In the Dead of Night (9 page)

The mansion was perched on the cliffs like an elegant cat, Sara thought as she pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. Nick had already been gone when she’d wakened an hour earlier. There was no note telling her where to find coffee or when he would return. There was no scribbled apology for what had happened the night before.

Sara wanted to be annoyed. But she knew the kiss they’d shared was not his fault. Nick might have instigated it, but she hadn’t stopped him. In fact, she’d been as into it as he was. That made her every bit as guilty as him.

Even now the memory of the kiss made her heart quicken. She could still feel the insistent pressure of his lips against hers. The warm brush of his breath against her face. The scrape of his whiskers against her cheek. Her traitorous body responding in a way that shocked and embarrassed her.

“Enough, already,” she muttered, pulling out her key and unlocking the front door.

The smells of dust and stale air met her when she stepped inside. She tried not to think of the intruder from the night before as she walked from room to room, making sure no one had broken in during the night. She checked the garage and the patio doors and found both secure.

Nick told her not to come here alone. But Sara had never been good at taking orders. There was no way she could sit around the bungalow and do nothing until he came home from work. It was daylight, after all. The doors and windows were locked down tight. She had her cell phone handy. If someone pulled into the driveway or knocked on the door or even broke a window, she would have ample time to take evasive action.

Still, her nerves were on edge as she wandered to the kitchen and put the kettle on the flame. An ocean gale lashed at the window above the sink as she waited for the water to boil. A few minutes later, steaming coffee mug in hand, she wandered to her father’s study and looked around. Richard Douglas had spent much of his time here, sitting at his desk with the phone in the crook of his neck. A good bit of that time had been shared with Sara’s mother and Nicholas Tyson.

Setting the cup on one of the built-in bookcase shelves, Sara ran her fingers along the intricately carved wood. She told herself she wasn’t looking for a secret compartment. That would be far too…hokey. But Sara knew that when her father had designed the house, he’d made a few architectural errors and corrected them by indulging in a hiding place or two. She felt silly looking, but what would it hurt?

Two hours later she stood at the patio door and watched rain stream down the panes. All she had to show for her time so far was a caffeine buzz and dusty hands. But, for better or worse, Sara had never been easily deterred.

She was on the staircase heading toward the second level when her cell phone chirped. Her heart went into overdrive when she looked down and saw Nick’s name come up. The urge to answer was strong, but she resisted. She knew he wouldn’t be happy about her coming here alone; she didn’t feel up to defending herself. Besides, after what had happened between them last night, better to let things cool off anyway.

Methodically, Sara searched each room. Frustration lay thick in the pit of her stomach when she found nothing of interest. She was thinking about calling it a day when she found herself looking at the attic door. She didn’t want to go up those stairs, particularly after what had happened the last time. After seeing that terrible film. But even more, she didn’t want to walk away empty-handed.

“Just a quick look-see, Douglas,” she muttered as she opened the door and started up the narrow staircase.

The attic was just as she and Nick had left it. The memory of the film flashed vividly in her mind. For the life of her she couldn’t figure out why her parents had had it in their possession. A part of her hoped Nick would come back with proof that the murder depicted in the film wasn’t real. But deep inside she knew it was. Something so horrific, so ugly, would be difficult to reproduce with such awful authenticity.

She started at the shelves above the window that looked out over the rocky cliffs and churning ocean below. Leaving no place untouched, she lost herself in the search for something—
anything
—that would answer her questions and, she hoped, clear her father’s name.

An hour later the attic still had not given up the secrets her parents had taken with them to their graves. Facing defeat and the disappointing notion that the anonymous caller was, indeed, a crank, Sara stepped back from her work and sighed.

Hands on her hips, she stood near the window and looked around. “Damn it.”

For the first time, she seriously contemplated the reality that her trip to Cape Darkwood would net nothing. That she would not be able to clear her father’s name. That, perhaps, the events of that terrible night twenty years ago had gone down exactly as the police had surmised. There was nothing left to do but lock up the house and head back to Nick’s.

With a heavy heart, Sara left the attic and trudged down the staircase. In the hall, she passed her father’s study, but instead of going to the kitchen for her purse and keys, she found herself drawn into the room. For an instant she was seven years old again. Her mother was curled on the settee in front of the window with a martini in her hand. Her father sat at the desk, his tortoiseshell glasses pushed onto his head. Across from him, Nicholas Tyson sat in a tapestry wingback chair, smoking a fragrant cigar. Her father’s study had been a place for adult work and conversation. A place for important phone calls, computer work and, many times, laughter. It had been one of her favorite rooms in the house.

She wandered the room, feeling foolishly melancholy, touching the shelves as she passed the built-in bookcases. It was times like this when she wondered what her life would have been like if her parents hadn’t died on that terrible night. She and Sonia had been blessed with fabulous parents. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder.

At the hearth, she ran her hands along the walnut mantelpiece, admiring the workmanship. She was almost to the window when something out of place snagged her attention. Backing up a step, she squinted at the intricately carved wood, trying to figure out what wasn’t quite right about it. Her gaze landed on a side piece that connected the mantel to the wall. It was almost as if the wood had been improperly cut and didn’t fit well….

Sara reached out and tugged. The panel came easily away, revealing a small space between the wall and the stone hearth. Her pulse kicked when she spotted the tapestry journal hidden inside.

“What in the world?”

Reaching into the small space, she pulled it out. The cover had once been gold with embossed red roses, but time and dust had dulled both. She blew lightly and dust motes erupted. Her hands shook when she opened the journal to the first page. She realized immediately the strongly slanted handwriting was the same as the notes she’d found in the attic. Not her parents’. But whose?

She skimmed through several pages. Her heart beat like a jackhammer in her chest when she realized some of the passages were nearly identical to the ones she’d read in the notes that had been stolen from her the day before. Missing women. Details about their lives carefully documented.

By whom?
she wondered.
And why?

Realizing she needed to sit down and read the journal from cover to cover, she closed it, replaced the panel and headed for the kitchen for her purse and keys. She would do her reading at Nick’s where she was certain no one would accost her and steal what she had found.

Snagging her purse from the counter, she dropped the journal inside and headed for the door, digging for her keys as she went. She was midway there when through the sidelight, movement in the driveway caught her eye. Her first thought was that Nick had stopped by to berate her for coming here alone. But when she peered through the beveled glass, she saw a figure in a dark raincoat standing next to her car.

Sara pulled her cell phone from her purse and punched in Nick’s number. When his voice mail picked up, she left a hurried message then opened the door and stepped furtively onto the porch.

The hooded figure glanced her way and she caught a glimpse of the pale oval of a face. But in a flash he was gone, ducking around the house and disappearing into the drizzle and mist.

Sara paused long enough to utter a mental warning to herself. Looping the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she dashed from the house and ran toward her car. Her breath caught in her throat when she spotted the red lettering on the driver’s window:

You don’t belong here.

It was anger that struck her this time. Not giving herself time to debate, she set off at a dead run after the culprit. Intellectually, she knew running after a potentially dangerous man was a crazy thing to do. But she was tired of the threats. Tired of letting him yank her chain. And damn tired of being frightened. As she tore around the side of the house, she rationalized that if he had truly wanted to hurt her, he’d had ample opportunity.

She clung to that thought as she blew by the deck at the rear. She started toward the stairs that would take her to the beach, but spotted footprints in the sandy soil leading north, parallel with the beach. A split second decision and she was running along the rocks.

Toward Skeeter’s cottage,
a little voice whispered.

She didn’t want to believe that. Skeeter was strange, but she’d adored him since she’d been a child. But the more rational side of her brain reminded her that sometimes even good people did bad things if pushed far enough.

Wind from the sea tore at her face and clothes as she ran. Icy rain soaked her clothes. But Sara didn’t stop. She didn’t know what she was going to do if she caught up. Get a look at his face so she could identify him for the police. She didn’t think beyond that.

Two hundred yards from the house, the land dropped away into a narrow gorge that caught rain and fed it to the ocean. Standing on the brink, she caught a glimpse of the dark raincoat midway to the ravine floor.

“Stop!” she shouted.

The man glanced back, but didn’t stop. Why is he running? Why not stop and make a stand? The questions propelled her forward. She went into the ravine at a dangerous speed, her shoes slipping on moss-covered rocks and sliding in mud. Somehow she managed to maintain her footing.

The trees seemed to swallow her, engulfing her in shadows. Pausing at the foot of the ravine, she looked around, caught a glimpse of the dark figure struggling up the other side. “Wait!” Sara shouted. “I want to talk to you!”

The figure continued climbing up the steep slope. Sara sprinted after him, negotiating around trees and rocks the size of small cars. At the rim, she paused, breathless, the muscles in her legs burning.

Rain slashed down from a slate sky. To her left, at the bottom of the rocky cliff, the ocean roiled and churned. Wiping wet hair from her eyes, she started toward the rocks for a better vantage point. She used her hands and climbed to the top. For an instant, the view took her breath away. Even frightened and soaked to the skin, she couldn’t help but marvel at the hostile beauty of the sea and the violence with which it met the land.

She was in the process of reaching for her cell phone to call Nick again when movement from directly behind her spun her around. Too late she realized her mistake. She caught a glimpse of a dark raincoat, shiny and wet. The figure launched at her. Sara knew what he was going to do and tried to drop to the ground to avoid it. But she wasn’t fast enough. He hit her with both hands hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.

A scream tore from her throat.

And then she was falling into space….

N
ICK DIALED
Sara’s number for the third time and cursed when she didn’t answer. She’d sounded frightened in her message.
I’m at the house. There’s someone here. Gotta go. I’ll call you right back.

Her words had lodged a chill at the base of his spine.

What the hell was she thinking, going to the house alone after everything that had happened? Damn crazy woman.

His cruiser slid sideways as he sped into the driveway. He stopped behind her rental car and slammed it into gear. Shoving open the door, he hit the ground running.

He saw something scrawled in red on her driver’s-side window. The letters were nearly washed away by the rain, but he was able to make out the words:

You don’t belong here.

He sprinted to the front door. A layer of cold fear settled over him when he found it ajar. Bursting inside, he stopped in the foyer. “Sara!”

He ran to the kitchen, shouting her name. He couldn’t help but think this house had seen more than its share of death. In his mind’s eye, he saw her sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood, the way she’d found her parents. The ensuing rush of terror nearly paralyzed him.

Spinning away from the kitchen, he dashed down the hall and took the steps two at a time to the top. “Sara! Damn it, answer me!”

The fear was making him angry. Angry at Sara for being so irresponsible. Angry at the son of a bitch who’d targeted her. Nick checked the rooms, but knew he wouldn’t find her. The house was empty. Where the hell had she gone?

Frantic now, he stumbled down the steps and ran out the front door. He warned himself to stay calm. As a cop he knew a cool head was his best tool in a situation like this.

But this was personal. And in that moment the fear had a death grip on his throat. For the span of several rapid-fire heartbeats, he stood in the driveway, barely noticing the rain soaking him. Where the hell was she?

“Sara!”

He glanced toward the side of the house. His pulse redlined when he noticed footprints in the wet grass and sand. There was no way old footprints could survive days of rain. They had to be fresh.

Nick raced to the tracks and followed them north, toward the gully-washer that ran from the road and emptied into the ocean. All the while, his mind conjured images of all the terrible things he might find.