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Authors: Heather Graham
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the second floor.
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David OâBoyle sat at his own table, completely powerless, in a fury, feeling beyond humiliation or help. He was trying with everything in him to keep his mouth shut. He was praying with the same words over and over again: God, help. Oh, God, help. God, help. Helpâ¦.
He had met his wifeâs eyes so many times, had seen the plea in them. There was nothing they could do that wouldnât get them killed except play this game.
Great game.
Scuzzy criminals who were probably cold-blooded murderers were sitting at the dinner table. His dinner table. They were complimenting the food, drinking his liquor, making conversation as if they belonged there.
How the hell was he supposed to keep from throwing himself at one of them, even if it meant taking a bullet? But he couldnât take the risk that the other one would shoot Skyler or one of the kids. God help him, if there was just one of themâ¦But there were two.
No, now there were three.
Of course, one was prone and possibly passed out in the living room, so at the moment, he didnât count. And he was younger, maybe not as bloodthirsty. Or maybe more so.
Hell.
He looked over at Paddy.
Fuck the old bird. He was chatting away with their vicious guests as if they were long-lost comrades from Dublin, filling their glasses again and again with whiskey, and saying the same things over and over, as if he had Alzheimerâs.
Filling their glassesâ¦
Was he hoping to get them drunk?
Maybe so, and it wasnât such a bad idea, now that he thought about it. Hell, it was better than anything heâd come up with.
No heroics. Quintin had sworn that he would kill Skyler, and David had the feeling that heâd do it.
âSo when did you leave Ireland, old man?â Quintin asked, accepting another shot of Skylerâs best single malt.
âThe summer of sixty-four,â Paddy said. âIâd had it with the violence.â He winked at the table. âThe minute I got to the States, I decided to be a Buddhist.â
âUncle Paddy, youâre not a Buddhist,â Jamie said.
âHeâs an alcoholic. Thatâs his religion,â Frazier told Quintin and Scooter. But there was no malice in his words. He was almost smiling as he looked at his uncle.
ââTis true. I do worship a fine single malt,â Paddy admitted.
âSo then you opened a pub?â Scooter asked
âNo, sir, I did not. My sainted and now dearly departed sister and her husband opened the pub. I merely worked in it.â
âHe thought he was the social liaison,â David heard himself say. But there was no malice in his voice, either.
Iâm sorry I ridiculed you and wanted you out of my house, David thought. He was sorry that heâd argued with Frazier about the tree, too. He was sorry that he had so often been quick to find fault with all his children.
He stared across the table at Frazier. They might all end up dying in the hours to come. But not all of them, because he wouldnât let that happen. When the time cameâ¦
When would that time be?
He didnât know, but when it did, he would throw himself on one of the men and hope the others would overpower the second man left behind. And that someone would live.
But it wouldnât come to that for a while. Not while the wind and snow continued to rage. Not while the invaders were still being fed. Not while his family continued to entertain them.
David wanted to tell Brenda that she was welcome in his house, that he was glad she and Frazier made each other happy.
But he didnât want to draw attention to the women in his house. For all he knew, Quintin and Scooter could be rapists as well as killers. In fact, he was afraid that the only reason nothing like that had happened was because Quintin wanted two guns available at a momentâs notice.
He went back to trying futilely to think of a way.
Â
She came down the stairs in silence,
Â
David OâBoyle sat at his own table, completely powerless, in a fury, feeling beyond humiliation or help. He was trying with everything in him to keep his mouth shut. He was praying with the same words over and over again: God, help. Oh, God, help. God, help. Helpâ¦.
He had met his wifeâs eyes so many times, had seen the plea in them. There was nothing they could do that wouldnât get them killed except play this game.
Great game.
Scuzzy criminals who were probably cold-blooded murderers were sitting at the dinner table. His dinner table. They were complimenting the food, drinking his liquor, making conversation as if they belonged there.
How the hell was he supposed to keep from throwing himself at one of them, even if it meant taking a bullet? But he couldnât take the risk that the other one would shoot Skyler or one of the kids. God help him, if there was just one of themâ¦But there were two.
No, now there were three.
Of course, one was prone and possibly passed out in the living room, so at the moment, he didnât count. And he was younger, maybe not as bloodthirsty. Or maybe more so.
Hell.
He looked over at Paddy.
Fuck the old bird. He was chatting away with their vicious guests as if they were long-lost comrades from Dublin, filling their glasses again and again with whiskey, and saying the same things over and over, as if he had Alzheimerâs.
Filling their glassesâ¦
Was he hoping to get them drunk?
Maybe so, and it wasnât such a bad idea, now that he thought about it. Hell, it was better than anything heâd come up with.
No heroics. Quintin had sworn that he would kill Skyler, and David had the feeling that heâd do it.
âSo when did you leave Ireland, old man?â Quintin asked, accepting another shot of Skylerâs best single malt.
âThe summer of sixty-four,â Paddy said. âIâd had it with the violence.â He winked at the table. âThe minute I got to the States, I decided to be a Buddhist.â
âUncle Paddy, youâre not a Buddhist,â Jamie said.
âHeâs an alcoholic. Thatâs his religion,â Frazier told Quintin and Scooter. But there was no malice in his words. He was almost smiling as he looked at his uncle.
ââTis true. I do worship a fine single malt,â Paddy admitted.
âSo then you opened a pub?â Scooter asked
âNo, sir, I did not. My sainted and now dearly departed sister and her husband opened the pub. I merely worked in it.â
âHe thought he was the social liaison,â David heard himself say. But there was no malice in his voice, either.
Iâm sorry I ridiculed you and wanted you out of my house, David thought. He was sorry that heâd argued with Frazier about the tree, too. He was sorry that he had so often been quick to find fault with all his children.
He stared across the table at Frazier. They might all end up dying in the hours to come. But not all of them, because he wouldnât let that happen. When the time cameâ¦
When would that time be?
He didnât know, but when it did, he would throw himself on one of the men and hope the others would overpower the second man left behind. And that someone would live.
But it wouldnât come to that for a while. Not while the wind and snow continued to rage. Not while the invaders were still being fed. Not while his family continued to entertain them.
David wanted to tell Brenda that she was welcome in his house, that he was glad she and Frazier made each other happy.
But he didnât want to draw attention to the women in his house. For all he knew, Quintin and Scooter could be rapists as well as killers. In fact, he was afraid that the only reason nothing like that had happened was because Quintin wanted two guns available at a momentâs notice.
He went back to trying futilely to think of a way.
Â
She came down the stairs in silence,
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