Читать книгу The Last Noel - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 7

The chair in the den lost a leg the minute Kat picked it up. She let out a groan of frustration and tried to put it back on.

It would go back on, but it wouldn’t stay, because a crucial screw seemed to be missing. She looked around, getting down on hands and knees to see if it had rolled into a corner somewhere. No luck.

No problem. There was a chair at the desk up in her room, and she knew it was fine, because she had been sitting in it earlier while she was online.

She was upstairs when she heard the doorbell ring. Curious, she walked to the window and looked out. She saw a car stuck nose-first in a snowdrift, barely off the road, down where the slope of their yard began.

The bell rang again, and two men backed out from beneath the porch roof and stared up at the house. Strangers. She could barely see them; the wind was really blowing the snow around, and they were bundled up in coats, scarves and hats, but something about their movement made her think that they were in their thirties—late twenties to forty, tops, at any rate.

She frowned, watching as they moved back out of sight and the bell rang for a third time.

Not at all sure why, she didn’t grab the chair and run down the stairs. Instead, she found herself walking quietly out to the landing, where she stood in the shadows, looking and listening.

“We know it’s Christmas Eve,” one man was saying.

“And we’re so sorry,” said the second.

“But we ran off the road and we need help,” said the first.

“A dog shouldn’t be out on a night like this,” said the second.

“We were just about to sit down to dinner.” Her father’s voice, and he sounded suspicious. Good.

“Dinner,” the first man repeated.

Peering carefully over the banister, still strangely unwilling to give herself away, Kat tried to get a look at the men. One was bulky and well-dressed, and shorter than her father and Frazier by a few inches; since they were about six-one to Jamie’s six-two, that made the stranger about six feet even.

The other man, the one who had spoken first, was leaner. He had the look of…a sidekick? Odd thought, but that was exactly the word that occurred to her. He needed a haircut, and his coat was missing several buttons. Even his knit cap looked as if it had seen better days.

When the heavier man took off his hat, he was bald—clean-shaven bald. He had thick dark brows, and eyes that were set too close together.

Beady eyes, Kat thought, then chided herself for watching too much C.S.I.

“Good heavens, come in and get out of the cold,” her mother told the pair.

Her mother would have taken in Genghis Khan, Kat thought, although she didn’t sound entirely happy about extra guests at the moment. Maybe because it was Christmas Eve, she decided. But really, what choice was there? The two men could hardly go anywhere else.

But what the hell were they doing out to begin with? Maybe they didn’t live here near the mountains, but anyone who lived anywhere in New England knew how treacherous the weather could become in a matter of hours, and the TV and radio stations had been talking nonstop about this storm for two days before it even got here. It had been touch and go whether the family even made it up here in time.

“Thank you, ma’am, and bless you,” the tall man said, holding out his hand. “I’m William Blane, but folks call me Scooter. And this is my associate, Mr. Quintin Lark.”

“How do you do, and I, too, thank you,” the stocky man said.

Her father looked at her mother and smiled in solidarity. At that moment, despite the bickering that never seemed to stop, she was reminded of how much she loved her parents. And that she was proud of them. Her father worked hard, doing everything around the pub. He lugged boxes and kept the books, but he could pick up a fiddle or a keyboard and sit in with a band, and he was always willing to pitch in and wash glasses. He managed the kitchen, the bar and the inventory.

And her mother…Her mother had raised three children, working all the while. Like Kat’s dad, her mom could sit in with the band. She had a clear soprano and a gift for the piano. She served drinks and meals, tended bar and always picked up a broom and a dust rag when needed.

Her mother was the key element that truly turned the place from a bar into a pub, Kat decided. She listened. She knew their customers. She knew that Mrs. O’Malley’s cat had produced five kittens and that those kittens were as important to Mrs. O’Malley as Mr. Browne’s new grandson was to him. She knew old man Adair had gotten part of a mortar shell in his calf during the war—World War II, that was—and that as stubborn and sturdy as the old fellow might appear, his leg ached on an hourly basis. Her mother cared about people, perhaps too much. And in her pursuit of constant cheer, she had often sacrificed the truth.

Even now, she was frowning sympathetically. “You say you had an accident? Where? What happened?”

“We didn’t listen to the weather report, I’m afraid,” Quintin said.

“We were listening to a CD, instead of the news,” Scooter said. “We ran off the road just at the edge of your property. I wasn’t even sure we’d make it this far.”

“Not to worry,” Skyler said. “We have plenty of food. Come on into the kitchen.”

“I’ll just get some more chairs,” David said.

“Wasn’t—” Jamie began.

“No,” Skyler said firmly, staring at Jamie. “No…we’ll be fine in the kitchen. We just need more chairs.”

Kat’s jaw dropped. Her mother—her mother—was suspicious.

And pretending that she wasn’t in the house.

“Right,” her father said. “Two more chairs. Jamie, take Quintin and, uh, Scooter into the kitchen. Get them a drink.”

“A shot of whiskey,” Skyler said. “You both need a good shot of whiskey. Just to warm up.” She sounded nervous, Kat thought, though no one who didn’t know her would notice.

“Whiskey sounds great,” Scooter said.

“Let’s all go into the kitchen,” Quintin added, and Kat thought she heard something ominous in his voice.

“I’ve got to get more chairs,” David said.

“No,” Scooter said softly.

It should have been a perfect holiday tableau: a family opening their doors to stranded travelers on a cold and stormy Christmas Eve.

But something just wasn’t right. It was as if the picture was out of focus.

Everyone just stood there awkwardly. And then, subtly, Quintin’s face changed.

Kat could see the way he smiled. It was a slow smile. A scary smile.

“We need to stay together. All of us,” Quintin told them.

Kat felt as if she were staring down at a scene in a play, and someone had forgotten a line.

What in God’s name had tipped everyone off? How had her mother, the soul of trust, figured out—and so quickly—that there was something unsavory about their uninvited guests?

And how had the creep, Quintin, realized that her parents were suspicious?

“This is my house,” David said. “We’re happy to keep you from freezing to death, but you’ll behave by my rules in my house.”

“Can’t, sorry,” Scooter said. He actually looked a little sad.

“Oh? Come on now, we were just about to have dinner, so let’s all honor the spirit of the holiday and sit down together.”

Good acting job, Dad, Kat cheered silently, then realized that it hadn’t made any difference.

Quintin was staring at her mother. “What made you become so mistrustful? Surely you’re not a detective, but…a psychiatrist, perhaps? No matter. Yes, this is your house. But I’m the one with a gun. In fact, my friend Scooter has a gun, too. Neither one of us wants to hurt you, but we’re outnumbered. Thankfully, you seem to be a nice family. A smart family. So I’m sure you’ll see the wisdom of behaving when I tell you that if any one of you gets out of line…Mom here gets it. So the rest of you might be able to take us, but you’d go through the rest of your neat little suburban lives without a mom. So we all stay together,” he said softly. “Can’t take any chances. After all, you might have a gun of your own squirreled away somewhere,” he said, turning to her father.

“Bullshit!”

Her father was a big man—in good shape, as well. He lunged at Quintin, and her brothers, bless them, followed his lead. But Quintin was fast. He pulled his gun before her father got to him.

“Stop now, or Mom is dead!” Quintin roared.

The sound of a bullet blasting ripped through the night, followed by the shattering of glass exploding into a thousand pieces, as Scooter took out a lamp.

“Nobody move,” Quintin said.

Everybody stood still, as ordered. Brenda started to cry.

“Shut up!” Quinton said.

Frazier put his arm around Brenda, drawing her close to him.

Uncle Paddy seemed the least disturbed of all of them. He seemed to be assessing the invaders with remarkably sober eyes.

“No more heroics,” Quintin said. “We’ve given you one chance. Next time, someone dies. Because I’m not going to prison again, ever. I’d rather die first. And if I’m going to die, I’ll happily take someone with me. Understand?”

Her poor father, Kat thought. She had never seen him in so much agony. His whole family was threatened, and he was powerless.

A sense of panic seized Kat, like a wave of cold that washed over her and left her trembling. For a moment the world went black. She fell back against the wall in an effort to remain vertical as she fought the nausea that seemed to grip her stomach with an icy, merciless hand.

She inhaled deeply and tried to think. Despite their threats, she didn’t know if the pair had ever actually murdered anyone. They were probably thieves. On the other hand…

They were armed. And they had introduced themselves, she realized with a further wave of nausea. That could only mean that whether they’d killed before or not, they weren’t planning to leave any witnesses. She shuddered, fear threatening to consume her. She only hoped they hadn’t realized just how much danger they were in.

She fought it. She was the only hope her family had.

“All right, folks, if we’re all calm, we can get through this. I want your cell phones. Now,” Quintin said.

Jamie and Frazier reached into their pockets. As Jamie handed his over, he said, “There’s no service out here now, anyway. We’re lucky to stand on the roof and get service even when there isn’t a storm.”

“You never know. Come on, come on, the rest of the cell phones,” Quintin said.

David immediately produced his from his pocket.

“Mine’s in my purse,” Brenda squeaked.

“And where would that be?”

“Right there—the table by the door,” Frazier said.

“Get it,” Quintin ordered him.

“How about you, Mom? Where’s yours?”

“Don’t you call her Mom,” Jamie warned.

“Jamie…” David said.

“My name is Skyler,” her mother told the men.

“Fine. Skyler, where’s your phone?”

“In the kitchen, charging,” she said.

“And yours, pops?” Quintin asked Paddy as Frazier handed over Brenda’s phone.

“I wouldn’t be havin’ one of those new-fangled things,” Uncle Paddy said.

“Everyone in the entire world has a cell phone,” Quintin said.

“I’d not be the entire world,” Paddy said.

“Watch it, old man,” Quintin warned.

“He really doesn’t have a cell phone,” Frazier interjected.

Quintin eyed him long and hard. “You’re a big kid. Feisty, I imagine, like your dad. Don’t go playing Superman. I do mean it. You do, and someone will die.”

“He’s not going to be Superman,” Skyler said quickly. “None of us will, okay?”

“Just remember this. I will not go back to prison,” Quintin said.

“Let’s eat,” Scooter said cheerfully, and actually gave her father a friendly punch on the shoulder. “So how is the missus in the kitchen? Is she a good cook?”

“It’s all right, David,” Skyler said softly, when he started tensing. She stared at him, her eyes pleading.

David managed to choke out an answer. “She’s a wonderful cook. And you obviously mean what you say, so don’t worry. We’ll cooperate in every way.”

“Bastards,” Uncle Paddy suddenly hissed, thumping his cane for emphasis.

“Paddy, quit banging your cane and shut up,” her mother snapped. “We’ll have no one dying here tonight. Jamie and Frazier, Scooter can accompany you to the family room. Just grab the bar stools—I’ll be happy to sit on one.”

“Me, too,” Brenda chimed in, the tear tracks drying on her cheeks.

“Quintin, you can join the rest of us in the kitchen.”

Her mother had somehow taken control. Amazing, Kat marveled.

Quintin laughed. “Yes, ma’am. We seem to have ourselves an Irish matriarch here, Scooter. There’s no one fiercer. And she’s a fine cook, we’re told. Good thing, because I’m starving. And freezing.”

“There are sweaters in the hall closet, right over there,” Skyler said, pointing. “Take off your coats. I don’t want you sitting at my table in those filthy coats.”

Mom, be careful! They’ll shoot you for sure, Kat thought, her heart sinking.

But Quintin only laughed again. “All right. You,” he said, indicating Brenda, “get the sweaters, so we can all have dinner.”

He stared at Brenda, who was staring back at him like a doe caught in the headlights of a speeding car.

“Hop to it!” Quintin said, and Brenda did.

“What about Crai—” Scooter began, doffing his coat and accepting one of David’s old sweaters.

“Later,” Quintin said.

“But it’s freezing out,” Scooter said.

“Later, after dinner.”

“But—”

“What happens, happens,” Quintin said.

What the hell are they talking about? Kat wondered. Who or what is “Crai”?

“We’ll put your coats in the mudroom,” Skyler said, and Kat could see that her mother was trembling as she picked up Scooter’s discarded coat and tossed it into the small tiled mudroom off one side of the foyer where they were standing.

“I’ll hang mine, if you don’t mind,” Quintin said, suiting his actions to the words. “Now let’s go. I’m starving.”

He looked up suddenly, and Kat instantly backed even farther into the shadows, her heart thundering. Had he seen her? Apparently not, because he set his hand on Skyler’s shoulder and repeated, “Let’s go.”

“Get your hands off her,” David said.

Quintin seemed surprised, but he only smiled. “Just remember, everyone on good behavior. Everyone. We keep close together, like a good family, and no one gets hurt.”

They left the entry hall and moved into the kitchen, and Kat was left alone with her roiling thoughts.

She felt frozen, paralyzed, but she knew she had to get past that. Her mother had kept them from knowing she was in the house for a reason: so she could save the family.

Or so she could live when the invaders massacred the rest of the family.

No. That wasn’t going to happen. She would find a way to make sure of it.

She prayed silently for strength. What the hell should she do? How was she supposed to get help in the middle of a blizzard?

She couldn’t wait until the weather calmed down, because Quintin and Scooter were waiting for the same thing. Then they would no doubt steal one of the family’s cars and get back on the road.

And before they went on the road…

They would kill her entire family. They hadn’t hidden their faces. They had blithely offered their names. Of course, they might have made up the names they had given, but she didn’t think so. The most likely scenario was that they would have dinner, savor the warmth of the house and then kill her entire family.

She turned and hurried silently down the hall to her room. She tried her cell first, but she wasn’t at all surprised to discover she had no service. She hesitated, then quickly tried the landline. But either the wires were down or their unwelcome visitors had cut the lines.

Think, she commanded herself. There had to be something she could do.

She could run, but where?

Oh God, it was all up to her. And she was in a panic, failing…

She drew a deep breath.

She could not—would not—fail.

She must be in a state of delayed shock, Skyler decided. She should be paralyzed, either entirely mute or screaming, but instead she was talking, moving, almost normally. They all were, thanks to that basic instinct for survival that kicked in no matter how dire the circumstances.

The singer on the CD that had gone on playing in the background moved on to “O Holy Night.” She had wanted peace so badly before but now…

Now she just wanted everyone to live.

“What the hell is that stuff?” Scooter asked, staring at one of the serving dishes.

“Bacon and cabbage, to go with the corned beef,” David said sharply. Bless him, he was actually bristling at the insult to her cooking, despite the circumstances.

“Don’t look like bacon,” Scooter said.

“It’s more like Canadian bacon,” Frazier said. “It’s the Irish tradition to have bacon with the cabbage.”

“Cabbage is worse than bacon,” Scooter said, wrinkling his nose.

“Taste it. All the flavors mix together. It’s good,” Skyler heard herself say as if she were coaxing a five-year-old. “Brenda, would you pass the potatoes, please?”

She could do this. They all could. It was the only way to stay alive. Because if they didn’t stay calm and pull this off…

At least, she prayed, Kat would survive.

As Scooter reluctantly accepted the bowl of cabbage, Skyler dared a glance at David. His jaw was locked, a pulse ticking at his throat. His eyes touched hers, and they were filled with humiliation. He had failed to protect his family. He wanted to do something.

She shook her head. No.

“Hey, you’re right. This shit is good,” Scooter said.

“My mother does not put shit on the table.” Jamie bridled.

There was silence for a moment; then Scooter grinned. “Sorry. It’s just that…been a while since I’ve eaten a family dinner.” He set his fork down suddenly. “I can’t do this.”

“You can’t do what?” Skyler demanded, her heart racing. He couldn’t sit and eat with them when he planned to shoot them all in a few hours?

“Leave it,” Quintin said.

“Come on,” Scooter protested. “The kid could be dead.”

Quintin frowned, then swore in exasperation. “The kid could be a cop.”

“No, he’s not,” Scooter insisted.

“What kid?” Skyler demanded, feeling as if she were about to explode, as if she were choking and stars would burst in front of her eyes before the total darkness of death descended.

Surely they couldn’t mean Kat?

“What kid?” David breathed.

Quintin waved his fork dismissively. “Nothing for you to worry about, buddy.”

Skyler was surprised to see David lean forward intensely. “Haven’t you guys ever been in a blizzard before? If you left someone out there in this, he’ll die. A few years ago, one poor old woman died after the storm. She froze to death just trying to get her mail.”

Scooter looked at Quintin. “The kid is no cop,” he insisted. “I don’t want anyone to die if I can help it.” Then, as if realizing that he was sounding too soft, he added, “But don’t any of you forget we’ve got guns, and we’ll use ’em if we have to.”

“Mom first,” Quintin reminded them very softly, and Skyler lifted her head to stare at him. He laughed suddenly. “Look at the little lioness. You think it would be worse if I threatened one of the children. For you, yes. But for the kids here…You think they’d want to go on living, knowing they got you killed?”

“Ah, it’s all clear to me now,” Paddy said suddenly.

“What’s clear, you old Mick?” Quintin demanded.

“Why, that you were abandoned by y’er blessed mother,” Paddy said.

“I wasn’t abandoned,” Quintin snapped back. “The drunken bitch died. Maybe you should watch it, Mick. You could be next.”

“Speaking of abandoning people…” Skyler cut in. “Have you abandoned someone outside?”

Quintin grinned. “You want us to bring in our buddy and put the odds even more in our favor?”

There was no way she could hide the confusion that filled her when she added that thought to the mix.

“That’s all right. You’re good people,” Quintin said surprisingly.

“I want to get the kid,” Scooter said stubbornly.

“The food will get cold,” Quintin said. “And how do you propose we get him?”

“Those two get him out of the car and carry him in,” Scooter said, indicating David and Frazier. “You sit here with your gun trained on Mom and they won’t make trouble.”

“The wind is blowing like a son of a bitch,” Paddy noted.

“So it is,” Quintin said. “Go get coated up.”

The blow to his head had been bad. Craig groaned, shivering, his teeth chattering. He tried to open his eyes again.

Somehow he managed to sit up so he could get a look at where they were, and his heart sank.

Oh God. He’d hoped it was just the blizzard and the pain confusing him, making him see the familiar where it didn’t exist, but he hadn’t been confused. What he’d seen was all too real.

This was Kat’s family’s country home, the one she always joked was out in the boondocks, where people still knew one another and where they cared.

Kat.

With her music and her laughter. He could remember far too vividly the times they had come up here for weekends when her family was away, the nights they had spent cuddling on the couch, watching old movies, unable to keep their hands off each other.

Casablanca rolled across his mind. He could hear Humphrey Bogart saying, “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she had to walk into mine.”

Except that Kat O’Boyle hadn’t just walked into his life.

He had plowed into hers.

Maybe it wasn’t the house, he thought, and looked again.

Nope, it was. Painted white and black with detailed Victorian gingerbreading. The porch, the sloping yard…This was the house, all right.

Maybe they weren’t here. But he knew they were. He could see lights in the windows, and in the living room, a Christmas tree strung with colorful lights.

What the hell was the matter with these people? They lived in Boston. Why hadn’t they bought a vacation home somewhere warm? Anywhere but here.

Maybe, he hoped against hope, Kat wasn’t there.

No, Kat never missed Christmas with her family.

He closed his eyes, wishing he couldn’t see the house. When he opened them, he thought about getting out of the car, then decided to give it another second, even though the backseat now seemed as cold as the middle of an iceberg.

Even if something had happened and Kat wasn’t here, her family was inside. He’d never met them, but he felt as if he knew them. Her father, set in his ways. Her twin brother, Frazier, whom he’d at least seen when Kat pointed him out once across campus. Her little brother, Jamie. He’d wanted to meet her family. Even when she had complained about them, it had been with love.

Her parents were just so old-school, she had told him once. They had both been born in the States, but their parents had come over from Ireland, and sometimes it felt as if they had only recently come over themselves. Her father thought Mexican food was weird and sushi would kill her one day. She’d once suggested they hire a country singer at the pub, and her mother had looked at her as if she’d betrayed the nation.

They fought too much, Kat had said, even admitted that they probably should have gotten a divorce.

No, he’d told her. It was great when people believed so strongly in marriage that they made it work no matter what. He’d never told her about the way his parents had gotten divorced. They hadn’t meant to hurt him, of course. They were decent people who’d gotten so caught up in their own pain that he had gotten lost in the shuffle. And then, when time had passed and some of the wounds had healed…

Then everything had really gone to hell.

He closed his eyes again, and when he opened them…

There was a face looking in the window at him.

Kat’s face.

He blinked to banish the hallucination. Then he heard the door open and realized she was real.

“Craig?” she murmured incredulously. “Craig Devon?”

“Kat?” He couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t think clearly, but he knew he had to shake it off.

“Oh my God! What are you doing here? Did they kidnap you or—”

She broke off, staring at him. He steeled himself, feeling his heart freeze and then shatter into little pieces.

“I heard you were in jail,” she said. Her voice had gone as cold as the snow around them.

Jail? He felt like laughing. She didn’t know the half of what had happened.

His choice, of course. The turns his life had taken weren’t the kind a man longed to share with the woman he loved. The woman he longed to have love him in return.

Kat.

So impossible.

Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world…

Damn, his head hurt and his tongue was thick, but he needed to speak and speak fast. “What are you doing out here?” he asked her. “Those bastards in your house—”

“I know,” she said coldly.

“So how did you get out—”

“They don’t know about me,” she said.

The world seemed to steady around him. He could see her in the moonlight that glowed softly through the snow. The red fire of her hair was like a silk frame around her face, and though there wasn’t enough illumination for him to really see her eyes, he knew them well. Technically speaking, they were hazel, but the word wasn’t enough to describe the reality. They were green, and they were gold. Sometimes they were the sun, sometimes like emeralds. But tonight they were filled with disappointment, even revulsion.

“They didn’t kidnap you, did they?” she asked.

He struggled to sit. “No. But, Kat—”

He broke off when he heard a sound, and turned to look as the door to the house opened. Scooter was there with two men. Craig squinted. Kat’s older brother and her father, he had to assume. “Kat.” He found the strength to grip her shoulders. “Someone’s coming—one of them. So if they really don’t know about you, you need to get the hell out of here. Do you understand me? Disappear.”

“You’re one of them.”

“No…not exactly. One of them hit me and—”

“One of them hit you?” she interrupted skeptically.

“Yes, and left me out here. Now get the hell out of here!”

The men were coming down the walk. She could see them now, Scooter, her father and Frazier.

“Craig, if you’re with them…”

“Please, Kat, I don’t know what they’ll do. Go for help.”

“Go for help?” she inquired. “I barely made it to the car in this wind. See the way they’re all hunched over against it? Where am I going to go, Craig? How the hell am I going to get help?”

Snowdrifts were everywhere. They were going to see her footprints, he thought, as the wind picked up, howling. Maybe the snow was blowing around enough to hide her footprints.

He roused and took hold of her shoulders again. He could see her eyes. Gold and emerald. His stomach lurched. She’d been the first really good thing in his life, and he had screwed it up. “I’m begging you to get out of here and find help before Scooter sees you.”

“There is no help, Craig.”

“Then hide somewhere.”

“Hide?” she asked indignantly. “They have my family. I can’t just run away and hide. Do you have a gun? If you have one, give it to me, damn it.”

“Kat, I don’t have a gun.”

“But you were with them.”

“Kat, I’m begging you, go!”

“Are you with them or not?”

“Kat, I…”

His head throbbed with pain and humiliation at the look in her eyes. If they caught her…Lord, if they caught her…He opened his eyes and looked up.

She was gone, vanished into the snow.

He prayed for the snow to fall faster, the wind to blow harder, to cover all traces of her escape.

Scooter and the others had nearly reached the car. The door she’d used was still open, and her prints were still obvious. With a desperate burst of strength, he dragged himself out of the car and let himself collapse into the snow, thrashing to cover her tracks, his thoughts tormenting him.

Once upon a time, he had lived in a different world. He’d been in love with a gorgeous redheaded coed. They’d saved money by eating in and watching old movies on television.

Bogie.

Bergman.

Casablanca.

Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world…

Run, Kat, run.