The Bad Sister. Kevin O'Brien
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clean it up,” Cheryl said. “Where do you guys keep the mop and the broom?”
Nate pointed toward the broom closet. “There, thanks, Cheryl.” He turned to the man again. “Where’s your car?”
“I don’t know,” the man grumbled. He looked down at his foot and winced. “Hurts like a son of a bitch.”
“He’s a physical therapist,” Rene said. “You should have him look at it. He knows what he’s doing.” She filled two glasses with water, and then stepped around the mess on the floor and set them down in front of the couple.
The woman greedily drank her water. But her friend, still gasping, scowled at his glass. “Shit, don’t you have anything stronger?”
Nate hesitated. Something was wrong. It wasn’t just the unsettling way these two strangers had barged into the house and wreaked havoc. Nate could have sworn that when he’d first spotted him emerging from the thicket, the man hadn’t been limping at all. And the dirt smudge on the woman’s cheek looked phony—almost clichéd. Nate wasn’t sure about the cell phone reception in the middle of the woods, but he’d always been able to get phone service in the cabin—and certainly on the highway.
“Something stronger?” Nate repeated. He couldn’t believe the balls on this guy, turning down a glass of water and practically demanding that they raid the liquor cabinet for him.
“I’ll get you some brandy,” Gil said.
Nate swiveled around to see his brother in the doorway to the kitchen. He was dressed in jeans and a V-neck sweater. His hair looked damp, and he was barefoot.
“We keep the hard stuff in the living room,” Gil explained to the man. “Nate, check out his ankle for him, okay?” He turned and headed toward the living room.
Nate wondered why his brother didn’t seem the least bit wary of these two. Plus, he wasn’t exactly dying to look at this guy’s ankle.
Rene was using paper towels to soak up the spilled wine while Cheryl, with the broom, swept the glass into a dustpan.
Nate turned to the man again. “Let’s have a look. Which ankle is it?”
The guy immediately pulled his foot away. “Don’t bother yourself. I just need to stay off it for a little bit . . .”
Nate noticed, for someone who had been traipsing through the woods for three hours, his shoes didn’t look very dirty.
Past James Taylor’s singing and the sound of Cheryl sweeping up the glass, Nate thought he heard Gil whispering on the phone in the next room.
“So—you don’t have any idea where you left your car?” Nate asked—to distract the man.
“Alongside one of the roads off the highway,” the woman answered for him.
“And you didn’t walk back to the highway for help?” Rene asked, dropping a wad of soggy paper towels into the sink. She turned to them. “Why in the world did you go into the woods? You’d have had a lot more luck getting help by flagging down a car on the highway . . .”
“Yeah, well, we were at least a couple of miles from the goddamn highway,” the man said impatiently—as if Rene were an idiot. “Okay? Jesus.”
“Hey, pal,” Nate said. “I know you’ve been through a lot. But that’s no way to talk to us. We’re just trying to help you.”
The guy gave him a defiant stare. Then his gaze shifted, and he straightened up in the chair.
Nate turned to see Gil in the kitchen doorway again.
“We’re all out of brandy,” Gil said. “What were you guys doing in the woods anyway? It’s private property.”
The man frowned at him. “Oh shit,” he muttered. He slid his hand inside his jacket and glanced at his companion.
The woman suddenly shot out of her chair and grabbed Cheryl, who screamed. The broom and dustpan dropped to the kitchen floor with a clatter. Shards of glass scattered across the tiles. It happened so fast, Nate barely saw the woman take the pistol from inside her jacket. She jabbed the gun barrel against the side of Cheryl’s head.
The balding man jumped to his feet, knocking over the chair. He pulled out a gun, too—and pointed it at Gil. “Get your fucking hands up,” he growled.
Glaring at him, Gil was obedient.
Nate automatically raised his hands as well, holding them halfway up.
“I know Mr. Hot Shot Detective has a license to carry firearms,” the man said. “So keep those hands up, Gil, and turn around, nice and slow . . .”
Nate couldn’t believe this was happening. He stole a glance at Rene, over by the sink. She didn’t move a muscle. Tears welled in her eyes, and she looked terrified.
The guy’s female companion still had the gun to Cheryl’s head. Cheryl was trembling. The expression on the woman’s face was cold and passionless. Nate had a feeling that, without even flinching, she’d put a bullet through Cheryl’s head.
Nate once again looked at his brother, who still had his hands raised. Following the stranger’s orders, Gil had gradually turned around until his back was to them. The handle of a gun stuck out of the waistband of his jeans.
“Let the others go,” Gil said, his back to them. “They don’t know anything. You can send them on their way without their phones or the car. It’ll be at least an hour before they reach the highway. That’ll give you plenty of time to get away . . .”
“I don’t think Nate wants to leave his big brother behind,” the man said.
Stunned, Nate stared at him. The guy knew him, too.
The man nodded at Nate. “Take the gun from your brother. Slowly.”
With a shaky hand, Nate reached for Gil’s gun. Holding it by the grip, he pulled the revolver out from where it was tucked in the waistband of Gil’s jeans.
“Now, drop it on the floor—in front of my feet,” the man whispered. “No fucking funny business.”
Biting his lip, Nate bent over slightly and then let the gun slip out of his hand.
The man kicked it to a far corner of the kitchen.
As Nate straightened up, he saw the guy raise his gun over his head, but it was too late to react.
The man slammed the grip of the gun against Nate’s face. He fell to his knees onto the kitchen floor. After the shock came the blinding, searing pain. Past a high-pitched ringing in his ears, he heard Rene scream.
“Son of a bitch,” Gil yelled. “Leave him alone . . .”
The second blow was to the back of Nate’s head.
He collapsed facedown on the kitchen floor—amid the shards of wet glass.
* * *
Nate woke up on the floor of the small, darkened bedroom. Some light seeped in from the kitchen through the doorway. He was lying on his side. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious. His head throbbed, and it felt like one side of his face was smashed in. Blood dripped from the gash alongside his temple to the floor. Just opening his eyes hurt.
Still, he tried to move. But then he realized his hands were tied behind him—and his feet were bound together at the ankles with duct tape. Straining, he lifted his head and saw Cheryl lying on the bed, gagged and hog-tied. Her eyes met his, and she whimpered weakly. In a panic, Nate glanced around for Rene, but she wasn’t in the bedroom with them. What had they done to her?
He could hear the two intruders talking in the living room. Their words weren’t clear, but it sounded like they were firing questions at Gil.
“Go fuck yourselves,” Gil said loudly.
That much Nate heard. He also