"Well, I'd like a beer," Marrity said. He put his briefcase down on the cement porch slab to reach into his pocket. "Where's Grammar's car? I can drive it."
"It — broke down. I took a bus here."
Daphne doubted that. She and her father had taken a bus, and had got here a few minutes ago; her grandfather had been here long enough to have taken a nap. What did he do really, she wondered, steal a car? There's an old car parked by the garage with the hood up. Do you need to open the hood to steal a car? Or to stop it, once you've driven it somewhere?
"I want you to know," said the old man abruptly, "that I hate my father too."
"Why do you want me to know that?" asked Marrity.
"It's something you and I have in common. For a father to just leave his poor wife and children — what excuse could there be?"
Marrity laughed in evident surprise. "Well, you tell me, old man. I can't think of one. Not blackmail and the threat of imprisonment, for example. I wouldn't abandon Daphne to avoid those things."
"No, I know you wouldn't. Not even to save your soul. I know you wouldn't."
"To save my—" Her father seemed to consider getting angry, then just relaxed and laughed. "No, not even to do that."
The old man spread his shaky hands and frowned. Daphne wondered if he was quite awake yet, after his nap.
"Eventually it winds up costing everything," he said. "But remember I hate the old man as much as you do."
Marrity was frowning. "Which old man? Your father, or… my father?"
"That one," the old man mumbled, nodding.
Daphne heard the front door slam inside the house, and then there were footsteps coming through the kitchen.
"Who's here?" came her uncle Bennett's voice from the dimness beyond the open back door. "Why is the door unlocked? Frank? Daphne? "
"Out back, Bennett," said her father loudly. He gave Daphne a look, and she knew he meant Good thing we didn't start prying up the bricks.
She imagined the two of them on their knees in the shed — covered with mud and with a treasure chest full of gold coins half exposed in a hole under the bricks, blinking up in confusion at her grandfather and Uncle Bennett — and her father smiled at her before looking back to the back door.
Daphne wondered if her uncle Bennett would yell at her father again about coming here without him and Aunt Moira — but, in fact, he didn't seem upset.
Bennett was standing there on the back step, blinking and smiling nervously. "Well, this is lucky!" he said. "I got a free bicycle from an ad shoot, and I was going to give it to you next time I saw you, Daphne! But I've got it right outside, in a van!"
A van, thought Daphne. A free bicycle. If this was a stranger, I'd run away as fast as I could. She could feel reflexive caution in her father too.
But, "Okay," she said. "Thanks!"
"I'll go look too," her father said, stepping forward. Daphne stared hard at his briefcase on the cement, and he hurried back to pick it up. "Thanks," he muttered.
"Yes," said Bennett eagerly, "you come look too, Frank."
"I'll come too," said her grandfather, and Bennett jumped, clearly noticing the old man in the shadows for the first time.
"Who are you?" Bennett asked.
The old man didn't answer, and didn't seem to want to look at Bennett.
"He's my father," said Marrity.
Bennett frowned at the old man. "Moira's father?"
Marrity nodded. "Probably he inherits the place, actually. All Grammar's stuff."
Bennett touched the lapel of his jacket. He started to say something, then just said, "Fine! Let's go look at the bike!"
Daphne and her father followed Bennett through the musty-smelling kitchen and living room to the front door. As Bennett pushed aside the creaking screen door and stepped out onto the porch, Daphne saw two vehicles parked in the shade of the big old curbside jacaranda: a brown van and a gray compact car. A man with a white brush cut sat in the driver's seat of the compact.
"That's the — producer, in the car," said Bennett, almost babbling. "His name's Sturm."
Daphne's grandfather had followed them out onto the porch. "Sturm?" he said gruffly. "Where's Mr. Drang?"
Daphne knew that Sturm und Drang was some kind of German literary term, but Bennett blinked at the old man in confusion. "How do you know them?" Again he slapped at the lapel of his jacket, as if to be sure something was still in his pocket. "Have you made a deal with them?"
"Relax, Bennett," the old man said, still not looking at him. "Life — trust me — is too short."
As Bennett led the group from the house down the walkway, the Sturm man was getting out of the car, smiling like a chef on a label, and Daphne noted that the man's gray suit looked expensive but didn't really fit his figure. Bennett stepped ahead of the others, apparently wanting to talk to him.
Daphne's grandfather was staring at Sturm, and his mouth was open in evident dismay.
He turned to Daphne and her father. "Run," he said quietly. "This is the crowd that tried to shoot you this morning."
Peering around the old man's shoulder, Daphne saw Sturm squinting at them, ignoring Bennett, and he reached into his jacket and opened his mouth.
Daphne's father had grabbed her hand and yanked her back, but she saw Bennett brace himself and then drive his fist very hard into Sturm's stomach.
"Wait, Dad!" she yelled. She heard her father's heels tear the grass as he halted.
The white-haired man folded and tumbled facedown onto the sidewalk pavement, and Bennett was right on top of him, fumbling inside the man's jacket.
The door to the van rumbled back, and two younger men in T-shirts hopped down to the sidewalk — then stopped. Bennett, crouching above Sturm, was holding a pistol, pointing it at them.
"Get in the car!" Bennett screamed. He hammered the butt of the pistol down onto the back of Sturm's head, and Daphne flinched at the sudden hard pop of a gunshot.
But her father was pulling her toward Sturm's now empty gray car, and Bennett was on his feet and running around toward the driver's side. As if the accidental shot had taken away his inhibitions, Bennett paused before getting into the car and fired the gun three times at the van; Daphne saw dust fly away from the left front tire and then the van sagged on that side.
Her father had yanked open the back door and bundled her and his briefcase into the backseat and slid in behind her. Bennett was in the driver's seat, and without even closing the door he twisted the ignition key and jerked the engine into gear.
The car's back door was still open, and Daphne struggled up to look out at her grandfather, but the old man was backing away, toward the house.
"Wait for my grandfather!" said Daphne. "Get in!" she yelled at him over her father's shoulder.
The old man shook his head. "No," he said clearly.
A slim, dark-haired woman in sunglasses had stepped out of the van and seemed to be staring very hard at the people in the car.
Her grandfather saw the woman too. "Go!" he yelled, waving them on.
The tires screeched as Bennett gunned the engine and steered away from the curb. The back door swung shut.
Though her ribs were aching, Daphne was craning her neck to look out the back window. The woman held up a hand, either waving or signaling the men in the van not to shoot. Daphne didn't wave back.
"Did you make a deal with those people?" Bennett yelled as he pulled his door closed. He turned right onto the wider street at the end of Batsford. "Sell them something Grammar had?"
"No," said Marrity, helping Daphne straighten up on the seat. "Belt, Daph!" he said. Acceleration pressed them both back against the vinyl upholstery. Daphne fumbled for her seat belt, noticing a burnt smell in the air. Maybe it was the tires.