The House That Death Built Read Online Free Page A

before experienced.
    He reached for the safe. For the
keypad.
    A hand stopped him.
    The sad-eyed man held his wrist.
Not tightly, not angrily, but firmly enough that James couldn't reach the safe.
    What's happening?
    "Just give me the
numbers," said the sad-eyed man. "I'll key them in."
    Even the simple statement took
too long to make its way through the veil of tears and terror that had dropped
over James' gaze.
    "I'll do it for you,"
said the man.
    James finally nodded. "I'll
try," he managed. "Hard to –"
    The gunman –
    ( Rob? Didn't someone call him
Rob?
    What's happening? )
    – slammed the gun down on Evan's
shoulder again. This time James' son didn't cry out. Just curled in a bit on
himself. Smaller, somehow less there .
    James felt the blow as though he
had been the one under attack. He screamed. The sound barely made it out
through a windpipe pinched shut by terror and pain felt on another's behalf. He
barely registered the blood that still pumped from his leg, the pain centered
there.
    He just saw Evan, drawing slowly
into a fetal ball.
    "Stop screwing around!"
shouted the gunman – Rob. He had his gun trained at James again, and James felt
a strange relief at that fact – at least it wasn't being used on Evan. "If
I don't have whatever's inside that safe in my hands in…" he checked his
watch, "sixty seconds…."
    He gestured at Evan with his gun.
And cocked back the hammer.
    "Dad," whispered Evan.
And in that word, in three small letters, James heard every plea his son had
ever uttered. In that single syllable he felt the weight of a life that
depended on him as none other.
    Oddly, the moment reminded him of
the first time he had held his son. Firstborn in his arms, hair still matted
from the fluid he had slept in for nine months, new father still unsure if this
was really so.
    Then the baby's eyes opened. Just
a crack. Just a dark slit against a so-red face.
    He saw a glimmer. And knew .
This was his to have, his to hold. A life to love, an existence to cherish.
    A son to protect.
    "It's okay, son," he
said. "It'll be okay."
    He tried to make himself sound
sure. Strong.
    He failed.
    He took in a breath.
    What's happening?
    Steady. Steady. Strong. They need
you.
    "Come on, Pops. Time's
a-wastin'."
    James did his best to ignore the
harsh words, the sound of a man who wanted to kill him.
    He turned to the other man – Aaron.
For a moment he considered pleading for help from the other man. Begging for
him to switch sides and help instead of harm.
    But a single look convinced him
that would never happen. The sad-eyed man didn't look like he wanted to be
here. But he was here. And he was afraid of Rob. Not just because of the
gun – there was more to it than that.
    There was no help here. Only James
himself.
    He nodded. "Okay," he
said – more as an attempt to calm himself than to notify the man at the safe
that he was ready.
    But the sad-eyed man nodded. Sent
a quick glance toward Evan as though to encourage the father to protect the
son.
    "One," said James. Aaron
entered the number. "Seven." Again, the beep of a key being
triggered. No red lights. All good. "Seven."
    Beep. All good.
    What's happening what's happening
WHAT'S HAPPENING?
    For a moment, panic welled.
Reality and any semblance of control spun away from James' grasp. He fell into
a fog. And heard himself say, "Eight," and realized he had slipped
back into the past – saying the weight of that newborn baby.
    ( "Eight pounds, Mr.
Schaffer. Your son weighs eight pounds. And he's perfect." )
    Everything lengthened out. The
time between him saying the number and Aaron actually hitting it seemed like
enough space for a hundred families to grow old and die together. Enough time
for generations to laugh, love, and die.
    But it wasn't enough for James to
say what needed to be said.
    "No! Wait! Nine !"
    But even as he said it, he heard
the beep. Then a deeper one. A click. A red light appeared on the LED.
    Something thunked within
the safe. The sound of an