Setting the Glock on the seat, he reached up, unhooked the medallion’s chain from the mirror, and looked at it. There was a carved image of Christopher, slogging across rough terrain with a walking stick, and a tiny, floating infant Jesus above his head, to whom Christopher’s head was turned, gazing upward beseechingly. The words SAINT CHRISTOPHER were etched into the medallion across the top, and at the bottom the simple request PROTECT US.
Thom got out of the car, opened the rear door, and regarded Brady’s remains. His faithful employee’s head was crammed against the back seat at an unnatural angle. Rigor had set it firmly in that position, and Brady’s distorted posture was fixed in time now.
Nobody had protected Brady.
Thom spread the chain wide, bent into the car, looped it over Brady’s head, and arranged the medallion so it hung neatly over the remains of the dead man’s chest.
“I was an asshole, Brady. I’m sorry. Thank you for everything.”
He closed the door, picked up the Glock off the front seat, and headed to Aubrey’s house.
33.
Aubrey’s house
Aubrey turned at the sound of Celeste’s scream and Rusty pushed through the front door, shoving her into the room. Aubrey shouted, but Rusty was quicker. He had a plan and the element of surprise going for him. Before she could fully react, he’d clamped a strong hand over her mouth and nose, stepped inside, and kicked the door shut behind him.
“I’m protecting you. Don’t fight!” he hissed in her ear, pulling her body tight against his and dragging her farther into the room.
Aubrey tried to scream but realized she couldn’t even breathe, with Rusty’s clammy fingers covering her nostrils. She sucked air hard and made as loud a noise as she could in her throat, hoping he’d get the message.
At the back of the house, she saw Celeste’s body slam up against the door frame outside, shoved by someone she couldn’t see. Celeste turned to object, more angry than frightened, but a man’s hand flashed into view and smacked her hard, across the face. Celeste shrieked and fell back again. Zielinski, her father, now rushed toward her, got a hand up under her arm like a vice-principal with a truant, kicked the back screen door open, and marched her into the house.
Scott, hearing the commotion, shouted from the kitchen and came running out, chopping knife in hand. “Get the fuck away from her!” he shouted, brandishing the knife toward Zielinski, but then he caught sight of Rusty, his hand suffocating Aubrey as he dragged her into the living room. Scott stared, wild-eyed, uncomprehending. “Rusty, what the fuck?!”
But no one had time to answer, as there was another bulky shape moving through the rear door. Espinoza took in the room quickly, eyes falling on the only exposed weapon, which was the knife in Scott’s hand. He swept toward him and Scott whirled, blade in front of him. Espinoza caught the boy’s wrist between his thumb and first two fingers and gave it a sharp twist.
Scott screamed, Aubrey heard his wrist snap, and the knife clattered to the floor.
One after another, Scott, Aubrey, and Celeste were thrown down on the couch, stunned and in pain. Aubrey gulped air and turned to the other two, to see if they were OK, while Rusty stood over them, shouting at them to calm down. It didn’t help.
Espinoza picked up the kitchen knife and moved quickly, closing curtains and locking the front door. The room turned dark.
Zielinski took a chair from the dining room table, set it across the coffee table from the sofa, and sat down opposite them.
Rusty, near the window, tried not to hyperventilate.
For a long, weird moment, nobody said anything.
Finally, Aubrey turned to Rusty and spoke in a low, angry voice. “What the fuck have you done now?”
Rusty looked away. Zielinski laughed, then turned back to the couch, his eyes falling on Celeste.
“Happy birthday, baby. Did you think I’d forget?”
Celeste spat in his direction. It fell short, but the message landed.
Zielinski shook his head and looked at the others. “Daughters.”
Aubrey, regaining her composure, sized up the three intruders, one after the other.
As calmly as she could muster, she asked the only question that mattered. “What do you want?”
Zielinski looked at her. A direct question deserved a straight answer. “Your brother’s money.”
Aubrey furrowed her brow. She looked back and forth from Rusty to Zielinski, but Rusty wouldn’t hold her eye. “I don’t have any money. And my brother isn’t here.”
“He will be. Let’s give him a minute.” He looked at Rusty. “He said twenty-four hours?”