Four Live Rounds Read Free Page B

and
died.
     
    The whiskey had made Tim thirsty, and Martin
was taking his sweet time in the bathroom.
    Tim went over to the sink, held a glass of
water under the filter attached to the faucet.
    He heard the creak of wood pressure—Marty
walking back into the kitchen—and still watching the water level
rise, Tim said, “Let me ask you something, Marty. You think whoever
left that message knows they left it?”
    “Yeah, Tim, I think they might.”
    Something in Martin’s voice spun Tim around,
and his first inclination was to laugh, because his brother did
look ridiculous, standing just a few feet away in a pair of white
socks, a shower cap hiding his short black hair, and the
inexplicable choice to don the yellow satin teddy Laura had been
wearing prior to his arrival.
    “What the hell is this?” Tim asked, then
noticed tears trailing down Martin’s face.
    “She’d gone to the movies with Tyler
Hodges.”
    “Who are you talking—”
    “Danielle.”
    “Matson?”
    “Yeah.”
    “She’s a junior in high school, man.”
    “You know what she did with Tyler after the
movie?”
    “Marty—”
    “She went to the Grove with him and they
parked and the windows were steamed up when I found them.”
    “Look, you can have the tape from our
answering—”
    “They’d trace the call,” Martin said. “If you
were to encourage them.”
    “We wouldn’t.”
    “I can see the wheels turning in your eyes,
but I’ve thought this through quite a bit more than you have.
Played out all the scenarios, and this is—”
    “Please, Marty. I could never turn you
in.”
    Martin seemed to really consider this. He
said, “Where’s Laura?”
    “Upstairs.”
    Martin cocked his head and shifted into his
right hand the paring knife he’d liberated from the cutlery
block.
    “Don’t fuck with me. I was just up
there.”
    “You need help, Marty.”
    “You think so?”
    “Remember that vacation we took to Myrtle
Beach? I was twelve, you were fourteen. We rode the Mad Mouse
roller coaster eight times in a row.”
    “That was a great summer.”
    “I’m your brother, man. Little Timmy. Look at
yourself. Let me help you.”
    As he spoke, Tim noticed that Martin had gone
so far as to put on black glove liners, and there was something so
clinical and deliberate in the act, that for the first time, he
actually felt afraid, a sharp plunging coldness streaking through
his core, and he grew breathless as the long-overdue shot of
adrenaline swept through him, and it suddenly occurred to him that
he was just standing there, leaning back against the counter,
watching Marty shove the curved paring knife in and out of his
abdomen—four, five, six times—and he heard the water glass he’d
been holding shatter on the hardwood floor beside his feet, Martin
still stabbing him, a molten glow blossoming in his stomach, and as
he reached down to touch the source of this tremendous pain, Martin
grabbed a handful of his hair, Tim’s head torqued back, staring at
the ceiling, the phone ringing, and he felt the knifepoint enter
his neck just under his jawbone, smelled the rusty stench of his
blood on the blade, and Martin said as he opened his throat, “I’m
so sorry, Timmy. It’s almost over.”
     
    The taste of metal was strong in Laura’s
mouth, even before she saw the shadow emerge from the corner of the
garage, the floodlights sensor triggered, Martin jogging toward the
cruiser.
    She ducked down behind the seats and
flattened herself across the floorboards, her heart pounding under
her pajama top.
    The front driver side door opened.
    Light flooded the interior.
    Martin climbed in, shut the door, sat
motionless behind the wheel until the dome light winked out.
    At last, Laura heard the jingle of keys.
    The engine cranked, the car backing down the
driveway and tears coming, her eyes welling up with fear and
something even worse—the uncertain horror of what had just happened
in their home while she was locked in the back of this car.
    She