'I don't know, Kevin. I don't know. We'll figure out something.'
'We should give up.'
'Shut up!'
Thomas rubbed his neck, thinking he might yak. Dennis had carried him down to the office by the neck, an arm hooked around his throat in a headlock, squeezing so hard that Thomas couldn't breathe. Jennifer came over and knelt by him, making as if to help him, but pinching his arm, instead, her whisper angry and frightened.
'You see? You see? You almost got caught!'
She went to their father.
Mars returned from elsewhere in the house, his arms filled with big white candles. Without saying a word, he lit one, dripped wax on the television, seated the base in the wax. He moved to the bookcase, did it again. Dennis and Kevin were coming apart, but Thomas thought that Mars looked content.
Dennis finally noticed.
'What the fuck are you doing?'
Mars answered as he lit another candle.
'They might cut the power. Here, take this.'
He stopped with the candles long enough to toss a flashlight to Dennis. It was the one from the kitchen utility drawer. He tossed a second to Kevin, who dropped it.
Dennis turned on the light, then turned it off.
'Those candles are a good idea.'
Soon, the office looked like an altar.
Thomas watched Dennis. Dennis seemed inside himself, following Mars with a kind of watchful wariness, as if Mars held something over him that he was trying to figure out. Thomas hated them all, thinking that if he only had the gun he could kill them, Mars with the candles, Dennis with his eyes on Mars, Kevin staring at Dennis, none of them looking at him, pull out the gun and shoot every one of them, bangbangbang.
Dennis suddenly said, 'We should stack pots and pans under the windows in case they try to sneak in, things that will fall, so we'll hear.'
Mars grunted.
'Mars, when you're back there, do that, okay? Set up some booby traps.'
Jennifer said, 'What about my father?'
'Jesus, not that again. Christ.'
Her voice rose.
'He needs a doctor, you asshole!'
'Kevin, take'm back upstairs. Please.'
Thomas didn't care. That was what he wanted.
'Do you want me to tie them again?'
Dennis started to answer, then squinched his face, thinking.
'It took too long to cut all that shit off, you and Mars tying them like a couple of fuckin' mummies. Just make sure they're locked in real good, not just with the nails.'
Mars finished with the candles.
'I can take care of that. Bring them up.'
Kevin brought them, holding Jennifer's arm, almost having to drag her, but Thomas walking in front, anxious to get back to his room though he tried to hide it. They waited at the top of the stairs until Mars rejoined them, now with a hammer and screwdriver. He trudged up the steps, thump thump thump, with the slow inevitability of a rising freight elevator, dark and dirty. Mars led them to Thomas's room first, the end of the hall. It was spooky without light.
'Get in there, fat boy. Pull your covers over your head.'
Mars pushed him inside hard, then knelt by the knob, the one Thomas would use to get out. He hammered the screwdriver under the base, popped it off, unfastened three screws, then pulled the knob free, leaving only a square hole. He looked at Jennifer then, no one else, Jennifer.
'You see? That's how you keep a child in its room.'
They left Thomas like that, pulling the door, then hammering the door closed. Thomas listened until he heard the crash of Jennifer's knob coming free and her door being nailed, and then he scrambled for his closet. He was thinking only of the gun, but as soon as he turned on his flashlight he saw Jennifer's purse. He had dropped it just inside the hatch when he scrambled back into the room. He clawed it open and upended it.
Out fell her cell phone.
Palm Springs, California
Friday, 8:32 P.M.
The three of them had Glen Howell on the speaker, Benza, Tuzee, and Salvetti, the TVs muted so they could hear. Benza, on his third pack of Gaviscon, nursed an upset stomach, his acid reflux acting up.
Howell, his voice crackling with the shitty cell connection, sitting in his car somewhere in the dark, said, 'He's got a wife and kid, a daughter. They're divorced or separated or something. The wife and kid live down in LA, but he sees the kid every two weeks or something.'
Tuzee, his face pasty beneath the tan, looking like a corpse from the strain, rubbed irritably at his face and interrupted.
'Stop it.'
'What?'
'Stop with the 'or something.' Don't end every sentence with 'or something.' It's pissing me off. You've got a college education.'
Benza reached out, patted Tuzee's leg, but didn't say anything.
Tuzee had his face in his hands, the flesh folded around his fingers like a man twice his age.
'He either sees them every two weeks or he doesn't; it's either a fact or it isn't. Find out the fucking facts before you call us.'
The connection popped and hissed, a background roar.
'Sorry.'
'Keep going.'
'He's seeing them this weekend. The wife is bringing up the daughter.'
Benza cleared his throat, phlegm from the Gaviscon.
