The House That Death Built (7 page)

Rob slammed into his apartment at
midnight. The clock was ticking, and he felt the passage of every second like a
pinprick. Tiny wounds that were nothing in and of themselves. But too many
would prove fatal.

Too many would be the end of the
job.

Donna was waiting for him. She always
was – not much more for her to do. She hadn't had a job in all the time Rob
knew her, and she didn't seem much inclined to change that fact. It pissed him
off sometimes, that she wasn't interested in contributing, but then what did he
expect? It wasn't like she'd entered his life as a pillar of ambition when he
met her three years ago. At least she kept the place clean. Not that that
helped much.

Six years ago he'd had a nice
place. A loft overlooking Sunset, neighbors who were third-year attorneys at
one of the huge law firms that covered the city like highly educated tumors.
They were always surprised when they found out he was "nothing but a
waiter," and he could practically hear them calculating how to use this
fact as leverage for a raise: "My heavens, Mr. Managing Partner, even the
waiters at Rudolfo's make more than I do!"

It never failed to amuse.

He'd also had a BMW. And a bank
account with enough money that the interest meant an actual payout at year's
end.

And then the one job. That damn
job where the family – what was their name? – screwed the whole thing up.

He'd lost the loft a year later.
Moved to a series of apartments, each a step down – sometimes a
large
step down – from the previous one.

This one was the lowest of the
low. One bedroom, a kitchenette you had to pay attention when walking in or
you'd trip over the cheap vinyl flooring, walls so thin you could hear the
roaches screwing inside them.

Donna actually kind of fit the
place, now that he thought about it: not a good situation, but all he could
really expect given his circumstances. At least she was leggy, and he'd never
seen her wearing anything other than a miniskirt so short it was only a skirt
in the most technical sense.

She was in her mid-thirties,
though, so even with a great set of legs she still looked a bit off in her
barely-there outfits. Rob could tell she had once been young and fresh-faced
and beautiful, but she dressed like she still was.

No, that was wrong. She dressed
like she still
wished
she was young and fresh-faced, and that was
sadder. Because she knew the best parts of her life were over and all she had
was the fading memory of once-happiness. Hoping that a mini-skirt and a
spaghetti-strap crop top would somehow anchor her to better days.

She was sitting on the ratty
couch, turning pages on a two-month-old issue of
People
. She didn't move
when he came in, which meant she'd probably been drinking before he came home.

He cleared his throat. She jerked
and jumped to her feet.

"Sorry, Robby!" she
said, and ran to plant an over-wet kiss on his cheek. "Didn't hear you
coming in."

She almost ran to the fridge,
opening it (sure enough, only one six-pack inside instead of the two that had
been in there when he left for work) and removing two Pabsts.

Rob sat down at the small wood
table that straddled the thin line between the "dining" area – a six
by six space beside the kitchenette – and the rest of the front room. Donna put
both beers in front of him, then unscrewed both tops.

Rob took a swig from one. Donna
didn't sit down with him, which meant she'd finally gotten it through her skull
that he liked some downtime after work. Of the "alone" variety.

She stood at attention, though,
hovering nearby in case he needed something. Another thing she was finally
getting right. He looked at the newest set of bruises on her arms, both of the
groupings traveling from forearm to upper arm and then wrapping up to
shoulders.

She rubbed at her arms
self-consciously, as though worried he'd find the mars unattractive. On the
contrary, though – besides her legs, those bruises were just about the sexiest
things she had going.

"The group's coming
over," he said after a second swig.

For a moment Donna looked like
she might object. Rob almost hoped she would. It'd be a nice way to warm up for
the night.

She didn't, though. Just went to
the fridge and began putting out more beers.

There was a knock at the door.
The cheap wood rattled in the equally cheap frame. Rob figured that one of
these days the thing would just fall to atoms and that would be the end of the
front door.

Donna looked at him, unsure
whether to keep putting out beers or get the door.

Rob shook his head, disgusted.

Well, you're not keeping her
around for her brains.

He moved to the door. As he did,
Donna put out the last beer and then fled to the bedroom.

Rob opened the door to see Aaron.

Aaron was someone Rob tolerated.
But only barely. The guy had certain skills that came in useful from time to
time, but he was an utter buzzkill. There was something about him that drove
Rob halfway to Crazytown. It wasn't just that he'd cost them that job –

(
that job where everything
started downhill, where it slid down this hole with no end
)

– it was something else.
Something at once both deeper and more obvious. Occasionally Rob thought about
it, about why he hated the kid, and all he could come up with was an image of
the guy's face.

In this moment, with Aaron
standing there in front of him, he suddenly knew.

It was that Aaron could still
change
.

It wasn't that Rob hated the life
he'd chosen – not that,
never
that – but….

But wouldn't it be nice to
change? To at least have the
option
?

Rob was a man stuck in a prison,
as surely as most of his friends. Not a prison of steel and concrete, but one
of habit, of predilection, of
need
. He was who he was because there was
no way for him to be anything else.

Aaron, though… the younger man
still seemed like he had a choice in him. Like he could walk away from this
life if he wanted.

And that was a large part of why
he kept Aaron on the team. Part of it was his usefulness. But part of it was
that he simply couldn't bear to see someone unchained to this life, when he was
so thoroughly a prisoner of it.

He smiled at Aaron, and the smile
stretched as wide as his hatred.

"Aaron," he said.

"Hey, Rob," said Aaron.
The other man was boyish, shy. A face that told the world everything it had to
tell.

Rob widened his grin, knowing
that for every centimeter it grew, Aaron would be that much more uncomfortable.
And knowing that was a good thing.

They waited there like that for a
moment – long enough that Aaron started to fidget, then looked down at his
shoes.

Rob finally let the kid off the
hook. He kept the wolf grin on his face, but moved to the side to indicate the
other man should come in.

"You get it?" he said
as Aaron slid past him.

Aaron stopped mid-step. He
nodded.

"And…?"

Another hesitation, then Aaron
said, "He's got a safe. Master bedroom closet."

Just like the bad one. The one
where it all fell apart.

Rob shoved that thought aside.

This isn't that job. This is a
new one, the beginning of a life worth living. A life without paper walls or
neighbors who deal meth out of their apartment or a woman who's barely worth
the effort I put in.

Rob's grin somehow contrived to
grow a bit more. He was actually rubbing his hands together.

"I knew it," he said.
"Some guys, you can just tell." He gestured at the
"kitchen" table. "Pull up a chair."

Aaron shoved his hands deep in
his pockets. "That's okay. I… I doubt I'll be staying long."

Rob's grin disappeared, swallowed
in a thundercloud that darkened his expression. "Take a goddam seat,"
he said.

Aaron nodded. Cowed. It was
almost as nice to see as the sight of Donna just after one of their many
"hands-on" lessons in home management.

Aaron sat down at the table. It
squeaked, betraying the plastic that lay under its thin veneer. He didn't take
a beer. Rob almost took him to task for that, too –

(
What, my beer not good enough
for Your Highness?
)

– but another knock at the door
derailed the moment.

Rob opened the door. This time it
was Tommy and Kayla – faces he was actually glad to see. More or less.

As always, it was Tommy he
noticed first. Tommy, with his huge frame and dark hair and eyes that made the
slick whiteness of his triple scars –

(
that job it's always that
damn job
)

– stand out all the more.

And, as always, it was Kayla that
eventually drew his attention, commanded his eyes to stay on her.

She was a looker, no doubt. The
resemblance to her brother was clear, but where his strong features spoke of
strength and mayhem barely held in check, on her they softened to create any
man's vision of beauty. Even the piercings in ears, nose, and lip didn't change
that – nor did the many tattoos that wrapped her neck and completely sleeved
her right arm. When they first met he thought for a moment what a good lay
she'd be.

A
moment
.

Then he noticed what was behind
her eyes. Something darker and somehow more frightening than the promise of
violence her brother's gaze held. She wasn't a murderer at heart. Nothing so
focused. She was a
tornado
. A force of nature that could destroy or save
at a whim. To whom one corpse meant exactly the same as one life granted.

A tornado exists only to exist.
It feeds itself to maintain its life, draws winds to become more than it has
been. But nothing other than that life matters. Nothing more than a continuance
of self.

That was Kayla. And that was why
he always watched her, even with a threat like Tommy beside her. She would
always act for herself, but the moment his needs didn't align with hers….

Tommy was holding a long
cardboard documents tube. He gave it a twirl in his big hands, then handed it
over to Rob.

"Merry Christmas," said
the big man.

Kayla eyed the apartment with a
discerning – and clearly disapproving – eye. "I like what you've done with
the place."

Anyone else said that, Rob would
see them dead and buried before the end of the night. From Kayla –

(
I'm not scared of her. Not.
Scared.
)

– he just…
overlooked
it.

Yeah. Overlooked. Not ignored.
Not scared.

Rob motioned the siblings to the
table. Tommy sat gingerly on one of the cheap chairs, clearly concerned that it
would break under his weight. Kayla took the one beside him, grabbing one of
the beers then leaning back on the chair's rear legs and kicking her feet up
onto the table.

Neither of them acknowledged
Aaron. They held him as much responsible for recent bad luck as Rob did.

Tommy glanced at the youngest
member of the team a moment later. Just a quick look, but enough to show Rob
that the big man was considering taking the kid to task.

People probably didn't survive
Tommy doing that.

And – like it or not – they'd
need Aaron tonight.

"I found a good one,"
he said, trying to nip burgeoning violence in the bud. "Easy mark."

He opened the tube that Tommy had
brought. Inside were architectural plans – a sheaf of papers that each showed a
different aspect of a building. The top sheet was a key, showing symbols used
throughout the plans. Below that, a series of pages that showed topographical
and landscaping details. Rob flipped past both, his fingers quickly finding the
architectural and structural drawings.