Danny’s arm tightened around Gracie. “Polly, did Marsh tell you what happened-almost happened-to his fiancée? He tried to kill a pet dog she had. Why do you think he didn’t want Gracie to have a kitten?”
Marshall watched his elder daughter’s face close against him. Talk of old murders had not affected her. That was too much like the movies. Killing a little animal was within her child’s grasp of consummate evil.
“He drugged the girl with doctored champagne and put her dog in the freezer to die,” Danny said.
The champagne, the peace offering from Danny. That’s how he had done it without waking them. Marshall was not even allowed the small triumph of knowing he’d figured it out. Danny had just told him.
Danny wanted him to know. Danny wanted credit.
“Hidden your light under a bushel too long, brother?” Marshall asked.
Danny smiled. It might have read true to someone who didn’t know him. To Marshall, it stank of mockery. He’d seen it when Rich lectured Charlie about water safety when they’d visited him in the hospital, when he swore to Ricky’s parents that he had no idea their son was afraid of snakes.
When he told Dylan how sorry he was that Phil Maris got booted. “Polly, why did you come back tonight? Why did you bring Emma and Gracie home?” Marshall demanded suddenly.
“Danny got the girls… ” Polly started to speak. Then her voice trailed off.
“Why did you bring my wife and daughters here tonight?” Marshall asked his brother. This time he did stand, but the way Danny’s forearm pressed against Gracie’s windpipe kept him from closing the distance between them. “You figured I was knocked out on Ambien. Why would you bring them here when I was out?”
“I was afraid for them, Dyl, afraid you intended to do what you’d done before, clean house, kill everybody but your brother.” He smiled his old crooked smile and carefully, gently placed one hand on Gracie’s hair. It could have been a caress, but Marshall knew it wasn’t.
Danny was going to snap her neck.
38
“I’ve had enough of this,” Polly hissed. “Come on girls; let’s let Uncle Danny and Marshall work things out between them.”
Marshall watched helplessly as she turned and walked toward the bedroom door. “Polly… ” he began, but what could he say? It’s not what you think it is? Better she should leave. He prayed his brother would let Gracie go.
Danny, a half smile on his face, his hand still on Gracie’s hair, looked at him over her head.
“Come on, Gracie,” Polly said. Emma tugged her mother to a halt. “Not now, honey.” Again Emma tugged, and Polly leaned down to catch a whispered confidence.
I’m scared. Daddy’s crazy. Was that what his elfin daughter was saying?
Polly lifted her head and looked at Danny standing with his back to her, Gracie in his arms, and then at Marshall standing by the bed. A world of emotion passed through her face. Marshall could read none of it. The look of determination when it was done was unmistakable.
“Danny, darlin’, I know you and Marshall have some talking to do,” her voice was petal soft and so beseeching Marshall hurt hearing it. “But would you be so kind as to help me get the girls tucked in? What with one thing and another, we would feel more secure if you didn’t leave us alone right now.” The last words were said in a voice that turned Marshall to water, a voice he doubted many men could stand against.
Danny could, but he didn’t. It was the opportunity he’d been waiting for.
“Sure thing. I’d rather you weren’t alone. It’s just not safe.” He winked at Marshall and backed toward the door, Gracie moving awkwardly with him. Before he turned and followed Polly out through the kitchen, he smiled at Marshall and stroked Gracie’s hair. “You wait here,” he said.
Marshall knew precisely what he meant.
Then they were gone; he heard the door to the backstairs close behind them.
He could call 911, but if the police came, sirens blazing, Danny would surely kill Polly and the girls. If he followed his brother, he would snap Gracie’s neck without a second thought. If he did nothing…
If he did nothing, it would happen all over again.
Twitches wracked his body, a seizure of conflicting orders. Shaking, he took one step, then another. From overhead, he heard a faint thump-his kitchen door shutting. Footsteps whispered on the backstairs.
Was Danny coming back, Gracie’s slender neck in the vise of arm and hand, listening to see if he followed?
Marshall moved again, softly this time, careful to make no sound on the hardwood floor. In the kitchen, he stopped and listened. Silence was not reassuring. The uneasy twitching of his hands worsened. Marshall was more frightened than he’d been since his parents were killed. He’d grown unaccustomed to physical fear. One of the perks of being a stone-cold killer was that one didn’t worry much about other predators. He wasn’t afraid for himself, but fear for his family was a solid thing, an entity, pumping so much adrenaline into his body he couldn’t stay still.
A crash sounded overhead, and he was out the kitchen door and halfway up the stairs. A noise from below, from the cellar, turned him around. Black and panting, a troll’s shape rushed upward.
“Danny,” he said, and his brother stopped. The stairwell was dark but for the light from the street coming through the garden window. It was enough to see; Danny had the axe in his hands. Faint light glistened on the planes of his cheeks and across his flat brow. It flashed dully on his teeth as he smiled. Not his matinee idol smile. This smile was detached from his humanity, a cold mockery of amusement, of the weaknesses and failings of others.
“Put it down,” Marshall said. His voice shook as badly as his hands.
“It’s necessary, brother. You made it necessary. I’m just here to clean up after you. Like always. It’s me and you, the Marchand brothers. I told you not to fuck that up. Now you’ve done it. You’ve killed them again.”
The Marchand brothers, identical twins, dead at birth. Marshall took a step down toward Danny.
“No sense in it, brother,” Danny warned him. “It’s over. It’s done. They’re already dead. Easy pickings, so soft and sweet. I just got the axe for the finishing touches, history repeating itself. Juries love that. But I won’t call the cops, not if you don’t force me to.”
All Marshall heard was, “They’re dead.” With the howl of an injured animal, he hurled himself at his brother. The blade of the axe cut into his cheek. He felt the force but not the pain. Before Danny could strike again, Marshall had the handle, his hands between his brother’s on the shaft. The stairwell was narrow and twisted; Marshall ’s shoulders smashed into the walls as they struggled. Danny’s face, still lit from the window, was as smooth and calm as if they played at cat’s cradle.