“I… I like it here.”
Another shot. The last of my outside lights blows out.
“On three.”
“Jack… if I… if I don’t make it…”
“No time for this now, Herb. One…”
“I just want to say…”
“Two…”
“That I’m cutting you out of my will…”
“Three!”
Herb cries out again, but he gives it his all, and so do I, and even though my knees are rug burned and even though he can barely move and even though bullets tear up the carpeting around us, we make it all the way to the refrigerator, and to the bathroom.
Safe. For the moment.
“Did you?” I gasp at Harry, pointing at the sink.
He shakes his head.
“Where?” I ask.
Harry reaches into the fridge and removes a pickle jar.
“Remember to throw this away later,” he says.
I stick my face under the faucet and take gulps of water so big they hurt going down. Mom fusses over Herb, winding an Ace bandage around his knee. I eventually catch my breath, and give Herb half a dozen Dixie cups’ worth of water.
“Now what?” Mom says.
The five of us are crammed into the bathroom pretty tight. We couldn’t have fit someone else in here if we buttered them. I stand near the sink, next to Harry. Latham sits on the toilet. Mom leans over Herb, who occupies most of the floor. The temperature in here is ten degrees warmer than the rest of the house.
“Anyone up for charades?” Harry asks. He points at Herb. “Lemme guess… Moby-Dick!”
Herb and Harry don’t get along, from way back.
“How’s the pain?” I ask my partner.
“Hurts,” Herb says.
“One to ten?”
“Ten. Blew the knee out. And the medication has worn off from my gunshot wound.” His face is pouring sweat. “I’m hoping I pass out.”
Mom uses scissors to gently cut up a side of Herb’s pants leg. His stitches have ripped open, and his knee is swelled up to the size of a honeydew.
“Does anyone know you’re here?” I ask.
He shakes his head, wincing from the movement. “No. The Grouch, he wanted to talk to you. Threatened to go to your old apartment. I came here to find you.”
“So you didn’t call for backup?” Harry asks. “Smooth move, Iron-side.”
“Nice fridge,” Herb says. “Maybe you’d like me to cram your head in the crisper.”
“Quiet,” I tell them.
I rub my eyes, trying to force a brilliant thought.
Amazingly, one comes.
“I’ve got one rifle round left. In the garage, there’s a pull-down ladder to the attic. I can get up there, get on the roof, and take out one of the snipers from a vantage point.”
“You can’t get from the attic to the roof,” Herb says. “That’s not how houses are built.”
“You sure?” Harry asks.
“You want to drag your refrigerator up there and double-check?”
“Why don’t you go check, Jumbo? I’ve got a buddy with a crane.”
“Enough,” I say. “How else can I get up to the roof?”
“Do you have a ladder?” Latham asks.
“No good,” Herb says. “They’ll see the ladder, know she’s up there.”
“One of us could take the ladder away,” Latham says.
“Who?”
Herb has a point. No one in the room is in any shape to help out.
“Why don’t we just set the house on fire?” McGlade asks. “Cops will come, and bring reinforcements.”
“Good idea,” Herb says. “We’ll start with that shag rug on your chest.”
“Sis, the mean fat man is picking on me.”
Herb raises an eyebrow. “Did he just call you
“Long story. And we’re not setting the house on fire.”
Harry appears crestfallen.
“Can’t we wait them out?” Latham suggests. “Maybe they’ll leave when the sun comes up.”
I shake my head. “They’ll rush the house before then. Or set fire to it themselves, and pick us off when we run outside.”
“How about a decoy?” Harry says. “We’ll kick Alex outside, and while they’re shooting her you can run for help.”
“Alex?” Herb asks. “I thought she was dead.”
“Another long story,” I tell him. “And we’re not kicking anyone outside. The snipers are surrounding the house. There’s nowhere to run.”
Herb tries his cell phone. Harry found half a bottle of Grey Goose vodka in my freezer and he takes a swig. Latham has his arm around Mom. I wonder if I can get on the roof by climbing onto the veranda in back. Maybe I can stand on the patio table and pull myself up. But even if I manage, I’ll probably be seen doing it.
“I was saving this, because I wanted to keep a clear head,” Mom says. “But I think we could all use a couple.”
She holds up a bottle of OxyContin – her prescription arthritis pain medication. It has an extra-large cap, and she spins it off like a pro.
“Who needs a hit?” she asks.
Herb takes four. Latham takes two. Mom takes two. I decline – opiates aren’t wise with a head injury. Harry takes two, and washes them down with a swig of Grey Goose.
“You shouldn’t mix codeine and alcohol,” Mom chides. “It intensifies the effect.”
“I sure as hell hope so.”
Harry passes Mom the bottle. She takes a nip, as do Latham and Herb. I get it last, and since I’m not mixing it with drugs, I take the biggest swallow. It burns going down, and sits in my empty stomach like a lump of charcoal.
We’re all quiet for a moment. It isn’t hard to read everyone’s thoughts, because we each have the same one:
“Okay,” I say. “I bet I can pick one of them off from the living room.”
“That will still leave two,” Herb says.
“But it will be tougher for two to watch the whole house. If I get one, then I’ll have a better chance at getting away, getting help.”
No one argues. I pull out my Kimber, offer it to Harry.
“If they get in,” I say.
“You know I suck lefty.”
“Latham’s never shot a gun, Mom can’t fit her fingers in the trigger guard, and Herb just took enough codeine to kill Keith Richards.”
Harry takes the gun.
“You’ve got five rounds left. Use them wisely.”
Harry nods, then says, “When we get out of this. I want to go to one of those department store portrait studios. Get a family photo. I’ve never been in a family photo.”
I consider making some sort of comment about waiting for the DNA test first, but instead I pat his
