Chapter Twenty-Four

Apartment 3B

TWO FLIGHTS OF stairs. All that separated them from their attackers. Stone painted white with thin, silver railings. Vincent stood at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t want to climb them. He wanted to run out of the front door of the apartment building and keep going until he collapsed from overexertion. The destination didn’t matter so long as it was far away from these men and all the terrible possibilities that were waiting for him and James in apartment 3B. Knowing they had to do this did little to prevent the beautiful possibility of leaving this all behind from taking root in his mind.

He considered trying to convince James to leave. He could acknowledge what a terrible idea it was and do it anyway. As much as it seemed like this was their only option, they didn’t have to do anything. They could just turn and run. He looked over at James, who stood beside him. But whatever sudden mania had afflicted Vincent hadn’t seemed to make its way to James. His resolute expression assured Vincent he was only ready to finish this once and for all.

Because we have to finish it. We have to try.

Just about any other option seemed preferable at this point, but that didn’t change what they needed to do. Vincent started up the stairs. He didn’t let himself stop, but the closer they got to the third floor, the weaker his legs became and the harder he had to grip the railing to keep himself upright. Bloody, gruesome visions of their attackers overpowering them—finishing the sadistic torture he and James had gotten a preview of in Panther Hollow—infected his thoughts. When they reached the top of the stairs and James took the gun out of his back pocket, Vincent drew his knife. He might actually have to use it if they planned on making it out of this one alive.

Apartment 3B was to their right. Metal music blared from inside—hoarse, indiscernible screams with a thunderous bass Vincent could feel in his chest. They stopped at the door. James looked over at him. A final check-in. Vincent hid the fear that was drowning him. They had to finish it.

James pulled him close. Kissed him. Vincent kissed him back, praying this wouldn’t be the last time he felt James’s lips on his own and hoping that, even if they could never get their old lives back, they could find some form of happiness on the other side of this nightmare.

Then, it was time. James cocked the gun. He tried the doorknob before he pounded on the door with enough force to make the metal 3B hanging on the door jump. Someone lowered the volume of the music. Vincent could hear his heart pounding in his chest.

James knocked again.

“I’m coming,” came a gravelly voice from inside.

The same voice that had ordered the kid to kill James. The tall man. Vincent tightened his grip on the knife and readied himself.

“About fucking time.” The tall man swung open the door. His muscular build filled the doorway. “Kid’s on two wheels, and he managed to—”

He stopped midsentence, his eyes growing wide with the realization that the two men standing at the door, faces covered in ski masks, weren’t who he was expecting. He reached for something down the back of his pants, but before he found what he was looking for, James fired.

Vincent jumped back at the sound, crashing into the wall across from the door. Something clattered to the ground in the apartment. The tall man ran at James, arm streaked in blood. James fired another shot into his chest. The tall man collapsed to the ground. Motionless.

Everything had happened in the span of mere seconds, and Vincent, leaning against the wall, tried to process it. Just like that, James had killed him.

Their leader was dead.

“Grab his gun,” James ordered, stepping over him and walking into the apartment.

Vincent didn’t have any more time to think about it. They had to keep moving. He pushed himself back into a standing position. He followed James inside, shut the door behind him, and quickly stepped over the body on the ground. The black pistol James must have shot out of the tall man’s hand lay a little further into the apartment. Vincent pocketed his knife and scooped it up, nearly dropping it because he’d underestimated its weight.

They were in a living room. There was a leather couch to their left beside a lamp that lit the room in cold, white light. The music was louder in here, where it erupted from two speakers on either side of a flat-screen TV across from the couch. It wasn’t loud enough, however, to cover the crashing sound from the hallway to their right.

James stormed down the hall after it.

Vincent kept close behind him. His hands were shaking so hard any shot he fired would surely miss. Not that he was sure how to operate it beyond pointing and pulling the trigger. Henry’s numerous tips at the local firing range from when he was a boy escaped him now. Still, he held the gun out in front of him to provide the illusion that he had some control over the chaos unfolding around him.

James stepped into the doorway to his left and quickly came back out, seeming to find no one inside. In passing, Vincent noted it was the kitchen. There was a door to their right a little farther down the hall and two more across from one another at the end. All of them were closed.

James opened the next door and disappeared inside. Vincent stayed where he was, waiting for a shot to fire and praying James was the one who fired it. Seconds later, James reappeared and hurried down the hall to the last two doors.

Vincent didn’t have time to feel relieved. The kid was in one of those rooms. He followed behind James. The room James had just inspected was a bathroom. James went to the door on their left. Vincent kept his eyes on the one across the hall, waiting for the kid to come barreling out of it, firing at anything that moved the moment James opened the other door.

James tried the handle. Locked. He pulled his leg back and landed a kick to the center of the door. The wood splintered around the lock, and a scream of shock came from inside, but it didn’t open. Someone or something must be behind it, keeping it shut.

James took a step back and ran at the door, trying to shoulder it open. He landed hard against it, but the door barely budged. He went at it again. And again. Over and over, throwing himself against it like a rabid dog. Vincent didn’t know what to do except keep out of his warpath. James looked like he’d keep going until he broke the door or every bone in his body. The next time he ran at it, there was a loud crash, and the door opened enough for him to get inside.

Vincent couldn’t stop to consider the mangled door or how much force it must have taken James to break it open. He had to keep going. He slipped in the door behind James. A large wooden dresser lay on the ground in front of the door. Every drawer had been removed, and the contents were scattered about the room on the bed and the other furniture. The kid stood against the opposite wall with a knife held out in front of him. He must’ve been searching for a gun, but all he found was a knife, no larger than the one in Vincent’s pocket. The window was open beside him, but he made no attempt to go near it. From three floors up, the fall was hardly an option. He was trapped.

James aimed the gun at his head, and the kid dropped the knife. In an uneven voice, he said, “I don’t know what you want, but take it all, man. I won’t say a fucking word. Not a word.”

The kid was shaking even more than Vincent. James stalked over to him, the gun aimed at his forehead. When he was less than a foot away from the kid, he removed his mask. What little color was left in the kid’s pale face disappeared. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, and as far as he knew, James was one.

Vincent took no satisfaction in the look of fear on his face. The kid had already been trying to hold it back in a similar manner on the night of the attack. The only differences now were that the tall man wasn’t there to give him the orders and there was more light. The kid was young with a lanky, juvenile build. There was no way he was even out of high school.

“You shot me,” James said without a single ounce of emotion.

The kid looked from James to Vincent and back. He decided something, and his face hardened. “Do it.”

James pressed the gun into the kid’s forehead. The kid shut his eyes, sending tears cascading down either side of his face. James was ending it. He was killing the last of their attackers, and all Vincent could think was that this wasn’t right.

This kid had done terrible things, and he would have put a bullet right through Vincent’s skull if that gun hadn’t jammed, but he was a kid. A kid under the authority of two terrible men. How long ago had he been the same age as that little girl who they had left alone with her dead father? He deserved to pay for what he did, but he didn’t deserve to die.

Vincent ran toward them. “James, wait!”

James ignored him. He pulled the trigger, the knuckle of his pointer finger turning white with the effort. But nothing happened. The slide stuck out the back of the gun. One of Henry’s first lessons resurfaced. If the trigger won’t budge and your pistol looks like this, then you’re shit out of luck…and bullets. But, in the overhead light, that wasn’t the only thing Vincent saw. The gun was deep blue. He’d only ever seen one gun like it.

Tyler’s gun.

Vincent froze. He dropped the gun in his hands.

James has Tyler’s gun.

Without a second’s hesitation, James raised the weapon over his head and brought it down on the kid’s face, hitting him squarely in the nose with the butt of the gun. The kid fell back, and James grabbed the collar of his shirt to hold him up. He hit him again, and this time, there was a horrible, cracking sound that pulled Vincent back to the room.

Blood gushed from the kid’s nose. He grabbed at James’s hand, but there was no stopping him. James hit him again and again with the same, animalistic force he’d used to break down the door. The kid’s nose sank further into the pool of blood that was his face with each hit, and James didn’t look like he was going to stop until he reached the kid’s brain.

He was going to smash that boy’s face in with Tyler’s gun.

Vincent couldn’t just stand there. No matter how James had acquired that gun, Vincent had to do something before James killed the kid. He let his thoughts fall to the wayside. If he thought about what he was going to do, then he’d never do it. His legs were weak, but they would carry him. He ran at James. He had no calculated plan. Just the desire to end this bloodshed.

James raised the blood-soaked gun in the air for another strike, and Vincent reached out and grabbed James’s arm with both hands. His ribs burned, and his wrist throbbed, but he clung to him for dear life, screaming, “Enough!”

James ripped his arm free, and Vincent stumbled backward. His body tensed, preparing to slam against the wall, but just when he anticipated the collision, his waist hit the windowsill and his torso went out of the window. There was no time to think. Wind rushed around him, and his stomach dropped. He reached out in front of him to grab hold of something, but he was too far out to seize anything except the cool night air.

He went from looking up at the window to seeing the night sky before the world turned upside down. He screamed. Just when he thought the only thing that would stop his fall was the sidewalk below, hands wrapped around his ankles and grabbed him. His back slammed into the stone exterior, knocking the wind out of him. He didn’t even have time to cough before he cracked his head on it. White-hot fireworks filled his vision, and his head exploded with pain. He brought his hands to the back of his head, half expecting his brain to spill out of his shattered skull. Miraculously, the back of his mask was dry. He wasn’t even bleeding.

The next thing Vincent knew, he was on the floor again. James sat him up against something, removed his mask, and felt the back of his head. “You okay?”

Even though James was bent over him, he sounded like he was across the room. His face was covered in blood splatter, his eyes unhinged and furious. He looked like he was going to kill him. “What were you thinking?”

Vincent felt like he was drunk. He couldn’t focus his vision on James. He heard something beside him. The kid lay on the ground, seizing. His arms and legs flailed violently as blood sloshed around in his caved-in face.

Vincent looked back at James. Blinking in an attempt to focus his mind and vision, he said, “You…you have to—”

Bang!

A hole burst from the center of James’s chest, spraying warm liquid all over Vincent, who cried out in sheer terror. James fell to the ground beside the kid. The tall man stood in the doorway. He was pale and covered in blood, but he was alive. He had a silver revolver he must’ve picked up somewhere else in the apartment.

“Fucking faggot.” The tall man aimed the gun at him.

Vincent raised his arms in front of his face—as if that would stop the path of a bullet. This was it. He killed James, and I’m next. But then, James lunged forward and grabbed the black gun Vincent had dropped. The tall man disappeared down the hall as James fired two shots in his direction. They tore through the door across the hall.

Vincent went to reach for James to see if he was okay, but, somehow, James was already on his feet, running out of the room after the tall man. How could he even sit up? Vincent must have seen it wrong. He couldn’t move like that with a gunshot to the chest. Everything was happening too fast.

Another gunshot went off.

“James?”

There was no response. Heavy footsteps came down the hallway. They were getting closer. Vincent shut his eyes, rubbing his pounding head. He might have been mistaken about where the bullet had hit James, but he wasn’t imagining things now. He could hear the tall man’s heavy breaths as he approached. Vincent was going to die. He searched his mind for some thought worthy of his last, but before he could think of anything, the gun went off once again.

The acrid smell of a fired gun filled his nostrils, but he felt no pain. Vincent opened his eyes. James stood over him—the black gun in one hand and Tyler’s in the other. The kid lay dead on the ground beside him. A bullet to what was left of his head. James was breathing hard, but no matter how many times Vincent blinked, the wound remained in the center of his chest.

“He got away.” James said it as an accusation.

Vincent didn’t know how to respond. He stared at James’s wound. The dark blood leaking from it had already started to congeal to the consistency of pancake batter. “What the hell is going on?”

“I just want to protect you, but you won’t let me.” James leaned over him. He grabbed Vincent’s bruised wrist and pulled him to his feet.

The room span. “James. Please. Stop.”

“I hear sirens. We have to go.” He pulled Vincent out of the room.

His eyes wouldn’t focus on the world around him. He caught a glimpse of the living room and the stairs. Drops of blood led to the front door of the building where the tall man had escaped. How is James still walking? He was shot almost directly in the center of his chest, and he acted like he didn’t even feel it. Shock and adrenaline couldn’t keep off the effects of that kind of gunshot wound, and they didn’t explain how it was already clotting.

Outside, the cool night air roused Vincent. “We need to get help.”

If James heard him, he ignored it. When they got to the car, he snatched the keys from Vincent’s pocket, shoved Vincent in the passenger’s seat, and got behind the wheel. Vincent could hear the sirens now, and in the rearview mirror, the police lights were already flashing in the distance.

James started the engine and backed into a parked car behind them. Vincent bounced off his chair and flew forward. His outstretched hands hit the glove box before his face did, but the force sent a new wave of pain roaring through his body. James sped off down the street. Vincent had enough sense to buckle his seat belt before James swerved onto the next street.

Vincent was still trying to piece together everything that’d just happened. Fat tears came at the thought of the kid’s sunken-in face. He had tried to stop James, but he couldn’t. “You killed that kid.”

James blew through a red light without stopping. “I was trying to finish this, and you tried to stop me, and now he got away. He knows we’re after him, and he’ll be after us.”

Vincent massaged his temples, considering his words. “I thought they were already after us?”

James said nothing.

But Vincent didn’t need an answer.

He knew the truth.

James beat in the kid’s face with Tyler’s gun.

Tyler was dead, and James had his gun.

Memories of Tyler’s bullet-riddled body flashed in his mind between those of the kid. His thoughts returned to the night he’d woken up to Sam’s screams. They’d rushed downstairs to see what was wrong. And when they’d realized they were the reason for the shooting, they’d rushed back to the apartment. Packed. Something had been off. The apartment had been freezing. And James had pulled open the window to the fire escape and helped him out. He hadn’t unlocked it. Just pulled it open.

Which didn’t make any sense because Vincent had locked the window when he’d come inside from his talk with Sam. He was certain. He’d flipped the lock. Double-checked that the window couldn’t be pulled open before he’d gone back to bed. And yet, it had been ajar, filling the apartment with cold air. Like someone had gone back outside…

Someone who’d needed a weapon. Someone who’d wanted to convince Vincent to murder their attackers. Someone who could’ve killed Tyler and slipped back into bed beside Vincent before Sam had the chance to discover the carnage waiting for her outside.

James.

The certainty came with the swift brutality of a punch to the gut. He struggled for air, unsure if he was going to faint. Or cry. Or scream. Or be sick. He rolled down his window and vomited.

Oh, God.

There was no denying it. No other explanations fit what’d happened. James had killed Tyler. This wasn’t just rage. James was far worse than Vincent could’ve ever imagined. Tyler had seen it. Something’s wrong with him. So had Sam. He’s a stranger. Vincent had been so happy that James was alive he’d explained away every glaring warning sign until they’d killed two people.

He had to get away from James. Give himself some time to think and figure out what to do. No ideas came to mind. With his ribs and ankle still healing, he could barely outrun a tortoise. James was faster. Stronger. Even if, by some stretch of the imagination, he managed to get away from him, where would he go? The police would rightfully arrest him. He doubted Sam would even answer his call after they’d deserted her. And Henry would sooner lock him up in the looney bin than believe James was back. He had no one else except James. A thought that had once brought him comfort, but now, only dread.

Vincent needed to hear him say it. He needed to hear the truth. “James, how did you get Tyler’s gun?”

“You know how I got the gun,” James said, with hardly more than a glance in Vincent’s direction as he sped onto Boulevard of the Allies. “He threatened us. I didn’t have a choice.”

Tears streamed down his face. “You killed him.”

“To protect you. All I ever wanted to do was keep you safe. I will always keep you safe. Even if it’s from yourself.”

A threat.

He’d shot the stocky man in front of his daughter. He’d bashed that kid’s face in. He’d killed Tyler and made Vincent believe their attackers were after them. James had done all of this, and now, he was threatening him. Vincent looked at his blood-stained face, searching for the man he loved, but all he saw was a monster. “What does that mean?”

James didn’t answer.

If James was going to kill him, Vincent didn’t know why he didn’t let him just fall out of that window. He had no idea what James had in store for him when they got back to the motel, but he didn’t want to find out. There was nowhere he could go and no one he could turn to for help. His only real option was to unbuckle his seat belt, open his door, and let the pavement finish him.

Death had to be better than whatever James had in store for him. Vincent could end all the pain right now. What did he really have to live for at this point? He clutched the door handle. He gritted his teeth together so hard he thought they’d break to pieces.

Just do it.

He gripped the handle.

Finish this.

He let it go.

Fuck.

He couldn’t do it.

He didn’t want to die.

Despite James’s crazed driving, they made it back to the motel in one piece. After James parked, he got out of the car, went around to the passenger’s side, and opened Vincent’s door. “Come on.”

Vincent stared at their motel room door. “What are you going to do to me?”

James grabbed him by his wrist. Vincent unbuckled his seat belt just in time to be yanked out of the car. James led him to the door. Vincent didn’t struggle. There was no use. James could do whatever he wanted to him. Vincent’s vision had cleared, and he wished it hadn’t. He didn’t want to see what James had planned for him.

With one hand still wrapped around Vincent’s wrist, James unlocked the door. He pulled Vincent inside and kicked the door shut behind him. He stuck his arm through the loops in the grocery bags on the table, then grabbed one of the chairs. He dragged it across the floor, pulling Vincent toward the bathroom. Only after James pushed him inside did Vincent realize what he was doing.

“Wait!”

James threw the bags of groceries inside and shut the door. Vincent tried the door handle, but James must’ve already put the chair in place because it didn’t budge. Vincent banged against the door. “James!”

“No one is ever going to hurt you again.”

“James, I don’t want this!”

“I am going to find him and kill him. Then, I will come back for you.”

“Please. You don’t have to do this!”

“You won’t ever have to be afraid again.” His voice was growing fainter.

“James!” Vincent pounded his fists into the bathroom door.

“I’ll always be there to keep you safe.”

Even if it’s from yourself.

James slammed the motel room door shut behind him.