Brother (27 page)

“Damn carburetor's dead,” he grumbled. A mundane problem for an ordinary life. For a split second Michael forgot it all—Momma's girls and Misty's grave. For the briefest moment, they were nothing but father and son casting twin scowls at a machine that refused to work, bound by a common goal.

“Might have parts in the shed,” Michael announced. “Want me to go look?”

“Already did,” Wade said. “Didn't see what I was lookin' for. Probably need to drive out to the yard.”

“Shouldn't go while they're open, though. I'll go tell Reb to get ready. We should probably take some meat for that dog they've got watchin' the place.”

“Nah, forget it,” Wade told him. “We'll go later. Go on inside. Momma's been waitin' on you.”

Michael frowned at that, the mention of Momma a staunch reminder that life was far more complicated than car trouble, that the Morrows were more than a standard gang of yokels. Momma made them special. She made them what they were.

“Did I do somethin' wrong?”

“Dunno. Best go in and find out.”

Michael reluctantly turned away from the truck. He would have much rather stayed outside with his dad and worked all night on that truck, so long as he didn't have to go back inside. It would have been a welcome reprieve from knowing that he wasn't normal, that none of them were. Perhaps a conventional task here and there would magically transform them from monsters to people.

Climbing the steps of the back porch, Michael hesitated. The kitchen was dark, which was unusual. The kitchen light burned longer than any other inside the farmhouse. Sometimes it clicked on before the sun rose and glowed bright long after dark. The kitchen was where Michael would forever place his mother in his memory. He'd remember her standing at the stove or peeling potatoes at the counter, her apron strings tied tight around her waist.

He pulled open the screen door and stepped inside the house.

“Momma?”

Scanning the darkness, his vision strained to see through the shadows that had settled like dust bunnies in the corners of the room. He frowned at the bare bulb that hung overhead. He reached up as he passed it. It radiated heat, as though someone had flipped it off only moments before. Michael thought he had seen it burning when he had come through the trees, but he couldn't be sure.

That was when he spotted a flicker of light coming from just down the hall, a warm dancing glow, like firelight. The soft yellow light made the dingy old wallpaper look solemnly pretty—the kind of haunting appeal that only ancient things possessed.

Following the glow, Michael slowly crossed the kitchen and stepped into the hall.

He turned the corner and sucked in a breath of surprise. Golden sparklers burned like stars as they jutted out of a birthday cake sitting on the dining room table. Rebel sat in Misty's old seat, that strange smile of his pulled tight across his lips. Momma stood behind him, her fingers wrapped around the top of the wooden-backed chair. And for the briefest of moments, Michael swore he could see Misty Dawn sitting at the far end of the table, where the shadows were darkest. Her ghost was attending the party, not daring to miss his birthday, even in death.

“Surprise,” Reb said. He rose from his seat and met Michael at the head of the table, then patted him on the back as if to wish him well. “We were worried you wouldn't make it. Woulda been a waste of perfectly good cake.”

Michael smiled at the sparkling confection despite himself. It shone like a supernova, and again he swore he saw Misty thrown into relief. He blinked, his smile wavering as he did a double take.

“What? You see somethin'?” Reb raised an eyebrow at the darkness on the opposite side of the room.

Michael was ready to shake his head and deny he'd seen anything. It was just a trick of the light, his imagination bringing his sister back for a special occasion. It was easy to forget that she was gone for good. That she wouldn't be playing her records upstairs or dancing in the hallway or beaming at him when he gave her a new piece of pilfered jewelry. But before he had a chance to dismiss it all, a muffled cry came from the far side of the table.

Michael's head snapped to the side.

His heart stopped dead as Rebel's smile morphed into a serpentine leer.

“So, I know you've been havin' doubts,” he said. “Stuff about leavin' us, about wantin' to run off in search of somethin' better, whatever that means. So I got to wonderin', why does my baby brother want to go lookin' for somethin' better than what he's already got? What's he missin' that he thinks he can find somewhere else? And then I realized . . . shit, it's probably
my own
damn fault.”

Michael was only half-listening over the thud of his heart. His eyes were fixed on the dark side of the room, trying to see past the glare of sparklers and into the shadows there. Reb, however, was a fan of undivided attention. He slapped his hand onto Michael's shoulder and gave it a rough squeeze, drawing his brother back to him.

“I mean, I kind of rub it in your face, huh? The whole adopted thing? That can't feel good. Shit, of
course
you want to leave.” Reb almost looked solemn in the flickering glow, but Michael assured himself it was only a trick of the light. Rebel never looked solemn. It was as if he was physically incapable of it. “And now with Misty gone, you're lonely. I admit, I ain't the best big brother I could be.”

Michael swallowed, his mouth dry. He couldn't help looking back to the shadows. There was something terrible in that darkness, and he was terrified to know what it was.

“So, to be a better brother, I got you two presents instead of one,” Reb announced. With that, he stepped over to the cake and gave it a shove across the tabletop.

Michael watched the plate skitter across the wood, the blinding brightness of the sparklers decaying the gloom.

For a moment, he was sure it was Misty come back from the dead—a miracle, like Jesus resurrected. But then the girl shook her head, trying to cry out past the silver duct tape that covered her mouth. Her hair tumbled across her shoulders as she attempted to wriggle free, but it was no use. She was bound to the chair by loops of tape—wrists to armrests, ankles to chair legs.

“Lucy was supposed to be for me,” Rebel explained, “but this is better.”

Michael couldn't speak.

His pulse thudded in his ears.

The flare of sparklers hurt his eyes, like looking into the sun.

He turned to face his brother, shook his head in silent refusal.

No, he wouldn't do this.

No, he wouldn't go along with it.

No. He wouldn't.

Not this time.

No way.

His eyes searched the room. Momma remained where she had been all along, gripping the chair, but Wade was nowhere to be seen.

“I had a feelin' you'd get overwhelmed. It happens,” Reb said. “You know that rifle you used to hunt with when we were kids? I got that thing for Christmas one year, and I was so surprised to get it that I ran upstairs and cried all faggy like a girl. I guess I couldn't get over the fact that it was for me, or maybe I felt guilty that I was the only one who got somethin' great while everyone else got shit.” He shrugged. “Hell, I don't know, but I got all goddamn weepy about it and nearly told Wade to take it back. I guess you could say I was a sensitive little fucker, just like you.” He smacked Michael on the back. “Consider this my way of sayin' sorry for being such an ass for so long. I think them fancy folks up in New York City would call it divine inspiration; a little push in the right direction, since you've been so damn confused . . .”

When Wade stepped into the dining room, Michael's gaze darted to him for help, but Wade wasn't alone.

A scream clambered up Michael's throat.

Alice twisted against Wade's grasp, taped up like Lucy, mascara running down her cheeks. He swore he could hear her yelling his name deep in her throat—desperate pleas for help. Suddenly it all became clear. Wade had been waiting outside, bent over his truck, staking Michael out the way he and Reb scoped out marks. Wade had been waiting for Michael to come home as part of the surprise.

Michael made a sudden move for his father, ready to tear Alice from his grasp, but Rebel intercepted him. He pressed his palms firmly against Michael's shoulders to hold him back, his cold smile dancing in the light.

“Whoa whoa whoa, take it easy, Mikey. Nobody's gonna hurt Alice.”

Michael stared wild-eyed at Reb's grinning face.

The room fell into a sickening spin.

His breath came in ragged gasps.

“Calm the fuck down, huh? I worked a long time on this. Don't ruin the fun.”

Wade pushed Alice further into the dining room, and she cried harder when she saw Lucy at the far end of the table. The tears in her eyes flashed like wildfire. Her head whipped around to look at Michael for a second time, and despite the tape that covered her mouth from cheek to cheek, her terror was unmistakable.

Reb's fingers dug into Michael's shoulders to keep him in place. “You wanna be a Morrow, don't you? Bound by blood and all that shit? Only problem is, your blood ain't ours. But Lucy's will do.”

Momma placed a gingham-checked tea towel onto the table, unfolding it flap by flap to reveal the same knife she had used on Misty Dawn. The blade winked with a warm orange glow. Both Alice and Lucy released a communal moan of fear and disbelief, but there was no doubt as to what the Morrows expected to happen here. Alice tried to jerk out of Wade's grasp again but she hardly gained an inch. Lucy thrashed against the chair, her face twisted with animalistic fear. But she couldn't move, couldn't so much as make the chair legs rattle against the hardwood floor.

“No,” Michael whispered, his gaze frozen on the knife.

Rebel drew in a breath and plucked the blade off of the table with a disappointed look. “Refusin' gifts is rude, Mikey,” he murmured. “And, see, I wouldn't mind so much if this whole thing hadn't taken so much effort to put together. It's not easy keepin' somethin' like this a secret when you've got someone shadowin' your every move.” He slapped the knife against ­Michael's chest, the tip pointing up toward his chin, the wooden handle crushed against his sternum. “I guess you could say this gift is nonrefundable.”

Reb gave Michael a push toward Lucy, who screeched when they both inched toward her. She fought against her restraints, her face puffy with tears, her hair glued to her wet cheeks.

Michael kept his distance, but Reb continued forward. He stepped behind Lucy, then placed his hands on her shoulders with a thoughtful expression. She shrank away from his touch, but Reb either didn't notice or care. He leaned down, pressed his cheek against hers, and flashed Michael a smile as though the two were posing for a gruesome photograph. Lucy gagged and wept while Rebel waited for Michael to take it all in.

“I told Momma about your plans to leave us, and she got real upset,” he explained. “She almost got teary-eyed thinkin' about her baby boy runnin' off into the big bad world. It's dangerous out there, you know.” His dour expression grew into wicked amusement. “She got worried, Michael, that maybe you wanted to find your
real
momma, and if you did, you'd forget all about us—forget all about
her
.”

Michael's eyes darted to Momma, but Momma's face was blank. It was that same hollow-eyed emptiness he'd seen just before she dragged the knife across Misty's throat.

“That's a common fear of parents who adopt kids, you know,” Reb continued. “Losin' the kid they raised as their own to the assholes who dumped 'em like a bag of trash along the side of the road. You were too young to remember, but
I
remember. You, sittin' out there with a sign, sellin' rocks, like you were tryin' to prove you were worth somethin' . . .”

“I don't wanna leave.” Michael spoke the words into the room, imploring for her to believe him. “Momma, I don't . . . I swear, I don't.” He did, but he wouldn't. Not if it cost Alice and Lucy their lives. He'd let that dream go. He'd forget the postcards. Forget Times Square. Forget that bright-pink hotel on the beach.

“Except you're lyin'.” Rebel looked disappointed. He stepped away from Lucy and returned to Michael's side, looping his arm around his shoulders. “We all know you're lyin', and that's against the rules. Now you gotta make it up to us. Time to prove you really are worth somethin' after all.”

The room tilted on its axis.

Had Reb not been close, Michael would have toppled against the table, his knees suddenly refusing to serve their purpose.

Reb tapped his finger against the blade of the knife that Michael hugged against his chest, then leaned over to speak quietly into his ear. “You take that and you show Momma she raised you right. Or forget all about it and tell us that you don't wanna be part of this family after all.”

“And if I do that . . . ?” Michael asked, his words parched, cracking beneath the strain of his own fear. He already knew the answer, but he had to hear it to know it was true. He needed to be reassured that this wasn't some terrible nightmare, that he hadn't fallen asleep next to Misty's grave, that this wasn't his worst fear realized, conjured by an overactive imagination, by grief and anger and stifled hate.

“Well, if you do that, it ain't gonna be such a happy birthday,” Reb murmured. “If you do that, you and Alice are gonna be together forever, but not in the way you want. And Lucy's gonna stay right here.” He winked at her. “After all, there ain't no use in wastin' a perfectly good strawberry blonde.”

Sick with the thud of his own heartbeat, Michael shot a look over at Alice. As soon as their eyes met, she shook her head frantically as if to say no—whatever Reb had told him, he didn't have to do it. There were other options. But that was wrong and Michael knew it. There was no choice. It was down to Lucy or to the three of them together. Alice still had a chance. She would hate him, but he could still save her, offer her some shred of salvation.