On the staircase, Marylou stopped—a clean shirt and washed jeans folded over one arm.
She started to back up the stairs.
Her mother and sisters said nothing, nothing at all. “Come on downstairs, baby!” one of the men called, smirking.
Marylou backed another step. The man aimed a pistol and fired. The railing chipped.
Marylou came on down then, still holding her brother Chet’s clean clothes.
The women looked hopefully at Kit. He said, in a thin squeal, “You men move on.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“This is a private home. You’ve just done murder!”
Kit threw himself on the floor. It was his idea to get out—nothing else. His powerful muscles sent him slithering toward the dark hall. He didn’t even try to pick up the shotgun. He heard their shots and vaguely felt referred impact, from the floorboards. He reached the hall. He half stood, unchained the door, ran out.
Somebody bellowed through the smashed windows, “Hey, Red! Get that jerk!”