She climbed the steps and dug for her keys. Checked the mailbox out of habit – nothing, again, which was getting ridiculous – and figured she’d pack her green bikini with the blue flowers, order room service and a movie.
The door to the bottom apartment yanked open, and a burly blur came through it, a man, she could see that much as she threw her hands up in panic, and then he grabbed her, fingers steel on her arm, and yanked her inside, her feet tangling, struggling just to stay vertical as he half pulled, half tossed her through the open door. She took three or four steps to catch her balance, and was opening her mouth to shriek when she saw Tom starting to force himself up from the overstuffed chair, his hand held at an awkward angle. What was he doing here? What was going on?
The door closed behind them. “Don’t scream, Anna.”
There was blood on Tom’s left hand, and the way he held it was odd, a swollen mess, the pinkie off-kilter. Her nerves felt like she’d bitten metal. She gasped, one hand covering her mouth, and started forward. Then she saw the look on his face, and stopped.
Sometimes it felt like they had known each other for a hundred years. She knew his every gesture, every expression. She could render them in her mind: the easy smile, tilted a little to one side, that drew crinkles around his eyes. The half-lidded head loll, lips barely parted, as they made love in the night. His precise squint when reading, meant not to bring the words into focus but to put the rest of the world out.
She had never seen the look that was on his face now. She recognized fear around the wide eyes. Pain marked in the press of his lips. And concern, concern for her, in the cock of his head and the readiness of his body. But there was something else too. A guardedness like a metal gate drawn across a store window. And through the slats of that, a sharp and sparkling accusation.
And so she wasn’t surprised when the man behind her said, “Funny thing, Anna. Tom really believed it was in the basement.”
She turned, her lips curling in a snarl at this creature, this monster who had hurt her husband, who had smashed his hand and drawn a screen across his eyes. She found herself staring directly into the barrel of a big gun. The hole shallowed the depth of field until everything behind that black circle was just blurry shapes, and one of those blurry shapes said, “Anna, where did you take my money?”
IT WAS TRUE. Jack had told the truth, and his wife had lied.
At first, when Jack had yanked open the door and snatched Anna, snapped her into the room like he was cracking a whip, Tom had reacted on instinct, struggling to get out of the chair. Ready, as always, to catch her should she fall. But then their eyes had met, and he saw what was in hers. She had taken the money.
She had taken the money and she hadn’t told him. As a result, he’d been held at gunpoint on the dirty basement floor. He’d had his fingers smashed and broken. Had a gun held to his belly by a man clearly willing to pull the trigger. And worse than the consequences was the action. His wife had betrayed him.
Stop. Now isn’t the time. He didn’t try to forget his feelings. He just pushed them down. If they were going to get out of this, he needed to focus.
Anna stood a few feet away, one hand still holding her keys, the other at her side and behind, as if preparing to catch herself. “What money?”
“You know what money, Anna.”
She hesitated, then said, “It’s not here.”
“Where is it?”
“Somewhere safe.”
No, Tom thought, no, don’t get cute with him, he’ll –
Jack’s left hand lashed out in a wicked slap. From his chair, Tom saw her head jerk sideways, saw the force ripple through her body, and he leapt to his feet without thinking, instinct mingling with pure hate. But Jack was a move ahead of him, the gun swinging over to point at his chest. Tom thought about going for it. Wanted to. But there was no way he could cover the distance.
Icy. He had to be icy. Cold and hard and able to bear what Jack dealt, so that when the moment came, he could act. He lowered his arms.
Jack nodded, kept the gun where it was, but looked at Anna. “Let’s try this again, honey. This time, if I don’t like your answer, I’m going to shoot your husband. Now, where-”
“Upstairs. It’s upstairs.” The words tumbled from Anna’s lips.
“Show me.” He gestured with the pistol. “You too.”
Tom’s mind was racing. Once they gave him the money, there was no reason Jack wouldn’t kill them. They’d seen his face, heard him talk. And for a man who was used to pulling the trigger, what were two more bodies? He would have to move first. Soon. The weight of the knife in his pocket was a comfort. His fingers screamed to reach for it, but he made himself stand still.
“Let’s go.” Jack gestured. Tom moved to the entryway of their building. Through the glass doors of the vestibule he could see their porch, and beyond it, the street. A woman walked by with a dog, a blue plastic bag dangling heavy from one hand. Normal life, ten feet away. It made him want to scream.
“Move.”
Anna opened the door and started up, Tom following, and behind them Jack. Like they were landlords again, just showing the place to a prospective tenant. Two baths, plenty of street parking, a washer and dryer in the basement. Want to see the back porch, or would you rather just shoot us? Panic thoughts he didn’t have time for. The steps fell away one at a time. His legs tingled, and his palms itched. Soon. He’d never used a knife in anger before, wondered how best to hold it.
But when Anna opened the door, hope quickened in Tom’s chest. Besides the usual squeak of the hinges, there came a series of three quick beeps. The alarm system.
Jack heard it too. He hustled them inside, closed the door behind, his mouth set hard. “Turn it off.”
Beep.
Anna started for it. Tom said, “Don’t.” She hesitated. Jack whirled on him, stepped forward, raising the gun.
Beep.
Tom said, “He’s going to kill us. After we give him the money, he’s going to kill us.”
Jack said, “Turn off the alarm, Anna. Do it now.”
Beep.
The three of them stood frozen. Tom had his hand against the hem of his pocket, but couldn’t move, didn’t dare, not while Jack stared at him.
Beep.
“Goddamnit,” Jack said, his voice irritated more than angry. He stepped forward and put the barrel of the gun under Tom’s chin, then turned to Anna. “Turn it off.”
It was the best chance he was likely to get. Tom dug into his pocket, fingers grazing the ridged plastic of the handle, twisting his body at the same time, his first thought to get out of the line of fire, his second to bring the knife up. Time went liquid, and he could see everything at once without any of it really registering, a twitch around Jack’s eyes as he sensed Tom’s motion, the counter-slosh throbbing of his head as he jerked back fast, another beep from the alarm panel, Anna’s mouth opening to scream, the faint hitch as the knife snagged the edge of his pocket, slowing him down. His chin passed over the gun even as Jack pulled the trigger, a roar like the world breaking, but no pain.
Then he had the knife clear of his pocket, and lunged forward, not planning anything fancy, just stabbing underhanded as hard as he could. He saw Jack twisting too, left arm coming down, and Tom tried to adjust, to make it to the stomach, but Jack was too quick, his forearm slammed into Tom’s hand, weird with resistance and suddenly wet as the blade cut flesh. Jack roared and spun, bringing his gun hand up in a gut punch. The breath blew from Tom’s lungs, and he struggled to swing the knife again, but Jack stepped into him, a hard shoulder-check that knocked him back. His feet caught, and then he was down, the knife bouncing away. Jack dropped to crouch on his chest, the gun unwavering on Tom’s forehead. He was panting, and his eyes blazed, and something wet dripped onto Tom’s face.