asked himself if this was to be the inevitable pattern of his life. Perhaps he really was cursed. Victimized by his family’s many sins, he had been forced to pray for their souls. But when God closes a door, he opens a window. Martin Lenx knew what he had to do: start over. Next time everything would be better.
He heard his family whispering in the living room. Perhaps the baby was sleeping. He took out his revolver, held it behind him, crossed the hall, and stepped into the living room.
The backs of his children’s heads were visible above the U-shaped sofa, which was facing away from him. They were on either side of his mother-in-law. Natalie sat across from them. Totally captivated by her newborn son, she didn’t even look up as he lifted the gun and aimed it at his mother-in-law’s head. That was the required order; she had to be the first to die.
He heard the click of a pistol being cocked behind him.
Amaia pointed her gun at his head. “Martin Lenx, this is the FBI. Drop your weapon and raise your hands!”
Martin grimaced in displeasure.
Catherine, Michelle, and Thomas scrambled away from him in terror and huddled around Natalie and the baby on the far end of the sofa. The baby bawled and so did his mother-in-law. Natalie trembled violently, but the strongest reaction came from his older son, who planted himself in front of the others and glared defiantly at his father.
Little Michelle exclaimed, “Daddy, what’s happening?” She could hardly get the words out.
Martin looked at them. He smiled sweetly. “Nothing, darling, nothing at all.”
Amaia was outraged. “Shut up, Lenx, and do what I say!”
Don’t let him talk to them!
“Seems there’s been a mistake. My name is Robert Davis, and I don’t know anyone named—”
“That’s enough! Not another word!”
The women whimpered. The girl and the newborn shrieked and wept.
“Reassure your family. Now!”
“Just huddle down, darlings, like quiet little mice,” he said. “This will be over soon.”
The teenage son was the only one to disobey.
Keep calm. You’ve almost got him.
“Martin Lenx, drop your gun and raise your hands. This is your last warning!”
Martin didn’t drop his gun, but he slowly raised his arms and turned to face her.
No, no! This is going wrong!
Martin was moving—He shouldn’t be moving—he was turning; he wanted to see her.
Martin was fifty-five but he was slim and fit. She could tell that he was trying to appraise the situation to see if she had backup.
“Don’t move!” she ordered him, holding her pistol outstretched in both hands and pointing it at his face. The usually reassuring feel of the grip brought her no comfort. She’d practiced hefting the two-pound Glock a thousand times, but suddenly it seemed a dead weight. Perspiration ran down her ribs and between her breasts.
Martin was an expert at assessing risk. He had a keen understanding of probability. He wouldn’t have managed to stay invisible for eighteen years if he’d been stupid or reckless. He saw there was no one else. If there had been, they’d already have shown themselves. She was alone, and judging from her voice, she was young, almost certainly a rookie. Her body smelled of stress and something distasteful and pungent . . . What was it?
Amaia saw that the teenage boy was going to be trouble. He stood poised and challenging, glowering at his father with fierce hostility. The anger couldn’t be new. That distrust and scorn comes alive as boys become men and cease to be blinded by infantile adoration and unconditional love. There’s a lot of talk about parents’ love for their children, but no one loves as unreservedly as a child. And for that same reason, no one is as judgmental as a teenager.
The young man spoke. “I knew it all along. You really want to kill us, don’t you, Daddy?” The “Daddy” cut like the lash of a whip.
By shifting his position, Lenx forced her to move. She wouldn’t be able to handcuff him unless she was behind him.
Handcuff him? Are you kidding? He’s still armed! He hasn’t dropped his gun!
“Martin Lenx, drop your weapon. I won’t warn you again!”
“Daddy!” the boy insisted.
“Be quiet, Thomas,” Lenx answered, turning slowly, this time toward the boy.
“I’m not going to be quiet!” the boy snapped. He took a step toward his father.
“Thomas, please!” his mother pleaded in terror.
But the boy took a second step. His sister and grandmother reached out for him, their extended arms waving like tendrils as they sought to restrain him.
“Is