Closing his hand on the shards of his boyhood, Marshall felt the points of the cross and the hockey sticks pushing into the flesh of palm and fingers. This was all that remained of who he had been before he was Butcher Boy.
The round smoothness of his father’s wedding ring clicked against the gold of Marshall ’s own wedding band, and he wondered why his mother’s ring hadn’t been in the jewelry box as well.
With that thought, the warm and fuzzy memories blasted out of his mind.
One ring had been taken and one left on its finger. Because Dylan had his mother’s cross for a souvenir and didn’t need anything else.
Dylan had taken the jewelry from the corpses after he killed them, and Rich had kept it for him. Kept it from the cops, more likely.
Who the fuck do you think you are, Psycho Boy? The Beaver? Dennis the Menace? Some cute little boy, prone to mischief? You fucking butchered everybody.
“I was eleven years old, for God’s sake,” Marshall whispered. “I was a little boy.”
The necklaces, Lena ’s and his mother’s, would have been drowned in their blood. Marshall was shaking his head, trying to see himself digging through matted hair and brains to steal away the last glitter of their lives.
“No,” he cried out and opened his hand: the crosses, the ring, the hockey pin, the brass tag.
There was nothing there of Rich’s. Dylan’s pin was there, in the box with the things taken from that night. Dylan. Mom. Dad. Lena. Even Ginger the cat.
Rich wasn’t there. If Dylan took them, why would he keep a memento of himself and not of his brother, another of his intended victims?
34
The emergency gas can Danny carried up the narrow stairs didn’t have more than a gallon in it, and the fuel was several years old, but from what he’d seen of the rat’s nest upstairs, it should suffice.
He was fairly sure Polly had no idea who’d attacked her, but she had to suspect it was Marshall. There was enough evidence Marsh could end up in prison-grown-up prison-for the rest of his life. Kicking the door open, he picked his way through the dark rooms using the flashlight he’d taken from the trunk when he’d retrieved the gasoline. The narrow beam played across the unmade bed, the littered floor, Vondra’s scrapbook.
He wondered if Marshall was featured in it, if the trial or Rochester was mentioned. There was no time to look. He followed his light into the bathroom and directed the beam into the tub.
“God, but you’re disgusting,” he said as he stared down at the plastic-and-blood-wrapped woman. “You ever see The Blob, Vondra? You could have played the title role.” Grabbing the shower curtain with both hands, he braced himself against the side of the old claw-foot tub and heaved. The plastic tore away, and the corpse flopped back the few inches he’d managed to raise it.
Peeling away the curtain, he looked for something to grab onto that wouldn’t give. The creepy drape she wore was already half torn from the body. Holding his breath, he fished out a fat hand. Red acrylic nails clattered against the side of the tub, and he jumped.
With a grunt, he pulled the body over the rim of the tub and staggered back as the wad of limbs and curtain slapped to the floor. Distorted like those of a drowned woman, Vondra’s dead eyes peered at him through a film of plastic.
Debris was plowed aside as he dragged her to the bed and propped her against it. It would have to do; he wasn’t going to throw his back out trying to lift her onto the mattress. Sparingly, he sloshed gasoline on the bedding. There were enough cigarette packs and matches around for it to look like she’d fallen asleep with a lit cigarette.
Maybe the investigators would look past the obvious; maybe they wouldn’t. Since Katrina, the building had had no insurance. There would be no monetary gain to the owner. New Orleans was filled with derelict buildings. There wasn’t a lot of interest in those the insurance companies didn’t have to fork out cash for. It was a risk he’d have to take.
“A scrapbook!” he said as he struck a match from one of the thousands of matchbooks lying about. “Photos, newspaper articles. I think your killer is off the hook; I think you died of stupidity,” he said. He tossed the match, heard it fizzle out, and struck another.
Fumes. It was the fumes that lit, not the gasoline itself. Danny took a few steps back from the bed, waited a minute for the fumes to build up, then struck another match and tossed it onto the pyre. A thin, blue tongue licked out, liked what it tasted, and flowed rapidly over the cloth and paper.
“Bingo,” he said and watched the rapidly growing fire for a second or two.
He needed the place to ignite quickly and cleanly. He needed to call Polly and warn her before Marshall found her.
The fire grew more voracious and began devouring the trash, half filling the bedroom. “Four million dollars in the bank, and I’m a cleaning lady,” he said. Trailing gasoline, he left the apartment.
Away from the building, where responding fire or policemen wouldn’t see him and wonder what he was doing in a bad neighborhood so late, Danny got into his car, a swift and classic BMW convertible. For a moment he sat behind the wheel listening to the grinding of the gears in his head before he realized he was grinding his teeth. He stopped the scrape of metal thoughts and tooth enamel and took his cell phone from his pocket.
For a moment, he toyed with the idea of calling Marsh, inviting him to the party.
He deserved to be there. Had he not gotten so full of himself over this marriage and family thing, Vondra would still be alive, and Polly and her kids would be safe. Polly Deschamps, not Polly Marchand.
There were only two Marchands, brothers.
He and Dylan had found the names on a crypt in a cemetery in Metairie. They’d just arrived in New Orleans. It was early spring-the dead of winter in Minnesota. Azaleas were blazing, kept from spontaneous ignition only by the intense cool green of new grass. Aboveground burials, the stuff of movies and old black-and-white photographs, lured them in from the highway.
The place was deserted but for a groundskeeper or two. Live oaks hushed the noise from I-10. They wandered in perfect harmony along the lanes, admiring the mausoleums. It was as close to peace as Richard had ever known. It was bliss. Just the two of them, safe in the city of the dead.
A mausoleum, small but exquisite in detail and design, stood between two monoliths; beside them it looked like a dollhouse. There were only two names on the tiny door, infants who had died at birth: Marshall Dillon Marchand, born and died December 1, 1872, and Daniel Richard Marchand, born and died December 1, 1872.
Identical twins.
It had been a sign and they embraced it. From that day on, they had been the Marchand brothers of New Orleans, and they had prospered. When it was just the two of them, life worked.
That Marsh had the occasional dalliance didn’t worry Danny overmuch. It was his brother’s tendency to obsess-an addiction to a cloying sort of relationship-that was dangerous.
Elaine would never know it, but Danny had saved her life. Even her rat-sized dog had survived. The incident smashed Marsh’s notions of recreating the same sort of sick family situation they’d had as kids.
Until Polly.
Danny hoped to keep Polly, Gracie, and Emma alive, but Marsh was becoming volatile. The business with the axe should have been enough to wake him up, but he was resisting the inevitable with a tenacity he’d not shown with Elaine.
He punched in his sister-in-law’s cell phone number.