“It isn’t true,” he said aloud, teeth clenched. “It isn’t.”
When he heard the sudden shrill sound, he almost jumped out of his skin. “Cops,” he murmured. “Gotta run.” He was almost on the fire escape when he realized the ringing sound was coming from his coat pocket. His cell phone.
“Who could …” He didn’t finish his question. There were only two possible answers. And they both seemed incredible.
He extended the antenna and pushed the Send button. “Hello?”
There was some static on the line, but not so much that he couldn’t make out the words. “Daddy! Please come, Daddy!”
“Tommy?” He pressed the phone close against his ear. “Tommy? Is that you?”
More static. “Daddy, please! Help!”
“Tommy? Tommy, listen to me!” He felt torn apart, desperate. “Tommy?”
“He’s hurting me, Daddy. He’s hurting me real bad.”
“Who is? Tommy? Can you hear me? Who’s hurting you? Frank?”
The voice on the other end of the phone cried out in agony. “Please, Daddy. Please!”
Carl ran toward the door. “I’m coming, Tommy. Are you at home?”
“Yes, Daddy. And-can you wear the Santa suit? Like you used to.”
Carl’s brain raced. What had he done with the thing? Under the bed, in the closet… “I think so, son.”
“Good. Wear the Santa suit, Daddy. Come to the back door-over the fence. So the neighbors won’t see you.”
Carl nodded. If one of those neighbors saw him now, they’d call the police in a heartbeat.
“Come at nine-thirty, Daddy. I’ll sneak downstairs and meet you. You can come and take me away forever. Please!” The other end of the line clicked off.
Carl stood motionless, paralyzed with horror. He didn’t want to wait, he wanted to run out the door as quickly as he could.
But Tommy was right. If he just showed up like an idiot and got himself shot, he wouldn’t do anyone any good. Least of all Tommy. And he couldn’t call the police. They’d come after him, not Frank.
He ran back into the apartment. Like it or not, he would have to find that Santa suit and do as he was told.
He knew he was confused, knew he was probably screwing up somehow. But what could he do? His little boy was hurting. His little boy needed him!
He would have to go to him. Whatever the consequences.
20
Megan raced across the parking lot, shouting at the top of her lungs. “Mr. Collins! Mr. Collins!”
Mr. Collins, a balding middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper mustache, stopped.
His hesitation gave Megan the chance she needed to catch up. She ran the rest of the distance, watching her breath circulate in the cold night air. It was getting colder; those predictions of snow seemed more likely by the minute.
She stopped just before she collided with the man. He stood patiently, hands in his trench coat, an eyebrow arched. “Something I can do for you, ma’am?”
She pressed her hand against her chest, trying to catch her breath. The night air stung in her throat. “You’re the top man in ballistics, right?”
His brow wrinkled. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”
“That’s what they told me at the front desk. Just before they closed up.”
He nodded. “It is Christmas Eve.”
“Believe me, I know.” She took another deep breath. “What have you learned about the bullet that was fired at Carl Cantrell?”
He paused and scrutinized Megan with careful interest. “I don’t think I recognize you. Are you on the police force?”
“Uh … no.”
“DA’s office?”
“No.”
“Member of the fourth estate?”
“No. But I took some journalism classes in college.”
He did not appear amused. “Mind telling me why I would want to discuss the details of an ongoing investigation with you?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Ah. Well, that makes everything perfectly clear.” He turned and started toward his car.
“Wait.” She ran forward, positioning herself between Collins and his Dodge. “I’m trying to find out as much as I can about what happened out there today. At the shooting. Before I arrived.”
“Are you representing someone?”
“I represent Bonnie Cantrell. Or did, anyway.”
“And she wants to know the results of the ballistics tests?”
“Well, no. Not exactly.”
“Then I fail to see-”
“Look, I can’t explain everything perfectly, okay? I haven’t got it all figured out myself. I just have a really bad feeling about this, and sometimes, you have to trust your instincts and have faith-” She stopped, startled to find herself using the word. “I’m just afraid something terrible might happen if I don’t get to the bottom of this.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sure I would love nothing more than to help you … trust your instincts. But all investigations are confidential till the chief says otherwise.”
“How do I get ahold of him?”
“On Christmas Eve? You don’t.” He pulled his keys out of his pocket and tried to gently nudge Megan out of the way.
“Wait!” she said, but he didn’t. He popped open the driver’s side door.
“But couldn’t you just-”
“No! Now if you don’t mind, I have some Christmas Eve plans of my own.”
With the door open, the car interior was lit and Megan could make out the photo dangling on a string from the rearview mirror. “Is that your family?”
“Of course.”
“I guess you’re going home to them. For Christmas dinner.”
He hesitated only a moment before answering. “Yes. Precisely.”
“Lucky man.” She inched forward. “Look, couldn’t you just answer a few questions? You don’t have to actually tell me anything. Just shake your head yes or no.”
“I will not.”
“Please!”
“I said no.”
“It could be a matter of life or death.”
“No!” For the first time, Collins’s face began to flush red, and Megan didn’t think the chill was the principal cause. “Please leave me alone!”
“I’ll give you a present.” Megan plunged her hand into the depths of her shoulder bag and came up with the treasure she had acquired in the toxicology lab. “See?”
Collins stared at the object in her hand. “You’re offering me a plastic bus?”
“But it’s more-”
“I didn’t expect a million dollars, but as bribes go, that’s pathetic.”
“But it isn’t a bribe. It’s-”
“Yes?”
She drew in her breath. “It’s a Christmas present.”
“Ah. Well, that is different.” Somewhat reluctantly he took the bus into his hands. “I suppose this is intended as a stocking stuffer for preschoolers?”
“Oh, no. Definitely for grown-ups. See, it plays records.”
“What?”
“You heard right. There’s a stylus on the bottom.” She turned it over to show him. “You turn on the motor, put it on top of an LP, and it runs around playing the record. The sound comes out of those tiny speakers.”
Collins drew in his breath. “What’ll they think of next.” He held it up to his face for a closer look. “Is the music quality good?”
Megan shook her head. “Sounds like hell, I understand.”
“Is it good for your records?”
“Destroys them.”
He shrugged. “Well, what was I going to do with them, anyway? Use them for Frisbees?” He slipped the bus into his pocket. “Okay, you made me an offer I can’t refuse. Here, let me give you something.”
“I promise you-that isn’t necessary-”
He rooted around in the backseat of his car, then emerged again. “The truth is, I lied to you.”
“You did?”
“Yeah.�
� His eyes clouded. “I’m not going to see my family. My wife and I are divorced. I get visitation, but she got Christmas. And she made it clear she doesn’t want me anywhere near. I don’t get to see my boy till New Year’s.” He looked at the wrapped package in his hands. “I bought this for my kid. Ordered it months ago. But if I know my ex-wife and her parents, by the time I see my boy next, he’ll already have three of them. Why don’t you take it?”
Megan held up her hands. “I really have no need-”
He pressed it into her hands. “You never know. Take it.” Megan reluctantly accepted the gift. “So, anyway, what was it you wanted to know?”
Her eyes widened. “You mean you’ll tell me?”
“Well, it is Christmas, after all. Almost. So you’re investigating the Cantrell shooting?”
“Right.” There was precipitation in the air, a bit too cold and dry to be rain. It was definitely going to snow. “Do you know who shot him?”
“No. And I’m not likely to find out through ballistics analysis, either.”
“I thought every gun left individual markings on a bullet that could be used to trace it back to the gun that fired it.”
“That’s true. But the bullet has to be found in a condition such that it’s possible to read those markings. This bullet was found lodged in the bark of a tree.”
“Blast.” Megan’s fists clenched up. “I knew it passed through Carl’s body, but I didn’t know about the tree.”
“I’m afraid the bullet was squashed on impact. The markings are absolutely unreadable at this point. For all I can tell, the bullet could have come out of any of a million guns.”
“And there was nothing unusual about the caliber?”
“No. Exactly the same bullet all the city cops are firing.”
Megan wrapped her arms around herself. All of a sudden she was feeling the cold. Even though she didn’t know what it was, she had thought she was getting close to something. Now it seemed she had come up against a brick wall. “I had hoped I might learn something by talking to the police officer who actually shot him.”
“Police officer? What do you mean?”
“I mean, if I could talk to the officer who fired the bullet-”
“Oh, no. There’s no chance of that.”
“I don’t understand. You said the bullet was the same caliber-”
“And it is. But that doesn’t mean he was shot by a cop.”
“But … then who?”
“I can’t tell you. But I can tell you this. I was with Barney when he inspected the wound and took pictures for the evidence file. The entry wound was in the forearm, in the front. The exit wound was in the back.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“I was given to understand the man was running toward the house when he was shot.”
“That’s true. He was.”
“And I assume he wasn’t running backwards.”
“No, of course not.”
“Then there’s no doubt about it.” He folded his arms firmly across his chest. “The bullet was fired from the house.”
“What?”
“The police were behind him. They may have fired, but the bullet that hit the man came from in front of him. And that means it came from the house.”
Megan grabbed his arm. “Have you told this to anyone yet?”
“Told who? Everyone’s gone. It’s Christmas Eve, for Pete’s sake. I filed my report. And I expect the detectives working on the case will read it-when they get back after the holidays.”
A sudden frisson of horror shot down Megan’s spine. “That won’t be soon enough.” She spun around toward her car on the other side of the parking lot. “I have to tell Carl.”
“Carl?” Collins called after her. “Carl Cantrell?”
“Right.”
“Haven’t you heard?”
Megan froze in her tracks. What now? “Heard what?”
“It was on the radio. Carl Cantrell broke out of protective custody. Eluded his guards and snuck away from the hospital where he was recuperating.”
Megan’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, no!”
“I’m afraid it’s true. So you’re not going to be able to tell him anything. Unless you know where he’s going next.”
The short hairs rose up on the back of Megan’s neck. Something was bringing goose bumps to her skin, and it wasn’t the cold. “I only hope I don’t,” she said, and without saying another word, she raced across the parking lot to her car.
21
Bonnie gazed into the mirror on the sun visor above the passenger seat and reapplied her lipstick. Too many Chicken McNuggets had undermined her cosmetic work.
She smeared on the ruby-red, pressed her lips together, and frowned. She hated McDonald’s. The only edible food in the whole restaurant was the french fries, and they weren’t exactly conducive to a 114-pound hourglass figure.
Still, Frank had seemed to think it was important that they all trudge out to the dreadful place, not that he’d bothered to explain why. She thought it was strange. But not as strange as this business of stopping at a church-First Presbyterian, just off Robinson. As far as she knew, Frank never went near churches, and for a reason. But today, when probably half the congregation was crowding in for the Christmas Eve service, he did.
But even that was not as strange as what happened next. Frank returned from his brief sojourn inside the holy halls-wearing a Santa suit.
“I know the man who plays Santa here,” Frank whispered to Bonnie when he returned to the car. “He’s a good guy. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
Bonnie shook her head in quiet amazement. Curiouser and curiouser.
Frank shut the door behind him, then twisted around to face Tommy, who was slumped down in the backseat. “Hey, Tommy. Tell Santa whether you’ve been a good boy this year.”
Tommy barely raised his eyes. “You’re not Santa.”
“But of course I am. Don’t you see this beard?” He pulled it down by its elastic string and popped it back against his chin. “Ho, ho, ho.”
Tommy averted his eyes and made a nasty face.
“Now, son-”
“I’m not your son!”
Frank lowered his chin. “Tommy, you have to answer Santa’s question. Naughty or nice?”
“Leave me alone.”
Frank made a tsking sound. “Naughty. Definitely naughty.”
They drove the rest of the way home in silence. Bonnie still didn’t know what was going on, so she decided to stop worrying about it. She tilted her seat back, relaxed, and waited to see what Santa would do next.
When they arrived at Bonnie’s house, Frank parked the car in the driveway. Tommy cracked open his car door.
“Not yet,” Frank instructed him.
Tommy frowned. “What are we waiting for?”
“You’re waiting till I say you’re not waiting.” Frank checked his watch.
A few minutes later, when the watch read almost nine-thirty, he spoke again. “All right then. Let’s get out now.”
Tommy sprang out of the backseat. He had almost reached the front door of the house when he heard Frank calling him.
“Tommy? I have something for you.”
“What?”
“This.” The instant Tommy turned around, Frank smacked him hard across the face.
Tommy staggered backward. He lost his balance and fell in a heap onto the concrete steps below the front porch.
Bonnie was utterly bewildered. “Have lost your mind, Frank?”
He looked pointedly at her. “Carl,” he said. “Have you lost your mind, Carl.”
Bonnie stared at her Santa-suited boyfriend, and suddenly, she understood. All the pieces fell into place. “Carl,” she murmured, and then she turned the volume up. “Have you lost your mind, Carl?” she shouted.
“Yeah,” Frank muttered. “I’m out of control.” He reached down and hit Tommy again, this time clubbing him on the other side of his face.
&nbs
p; Tommy screamed, but Bonnie screamed even louder. “Help! Someone help! He’s hurting my baby!”
Lightbulbs flickered on the porches of some of the neighboring houses.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Frank said. He raised Tommy up by the collar, then punched him in the soft part of the stomach.
Tommy hurt so badly he couldn’t speak. He doubled over and fell to the grass.
“You miserable brat,” Frank bellowed. “I’ll beat you till you can’t see straight.” He reared back a foot and kicked Tommy in the side.
“No!” Bonnie glanced over her shoulder. She could see silhouetted figures standing in the windows of other houses. The audience was assembling. “I can’t control him, Tommy! Run! Run!”
Tommy staggered to his feet and limped toward the house. Frank made a show of starting after him, and Bonnie made a show of trying to restrain him. “No, Carl. I won’t let you hurt my boy!”
“You can’t stop me,” Frank cried. “I’m gonna kill him!”
Even Bonnie was startled. Frank’s performance was becoming altogether too convincing. “No!” she shouted. “Stop!”
“I’ll teach that boy a lesson he won’t soon forget!” Frank shouted. He pushed Bonnie away, then raced into the house.
A moment later, Bonnie followed. She knew the neighbors were watching, knew that someone was undoubtedly calling the police. Everything was in place now.
Perfect.
Megan’s hands gripped the steering wheel. It seemed as if she had spent the entire day this way-racing through parking lots, careening through intersections, blitzing down I-35 at speeds way beyond what her little Toyota was used to handling. Now, for the second time today, she was racing to her new client’s home in Kensington Park. Only this time she had the dire feeling that if she didn’t get there soon, someone was going to end up dead.
She zoomed off the interstate and headed crosstown, by the fairgrounds. There was so much happening, she couldn’t possibly make sense of it. All she knew for sure was this-Carl Cantrell was not what he had been made out to be. He was being set up.
And why? Megan could only think of one possible explanation. And it sent chills down her spine.
The radio was on, playing some insipid Christmas song, dogs barking to the tune of “Jingle Bells.” She spun the dial, hoping to catch some evening news. On the third station she tried, she found what she wanted:
Midnight Before Christmas Page 10