Russell is crying now, babbling unintelligible words, spittle raining down from his mouth. He strikes his father’s bloodied face. Each time he pulls a fist back, more skin is scraped away from his knuckles by the old man’s dentures. Russell mutters, but the words are lost underneath sobs. Victor takes him by the shoulders and pulls him close until the crying ceases. He strokes Russell’s back in a gesture that seems proud. I want to retreat upstairs but am too afraid of making noise. Even my breath sounds audible in the silence. Rosita still has my wrist in her grasp. She squeezes it tighter and whispers a prayer.
Victor selects a jagged piece of mirror from the floor and drags it across Mr. Watson’s neck. Blood sprays the far wall. Russell doesn’t speak, just watches it drip and run, the arc of the flow bringing him out of his rage. Just a few tics and twitches from the body, then the muscles sag. I turn away, smothered by the sudden absence. The truth that’s all we are.
The entire room is suddenly illuminated in pristine light. For a moment, I think my father was right about the Rapture and we’re all about to receive God’s judgment while standing over a corpse, then another flash erupts. I hear the snicker of a shutter closing as my eyes try to adjust. The men downstairs look up, and for the first time I realize no one is holding my hand. Rosita leans over the banister with her camera trained on them. The lens telescopes outward as she takes another photo. Now the shutter sounds like the cocking of a gun.
“Give me that,” Russell shouts. He begins to climb the stairs with a bloody hand extended. Victor is more deliberate. He places his hat on his head, wraps his hand in a red bandana from his pocket and takes up another shard of mirror to gut us with before following. I back up the stairs with my cane raised like a sword.
“I want that camera,” Russell says.
I throw the guitar case. It sails over Russell’s shoulder and hits the far wall. The latches pop open and the guitar falls out with a musical crash. The pieces of broken record scatter across the hardwood. When he’s in range, I clip Russell on the shoulder with my cane. He tumbles down the stairs, cracks his head at the foot of the flight and lies holding the back of his neck. Victor doesn’t stop, just steps over his wounded friend to begin his ascent. He takes the stairs two at a time, the piece of mirror flashing as he chases us back toward the hall. When we reach Victor’s room, Rosita pulls me inside, locks the door and puts her back against it.
“Is he dead?” she asks. I don’t know if she means Russell or his father. Each thought passes through my mind too slippery with fear to grasp. The panic won’t let me concentrate and I don’t know how to stop it. I’ve never felt anything like this before. Not even frozen under the bright lights on a stage, or with The Reverend’s hands on my throat. The closest was when I still believed in the Hellfire and brimstone version of God who would judge me after death. Thinking about it now, I’m more frightened of the eternal nothing that is coming as soon as Victor gets through the door.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Rosita gathers up the bedsheets that still smell of Victor and Caroline’s sex. I wonder where Caroline is hiding but can’t go back into the hall to find her. Outside the door, boot heels click on the stairs. Rosita tosses the sheets aside and dumps the contents of the nightstand drawers onto the mattress.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Looking for that Goddamned gun.”
She finds a letter opener among the bits of paper, pens and other assorted junk, and slips it into her back pocket while she rifles through Victor’s denim jacket hanging on the bedpost. Something collides with the door hard enough to shake the frame. The wood splinters around the hinges, threatening to buckle with the next blow.
“Block it,” she shouts.
I put my back against it, but my misshapen hump keeps me from applying even pressure. Another strike knocks me away, so Rosita braces herself against the door and tosses me the jacket. I’m unsure what to do with the balled fabric.
“Find the car keys,” Rosita says.
Another kick, then silence before Russell’s voice comes through the wood.
“Everything’s okay,” Russell says. “We can figure this out.”
My trembling hands make it hard to grope inside the pockets. I finally manage to slip one inside where keys poke my palm. I hold them up, the metal tinkling as I shake them for Rosita’s attention.
“Can you walk without that?” Rosita asks, pointing at my cane.
“Sort of,” I say.
“Give it here.”
She takes on something like a samurai’s stance. The cane held high overhead in her right hand, the letter opener a dagger in her left. The camera bags still dangle from her shoulder.
“Straight downstairs,” she says. “Don’t stop for anything.”
I want to tell her that I can’t do it. My legs feel too weak to carry the rest of me down the hall, but I think of that arterial spray from Watson’s neck and understand we don’t have any choice.
“What about Caroline?” I ask.
“I haven’t seen her come out of the bathroom. Look, we’ve got to get out of here.”
Rosita throws the door open before I can protest. Russell barrels forward as she brings the cane down. The first swing strikes his neck, the second drives him back as she jabs into his stomach and groin. He flails, trying to deflect the blows, but the cane cuts the air with a sound reminiscent of a grandmother’s switch. Every exposed patch of skin Rosita hits throbs red until Russell is forced back.
“Goddamn,” he says, but Rosita doesn’t relent. She swipes at his chin with the letter opener. Victor watches from the top of the stairs, still holding the long piece of mirror. Russell comes forward again. As he ducks to dodge the next stab with the letter opener, Rosita snaps the cane across his lower back. After a final gouge at his stomach with the splintered end, Rosita tosses it away.
“I’ll stab your eyes out,” she says, raising the letter opener. “I mean it, fucker.”
“I just want the camera,” Russell says. He’s finished, panting as he rests against the wall.
Rosita pulls me forward. My legs do their best to keep up as her powerful stride closes the distance toward Victor. It looks like she is going to tackle him down the stairs like a runner rushing home plate, but Rosita slows and brandishes the letter opener at Victor’s face. I wait for the gun, sure that he’ll draw it from the back of his pants and shoot us down. Instead, Victor raises his hands in surrender and steps aside. I grab the handrail as we stagger down the stairs. At the bottom, I trip over my guitar case and turn hoping for a final glimpse of Caroline, but Rosita takes me by the collar.
“Don’t stop,” she says.
I toss her the car keys as soon as we hit sunlight. She scratches the paint fumbling with the hearse’s lock. I know I can’t go back after Caroline, that Russell and Victor would only beat me while Rosita escaped, but the guilt of leaving her presses down until my lungs refuse to fill.