized she had left all her groceries back in the store.

They suddenly seemed of the utmost unimportance. Barbara couldn't recall why she had ever thought to venture out today.

She turned to look beside her. Nicholas was fast asleep already, his small body slumped over on the seat like a dead thing.

On the way home, Barbara stopped by Dr. Benedict's office, grateful when she entered the cool chambers. She'd left Nicholas in the car, rolling down a window to make sure the little boy would have enough air. Last time Nicholas had been here, the nasty nurse kept trying to get him to stop touching things, which had been a burden on the little boy's creative, curious spirit.

The nurse led Barbara back to an examining room.

“You seem a little calmer today, Mrs. Burgess,” the nurse said as they walked. “No child with you?”

“No,” Barbara replied.
See what all your bossing did,
she added in her head.
Now you don't get to see Nicholas.
“No child.”

Barbara got up on the table, paper sheet crinkling beneath her.

“Well,” the nurse said, smiling as she readied the things for the test. “I suppose we're going to see about that.”

The double meaning hit Barbara, and the nurse recoiled a bit when Barbara lifted her gaze and met hers. The needle snagged before plunging deeply into Barbara's arm, but Barbara refused to give the nurse the satisfaction of wincing.

She tried to read the result in the inscrutable stream of blood that rose inside the syringe.

I
vy lay on her bed in her darkening room, scrolling through updates on Facebook, and madly posting comments in the hopes that someone would respond. She wanted to talk and the sad truth was that she had a better chance of doing so with somebody ten or twenty or forty miles away than with her mom or dad, who were in the same house.

She had gotten one text from Melissa—
at dereks game cant talk u kno the rule
—which was true, Ivy did know, though she'd forgotten that Melissa's brother had a game tonight. After that she texted a few other people—friends who didn't quite click or get her the way Melissa did—but two of them didn't even reply. Which was part of what Ivy was talking about.

Darcy did text back, but when Ivy suggested she come over to work on their world history study guide, due tomorrow, or their algebra two problem set, also due, Darcy wrote:
cant get the car my parents say weathers coming in

bummer
Ivy typed, then dropped her phone onto the bed.

On the floor below, Mackie let out a snuffle.

Ivy extended her hand. Mac didn't jump onto the bed—he hadn't done that in almost a year; Ivy could remember the exact last time—but tonight he also failed to give her fingers a lick. Ivy felt a clamp in her chest that was familiar. The clamp took hold whenever she saw Mackie these days, or even thought about him. Her dog that she kind of sort of named and couldn't remember a day of her life without. McLean was his whole name, which they'd had to keep because after they brought him home from the shelter, only hearing his name yelled really loud would make him come. But after a long, long, long time, Ivy had started to say Mac, then Mackie, until those started to work, too.

Mac thumped his tail in slumber. It didn't have the heft it once had, when Mackie could make her floorboards shake with doggie enthusiasm.

He wasn't the dog he used to be.

Ivy knew it, even if her mother would never admit it in a million years. Which, as with everything else bad in her life, meant that Ivy was alone.

Her mom didn't do too well with
bad
.

She had called her mom a liar, but even as she said the word, Ivy knew she'd never be able to explain it. Even if her mother asked, which of course she wouldn't. Ivy was starting to understand something about her mom, and it put so much space between them that she wondered how she would ever feel close to her again.

Ivy kicked her legs with all the vigor Mackie lacked, scattering papers at the bottom of her bed. She had been planning to do her study guide, and the problem set, too. She didn't know why she'd said different during the fight. The non-fight. Like everything else that seemed to be happening lately, it had been an impulse that snuck up from behind, caught her by surprise. Ivy opened her mouth and words came out that she hadn't planned. She sat down at her desk at school and wrote answers that she knew were wrong.

Same thing now. Ivy wasn't sure where the urge to slither onto the floor came from, except that it allowed her to bury her face in Mackie's fur. He hardly even lifted his head, just gave another soft snort as Ivy cried and cried against him.

Her phone buzzed, but Ivy ignored it. Just Darcy probably, texting back to say something lame like
yeah
to Ivy's equally lame
bummer
comment. Ivy wiped her nose, keeping her face buried in Mackie's flank, which rose and fell at a pace as comforting as the tides. Her phone gave another insistent rotation and Ivy finally reached up to grab it off her bed. Maybe the game had finished early and Melissa was going to come over after all.

whats up
read the words on the screen.

She glanced down at the number, unfamiliar at first, before realizing who it must be.

He'd given her a ride earlier, after Melissa was stuck in detention and her other friends lamed out.

Ivy's whole face heated. She stared at the message, thumbs hovering.

not much
she typed, hearing Darcy cackle in her head.
Can't you come up with anything better than that?

u?
Ivy added, Darcy laughing all the harder.

same
came Cory's reply.
want to do something?

i thought a storm is coming? can u get ur car?

i can always get the car

my parents might not want me to go out
Ivy typed, which wasn't a lie, although she had the scary, perilous sense that she might be able to get around the rules just by threatening another outburst, or launching a camouflaged exit strategy.

Cory's reply appeared on her screen.

dude, did you see how slow i drove when i dropped you off? ur parents would probably let me take u to burning man if i asked

Ivy wasn't sure what he meant, but the message sent a thrill down her shoulders. She leaned over and squeezed Mackie, muffling her squeal in his coat.

The front door banged downstairs. Hard. It made the wall in her bedroom, which was right above the entryway, vibrate. Ivy's dad always yelled at her for being careless with the door. “Hypocrite,” she said out loud, the word a surprising, bitter tablet on her tongue. Plus now her dad would probably be buffing out the mark on the wall when Cory arrived.

Her phone trembled in her hand and Ivy looked at it again.

so what do u say

Ivy glanced out into the hall. She typed swiftly, before she could change her mind.

sure come on over

There came the sound of twin thuds then—hard to place, different from the door—and Ivy set her phone aside.

“Mom?” she called out. “Dad?”

S
andy surprised herself by cleaning her plate. Pasta, salad, bread, all gone. A balloon of red wine drunk even. By dinnertime, she wasn't usually all that hungry; actually, Sandy had never been the biggest eater. But tonight Ben had awakened all sorts of appetites, and Sandy felt a slow, grateful burn as she looked across the table to him.

“This was nice,” she said softly.

He gestured to the plates. “Great meal.”

“Great lots of things,” she said, and he reached out, closing her fingers up in his.

“Not much left to clean,” Ben remarked as they stood. He surveyed the lone pot on the stove, the sparse place settings required by just the two of them.

“We could even leave it for tomorrow,” Sandy teased. She could no sooner imagine her husband putting off chores than she could see him resisting the challenge of a climb.

But Ben surprised her, appearing to consider the idea before glancing at the clock. “It's early,” he said, and it was, just a few minutes after seven. “I'll finish up. Meet you upstairs.”

A long, luxurious night stretched ahead. Sandy decided she would fill the oversized tub in the master bath, big enough for two, although they almost never used it. Maybe she'd even light a few candles, put on one of the CDs Ben had reminded her they used to enjoy.

Sandy smiled at her husband. “Let me fix a dish for Ivy before you put that away.” She began to fill a bowl from the serving platter in the middle of the table.

She was reaching for a chunk of garlic bread when the front door slammed against the entryway wall and a blast of cold air shot in.

Ben frowned. “Did Ivy go out?”

“She'd better not have…” Sandy began.

The fact that it wasn't Ivy registered in some low column of her brain. An oozing, primordial cluster of cells that lay beneath thought, beneath sensory input even. Long before Sandy heard the two sets of footsteps thudding toward their kitchen—and parsed that they were too heavy for Ivy or even some male friend of hers—she knew they were in danger.

Sandy lifted her head. It felt as if she did it slowly, in discrete steps. First her eyes came off the bread plate with its gloss of butter upon the china. Her gaze sought out Ben, finding him by the fridge. And only then did she take in the two bodies that suddenly occupied her home.

In truth, mere seconds must have passed, for both men were moving fast, one knocking over a chair with the bulk of his hip before the other appeared from behind.

Everything inside Sandy came to a stop. Her blood turned to sludge in her body; her eyes were unable to blink. The muted light of the kitchen showered sparks across her line of vision. When she could finally see again, the second man was staring in her direction. His gaze pierced her like a spear. Then something came down in her mind—a garage door rumbling shut—and Sandy was able to turn away.

A forest now filled her kitchen—brown stumps and green stalks—the color of the intruders' clothes. Plus a strange, shocking slash, appropriate to autumn woods. Fierce scarlet painted across one of the coats, still tacky and glistening.

Blood, recently spilled.

Dimly, Sandy registered the fact that Ben hadn't wasted a moment on any of the things people usually did when faced with a reality they couldn't process. There was no protest or denial. Not a single
who the hell are you
or
what are you doing in my house
came from her husband's lips. Instead he seized the closest weapon at hand, a bread knife lying on the counter, and leapt forward.

The man he was trying to jump was enormous, but Ben had intuited the physics of the situation. He thrust the serrated edge of the blade out at a sharp angle, arm raised high above his head.

The big man leaned down and wrapped his fist around the knife's handle, stopping it in midair. In the next instant, the knife was in the big man's hand and Ben was looking down at his crumpled fist. He didn't seem able to open it, to uncurl any of his fingers. Ben bit back the howl that must've been building, but his eyes had gone muddy with pain. Sandy could see her husband suffering, and it made her want to weep.

She started forward and the second man turned.

His eyes were like bits of ash, cold and dead and gray. They were the eyes of a nightmare from which you never woke up.

Sandy's step faltered and her vision wavered, along with her hold on place and time. This couldn't be the year 2015, and she couldn't be a grown wife and mother, in the kitchen of her recently completed home, a house built with so much love and devotion by Ben for his family. A place to grow old in, to finish raising their child.

Ivy.

Sandy felt a fizzing in her hands, her wrists, an itchy sensation she almost remembered for a second, then just as suddenly was gone. She whirled around, Ben coming into sight. He ignored his injured hand to face off with both men.

Sandy had the mad idea to pretend she simply didn't see them. Maybe she and Ben could make it to the second floor, still have their night together. Unlike Ben, who had adapted so instantly to their new circumstances and acted so fast, Sandy was unable to resolve the place they had been moments before with where they were now. One part of her recognized her dissociation, but elsewhere images swarmed. Of Ben kneeing open their bedroom door, Sandy going for one of her prettier nightgowns, Ben remarking that she didn't need to wear anything at all. She wanted this other version of the night so badly that she swayed.

Her daughter's name arrowed into her brain again, obliterating everything else. What was Ivy doing? Had she heard the commotion downstairs? Sandy couldn't let Ivy walk into this blind.

Her gaze spun, seeking Ben amidst the madness that had come.

Her husband had positioned himself on the opposite side of the table. He crouched low, a fighter's stance, although Sandy took in the sheer impossibility of the task even if Ben couldn't see it in his adrenaline-charged state. The man she'd been thinking of as the big one was more than big. He was an ogre, less human than creature from lore. He looked as if he would crush Ben beneath the sole of his shoe if he came around the table. En route, without even trying, simply by taking his next step.

Except that Ben clearly had an idea, some sort of plan in mind. It moved behind his eyes, like a ticker scrolling across a screen. Although Ben's gaze was aimed straight ahead, he looked as if he were considering something in their surroundings.

What was it? Sandy's gaze shot around the kitchen before the knowledge that Ivy was still unaccounted for slammed back into her consciousness. Thank God for earbuds and texting.

Texting.

Ivy might be able to summon help if she determined that something was wrong, and figured out not to come down. It was a lot to hope for from a fifteen-year-old, but Ivy had always been smart. Not only smart—capable, too.

Thinking about Ivy, Sandy was assailed by one irrefutable thought. She could not, would not let these men near her child. Especially not the one with flinty eyes.

Sandy shuddered.

She had to assist Ben. She couldn't just stand here, helpless. Options came at her like darts. Another knife, a different utensil from one of the drawers, some sort of lethal kitchen spray, maybe cleanser with bleach. Which would be closest at hand? Sandy turned around.

The intruders began to circle the table, Ben waiting in place, motionless.

Only her husband's eyes moved. Back and forth, between the two men, assessing the risks and dangers with laser precision, his gaze coming to settle on the enormous one. Which made sense. If he took out the threat who had twelve inches and a hundred pounds on him, that would even the odds dramatically. But Ben didn't know what Sandy did, he hadn't seen what she had in the other man's eyes.

Sandy tore her focus off her husband, and looked upward. The rack with its ring of copper pots hung above the island. Not two feet from where she stood.

She took a sideways step, unobserved. Brought her hand up from its position by her thigh. At hip-level now. Then over her head, reaching, stretching, as she rose on tiptoes to touch one of the handles. The column of metal felt long and lean in her grasp, the welded-on pot heavy enough to require a second hand as she unhooked it and lifted it free.

Bring it down on his head.
The command was a horn blast in her mind. The second man was within her sights, then within her reach as he moved around the table, closing in on Ben. Each bristly hair upon his scalp grew magnified, a forest of buzz-cut splinters.

Sandy honed in on her target.

In an instant he was at her side, as if he had sensed her intent all along.

The pot dropped with a
thunk,
denting the floorboards. At the same time, the man's knee slammed into Sandy's stomach and sent her flying backwards. She landed squarely on the chair behind her, as if the whole sequence had been choreographed.

Ben saw the violence with which she had been struck, and fury arced from his eyes like electrical current. Sandy was surprised that the force of it wasn't enough to flatten the man now holding her in place. Ben didn't roar with rage, nor make a single sound that would've warned he was coming. At least, Sandy didn't think he did; she was having trouble hearing over the buzz in her ears, and a sick thrum in the place where she'd been kneed. She felt as if she was going to throw up. Through blurred eyes, she tracked Ben's movements. He had made his way over to the woodstove. The poker was on the far side, tucked into its tricky, notched stand. Ben bent down and picked up a log that was closer at hand.

Sandy gasped to regain breath while Ben crossed the floor, silently, stealthily, the man pinning Sandy to the chair in his sights.

The man turned around, still guarding Sandy. His fists were held up to block and parry a blow, and if Ben had already raised the log, the two men would've gone down in a clash of wood and limbs. But Ben was smarter than that.

Without lifting his weapon more than a few inches off the floor, he drove it down punishingly onto the man's foot.

A great gust of time seemed to pass.

The man didn't double over, or make so much as a move. For a moment it seemed as if his foot hadn't just received a shattering blow. Ben raised his arms, readying the log for a killing strike at the man's head.

There was a bellow, a wounded animal's bleat of pain—“Harlan!”—and the big man jerked to.

Ben hoisted the log higher to adapt to the new threat, and swung in a wild trajectory. Ben was an athlete though, well conditioned and strong, and for a moment it looked as if the wood—good, hard, seasoned oak—was going to make contact with the big man's neck.

Then the big man got up on tiptoes so that when the log struck, it hit his upper arm. An arm that was wider around than the piece of wood, and possibly as strong. The man straightened, rubbing his biceps as if he'd been bitten by an insect. He reached out and took the log out of Ben's hand, a mere matchstick in his grasp. The man threw the piece of wood across the room; it landed on the loveseat with enough force that the small couch tipped over backward and fell.

The other man stood over Sandy, his face chalky. “Harlan, take him out.”

There was resignation in his tone. Whatever was coming, he hadn't meant for it to happen, at least not right now. What would it be? What did
take him out
mean? Sandy had an image of Ben being released into the outdoors.

The big man seemed as confused as she.

They were both idiots.

“I said, hit him,” the other clarified.

The growl that came in response was more vibration than sound. It seemed to shake the whole room. “Okay,” Harlan said, and lifted his football-sized fist.

Ben spun to find Sandy, opening his mouth. An idea, a command that he never got a chance to say. Harlan's club of a hand came down on the back of Ben's head, and Ben struck the floor face-first.