Catherine (31 page)

Hands trembling, I stuffed the piece of paper into my pocket. My legs felt limp, barely
able to hold me up. I wanted to sink to the ground and absorb what I’d read, but Coop,
who’d been reading over my shoulder, grabbed my hand. “We’ve got to get out of here,”
he said.

We hurried toward the main part of the house and were almost to the front door when—just
my luck—we heard the sound of a car rumbling up the dirt road and pulling to a stop.
Cooper and I looked at each other in panic. Should we retreat and try to find a back
door to slip out of? Or would we wind up trapped, as my mother had been? Better to
get out of the house, even if it meant facing the enemy head-on. We didn’t have to
exchange words; we both dove for the front door just as it opened. There in the doorway
loomed an older, taller version of the boy in
the photograph—still blond, broad-shouldered, and clean-shaven, a couple of grocery
bags clutched to his chest. Though he must have seen our car in the driveway, he looked
as shocked to see us in his living room as we were to see him.

Coop threw his hands in the air to show they were empty, and I followed suit.

“Who the hell are you?” the man exclaimed. He sounded almost as scared as we were.
“What are you doing in my house?”

Coop tried to speak. “Um,” he began. “We… uh.”

But this was my uncle, and my problem to solve. I took a step closer. “Uncle Quentin?”
I asked.

He looked from Coop to me, and his blue eyes got even wider.

“I’m your niece. Chelsea Price. Catherine’s daughter. We came for a visit. It was
such a long drive, and I had to pee.” I gave him a bashful smile. “And you weren’t
here, but the door was open, so I told Coop you probably wouldn’t mind if I used your
bathroom.” The lies kept popping into my head, one after another. “I hope that’s okay.”

Quentin’s Adam’s apple worked. He set his grocery bags on the floor, not taking his
eyes off my face.

“I found your picture in some of my mother’s stuff, in a box in the closet back home.
I asked my father who you were and he told me. So I came here to meet you. Because
we’re family, right?” And I made myself stand on tiptoe and throw my arms around his
shoulders. This man had killed my mother—I was absolutely sure of it—but I pushed
that knowledge from my mind. The most important thing at that moment was that I convince
him we meant him no harm.

After a heartbeat or two, his arms tightened around me. “You look so much like her,”
he said in a small voice.

I pulled away. “Everyone says that.” The smile I gave him was genuine, because after
all, my ploy seemed to be working. I didn’t dare glance at Coop, for fear his expression
would give us both away. Instead, I took a better look at Quentin and saw that he
wasn’t quite as young-looking as I’d first thought. His tanned skin was leathery,
his blond hair shot through with white.

He seemed at a loss for words. “Chelsea,” he said finally, his big hands dangling
at his sides. He reached for me again. Another hug. Now that the immediate danger
had passed, I noticed his smell—a mix of laundry detergent, coffee, and sweat that
made me queasy. I wanted to shake myself free, but instead I counted to eight until
he let me go and bent to retrieve his grocery bags.

“You want help with those?” I asked hopefully.

“You shouldn’t ever let yourself into someone else’s house,” he said as he disappeared
into the house. “You could get mistaken for an intruder.” His voice floated from the
kitchen. “You could get yourself shot.”

Coop and I exchanged a look. Should we make a run for it? But a moment later, Quentin
was back in the living room. He gestured toward Coop. “Who’s this?” he asked me. “Your
boyfriend?” His voice got a lot less friendly. “Is that his car in the driveway? How
does a kid like him get a car like that?”

Instinct told me the answer he wanted to hear. “This is Cooper. He’s a friend. He
drove me here. It’s his dad’s car.” I stole another glance at Coop. His hands were
working themselves in and out of fists, unsure how ready they should be for confrontation.

Quentin cocked his head toward Coop. “You shouldn’t go for a drive alone with some
random boy. I don’t care if he’s your friend. You never know what a guy is thinking.”

Seriously?
I fought not to show the annoyance I felt. “He’s not some random boy. He’s a good
friend. He’s perfectly trustworthy.”

“He’d better be.” Quentin looked from me to Coop, who raised his palms in a
Who, me?
gesture.

“He is.” I cast around for the next right thing to say, wondering how soon I could
plausibly excuse myself and Coop, especially since we’d supposedly driven all this
way for a family reunion. Would we have to make nice all afternoon and stay for dinner?
I wasn’t sure I could do it.

Quentin relented. “Come into the kitchen.” It was more of an order than an invitation.

We complied, watching as he started putting his groceries away. Peanut butter. White
bread. Dill pickles. Shredded wheat. “Can I help?” I asked, like a dutiful niece.

No answer. I pulled up a seat at the kitchen table, and Coop followed my lead.

“You need something to eat?” Quentin’s tone was friendlier now. “I could heat you
up some of my venison stew. You know what venison is, don’t you? Deer meat. I’ve got
rabbit in my freezer downstairs, too, and squirrel.”

“No, thanks. We’re good.” Squirrel? Really? Coop was struggling to look casual, but
his face was a shade paler than usual.

Groceries stowed, Quentin sat down beside me, pulling his chair closer than was comfortable.
“You didn’t know I was a hunter, did you? I hardly have to go to the grocery store.
I even
know how to field-dress my kill. There’s nothing like being self-sufficient. It’s
the best feeling in the world.”

“That’s great,” I said, thinking of Bambi and Thumper. “You must be really proud.”
Luckily, the words didn’t come out sounding sarcastic.

“You hunt?” Quentin asked Coop. “You should. Every man should know how to fend for
himself.”

Coop didn’t answer.

“I’m not just talking about food, either,” Quentin continued in my general direction.
“Any man worth his salt knows how to protect his home against intruders.” Eyes narrowed,
he shot a glance over at Coop, who was looking down at his folded hands.

“Just a man?” I made my voice playful. “What about me?”

Quentin shrugged. “I could teach you. That father of yours probably hasn’t ever held
a gun in his life.”

Not that he’d met my dad. He was right, though; Dad wasn’t a big fan of guns. When
I was younger, he gave me all sorts of speeches about how if I was ever visiting a
friend and I found out there were guns in the house, I should come straight home and
tell him. The memory made me swallow hard. What would he think if he knew where I
was right now?

“A father should teach his kids to shoot,” Quentin added. “Daughters
and
sons.”

“Did my grandfather teach you?”

But my question turned out to be a misstep. Quentin’s face clouded over. “He should
have.”

“I guess he wasn’t much of a hunter,” I said. “He lived in New York City, right?”
I figured I’d better play dumb; as far as my uncle
knew, I’d come straight from Marblehead to his house in Coxsackie, and he didn’t need
to know otherwise.

“That cesspool.” His voice was sullen now, too. “A law-abiding person really needs
a gun there. Backstabbing rats, just looking for a chance to steal what’s yours.”
He turned to Coop. “I could teach
you
to hunt.” It sounded more like a threat than an offer.

To distract him, I forced out a laugh. “We’re from the suburbs. It’s pretty free of
backstabbing rats.”

He glowered. “You never know.”

“But let’s not worry about that,” I said. “We have so much catching up to do, right?
I want to hear all about what you’ve been up to….”

The muscles in his face relaxed, and for a moment, I thought I’d successfully changed
the subject. Then he reached under his flannel shirt and pulled out a handgun. “Here’s
my prize possession,” he said, holding it up like we were having a happy session of
show-and-tell. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s a Wilson Combat Tactical Elite M1911
in .45 ACP. Cost me more than four thousand after I had it all tricked out.” He gave
it a loving look. “I use Hornady TAP 230 grain jacketed hollow-point bullets. More
stopping power.”

I nodded as if I understood any of what he’d said. What could I do but humor him?
“It’s very nice.” Maybe he’d forget to be angry?

“Nice?” He sounded insulted. “You call this nice?” He held the gun in both hands and
squinted like he was aiming at an imaginary target. He chuckled, lowered the gun,
and leaned confidingly toward Coop. “Women! She calls my gun nice!” I guess he
thought they’d share a laugh about how fluff-brained girls are, how they don’t understand
important things like hollow-point bullets, and I was working to swallow a sarcastic
comeback when I noticed the expression on Coop’s face. He was concentrating intently,
but his eyes weren’t on the gun, and they weren’t on my uncle’s face. He was staring
in the direction of the living room, his head cocked, and I realized he was hearing
something. Then I heard it, too. But before I could register what it was—a car pulling
up the dirt road and braking abruptly—Quentin had jumped to his feet. “Now what?”
Gun still in hand, he disappeared into the living room, with Coop right behind him.
What could I do but follow?

I arrived just as the front door flew open, and though I’d have sworn our situation
couldn’t get any stranger, it did. Hence—of all people—strode into the room, hair
disheveled, brows knit together. He took it all in at a glance—me, Cooper, Quentin,
the gun—and inhaled sharply. For a long moment we all stood there looking at one another,
processing this new development. Then Hence sprang into action, slipping past Quentin’s
gun to position himself between us and my uncle.

“Let these kids go.” His voice was low and steady. Did he think Quentin was holding
us hostage, and he was some kind of action hero saving the day?
We had it under control
, I wanted to protest. We would have talked ourselves free, wouldn’t we? But the ice
in Quentin’s eyes and the way he spun to train his gun on Hence made me think maybe
it wouldn’t have been so easy after all.

“Your problem isn’t with them,” Hence said. Behind his back, he motioned for Coop
and me to get behind him. For a crazy
moment, I wanted to laugh. This couldn’t really be happening, could it?

But Quentin’s posture was stiff. “You.” The one word said it all.
You. My enemy, my nemesis, the guy I’ve been itching to kill for twenty-plus years.
Standing in front of my gun.
The smile that crept across his face was hideous.

“That’s right. You’ve got me where you’ve always wanted me. So you might as well let
the kids leave.” Hence’s voice was oddly calm, as though he were making the world’s
most obvious and reasonable observation. He made a shooing motion behind his back,
telling us to get away, but Coop and I stood frozen in place.

Of course Quentin got angry. “I don’t take orders from you.” For emphasis, he pointed
the gun first at Coop’s face, then at mine, then back at Hence. “What if I feel like
shooting all three of you?” He smirked, enjoying the moment. “I’d do it, too. Don’t
think I wouldn’t.”

Just humor him
, I silently pleaded with Hence.
Let him be in charge.
Hence might not be my favorite person in the world, but I didn’t want to see Quentin
shoot his head off. Not to mention the fact that Coop and I would most likely be next,
now that Hence had blown our cover.

But Hence had his own ideas. “Let them go now. Then you can settle your score with
me.” He gestured toward me. “She’s your niece. Your flesh and blood. You don’t want
to harm her.”

“Don’t tell me what I want.” Quentin’s face went purple. “You think I wouldn’t kill
my own flesh and blood?”

The words chilled me.

“I don’t think you’ve got the guts.” Hence spoke quietly. He
turned a little, squaring his back toward the front door, and Coop and I moved to
keep behind him. Again, his fingers motioned for us to take a step backward. I did,
but Coop stayed put, shooting me a quick sidelong look that said,
Go
. But I couldn’t leave him there. I wouldn’t.

Quentin’s voice rose. “You don’t think
I’ve
got the guts?”

“You’re a spoiled little boy with the money to buy a gun collection.” Hence spoke
through gritted teeth. “That doesn’t make you a killer.”

What was he thinking? Did he
want
Quentin to blow his head off? And could he really not put two and two together? Exasperated,
I blurted the words out: “He killed my mother.” Okay, so maybe it was a tactical error,
but Hence had to know the truth. She would have wanted him to know.

That certainly got everyone’s attention. Hence took his eyes off Quentin’s gun to
look at me. A stunned-looking Quentin was staring at me now, too.

“It’s true,” I said, more softly.

There was a long moment of silence while each of us digested the situation.

“That’s right,” Quentin finally said. At the sound of his voice, Hence whipped back
around. “I killed Catherine to keep her away from you. And now it’s your turn.” He
threw back his head, the sound of his laughter unnervingly boyish. “This whole thing
is perfect.”

“Yes. It
is
perfect.” Hence’s voice was surprisingly steady. “You wanted to keep Catherine away
from me? If there’s anything beyond this life, you’ll be sending me right into her
arms.”

What was he saying? Was he crazy? I turned to exchange a look with Coop. He’d been
standing right beside me, but he’d taken a few steps to the side. I saw him reach
behind his back for the stand of fireplace tools. His fingers closed around the handle
of a poker, and he inched it up slowly, so that it wouldn’t clink against the other
tools and give him away.