Help. Emergency. 225 Elm.
“Two-two-five Elm,” Tim said.
“The O’Boyle place. They always come up from Boston for the holidays. This had better not be another damn prank like the one their kid pulled last year.”
Tim looked at her. “I suppose there’s no chance we can—”
“Wait to check it out? No such luck. Bundle up, buddy. Duty calls.”
“Okay,” Tim said, masking his reluctance. “But how the hell are we going to get way out there?”
Suddenly the computer pinged and another message came through. The voice was tinny through the cheap speakers, but the worry in Ethan Hudson’s voice was clear as he asked them to check on his father, who had stayed late at his shop and never made it home.
“Poor guy probably plowed into a snowbank,” Sheila said. “Somehow, we’ve got to get out there. At least they’re both in the same direction.”
There was silence after the scream, a silence so complete and acute that Kat could almost taste it, like something metallic in the air.
This was it. The opportunity they needed.
And her brothers took it. She heard Scooter cry out as someone grabbed him, then long moments ticked past, punctuated by grunts and shuffling.
Then the generator kicked in.
She realized that what had seemed like forever had in reality been only a matter of seconds, and she cursed the generator they had begged their father to buy, though she had no idea whether the outcome would have been the same without it.
She was still in the closet when the dim light from the hallway showed her Scooter on the floor of her bedroom, Frazier straddling him and Jamie sitting on his feet.
There was a bruise darkening on Frazier’s face, but Scooter looked the worse for wear, as well, with a bloody lip. And his gun was on the floor.
Jamie made a dive for the gun, reaching it before Scooter could reclaim it.
“Hold it on him, Jamie….” Frazier cautioned.
Jamie held it. Pale as a ghost, he held it.
Frazier got quickly to his feet. Scooter, wary, stayed where he was, nervously eyeing the gun. “You don’t even know how to shoot that thing, boy,” he said.
“Aim and pull the trigger, that’s what I’m thinking,” Jamie said.
By then Frazier was next to him. “Give it over, Jamie.”
Jamie passed the gun to his brother without a word.
“Get up,” Frazier ordered, flipping off the safety. “Slowly. I don’t want to kill you.”
“No? Why not?” Scooter asked calmly.
Too calmly, Kat thought. Didn’t he care if he lived or died? Shouldn’t his survival instinct kick in?
“We’re going downstairs, slowly, calmly, with you in front of me. And no tricks,” Frazier said.
“Okay,” Scooter said, and started walking toward the door.
Kat was planning to scramble out of the closet, but Frazier shook his head in warning as he passed, so she stayed silent and watched them leave the room before she crept free of her hiding place.
She was immediately grateful for her brother’s caution when a second scream sounded, followed by the explosive thunder of a shot.
The darkness, sudden and total, took Skyler by surprise. She screamed and leaped to her feet before freezing, terrified that if she moved, she would crash into something. Then she gasped, hearing movement—thudding and scuffling—from upstairs.
Without warning, the lights came back on as the generator kicked in.
Under cover of darkness, while she had been frozen in fear, everyone else had shifted. Paddy had his cane raised, ready to strike viciously. The problem was, he had misjudged people’s positions and was about to hit her. She screamed again, at the same time realizing that David had made a leap for Quintin.
But Craig was between them. Defending Quintin from David? Or…
Sweet Lord, had he been about to attack Quintin himself?
There was no time to ponder the question. The sound of her scream had barely faded when the air was split by the deafening report of Quintin’s gun. He struck out viciously with his other hand, sending Craig crashing back on the couch as David cried out hoarsely.
Then Quintin raised his gun and leveled it on Skyler, nothing but ice in his eyes.
“Mom, get back to the piano. Old man, back in your chair. The rest of you…sit. If I fire again, it will be directly at you, not into the air. And I don’t miss.”
He whirled on Craig. “You are one sorry son of a bitch,” he said. “Maybe,” he mused, “I should just finish you off, because you’re worthless.”
David spoke before Quintin could fire. “Good idea. Shoot him. He stopped me from reaching you,” he said in a strange mocking tone.
Quintin was still for a moment. Then he lowered his gun. “All right, Craig,” he said. “Maybe you’re of some use after all. But remember, I’m always watching you.”
In a split second, he was at Skyler’s side, and she felt the cold, hard nose of his gun pressed to her ribs.
“Scooter, get your sorry ass down here!” Quintin yelled.
“The kid has a gun on me!” Scooter shouted.
“And I have one pressed into his mother’s ribs.” A nasty smile twisted his features. “I’ve killed before, kid. And I haven’t got a hell of a lot to lose. Shoot Scooter or try to shoot me, and your mom’s dead. Give the gun back to Scooter, then get back down here.”
“No, Frazier!” Skyler cried. “Shoot them both!” Then she cried out in fear as David instinctively moved to protect her.
Quintin moved like lightning. The nose of the gun never shifted from her side as Quintin lashed out and caught David off guard, sending him flying so hard against the wall that she could have sworn she heard the crack of his skull before he slumped to the floor.
“Dad!” Frazier shouted in anguish as he and Jamie pushed Scooter in front of them into the living room.
“He’s not dead, kid, but your mother is about to be,” Quintin said.
“No, please,” Frazier begged, and set the gun down on the ground. Scooter immediately turned around and retrieved the weapon, then slugged Frazier in the jaw, hard.
Her son staggered back, and she jerked free from Quintin’s hold, heedless of whether he shot her or not. “Don’t you touch my son!” she shrieked as she flew at Scooter, who backed off in shock. Then she turned to Quintin, and the look she gave him dared him to stop her as she walked over to her husband. “David?”
He groaned softly.
“I’ll get him up,” Craig volunteered, and hurried over to help. Her husband wasn’t a small man, and Craig wasn’t at full strength, but he managed to lift David and carry him to the sofa, then lay him out where he had been himself not all that long ago.
“Okay, okay, very sweet,” Quintin said. “Now let’s everybody get it together here. Stay calm. Collected. Cool. I think we need something hot to drink. Maybe a little Irish coffee will put us all back on an even keel.”
Skyler swallowed, and tried hard not to think about how badly hurt her husband might be. “Fine,” she said and started for the kitchen.
“No, no, no. You’re too dangerous. You just proved that against stupid over there,” Quintin said.
“Hey!” Scooter complained.
“You let a couple of kids overpower you,” Quintin told him. “How smart was that?”
Scooter flushed and looked furious—as if he might try to deck one of the kids again, Skyler thought, and noticed that Frazier was still rubbing his jaw.
“We’ll all go to the kitchen,” Quintin said.
“What about my husband?” Skyler asked worriedly.
Quintin stared at David, who still hadn’t regained consciousness.
“I’ll watch him,” Craig said to Quintin. “I saved your ass, and like you keep saying, you’ve got the gun. What the hell am I going to do out here with a half dea—with an unconscious guy?”
“Fine. The rest of you, let’s go,” Quintin said.
&n
bsp; The room still smelled like gunpowder from the shot he had fired, Skyler thought as she turned and started for the kitchen. “Come on, kids. And, Jamie, don’t even ask. You’re getting cocoa. You, too, Uncle Paddy.”
Kat stood silently on the landing again, shaking.
What the hell had just happened? Her brothers had bested Scooter. The confrontation should have gone their way, but instead…
That bastard Quintin! She found herself furious that Massachusetts didn’t have a death penalty. She would have liked to slip a noose around the man’s neck herself.
She swallowed, her thoughts racing. What now?
They had all gone into the kitchen, so her mother could make Irish coffee—except for her father and Craig, who were still in the living room.
Craig…
She tried to harden her heart as she crept close enough to the banister to see. His hair was too long, and his face looked thinner. Too thin, as if the last three years had been rough on him. If so, he’d deserved it.
How had he gone from being Mr. Perfect to Scuzz of the Year?
He was talking to her father, she realized. She strained to hear, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. What she could tell was that her father had regained consciousness, because he was saying something back.
Craig rose and started toward the kitchen.
“Hey,” her father said hoarsely, quietly.
“Yeah?” Craig asked, pausing.
“Thank you,” David O’Boyle said softly.
Thank you?
Why was her father saying thank-you to one of the men who’d invaded their house?
Craig went toward the kitchen. “What the hell are you doing?” Quintin demanded as he pushed open the swinging door.
“He’s starting to come around. I’m going to get some ice for his head,” Craig said, and then the rest of the conversation was lost as the door swung shut behind him.
Kat hesitated. Everyone except her father was in the kitchen, she realized. How long would they stay there?
Suddenly she didn’t care.
She flew silently down the stairs and raced to her father’s side.
“Dad?” she whispered.
“Baby, get away from here.”
“But, Dad, I’m afraid for you.”
“I’m all right, honey. I had hoped you’d gotten far away by now,” he said, his tone hopeless.
He had hoped she wouldn’t die with the rest of them, she thought.
“I…It’s a blizzard, Dad.”
He smiled sadly. “I know. Get back upstairs.”
“Dad, I texted the cops and I think it went through,” she said. “So hang in there, okay?”
“We’re hanging.”
They both heard the sound of someone pushing against the swinging door to the kitchen.
“Go!”
“I’m gone!”
She flew back up the stairs to her previous vantage point and watched as Craig walked over to her father with a bag of ice in his hand.
How? she wondered again. How did you go from bad jokes and the world’s most charming smile to…this?
Did you hear about the three guys who headed out for a good time one night? Two of them walked into a bar.
Yeah?
And one didn’t.
I don’t get it.
He ducked.
They’d both laughed, and then she was in his arms, and she could still remember the way his fingers had felt, moving over her bare flesh….
Quintin seemed to be relishing his Irish coffee. “Delicious,” he told Skyler, and he grinned, as if he were a welcome guest in her home and not a monster holding a gun on her family.
“Glad you like it,” she said dryly. “May I please go to my husband now?”
“He’s okay. The kid’s taking care of him. The kid has a heart,” he said, and it wasn’t a compliment.
“And that’s a bad thing?” she said.
“It’ll get him killed,” Scooter said curtly. He was seated at the table and had gulped down his own drink, all the while continuing to eye her two sons bitterly.
“Would you like another?” she asked Quintin.
“You trying to get me drunk?” he asked.
“On Irish coffee?” she inquired.
Quintin shrugged. “Sure. Make me another.”
As she rose, she asked, “Would you open the door and ask your friend how my husband is doing.”
“Scooter, do it,” Quintin said.
“I’m not your slave,” Scooter protested.
“No, you’re just the idiot who almost got us killed,” Quintin said pointedly.
Scooter flashed them all an angry look but rose. “I’ll have another one, too,” he said.
“Of course,” Skyler agreed, deciding it might be a good thing to mollify Scooter at the moment. Quintin was more dangerous, but, cornered, Scooter could be very bad, she was certain. “And thank you,” she added.
“Sure.” He opened the kitchen door. “Hey, Craig,” he called.
“Yeah?”
“How’s O’Boyle?”
“He’s conscious, and he seems okay.”
Skyler tried not to show just how relieved she felt as she fixed more drinks.
“Can I have another hot chocolate, Mom?” Jamie asked.
“May I,” she corrected.
“You can have as many as you want,” Jamie answered pertly. “You’re the mom.”
“Jamie…”
“Yeah, yeah, may I? Please?”
“Of course.”
She turned around. “Anybody else?”
“Indeed, I’d be pleased to accept another,” Paddy said.
“Me, too, thanks,” Frazier said.
Brenda was just staring ahead, seemingly lost in her own world again, after her earlier bravery. Then, to Skyler’s astonishment, the younger woman blinked, looked at Frazier as if to take strength from him, and stood up. “May I go out and check on Mr. O’Boyle? I am planning a career in medicine, as you know.”
Quintin leaned back, looking genuinely amused.
“Yeah, that’s right. But you know what? I haven’t got any degree, and I can tell you this. He took a thunk on the head, but he’s going to be all right. He may have a headache for a while, though.”
“I’ll just see how he’s doing,” Brenda said, and started for the door.
“Wait just a minute,” Scooter protested.
“Let her go,” Quintin said.
“You’re the one who keeps saying—” Scooter began.
“She’s two inches high, O’Boyle is still dizzy and Craig is out there,” Quintin said.
Scooter stood, taking the first drink from Skyler’s hand. “I’m going out there, too,” he told Quintin. “You and I are the ones with the guns. Besides, you never know.” He glared at Jamie. “It’s the innocent-looking ones who cause all the trouble.”
Jamie looked at Quintin after Scooter left the room and shrugged. “Hey, it’s not my fault he was an idiot.”
Quintin leaned forward. “No, it wasn’t your fault. But you act up again and I shoot your mom. And that would be a pity since we all want a good turkey dinner tomorrow, don’t we?”
Skyler set his cup down before him, then returned to the counter, got the other cups and placed them before Paddy and her boys.
She realized that Paddy was staring at Quintin, assessing him. Just as he had been doing ever since their house—and their lives—had been seized.
“I’m going to see how David is,” she said in a tone that brooked no interference.
Quintin lifted his cup to her. “Go on. Then we’ll see about sleeping arrangements for the night.”
“What?”
“You’ll need some sleep to cook that turkey tomorrow,” Quintin said cheerfully. “We’ll need blankets and pillows if we’re all going to camp in the living room.”
She stared at him blankly, and he started to laugh. “Did you think the family was going to go up to their nice warm beds tonight? Pl
ease, Mrs. O’Boyle. We’re all going to stay together. Just like one big happy family.” He smiled as if he’d just thought of something. “And I never did get my Irish music. That will go well with my drink, don’t you agree?” He rose then, still grinning. “Irish music and a slumber party. What a perfect Christmas Eve.”
SEVEN
“It’s dying down some, thank God,” Sheila told Tim as they surveyed the department’s snowmobiles, which were half buried, despite being parked under a carport behind the station. “Let’s start digging.”
One big happy family, having what amounted to a pajama party on Christmas Eve, Craig thought, looking at the sham festivities going on around him.
Quintin was crazy, he decided. Psychotic. The man was actually enjoying this. He was playing with these people, making them enact some sick mockery of what the night should be, letting them hope that if they did just as they were told, he would let them live. But he wouldn’t. As soon as he was ready to leave, he would kill them.
But what the hell else was there to do but play along and pray that the moment would come when at least some of them could be saved?
He was amazed that he hadn’t given himself away when the lights had gone out. He couldn’t believe Quintin had believed he’d tried to save him, not attack him.
David O’Boyle had stood up for him. And he’d done it just right.
Why?
He’d never met the O’Boyles. His relationship with Kat hadn’t gotten that far before everything went to hell. And yet her father seemed to have figured out that he had no intention of killing them, that he even planned to help them—when the time was right.
Somehow they had to wrest both guns away before blood was shed. But for the moment…
Kat, at least, was still safe—somewhere. He had to pray she would remain so.
God, he loved her. Still. He hadn’t seen her in nearly three years, but she hadn’t changed, at least not on the outside. But inside…Inside, she was stronger. There didn’t seem to be a naive bone left in her body. Or a trusting one.
He had done that to her.
“Bravo,” Quintin said as the O’Boyles finished a rendition of “Silent Night” that belonged on CD.
Craig happened to look up then, and he saw her. Kat was on the second-floor landing, looking down, tears in her eyes.
The Last Noel Page 9