Barney lay on the ground, holding his throat.
“Fuck you all,” Nick said. The barrel of the gun jerked in his unsteady hand. Pull the trigger, and he might hit Frankie or Loretta. Point a few degrees higher, and only the tree would get it. Drop a few degrees, and Irene and Buddy could be shot.
Irene had time to think, Yes, he’s telling the truth. We are all fucked.
FRANKIE
He couldn’t take his eyes off the gun. It twitched and weaved, commanding his attention like a pinball. The fact that a man was holding it was almost immaterial.
Buddy lay on the ground behind him, probably shot. Irene perched over him, talking, though he couldn’t hear what she was saying. The gun was everything.
When he played pinball, there’d been many moments when the ball was moving too fast, pinging around the table, responding only to the physics of bumper and rail. Every game, no matter how good it had been up till then, ended the same way: the ball dropping between the paddles, heading for the drain, and not a thing he could do about it. The waiting almost made him drowsy.
He sensed Nick’s hand tensing on the trigger. He saw the gun nose toward him. It was a relief, really. Then the mouth of the barrel moved a few centimeters, and he realized that the bullet would miss him.
The gun fired. And fired again, and again. That quick.
Loretta said, “Oh.” She looked down, and her eyes widened.
A wad of silver hovered in the air a few inches from her chest. The bullets had nestled together. As she watched, they became mercurial, smoothing into a perfect little ball bearing. Then gravity resumed, and the ball dropped to the ground.
“Jesus fucking…” Nick stepped back, mouth slack, unable to finish the curse. He was afraid. Afraid like Lonnie. Then he turned and ran toward the house, still holding the gun.
Irene said, “Frankie.”
He glanced behind him. Irene crouched beside Buddy, who lay on the ground holding his chest.
“The kids,” she said.
Oh God. The children were in the house.
“Get that fucker,” Loretta said.
Nick had reached the back patio. Archibald stepped forward and Nick shouted and pointed the gun at his face. Then he yanked open the door and vanished inside. Frankie heard a second shout a moment later.
“Take care of Buddy!” Frankie yelled to Loretta, and sprinted for the house. He lurched inside and had to stop short. A dark-haired man knelt on the kitchen floor, holding a hand to his bloody mouth. It was the guy Irene had been having sex with in the station wagon.
“Guh,” the boyfriend said.
“He’s got a gun. I know.”
“No. Guh.” The boyfriend lifted his hand. He was holding Nick’s pistol.
“How the hell did you do that?”
“That way,” the guy said, and pointed toward the living room.
Nick had reached the front door. Were the kids out front? Then Nick pushed through the door—and went tumbling. His feet flew into the air, and he hit the ground.
People used to say to Frankie, You look like a wrestler, ever do time on the mat? And Frankie would tell them fight stories, about how it was nothing like professional wrestling. Nobody flies off the ropes. Nobody throws “atomic drops.” No, a real wrestler puts you on the ground and chokes you out.
Frankie had never been a wrestler, real or otherwise. But he’d watched a lot of TV.
Two seconds later, he launched himself from the front door and dropped onto Nick Pusateri like Andre the fucking Giant.
24
BUDDY
He’s trying to concentrate despite all the distractions. The pain in his chest is terrifying, and Irene’s tearful face makes him want to soothe her, but there’s no time.
He squints at his watch. The second hand is climbing, climbing. Finally it reaches the notch that stands for the twelve. It’s 12:02. He imagines the sound of the magnetic lock disengaging on the basement door, but he’s too far away to hear it. Worse, he has no memory of the children emerging safely from the bunker he built for them. He only can remember the next sixty seconds.
It’s not an interesting memory. Mostly it involves him lying here on the ground, with Irene crying over him. And he remembers his father calling out for help.
So far, the plan is working, if obeying the dictates of faulty memory can be called a plan. For the last seven months he’s lived in a state of stress, constantly worried that he was forgetting a key detail, or that he’d misunderstood some part of the vision. The rest of the time he was afraid that he was remembering too much, locking in the future when he needed to leave more in the shadows, allowing free will to…be free. Either way was a trap. When he was a boy, he saw so much, and changed nothing. Nothing to the better anyway. What if, by trying to see less, he made everything worse?
Irene brushes the tears from his eyes. “It’s okay,” she says. “I’m here.”
“I’m glad,” he says.
Loretta, weeping mascara, leans over him and says, “I’ll call nine-one-one.” He doesn’t tell her he’s already called them. It will make her feel useful if she can help.
Irene puts her hand on his. “I’m going to need to take a quick look, okay?”
He remembers this moment, so how can he stop her? Soon she’ll do whatever she wants. He moves his hand out of the way.
She sees the hole in his shirt. She frowns.
“It’s okay,” he says. Meaning it doesn’t hurt, too much.
She undoes a button, then another. “What is this, Buddy?”
“Mom gave it to me,” he says.
She lifts the medal from his chest. He winces, because the impact has bruised him. Then she looks at his skin. There’s no blood.
“You’re one lucky son of a bitch,” she says.
“No,” he says. “I’m not.”
MATTY
He slammed back into his body so hard that it shook the washing machine. He opened his eyes, and Malice was squatting in front of him, her worried face inches from his.
“I heard gunshots!” she said. “What’s happening?”
Oh God, what wasn’t happening? “There was an explosion, and Grandpa Teddy fell, and then your dad got shot—”
“What?!”
“But not shot! Now he’s in the front yard, and they’re fighting—”
Julian yelled, “The door opened!”
Malice bolted from the laundry room. Matty pushed himself to his feet, feeling dizzy. The kids had stopped playing with Mr. Banks. Jun cradled him in her arms. The other kids looked scared.
Malice ran out the door, and Polly and Cassie chased after her. “Front yard!” Malice yelled.
“Don’t go out there!” Matty said.
Julian gave him a scornful look and left the room. Matty turned to Jun. “You’re in charge. Don’t let Luke and Adrian go up there, okay?”
“I’m older than she is!” Luke said.
Matty ran up the stairs, and saw Malice, the twins, and Julian running toward the front door. “Stop!” he yelled. “They have guns!” They ignored him and ran to the front lawn.
Frankie straddled Nick Pusateri, punching down. Nick had his forearms up, protecting his face.
The twins screamed. Frankie glanced over his shoulder. His face was covered with blood, as it had been when Matty had seen him in the backyard. The girls screamed again. “Get back,” Frankie said.