Tanned Hide

me there in time.

  I don’t know how long it took me to get there, but it felt like a century. Mom’s old banger was in the driveway next to Dad’s ancient chopper, as innocent as could be. I pulled up into the lawn, dropped the bike on the grass and ran for the door.

  The door opened, which in itself wasn’t a good sign. Mom kept the door locked obsessively to keep Philip from doing anything stupid. And it felt heavy too. And there was some scraping sound that followed when I opened it.

  “Ugh. . .”

  Trecheon. I slipped in the house and saw him on the floor behind the door. His clothes were battered and he had a swollen eye. I didn’t see any blood, but his bionic hands had been nailed to the door like some sci-fi Jesus.

  “Christ, Trecheon!” I leaned down in front of him.

  He kicked at me. “Not me,” he coughed. “I’m fine. Your parents. Down the hall. Hurry!”

  I left Trecheon where he was without a second thought and ran down the hall.

  I had always hated movie scenes showing the aftermath of an assassination. They portrayed them as messy. Fallen vases, broken picture frames, trails of blood, all leading to some climactic end scene, usually in the bedroom or bathroom, where the victim barely clung to life in order to impart some final words to the discoverer, either to lead him to the next scene or make him feel horrible for what happened.

  Real assassins don’t do that. Not if they’re any good. A real assassin would leave no trails and death would come as fast and clean as possible, leaving no chance that the victim might be able to name his killer. Bloodless deaths were preferred because blood opened the potential for fingerprints, footprints, evidences stuck to drying plasma. Blood was an assassin’s enemy.

  It was an insult to our skills, and our profession.

  So as I ran down the perfectly ordered hallway, I didn’t expect to hear a quiet moan for help.

  “Mom!” Mom was in Philip’s room sitting on the floor under the window. She looked relatively unhurt, except for the fact that her hands were tied together and hanging off a nail on the windowsill.

  Oh, and the puddle of blood under her.

  I ran to her and pulled her hands down, looking over her person for the wound. “Where is it? Where’d they hurt you?”

  Mom looked at me blankly, only a faint moan escaping her lips. I shook my head and continued searching. No dice. Mom continued moaning and eventually I caught the word “leg.” I examined her legs and sure enough, there were three large cuts on the undersides of both legs.

  Shit. Shit. Mom was in deep trouble. I pulled the ropes off her hands and snatched the blanket off Philip’s bed, wrapping her legs in it, desperately trying to stop the bleeding.

  “. . .Your. . . your father is dead.”

  I pressed my eyes shut a moment, but then applied myself to my task. “Don’t talk, Mom. Let me help you.”

  “I’m. . . dying.”

  “You’ll be fine,” I said, my voice cracking, but looking at the size of the puddle, watching the blanket gorge itself on Mom’s blood, I knew it was too late. “Just stay quiet. I. . . I have to help.”

  Suddenly she gripped my arm with a surprising amount of strength. I looked her in the eye.

  I never knew people could look at you with pity, anger, and fear all at the same time. How she managed to put all those emotions into one expression, with her sad eyes, hanging jaw, splayed ears, and furrowed brow, I don’t know.

  “Philip ran. He’s. . . out there. . . somewhere.” She paused to take a deep breath. “Leave me. Find your brother.”

  I frowned. “Mom--”

  “If you don’t. . .” she whispered, tears running down her cheeks. “I will die. . . hating you.”

  My muscles locked into place. The shock was so powerful it blurred my vision and made my ears ring. “Mom. . .?”

  “Find. Philip. Now.” She leaned back against the wall and stared at the ceiling.

  What could I do? How does one respond to their own mother threatening something like that? I took one more look at Mom, staring and blinking slowly, then stood up and walked out the door.

  I should have been worried. I should have run. But Mom’s words. They just. . . broke me.

  What the hell was I doing with my life?

  I shook my head. No matter. Philip was more important. I ran out into the living room.

  “Neil?” Trecheon’s voice sounded from the front door.

  “Can’t talk,” I said and ran out the back door.

  Though darkness had descended on my home, my puma instincts and knowledge of the backyard let me run at full speed through the grass. I picked my way through the trees toward our secret place.

  It troubled me that I didn’t see any new sign of disturbance among the brush. No broken branches, no footprints, nothing. Did Philip actually come this way? Or did he run out into the street? What if The Triple Danger saw him leave and cut him down before he ever got to the trees? What if I had completely missed his body in the dark?

  Suddenly a desperate need to find him exploded in my chest. I thrashed through the brush toward the hideout, praying that almighty Draso spared at least one of my family members.

  I got to the hideout and threw open the door. “Philip? Philip, you here?”

  I felt his embrace before I saw him. He threw himself at me, pawing at my jacket, claws out. “Neil, they hurt Mom and Dad! I ran like you said. I. . . I. . .” He dissolved into tears.

  I gripped him like I never had before. Thank God. Thank Draso.

  Maybe I could fix at least one thing that I screwed up.

  “It’s okay now, Philip. Really. Everything’s fine.” I still couldn’t let him go. But I had to. I had to get to Mom. “Just. . . just stay here for a little while longer. I have to go help Mom, but I’ll be back.”

  “Dad is dead, isn’t he?” Philip sobbed. “I saw that deer lady take her knife and--”

  “Don’t think about it,” I said. “I need to help Mom. Stay here. Just a moment longer.”

  Philip nodded and crawled back into the hideout. I watched him a moment, then ran back for Mom.

  God, just give me five more minutes with her.

  Seven

  When I got back into the house, Trecheon had managed to get one hand free and was working on the other one. He met my eyes. “Philip?”

  “He’s fine,” I said, the numbness starting to wear off. I jogged over to the phone on the kitchen wall. Maybe I could call for help. Maybe I could save Mom. But when I picked up the receiver, it was completely dead. A quick examination showed me that the Triple Danger had cut the phone wires. Damn it. “Where’s your phone?”

  “They took it from me after they crucified me on your door.”

  Dad didn’t carry a phone. He hated the things. And Mom’s purse wasn’t hanging by the door, so I could only assume it was missing too. Damn it! The only means for saving Mom. “Watch the door and. . . I’m going to spend a few minutes with Mom.”

  “I’ll try and fix the wires and call for help as soon as I get free. You take care of your mom.” Trecheon frowned. “Neil, you have to know I tried. I didn’t--”

  “First-day-hire, right?” I said. It wasn’t his fault. I knew it wasn’t. “Can’t compete with CEOs.” I turned my back on Trecheon and paused. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Trech.”

  I called him Trech on purpose. I needed to hear him berate me for it, if just for the normalcy of it. But he didn’t.

  “Go see your mom,” he said.

  Somehow that hurt more than if he had just yelled at me. Trecheon once told me that only close friends were allowed to call him Trech. I continued to call him that because I always thought we were close friends. Or maybe I was trying to make him my close friend.

  The fact that it took this kind of tragedy to allow me to call him by a nickname. . . I just shook my head and padded down the hall.

  Mom was still staring at the ceiling, but she stirred when I entered the room.

/>   “He’s fine, Mom,” I said. “He’s safe.”

  “Neil. . .”

  I sat next to her. “Mom, don’t talk. You’ll. . .” A lump grew in my chest and throat and cut off my words. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t speak when I needed to speak, now more than ever. All I could do was look at my dying Mom, unable to do anything. She probably had seconds left. And it was my fault. I didn’t even deserve to be with her while she died.

  And then I felt her arms wrap around me. She drew me to her shoulder and just held me there. Her grip was so weak. It was a wonder she could move at all.

  I broke. Just broke. The lump made its way to my face and sobs racked my shoulders. I gripped her back. Memories of growing up flashed through my mind. Mom seeing me off to school. Tutoring me after class. Teaching me to swim and ride a bike. Holding me before Trecheon and I were shipped out after boot. Pushing me through HVAC certification when college didn’t work.

  Mom gave me everything. This was how I had paid her back.

  “I don’t hate you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. . . I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “You have every right to,” I said. “I’m a horrible person.”

  “Neil--”

  “Don’t,” I said. “Just don’t. I am.” And it all came out. “This. . . this is my fault.”

  “Because of gambling debts?”

  “I don’t have gambling debts,” I said. “I. . . I’m an assassin. For hire. I used the skills I learned in war to become one because it’s the only thing I’m good at.” I took a deep breath. “I was trying to use my abilities to help people for once. Trecheon and I went after a mob boss. I didn’t think they’d find