Little Michelle exclaimed, “Daddy, what’s happening?” She could hardly get the words out.
Martin looked at them. He smiled sweetly. “Nothing, darling, nothing at all.”
Amaia was outraged. “Shut up, Lenx, and do what I say!”
Don’t let him talk to them!
“Seems there’s been a mistake. My name is Robert Davis, and I don’t know anyone named—”
“That’s enough! Not another word!”
The women whimpered. The girl and the newborn shrieked and wept.
“Reassure your family. Now!”
“Just huddle down, darlings, like quiet little mice,” he said. “This will be over soon.”
The teenage son was the only one to disobey.
Keep calm. You’ve almost got him.
“Martin Lenx, drop your gun and raise your hands. This is your last warning!”
Martin didn’t drop his gun, but he slowly raised his arms and turned to face her.
No, no! This is going wrong!
Martin was moving—He shouldn’t be moving—he was turning; he wanted to see her.
Martin was fifty-five but he was slim and fit. She could tell that he was trying to appraise the situation to see if she had backup.
“Don’t move!” she ordered him, holding her pistol outstretched in both hands and pointing it at his face. The usually reassuring feel of the grip brought her no comfort. She’d practiced hefting the two-pound Glock a thousand times, but suddenly it seemed a dead weight. Perspiration ran down her ribs and between her breasts.
Martin was an expert at assessing risk. He had a keen understanding of probability. He wouldn’t have managed to stay invisible for eighteen years if he’d been stupid or reckless. He saw there was no one else. If there had been, they’d already have shown themselves. She was alone, and judging from her voice, she was young, almost certainly a rookie. Her body smelled of stress and something distasteful and pungent . . . What was it?
Amaia saw that the teenage boy was going to be trouble. He stood poised and challenging, glowering at his father with fierce hostility. The anger couldn’t be new. That distrust and scorn comes alive as boys become men and cease to be blinded by infantile adoration and unconditional love. There’s a lot of talk about parents’ love for their children, but no one loves as unreservedly as a child. And for that same reason, no one is as judgmental as a teenager.
The young man spoke. “I knew it all along. You really want to kill us, don’t you, Daddy?” The “Daddy” cut like the lash of a whip.
By shifting his position, Lenx forced her to move. She wouldn’t be able to handcuff him unless she was behind him.
Handcuff him? Are you kidding? He’s still armed! He hasn’t dropped his gun!
“Martin Lenx, drop your weapon. I won’t warn you again!”
“Daddy!” the boy insisted.
“Be quiet, Thomas,” Lenx answered, turning slowly, this time toward the boy.
“I’m not going to be quiet!” the boy snapped. He took a step toward his father.
“Thomas, please!” his mother pleaded in terror.
But the boy took a second step. His sister and grandmother reached out for him, their extended arms waving like tendrils as they sought to restrain him.
“Is that why you go into Michelle’s room at night?”
“Shut up!” Lenx commanded him, now facing his son. Only the sofa separated them.
“Did he come into your room?” the wife exclaimed, looking at their daughter. Natalie’s plain, almost-ugly face lit for a moment with a particular beauty. Amaia saw the clear resemblance between mother and son.
The girl sniveled and nodded unhappily. “He scared me . . .”
The wife’s face twisted in disgust. The son’s expression was one of condemnation.
“For God’s sake!” Lenx exclaimed, annoyed. “She’s my daughter. I would never touch her! You people are even more perverted than I imagined, if you think such a thing.” He lowered his arms and looked down at the pistol as if realizing for the first time it was in his hand.
“Lenx, raise your hands! Now!” Amaia shouted, ready to fire.
But Lenx was staring at his teenage son, as if they were the only ones in the room.
“Oh, no,” Thomas said. “You wouldn’t lay a hand on her. But nothing would keep you from murdering us all. I’ve known that for a long time now.”
“Shut up!”
“You killed the Andrews family just for practice. That’s why Mic’s violin disappeared.”
“Silence! Thomas, shut your mouth!”
“You don’t love us,” Thomas declared without emotion, as if simply reporting a fact.
You don’t love me, complained the tiny girl in Amaia’s mind.
“Enough!” snarled Lenx, growing more furious.
Enough! her mother told her, slowly coming closer.
“You’ve never loved any of us,” Thomas said.
You’ve never loved me, nine-year-old Amaia said.
“I’ve never loved my family?”
He’s going to murder his son, just the way she was going to kill you. He’s going to shoot him point blank.
“I said put down your gun!” Amaia shouted, moving to the side so her pistol was in Lenx’s line of sight.
Martin Lenx heard her, and her voice returned him to reality. Instantly he turned and fired.
His shot caught her in the chest with tremendous force. She toppled over backward, landing half in the living room, half in the hallway. Confused but still conscious, she heard shouting. In the commotion, she was vaguely surprised to realize she felt no pain; the sensation was more like drowning. She opened her mouth, desperately seeking air to counter the expanding emptiness within her. And that’s when the pain came. She gasped in terror and looked down. A small dark spot, no larger than a coin, had blossomed on her chest exactly where—she knew it with total certainty—her heart was located.
This is shock from the impact. Shock. You’ve read about shock a thousand times, stop thinking about the bullet in your body.
She tried to lift her hand to the wound, and she realized she was still clutching the Glock. It occurred to her, as if in a dream, that her firearms instructor would have been proud. “Always keep a tight grip on your weapon, as if they’re going to try to take it away from you,” Salvador had lectured her on the firing range in Pamplona.
What a strange thought to have while dying. With her other hand she touched the point of impact, dimly regretting she’d left her ballistic vest in New Orleans.
Yelling. She heard yelling somewhere far away. The sofa blocked her view, but she heard the son shouting for help. Gasping, she leaned on her forearm. She held her breath because with every gasp, the pain returned, a pain so intense her vision dimmed and she almost passed out. But she couldn’t do that. Never give up, that’s the second rule when you get shot. Clutching the pistol, she dragged herself back into the room, giving in to the urge to glance at the floor where she’d been standing when Lenx gunned her down. There was no blood. The slug hadn’t exited her body. In her delirium, she had a vision of a metal round lodged next to her heart in a tangle of destroyed tissue and blasted arteries.
Get hold of yourself. You’re in shock.