Evan just smiled as he walked over to the couch.

Then he pulled the gun from his belt and pressed the muzzle against Tommy’s forehead.

It happened so fast Danny couldn’t believe it. One minute no gun; the next, gun. The kid’s struggles ended immediately, replaced by a soft whimpering like a kicked puppy.

Horror and adrenaline coursed through Danny. His fists clenched, and he could hear the roar of his heart. He took a half step forward, and then caught himself as Evan cocked the hammer back.

“Now you see. Now you’re starting to get it. All that crap you were spinning out there? You were right about one thing.” Evan smiled at him, a mocking look. The cold light from the television carved his features from granite. “This isn’t a pawnshop.”

“Wait-”

“No. Enough talk.” Tommy whimpered as Evan pushed into him with the gun. “It’s time you understood something, amigo. You walked out on me once. It won’t happen again. Not without consequences.” Evan pushed the gun harder, the kid burrowing into the cushions to get away. Danny could see sweat marks on the fabric.

Then, holding a cocked pistol to a twelve-year-old’s forehead, Evan winked.

Everything had gone wrong.

And there was nothing Danny could do about it.

33

Everything hurt.

It had been a lot of years since his last fight, and he’d forgotten the layers of aches that followed a serious scrap, the symphonic balance of pain: a dull soreness across his body, a wobbly necked pounding in his head, a blood-warm throbbing at his swelling left eye, a sandpaper raggedness on his knuckles. None of it was overwhelming, but it all put him in mind of his age. When he’d been eighteen, man, you could hit him with a locomotive and he’d just bounce. But bodies in their thirties weren’t built for street fighting.

Worse than any of the physical pain, though, was the image seared in his mind. The gun appearing in Evan’s hand like magic, the slow-motion effect of him leaning forward to press it against Tommy’s forehead. The boy’s little whimper, a sound he knew would forever haunt his dark moments. The feeling of being utterly trapped, knowing the right thing, wanting the right thing, and doing the wrong.

After Evan had made his point, seen the horror, the capitulation on Danny’s face, he’d lowered the gun. Tommy had fallen back on the sofa, panic breaths whistling furiously through his nostrils. Danny had considered jumping Evan then, but the guy kept the gun out. Never explicitly threatening, more like it just happened to be in his hand.

“Don’t look so worried,” Evan had said, as he led the way outside. “Everything’s under control. I’ll get Debbie back here to babysit. Tomorrow we call Dick, tell him where to meet us. Before the kids are done trick-or-treating, we’ll have a million in cash, and this will all be over.”

Danny had nodded, not believing, knowing now that it would never be over, that he’d finally woken into his recurring nightmare. And even so, trying to control the damage. An engineer on the Hindenburg. “I’ve got the meet location picked.”

“Where?”

“Union Station.” He’d told Evan the logic, leaving out the hope that doing it in public would keep him calm.

Evan had shrugged, scratched his neck with the barrel of the gun. “Whatever. That’ll work.” Then he’d dismissed Danny with a wave of his cigarette.

Now, back on his own block, Danny stepped out of the truck and closed the door quietly. The air had grown chillier, with a breeze that blew through his shirt to cut at the skin beneath. His street radiated the easy calm of a place where monsters only came out on Halloween. He shouldered his bag and started down the sidewalk, trying not to see Tommy’s face in every shadow.

As he passed the weathered steps of his neighbor’s porch, a high-pitched shriek burst from the graystone. The scream gave way to an evil-genius laugh, and a strobe flashed on in the bay window, where a medical skeleton loomed amid drugstore cobwebs. After a moment the recorded sound track shut off, but harsh white light kept splashing up every few seconds. Danny stood in front of the window, watching as the beam flared, died, flared, died. In the periods of darkness, the streetlights were enough to turn the window into a dark mirror, and within it he could see himself reflected. A normal-looking guy with a few scrapes on his face and the beginnings of a shiner under one eye. Other than the bruises, not the kind of face that earned a second look.

A month ago, he would have said the skeleton was the scarier monster. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

How had this happened? How had it gotten so far? He’d done everything he could along the way, tried to think through every step, and still, here he was. Somehow, playing it smart just wasn’t enough.

The light was on in their window. Karen was home. He winced to think of his lies, of the betrayal and confusion she must be feeling.

There was still one thing he could try and make right. He straightened his shoulders and walked away from the play monsters.

The outside of their own condo was minimally decorated, just some desiccated cornstalks the downstairs neighbor trotted out every year, the husks picked clean by the squirrels. The mailbox was full, and he opened it and took everything out, then shook his head and stuffed it all back in. No point pretending it was life as usual. He unlocked the stairwell door and took the steps quietly, trying to collect his thoughts. How to tell her?

Despite Karen’s intuition that something was up, this was way beyond what she would be imagining. The key would be to do it slowly. To tell her they needed to talk. Sit down at the kitchen table. Start small, let her see the way the thing had built up, the net that had been woven around him. Get to the kidnapping last, after she’d had time to grasp everything else. She was whip-smart, and a realist; if he could make her see the reasons behind his decisions, she might understand.

He stood in front of the apartment door, took a deep breath, slid his key into the lock. What he was doing was right. He felt good about finally coming clean. Even dared to hope things might work out. Here goes.

For a split second after opening the door he wondered if he’d somehow gone one flight of stairs too far and opened the door to the wrong condo. Things looked different. It took his tired mind a second to figure out why.

Two suitcases and a half dozen moving boxes stood by the door.

“Hello, Danny.” She straightened from the cabinet she’d been packing. “You’re just in time to say good-bye.”

34

She’d practiced the phrasing, had run through it in her head, somehow knowing that he’d show up before she was done. Wanting him to? She couldn’t say. So when she heard the door open, she rose and said her line, calm as you please. No choked-back sobs, no trace of the crying fits prompted each time she opened a new cabinet, packed a coat he’d given her, weighed whether to take her books now or return for them later. She stood and said her line and only then looked at him. His face was a mess, a bruise purpling beneath one eye, scrapes across his cheek like he’d been jumped. He looked at her, and then at the boxes, and then he sagged, his shoulders slumping like something vital inside him had snapped.

Despite everything, she had to fight the urge to go to him, to hold him close and smell his skin and tell him that they would work it out, that everything was all right. But everything wasn’t all right, and instead they eyed each other like gunfighters.