My Darling Husband(84)

My smart girl kept her wits about her. While the three of us were downstairs searching the basement, Beatrix was in Cam’s study, gathering weapons and making signs. She’s my four-foot, curly-haired, levelheaded hero.

I close my fingers around the knife and twist around on my chair.

Beatrix’s seat is empty. She stands in front of it, bare toes digging into the carpet. Her hands hang loose by her sides, free from their bindings.

Behind her, the duct tape lies wrinkled and deflated on the leather. Sawed completely through, four messy slices in the metallic silver, by the pocketknife in my hand. It must have taken her forever, and all that time I didn’t see. None of us heard a sound.

Especially not Sebastian, watching from the other side of the coffee table. He has both hands raised, fingers spread wide, palms pushing against the air. “Don’t even think about it.”

My gaze returns to Beatrix’s hands, but I only see one of them. Her left hand, hanging empty by her side. The other is concealed by her body.

And yet I already know what’s in it.

I see it from Sebastian’s suddenly blanched skin, the way his eyes go twitchy. I see it in the set of Beatrix’s mouth, her rod-straight back and trembling shoulders. From the way my mind stops screaming long enough to hear what’s happening outside, the soft but steady sound, whistling like a distant wind.

I know what’s in Beatrix’s hand long before she lifts her arms and I see the gun. She grips it in two white-knuckled hands.

And that whistling outside? It’s not wind.

It’s sirens.

Sebastian’s earlier words echo through my brain: At the first sign of sirens, the bullets start flying. First the kids, then you.

And now it’s Beatrix holding the gun, her finger curled around the trigger.

Sebastian doesn’t move.

The moment slips into crystalline focus.

“Move back,” Beatrix says. “Get up against the wall. Do it.”

She’s like a stick-figure drawing of someone holding a gun, all sharp angles and straight lines, her arms extended from her body in a perfect triangle. It’s the amateur stance of someone who learned her gun skills from comic books and cartoons, who’s never held a gun, never even had an interest in a toy one.

My chest swells with terror, and I shift to the other side of the chair. “Beatrix, sweetie, give me the gun.”

She shakes her head, hard and sharp, a rapid back-and-forth that shivers her curls. “I mean it, mister. Back up.” Her muscles are taut, her finger twitching where it’s bent over the trigger.

Sebastian takes a tiny backward step. “Be careful with that thing. This isn’t some plaything, you know, that gun is deadly. One wrong move and you could shoot yourself in the foot or worse. What if you shoot your mama?”

“I’m not aiming at my mom. I’m aiming at you.”

“Come on, kid. You really don’t want to do this.”

“Yes, I do. I really, really want to shoot you.” Beatrix’s voice breaks on the word shoot, and she thrusts the gun for emphasis. “Now move back. I mean it. Go!”

Sebastian takes another ministep. “So that’s it, then, you’re going to shoot me. Better make it good. Better not miss.”

Beatrix closes one eye. Her muscles never so much as quiver when she holds the violin, but now her aim is all over the place. She’s close enough, though, that even a wide shot could be deadly. The femur, a collarbone, a direct hit to the head.

I hold out a trembling hand. “Beatrix, I mean it. Give me the gun.”

Another shake of the head. “Not until he moves back. He’s still too close. Move more.”

“Or maybe you should just wait until the cops get here. Let them handle things.” Sebastian tips his head to the window, to the sound of sirens. The wailing feels like a hallucination, like if I cover my ears they’ll disappear, fading away into silence. I picture police cars hurtling through the streets behind our house, colorful lights cutting through the dusk and rain like swirling lanterns. In another few minutes, they’ll be squealing up the drive.

“Stop talking. And move back more.” Beatrix enunciates each word slowly, deliberately. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

It’s a phrase I say to the kids often, and in exactly that same tone, and my words coming out of my daughter’s mouth wrap around my heart and squeeze. It never works on them, either.

Sebastian’s soles stay planted to the floor.

I slide onto my knees on the carpet. I’m afraid any sudden movement will set Beatrix off. Slowly, steadily, I stretch my hand farther.

“He’s right, baby. You’re so brave, but let me handle this, okay? Give Mommy the gun.”

Except for two candy-red spots high on her cheeks, Beatrix’s face is shockingly pale, white and translucent like melted candle wax, like a body dredged from the depths. The effect is terrifying, especially when coupled with her voice, high with icy anger.

“No. Not until he gets back to the wall. All the way. Mommy, make him move.”

The sirens are getting steadier now, undulating waves through the air on the back side of the house, which means they’ve made the turn into the neighborhood.

“Sweetie, give me the gun.”

Beatrix’s body is wound tight, her shoulder muscles bunched under her pink polka-dot shirt.