The Midnight Hour

by Karen Robards

  Crash! The sound of splintering wood. Screams, high and shrill. Grace. Jessica. The kid had broken into the room. . ..

  His finger found and pressed the panic button. Once, twice, three times for good measure. Then, summoning all his dwindling resources, he reached up toward the shelf where he had hidden the gun.

  Chapter

  48

  JESSICA WAS ALREADY out the window when the door crashed open and Grace’s son burst into the room. Chewie, who stood beside Grace, began barking hysterically, his tail low, the hair on his spine standing up so that he looked like a razorback hog.

  From the roof, Jessica screamed like a siren, over and over again, in automatic, instinctive reaction, Grace knew.

  “Go, Jess!” Grace cried. Instead of following her daughter outside, she slammed the window shut and turned to face her son. To get to Jessica, he would first have to go through her.

  The lamp was lit beside the bed. Its cheerful yellow glow provided the room’s only illumination. Outside the window, the night was incongruously beautiful, alight with moon and stars. Jessica would be scrambling across the roof to safety. . ..

  Chewie continued to bark ferociously, for all the good it did.

  “Got you, Mommy,” her son said, loud so that he could be heard above the dog, pointing the gun at her. Grace’s heart leaped in her chest. She did not want to die. . .. He smiled. “Bang, bang.”

  Grace threw herself to the floor just as he squeezed the trigger for real. The bullet slammed into the wall where she had been standing. Plaster exploded outward, tiny bits of it striking Grace’s cheek. Chewie yelped, and darted behind Jessica’s pink tweed chair. Grace wished that she could find safety so easily. The bed shielded her for these few seconds, but he would be upon her in an instant and then . . .

  She would die. What would happen to Jess? Craig, and more particularly Craig’s new wife, wouldn’t want her, but he was her father. Jessica would go to him and be resentful and miserable and, most likely, impossible to control. Would the whole grim cycle start all over again?

  Please, God, no.

  Grace saw his shadow coming first, looming larger on the wall where the bullet had hit. Chewie must have seen it, too, because he started to bark again, hysterically. Grace tried to wedge herself under the bed, but the frame was too low and she didn’t quite fit. For an instant she considered pulling the dust ruffle over her head and cowering beneath it, but he knew where she was. She couldn’t hide.

  Her breathing was rapid, shallow. Her heart was beating so fast she could feel it pounding in her chest. She broke out in a cold sweat as she turned over to face . . .

  Her son. And, through him, her own death.

  She took a deep breath and stared up at him as he came around the end of the bed. There was a weird smile on his face and, she thought, hatred for her in his eyes. She was lying on the plush rose carpet at his feet, lying helplessly, looking up at him as he pointed the gun at her chest. Any second, he was going to pull the trigger and she would die with the sound of the gunshot that killed her and the dog’s high-pitched barks ringing in her ears.

  Suddenly, like a film speeding at fast forward through her head, she remembered the day that he had been born. The fear, the pain, the newborn’s mewling cry. Like Jessica, he was her baby. Her child. Flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone. Her son.

  And he was going to kill her.

  Jessica. The window was opening behind her son, silently, carefully. Jessica’s foot and lower leg, clad in a sneaker and baggy, raggedly hemmed jeans, appeared.

  No, Grace wanted to scream, realizing that her daughter was coming back to try to aid her. Jessica was sliding through the window. . ..

  Thank God for Chewie. His hysterical barking masked any sounds.

  “You don’t want to do this,” Grace said loudly to her son, wanting to make sure he stayed focused on her. Her nerves had suddenly turned to ice, she was no longer afraid to die, no longer afraid at all except for Jessica, who was in the room now. He would kill Jess.

  “Sure I do, Mommy. You ruined my life.” He was speaking loudly, too. “Did you know that? You ruined my life. Little Brother. Second best. Not good enough. That was me, always. Because of what you did.”

  “I’m sorry,” Grace said, and meant it. She stared up at the gun, and her son, and prayed that Jessica would slip out of the room and just leave her to her fate. The fate she had always felt she deserved.

  But she knew, as well as she knew her own name, that Jessica would not leave.

  “Sorry don’t catch it this time,” he said. His arm straightened as he aimed the gun. Of their own accord, Grace’s teeth clenched and her muscles stiffened as she prepared for the slam of the bullet into her body. “I don’t have time to talk to you anymore. I’ve got to go catch Little Sis. I figure if I go back through the house, I’ll just about be in time to watch her coming down that ladder-thing on the garage, like she’s done before. So say night-night, Mommy.”

  His finger tightened on the trigger. Grace watched it with horror, feeling as though everything was happening in slow motion now. She screamed, rolling toward the wall, just as a flash of blue—Jessica—appeared behind him. Rolling, she caught quick glimpses of Jessica’s hand clutching something as it rose high above his head and slammed down into his back. He screamed, the sound high-pitched, surprised. The gun exploded, and a bullet thudded into the carpet not half an inch from Grace’s nose. He grabbed at his back and whirled on Jessica. The gun tumbled to the ground.

  With his back turned to her, Grace could see the hypodermic needle still sticking out of the meaty part of his neck.

  Jessica had stabbed him with her own insulin syringe.

  “You bitch! You fucking little bitch!” He screamed, cursing, as one hand snatched the syringe from his neck and the other grabbed Jessica. She was screaming now, too, clawing at his face. Chewie, still barking, apparently emboldened by Jessica’s peril, darted from behind the chair to grab the hem of one of his jeans-clad legs. He kicked the dog off, with one hard, vicious jerk of his leg, and Chewie slammed into the wall with a yelp. Jessica screamed again as he threw the syringe to the floor. Her scream ended in a choking gurgle as he locked both hands around her throat.

  Grace snatched up the gun he had dropped and fired. Just like that, with no time to think.

  Boom! The gun exploded. For a moment everything seemed to freeze in a hideous tableau: Jessica, blue eyes huge, clawing at the hands wrapped around her neck, gasping for breath; her son, choking the life from his sister, a curse on his lips; and herself, on her back on the carpet, holding the gun in both hands. Then a red stain burst onto the back of his black jacket between his shoulder blades and spread.

  Slowly, slowly, his fingers opened. His hands dropped away from Jessica’s throat, and, like a toppling tree, he fell to the carpet.

  For a moment no one moved. The last echoes of Jessica’s scream, like the sound of the gunshot, died away.

  Then Grace, on hands and knees, scrambled to her son’s side.

  Chapter

  49

  TONY SURVEYED THE CARNAGE from the doorway, where he leaned heavily against the jamb. He’d arrived, gun in hand, just a split second after the kid had been shot, in time to watch as he released Jessica, and tumbled to the floor.

  He couldn’t see Grace, and his heart gave a great, terrified leap. Then she scrambled out from behind the bed, on all fours, reaching the kid and turning him over, her face as white as Ivory soap.

  Of course she would feel bad, killing the kid. But it sure beat having it happen the other way around.

  Jessica crouched beside her, an arm around her mother’s shoulders. The two exchanged a quick hug, and then Grace said something to Jessica as she placed two fingers beneath the kid’s ear. Checking for his pulse, Tony surmised.

  Knowing himself no longer needed, since the damsels in distress had managed to save themselves without his help, he sagged to his knees, still clutching the jamb to keep from pitching flat on
his face on the floor. A trail of smeared blood was left on the white paint of the door frame in the wake of his slide, he noticed with woozy disinterest. Chewie appeared from somewhere, limping toward him on three legs, his left rear foot held off the floor, his tail wagging faintly nonetheless.

  Tony dared not let go of the jamb to pat the dog, who sniffed at him doubtfully, reminding him of poor Kramer. Jessica glanced up then, spotting him, and from the horror on her face Tony surmised that he was not a pretty sight.

  “Mom, look at Tony!” Jessica gasped, jumping to her feet and rushing toward him.

  Grace looked up then, and the expression on her face mirrored Jessica’s. Seconds later both of them were beside him, grasping his arms as they eased him onto his back on the carpet. Grace gently removed the gun from his grasp, and set it on a bookshelf just inside the door.

  “Get me a towel,” Grace said to Jessica, her voice urgent. Jessica jumped to her feet to comply. Her face was as white as Grace’s.

  “Dear God, Tony.” Grace’s hands were gentle in his hair, and then he thought she touched his face, although he couldn’t be sure; the whole right side of it was numb. Jessica came back then with the towel, and Grace pressed it to his head just above his right ear.

  “There’s so much blood. . ..” Jessica sounded almost awe-stricken as she stared at him. Tony supposed, with a tiny flicker of humor, that he must be a pretty gruesome sight.

  “He’s going to be okay. Head wounds always bleed a lot.” Grace’s voice was slightly sharp, as if she were daring her words not to be true.

  Tony could hear sirens in the distance. The cavalry was near at hand, still welcome even if, like himself, they were arriving just a little too late.

  “Are either of you hurt?” he managed, panting as he fought to keep unconsciousness at bay.

  “We’re fine, and you’re going to be fine, too,” Grace said, pressing the towel harder against his head. From the quick looks mother and daughter exchanged, Tony deduced that both of them thought the last part of that statement was either wildly optimistic or a flat-out he.

  “I love you,” he said to Grace, in case he didn’t get another chance. He wanted to reach for her hand, but he found he didn’t have the strength to do much more than bat an eyelash. The funny part about it was, this was the conversation he’d meant to have with her this evening. Only he’d pictured the occasion as having more to do with moonlight and kisses than bloody, battered bodies.

  She smiled at him, a little crookedly, and bent to kiss the uninjured side of his mouth.

  “I love you, too,” she said, straightening and pressing the towel harder against the side of his head.

  Behind her, Jessica was watching and listening, eyes wide. Tony met her gaze and would have grinned if the mere thought had not brought with it a premonition of nauseating pain. For a moment she stared back at him, the current teenage variation of the phrase fast worker stamped on her face as plainly as if it had been printed in ink. Then she blinked, smiled, and gave him a thumb’s up behind her mom’s back.

  There was a pounding on the door downstairs.

  “Cavalry,” Tony mumbled. Grace nodded and said to Jessica, “Go let them in.”

  Chapter

  50

  THE IMPRESSIONS THAT STAYED with Grace long after that night was over were this: hordes of cops, two ambulances, a small crowd of neighbors on the lawn. Kramer, found by the garage, still alive but severely beaten, rushed to a veterinary hospital. The weapon, a tire iron taken from Grace’s garage, discovered near the dog, covered with congealing blood. Another body, a woman found not far from Kramer, wrapped in garbage bags. Bright lights, flashing cameras, and questions, dozens of questions.

  Her son, badly wounded but alive, loaded into one ambulance with a battalion of police guards. Tony, semiconscious, loaded into the other ambulance. His hand clinging to Grace’s until they made him let go, because she was not allowed to ride with him to the hospital. She and Jessica following in her Volvo. Irony of ironies, both Tony and her son taken to the same hospital and bundled into the emergency room one after the other.

  Both rushed into surgery. Tony, at least, was expected to live.

  A lifetime’s worth of guilt like a huge pile of stones crushing down on her chest.

  Finally, Grace and Jessica were left to stare at the clock in the surgical waiting area.

  “Mom,” Jessica said after a while. “Why did that guy keep calling you Mommy?”

  Grace looked at her for a moment without replying. How could she tell her daughter the truth? For Jessica, she had always tried to make everything—herself, their home, their life—so perfect. Her daughter was very young to have her illusions so thoroughly shattered.

  And yet, there was no help for it. Jessica deserved to learn the truth from her, instead of reading it in a newspaper, or seeing it on a TV newscast, or, if she missed those, hearing it as gossip from her friends.

  Grace told her. The complete, unvarnished truth. And then sat there, as she had with Tony, emotionally naked, waiting for the verdict from this person whom she loved.

  “How awful,” Jessica said, saucer-eyed, after staring at her mother for a long, silent moment. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? You must have felt so bad!”

  Grace looked at her daughter and saw nothing but love for her in the blue eyes that were so like her own.

  “Jess,” she said, enfolding her daughter in a hug, “you are totally incredible.”

  “I know.” Jessica hugged her back, then released her. Seeing that her daughter looked worried, Grace tensed, waiting. Was the verdict not yet completely in?

  “Does Tony know?” was what Jessica asked.

  Relief washing over her, Grace nodded.

  “Oh.” Jessica seemed to ponder. Then her gaze sharpened on her mother’s face. “You two have been dating behind my back, haven’t you?”

  Grace squirmed a little in her seat and shrugged. “Sort of. Not exactly dating, but . . .”

  “Why, that dirty dog!” Jessica said indignantly. “He never said a word!”

  While Grace stared speechlessly at her daughter, Jessica elucidated. “I asked him if he’d ever thought about dating you, and he said—he said—well, I can’t remember exactly what he said, but he certainly didn’t say you were already dating!”

  “Do you mind?” Grace asked, almost diffidently.

  “That’s what he said,” Jessica said triumphantly, her memory apparently jogged. Then, looking at her mother, she shook her head. “I think Tony’s great. In fact, I kind of asked him to marry you.”

  “What?”

  “Hey, Mom, you can’t get too mad. I heard you tell him you love him, and I heard him say the same thing to you.”

  Grace was still staring speechlessly at her daughter when Dominick walked in.

  “Tony?” he asked without preamble, the moment he spotted Grace.

  “He’s in surgery.” She stood up. “The doctors say it’s not life threatening, but he was hurt pretty badly. He had a gash on his head as long as my hand, and they think he might have a skull fracture, among other things.”

  “Jesus. What happened?”

  Grace told him, all of it, including the identity of the attacker. She refused to Uve with any more secrets. This particular one had already cost one person her life.

  Her son, now known as Matt Sherman, would be going to prison, or worse, after he was released from the hospital, she knew. The body found in her backyard had been identified as that of his mother, Sylvia Sherman. He had killed her, shot her at point-blank range in the face with a large caliber weapon.

  He had killed his adoptive mother, and then come after his biological mother.

  Grace knew that she would live with the horror of that for the rest of her Ufe, as well as the guilt that went along with it.

  But she was thankful, so thankful, that he had not succeeded in killing Jessica and Tony and herself.

  They all three had so much to live for. A new beginning, maybe, af
ter tonight.

  More Marinos walked in then, and after that, they kept coming until the whole gang, from Mary and Rosa to youngest brother Robbie, crowded the waiting area. The noise level was deafening. The comfort level was immense.

  When two other, unrelated, individuals entered, Grace felt almost sorry for them. Both men, a father and son, she thought—although they did not really resemble each other—were pale, and the son’s eyes were puffy and red-rimmed as if he had been crying. The father wore a conservative navy suit, and the son, who looked about twenty, wore jeans and a sweater. They kept to themselves, almost seeming to huddle together in one corner of the large room that no longer seemed large, filled as it was with Marinos.

  A man in a white lab coat whom Grace assumed was a doctor came to the door about fifteen minutes after the newcomers joined them.

  “Donald Sherman?” the doctor called. Grace realized who these two had to be and stared at them, transfixed.

  The adoptive father and brother of her son.

  The father stood up and walked to the door, and the son followed him. Grace’s eyes widened on the son. He reminded her irresistibly of someone, though she could not, for a moment, think whom. He was tall and thin and athletic looking, unlike his adoptive brother. His hair was the kind of light brown that had once been blond.

  The color of Jessica’s hair and her own before she had taken to highlighting it.

  And the way he moved . . .

  Grace stood up, leaving Jessica deep in conversation with Dominick, and moved jerkily toward the pair, who were talking to the doctor.

  “. . . just missed his aorta,” the doctor said. “He’s lucky to be alive.”

  “It might be better if he wasn’t,” Mr. Sherman said heavily.

  “Dad,” the son remonstrated, gripping his arm.