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 spot
ted 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….
NICK 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.
“Sara! Where are you?”
The prints led him into the ravine and up the other side. Two sets of them, he was sure. Larger ones with a plain sole. And smaller imprints, with a sharper heel. Sara’s, he thought.
The footprints led to an outcropping of rock on the north rim of the ravine. Nick paused to listen, but heard nothing over the downpour and the crash of the sea. Cupping his hands on either side of his mouth he called out her name.
He was midway down the rock when he heard a cry. A first, Nick thought the sound was a figment of his imagination, brought about by wanting to hear her voice so badly his brain had conjured it. Then he heard it again.
He rushed to the top of the rock and looked around wildly. “Sara!”
“I’m here!”
His stomach dropped when he realized her voice was coming from below. Scrambling to the ledge, he knelt and peered over. His breath jammed in his lungs when he spotted her on a narrow shelf ten feet down. The first thing that registered was that she had blood on her face. A dozen horrible scenarios rushed through his brain. She’d been shot. She’d fallen and struck her head. Then it occurred to him that she was standing, trying to climb back up the face of the rock.
Dangerous, considering that just a few feet from where she stood, the ledge dropped fifty feet to the rocky beach below.
“Don’t move,” he shouted. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay. Just…banged up.”
“Stay put. Don’t try to climb up. I’ll come get you.”
“Be careful,” she cried. “There’s someone else up there. He pushed me.”
His sidearm was out of its holster even before she’d completed the sentence. Nick stood, looked uneasily around. The hairs on his nape prickled when he spotted the crude letters scrawled on a rock face ten feet away in dripping red paint. The same type of paint that had been used to write the words on her car window the day before and again today.
Blaine Stocker.
“What the hell?”
Crossing to the rock, he set his finger against the paint—Blaine Stocker.
The name sparked a memory, but he couldn’t place it. The only thing he knew for certain was that he’d heard it before. The paint was slowly being washed away by the rain. The cop in him wanted to preserve it for clues, but the man in him wanted only to get Sara off of that ledge.
To do that he needed a rope. Ten feet wasn’t that far to pull someone up, but the rocks were slick with moss. If he couldn’t find a foothold, pulling her up would be difficult. But Nick didn’t want to leave her alone. As far as he knew the bastard who’d pushed her might return to finish the job.
He walked back to the ledge. Setting his gun on the ground, he stretched out on his stomach and reached for her. “Can you reach my hand?”
She tried, but their fingers were several inches apart. “Maybe we can use my purse strap. It’s leather.”
“That’ll work.”
Grabbing her bag, Sara stepped up on a small jut of rock, stood on her tiptoes and extended the strap.
Nick scooted dangerously close to the edge and grasped the strap. Her fingertips touched his hand as he twisted it around his fist. She did the
same, wrapping the leather strap around her wrist. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“Whatever you do, don’t let go,” he said.
“Like that’s an option at this point.”
He dug in with his feet as much as he could and began to pull. His muscles quivered with the exertion. Even though he was soaked, sweat broke out on his skin.
“Use your feet to climb,” he ground out.
He could hear her choking with effort as she squirmed and pushed her way up the sheer face of rock. Her free hand grasped dry grass next to his shoulder, her fingers digging into mud like claws.
Nick heaved as hard as he could. Her shoulders emerged. He scrambled back, using his weight to pull her full length onto the rock.
Relief made his muscles go slack. For several seconds the only sounds came from their labored breathing and the crash of the surf below.
Because he was angry, Nick didn’t go to her right away. Instead, he focused that burst of energy on the person who’d pushed her off the cliff. The thought of someone hurting her—trying to kill her—filled him with a cold and dangerous rage. Reaching for his weapon, he rose and scanned the area. He wanted to go in search of the son of a bitch; he wanted to smash his face with his fist. But Nick needed to calm down and make sure she was all right first.
Next to him, Sara struggled to her hands and knees. Her hair hung wetly in her face. Her clothes were soaked and covered with mud. When she looked up at him, the pale cast of her complexion and the blood dripping down her forehead unsettled him.
“Let me help you.” Setting his hands beneath her arms, he helped her rise. She was small within his grip, her entire body trembling violently. “Easy does it,” he said.
“Did you see anyone?” Her eyes were already scanning the surrounding brush and the shadows within the trees in the ravine.
“No.” But that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone out there, watching them, waiting.
In the Dead of Night Page 9