In the Dead of Night (15 page)

“See you then,” Sara said and disconnected.

Sara couldn’t believe Brett Stocker had found the manuscript. What was it doing at the Stocker estate? Had the old man been hiding it all these years?

She tried to call Nick twice on the drive to the mansion. Both times she got voice mail and left detailed messages. She tried not to imagine him climbing down some ravine to find his mother’s car…or maybe her body. Looking back, even though she’d been angry with him, she wished she’d gone with him. She wouldn’t have been able to help with the rescue or retrieval efforts. But at least he wouldn’t have had to face this alone.

The sky over the Pacific Ocean churned with purple thunderheads when she pulled into the driveway of the mansion. The morning was cool and crisp, but she knew a storm brewed over the sea and would soon make its way inland.

She let herself in through the front door and walked to the kitchen. Exhaustion tugged at her as she made coffee. She tried to figure out the best way to handle Stocker and the manuscript. First and foremost, she wanted possession of the book. She wanted its contents verified and made public. If her suspicions were correct, the book would exonerate her father once and for all.

But even with the case about to explode, Sara couldn’t stop thinking about Nick. About what he could be facing at this very moment. Of all the things they’d shared the night before.

Only fifteen minutes had passed since she’d spoken to Stocker. With another forty-five minutes to kill, she carried her mug of coffee to the patio and looked out over the sea. The storm clouds roiled threateningly on the horizon, as violent and unpredictable as the sea. Even though the sun had risen in the east, the sky remained overcast.

Reaching for her cell phone, she tried Nick one more time. Three rings and she got voice mail. “Nick, it’s Sara. I hope you’re okay. Call me. It’s important.” Sighing, she disconnected.

Sipping coffee, she wandered the mansion and found herself in her father’s study. She let her mind take her back to her childhood. She and Sonia had been incorrigible children. Standing alone in a room that had once been so filled with life, Sara could practically hear the laughter. She recalled the day when Sonia dared her to climb Daddy’s bookcases. Using the shelves as rungs, Sara had climbed all the way to the ceiling.

I did it, Sonia! See? Look at me! You owe me a quarter!

Twelve feet above the floor, looking out at the tops of her father’s bookcases, young Sara had noticed the loose board. Looking inside, she’d found a cache of papers and jewelry and she’d felt very grown-up and important. “Wow! Look at this!”

That was when her father had come in and lovingly called her his climbing little monkey. He’d reached out and Sara had gone into his arms. He’d tickled her until she’d cried uncle. Until this moment she’d forgotten all about the compartment above the bookcases.

Glad there was no one around to see her, Sara found the right bookcase, then grabbed onto the shelf and pulled herself up, praying it would hold her weight. She knew it was probably a waste of time. After all, Brett Stocker had the manuscript. But who knew what she’d find? More notes? A piece of her mother’s jewelry?

Reaching the top of the bookcase, Sara blew dust and removed the loose panel. Her heart tripped when she spotted the thick stack of paper.
A manuscript.
Was it the same one Blaine claimed to have? Or was there a
second
book?

Next to the manuscript, an emerald pendant winked up at her. She knew immediately it had belonged to her mother; Sara had been with her father the day he’d bought it for her. Mounted in a gold setting, it was one of the most exquisite pieces of jewelry she’d ever seen. Her father had given it to her mother for Christmas. Little did they know it would be their last Christmas together.

Shoving the melancholy thoughts aside, Sara dropped the necklace into her pocket and turned her attention back to the manuscript. The mound of paper was yellowed with age, but intact. Dust motes spewed as she lifted it.

The sheets had once been bound with a rubber band, but the band had long since snapped. The paper felt damp and heavy. Much of it was gray with mildew, the edges frayed. She almost couldn’t believe she’d found it.

Quickly, she skimmed the first page.
Hollywood’s Darkest Secret: A True Crime Uncovered by Nicholas Tyson and Alexandra and Richard Douglas.

Anxious to take a peek at the manuscript, Sara climbed down the shelves, grabbed her coffee and went to the kitchen. At the counter, she set down the book and turned the first page.

In the acknowledgments, Nicholas Tyson went to great lengths to thank her parents for their expertise, insights and amateur sleuthing skills. He wrote: “By the time this book is published, Blaine Stocker will be incarcerated….”

The manuscript detailed how a talented Hollywood director of over fourteen films became a victim of his own dark desires. How, at an age when most men were about to retire, Blaine Stocker began preying on young women hoping for a glamorous Hollywood career, only to find themselves the victim of a madman.

“Oh my God,” she whispered as she flipped the pages.

The first chapter detailed the history of the first young woman to fall victim to Stocker’s trap. A young woman from the wrong side of the tracks who’d been trying for years to break into acting. She’d made a fatal mistake when she’d believed Stocker’s claim that he could help her. She agreed to a photo shoot in Hollywood and was never heard from again.

Tyson wrote: “Richard Douglas and I drove to Blaine’s so-called studio. I’ve seen a lot of things in the course of my true-crime-writing career, but I’ve never seen anything as horrific as what was left of one of Blaine Stocker’s victims.”

Shaken by the words, Sara closed the manuscript and stepped back, her mind reeling. From all accounts, it seemed as if she and Nick had been right. Her parents and Nicholas Tyson had written a tell-all book that promised to ruin Blaine Stocker.

“Is that why you killed them, you son of a bitch?” Her voice sounded strange in the silence of the old house. But she knew she was right. The only questions that remained unanswered were, who had contacted her and why? Who’d left the bizarre threats? And who had stolen the notes and nearly pushed her off the cliff?

Knowing she was close to some profound revelation, Sara resolved to take everything to Nick. For the time being, they were going to have to put their personal issues aside and work together to solve this thing once and for all.

She was in the process of shoving the manuscript into her briefcase when a voice from behind spun her around.

“I see you found it.”

Brett Stocker stood ten feet away. Water dripped from a dark raincoat. His hair was plastered to his head. For a split second she had the oddest sensation of déjà vu.

Outside, the storm had arrived in full force. Rain and wind lashed at the windows like frantic fingers pleading for her to get out of there before it was too late.

Staring at the gun in Stocker’s hand, she knew it was already too late.

N
ICK SPOTTED
the skid marks a quarter mile from where Nancy’s car had gone off the highway a year earlier. Turning on the cruiser’s overhead strobe lights, he parked well off the highway and set up flares. On the west side of the road, the guardrail had been plowed over. A path as wide as a car cut through low-growing brush and disappeared toward the rocky shore below.

One thing Nick knew for certain. Whoever had gone over that guardrail hadn’t survived.

He’d broken every speed limit on the way to the scene. The paramedics hadn’t yet arrived. Intellectually, Nick knew there would be little he could do even if he was able to reach the victim. But there was no way he could stand up here and do nothing. His mother could be lying down there, broken and dying alone.

Throwing on his slicker, Nick quickly secured a rappelling rope to the trunk of a sturdy sapling and started down the steep ravine. He fought his way through prickly brush, sliding through mud and over rain-slicked rock. A hundred feet down, he heard the hiss of steam coming from an engine. Twenty-five more feet and he reached the wreckage.

Nick let go of the rope and faced the scene. The car lay on its side, the undercarriage visible from where he stood. The smells of gasoline and burning rubber filled the air. Steam rose from beneath the twisted hood. The car was red, but it was too mangled for him to discern the make. Still, all he could think was that his mother was inside, and it was up to him to get her out.

Nick fought his way around to the other side of the vehicle. As he drew near and the front end came into view, he realized the car was not a red Mercedes, but an older Chevy. Bracing himself, he looked inside. But the driver was nowhere in sight.

“What the hell?”

For an instant, Nick stood there looking around, assuming the driver hadn’t worn a safety belt and had been ejected. But there was no blood. No sign anyone had been inside. Withdrawing the flashlight from his belt, he shone it around the interior. A quiver of uneasiness went through him when he spotted the length of wood braced against the accelerator. The other end had been duct-taped to the seat.

Realization dawned in a rush of horrible clarity.

“Sara,” he whispered and began to claw his way back up the ravine.

“D
ON’T LOOK
so surprised.”

Sara stared at the pistol, her mind spinning through all the reasons Brett Stocker could be pointing it at her. But deep inside she knew.

“I don’t understand,” she managed.

“Aw, come on. The dots aren’t that hard to connect, are they?” His gaze flicked to the manuscript on the counter. “Did you have a look-see?”

“I read enough to know your father is a cold-blooded killer.”

“Yes, he is.”

The answer surprised her; she hadn’t expected him to agree with her. So why was he here aiming that gun at her heart? “What I can’t figure is how you play into the story. You were just a kid when all of this took place.”

“Like you, it took me a while to figure out what had happened. Not the kind of thing the folks talk about over Sunday-morning eggs Benedict, you know? But I eventually pieced things together.” His laugh was bitter. “I knew my old man had a streak of mean, but I had no idea he was also sick.”

Sara slid her hand toward her cell phone, which was clipped to her belt. If she could dial 911 without being seen…“Then why go to all this trouble to protect his secret?”

“I’m not doing it to protect him.” He gave an animated laugh. “I’m doing it for the manuscript.”

“But you already have the manuscript. You told me so on the phone.”

He clucked, a parent gently scolding a slow child. “I lied.” His gaze once again went to the manuscript on the counter. “That’s the only copy. The original. The one I’ve been looking for.”

“You’re not doing this to protect your father.”

“Do you have any idea how explosive the information contained in that manuscript is? Do you have any idea what that kind of information is worth? Good God, I’ve been trying to write a bestseller my entire adult life.”

“You’re doing it for the money? The fame?” Sara slowly eased the cell phone from its case. “What are you going to do? Sell it to the highest bidder?”

“Silly, silly woman.” He clucked his tongue. “Think big. We’re talking headlines. A
New York Times
bestseller. I can see it now.” He raised his hand as if placing letters on some invisible billboard. “Son Writes Tell-All Book, Puts Hollywood-Director Father Behind Bars.”

“You’re going to claim authorship?” Struggling not to make her movement visible, she began to feel for the numbers with her fingertip.

“Give the lady a star.” He shifted the gun to her face. “Take your hand off that damn cell phone.
Now!
”

Sara raised both hands. “Brett, don’t do this.”

“Toss me the phone. Do it!”

The last thing Sara wanted to do was part with her phone. It was her only connection to the outside world. Her last connection to Nick. But with a gun leveled at her head, she didn’t have a choice.

Her hand shook as she unclipped the phone from her belt and tossed it to Brett. “What are you going to do with me?”

He caught the phone, turned it off and dropped it into his pocket. “I’ve given the subject some thought. I’m afraid this particular story isn’t going to have a happy ending.”

Sara knew exactly what he meant. He was going to kill her. “Don’t do it, Brett. You can’t possibly get away. Nick Tyson knows everything. Run while you still can.”

He clucked his tongue again, looking at her as if she were a slow-witted child. “Not my style, darling. Besides, Tyson has no proof of anything.” He patted the manuscript. “It’s all right here and now I have it in my hands.”

“You’re forgetting one small detail.” Sara glanced toward the door, measured the distance between her and Stocker, wondering if she could get out before he fired a killing shot.

“What are you talking about?”

“If you kill me, you’ll have a body to dispose of. A murder to explain.”

“That’s why you’re going to commit suicide. You see, this pilgrimage into the past, the deaths of your parents, proved too much for you to bear.” A smile twisted his thin mouth. “You won’t be the first person to jump from these cliffs to perish on the rocks below.”

“No one will believe it.”

“They’ll believe this.” From his pocket, he produced a small folded paper and handed it to her.

Sara reached for it, her fingers closing around it. But he yanked it back at the last moment. “It’s from the library printer. You were there. Now it has your prints on it.” He unfolded the note and read.

To Nick and Sonia.

I’m sorry to be saying goodbye this way. But coming back has been too much to bear. I have too much sadness in my heart. I hope you’ll forgive me. I love you both.

Sara.

He refolded the note, and for the first time she noticed the flesh-colored latex gloves he wore. “Tragic but clever, don’t you think?”