He started walking.
He understood how Bill Megan had felt, why he had had to do what he did. It was the only possible response, the only way to make sure that mistakes were paid for and that they would not happen again. It was just, it was justice, and there was something both invigorating and fulfilling about knowing that he was about to put things right.
The gun felt good in his grip, like a part of him. He walked slowly, silently, careful not to put too much of his weight on the creaky boards. Outside, the wind increased in volume, the susurrous sand growing in intensity. It sounded to him like music.
Sasha’s door was the first one he came to, and he pushed it open, gun extended. He walked into his daughter’s room. She’d pulled her blanket up, bunching it around her midsection, and the bottom of her body was exposed to the open air. She was lying on her side, and her legs were scissored so that he could see her crotch. Her panties were pulled tight, and he saw the slight bulge of her pubic mound, the crease of her vulva. There was what looked like dried blood on the material, but he ignored that, saw only the outline beneath the stained underpants.
She stirred in her sleep, her legs spreading wider, and he understood what was going on here.
The slut wanted him to fuck her.
The anger began building within him, the rage he’d been conserving all day blossoming into a white-hot, righteous wrath. Here she was, beaten and bruised, and all she could think about was getting that little hole filled up again as quickly as possible. She was just like her mother, hungry for dick, any dick, wanting only to be filled up with man meat, and he was sickened thinking that she wanted to have intercourse with him, her own father.
The beating she’d received from whatever guy had banged her had obviously not been enough to teach her a lesson, and now it was up to him to point out the error of her ways, to make sure she never did anything like this again.
He walked over. She was only pretending to be asleep, and he kicked the bed hard, forcing her to give up the ruse. She sat up, acting as though she was startled, her eyes opening wide with what could have been terror but was obviously lust.
She saw the gun in his hand, looked into his eyes, knew what he intended to do.
“No!” Sasha screamed.
He shot her in the crotch, giggled as a wash of blood spread over her nightgown. “You’re not going to be able to put anything else in there, bitch.”
She was thrashing around, making a funny gurgling sound, and he could not help laughing. The blood was everywhere, and an intoxicating charge surged through him as he looked at what he’d done. He thought of the Molokans’ wimpy little prohibitions against violence, their stupid outmoded adherence to the letter of the Bible, and he knew he was more alive in this moment than they would ever be.
Why hadn’t he done this before?
Sasha was still jerking spasmodically, arms outstretched, back arched, and he lifted the revolver, pointed it at her midsection and fired again.
More spasms, more blood. Then she finally stopped moving, and he smiled to himself as he opened the door, walked out into the hall.
“Next,” he said.
2
Adam heard everything through the walls between their rooms, and even as the agonizing emptiness of loss ripped through his guts, even as that was replaced by terror and fear, he was thinking, moving, and he looked quickly around his bedroom for, first, someplace to hide, and, second, a weapon.
There was no place to hide, and if he jumped out the window from this high up he’d probably break his leg and be caught, so he concentrated on finding something to fight with, but for a brief, panicked second it looked as though he was going to be screwed. There was nothing here he could use.
Then he remembered, and he grabbed the flashlight from underneath his bed. It was a big one, an old one made out of metal, and he and Roberto had often made contingency plans to use it as a weapon should anyone attempt to break into their tent while they were camping in the backyard. It was no match for a gun, but he had no choice. It would have to do.
He ran over to the door, stood next to it, flashlight held high. He hadn’t even known that his dad had a gun, and the revelation shocked him to the core. Even after all that had happened, even after they’d tried to trap his dad in the attic, he hadn’t really believed that his father would snap like this, would go this far. He might get angry, yeah. Might threaten them and throw things around. But murder them? Kill his own children? That he never would have believed.
But he’d heard it.
He knew it was true.
And he knew he was next.
His hands were sweaty, his heart pounding. It was hard to breathe, but though the wind outside seemed deafening, he did not allow himself to suck in the air he needed. He was afraid it would be too loud, his dad would hear. He rationed his air, forcing himself to keep his mouth closed, to breathe through his nose and take short, shallow breaths.
In the hall, his father’s footsteps drew closer.
The flashlight slipped out of his hands.
It fell to the floor, banging loudly against the hardwood, the clattering noise of its landing distinct even above the sound of the sandstorm. He crouched down, scrambled to pick it up.
He heard his father’s careful footstep on the hall floor.
“Son?”
He was so scared that he wanted to cry, felt like he was going to wet his pants, but he remained in place against the wall, next to the door, the hard plastic nub of the light switch digging into his back. He would only get one chance, he knew, one shot—if that—and he’d better make it good. Most likely, he would be killed instantly. His father would probably be expecting something: he’d heard the flashlight fall, and he would no doubt come in like a cop, swinging his gun around in a semicircle, ready to shoot at the slightest sign of movement.
Adam held his breath.
His father walked through the door.
He swung hard, hitting his dad in the head. He swung with all his might, with a ferocity he had never been able to manage playing baseball during PE, and the blow connected, the shock wave passing through the metal into his hand and almost causing him to drop the flashlight.
His father fell to the floor.
“Thank God,” his mother cried. “Thank God!”
He picked up the flashlight, turned it on, shone it toward her. She stood in the hallway, knife raised, both arms shaking, her knees practically buckling. She’d obviously heard the shots from downstairs and had come up here to save him, and though she hadn’t had to attack his father, the fact that she was willing to do so filled Adam with gratitude, relief, and a childish sort of happiness. It was a brave, selfless love that had brought her up here, into the mouth of danger, and at that moment he felt closer to her than he ever had before.
His father was on the ground, bleeding, lying perfectly still, and Adam rushed over his unmoving body to give his mother a quick, hard hug. She squeezed back, but she was already moving away, bending down, checking to see if his dad was… what? Unconscious?
Dead?
He’d automatically assumed that he’d just knocked his father out. But what if he was dead? What if he’d killed him?