by Jenna Ryan
No response; no water running; no sound whatsoever coming from inside.
Already edgy, Jacob’s stomach gave a fierce wrench when something solid and furry rubbed against his leg.
A quiet woof from below had his breath blowing out in disbelief. “Thanks a lot, Buddy.” Bending, he scratched the beagle’s soft, floppy ears. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
Buddy woofed again and ambled off. Accepting, Jacob shrugged the matter aside and returned to the main floor. If Buddy wasn’t concerned, he probably had no reason to be either.
Because blood was not a thing he cared to look at, he angled the computer screen away from it and shifted the chair appropriately.
“What the hell?” As he sat, he found himself staring nose to screen at a column of numbers. Old tax records? The name at the top read A. E. Baltimore. It didn’t mean a thing to him—or likely to Rudy either, he decided with a hint of amusement. His uncle and Mandy defined the term computer illiteracy. Rudy knew only the basics; Mandy had learned how to update her checkbook. Beyond that, they relied on Jacob or Mandy’s twelve-year-old grandson to get in and out of their files.
Rubbing his thumb and fingers together in anticipation, Jacob took up the challenge. Devon was safe with Hannah, and Mandy had probably cut herself on the fireplace hardware. She knew her neighbors well enough that borrowing a bandage could easily lead to coffee and several hours of local gossip.
His warmed fingers flew over the keyboard. Ernie sang on behind him. He thought he heard the phone, but since the cordless handset on the end table wasn’t ringing, Jacob assumed he was hearing things.
“Angel Barret,” he murmured. His dark eyes fixed on the moving screen. “Okay, darlin’. Let’s see who you are, and what, if anything, Manhattan’s Morning Angel has to do with the Christmas Murders.”
THE PAIN HAD STOPPED attacking in waves. Now it attacked all the time. And with it, looming in the back of his head, the song. Taunting. Teasing. Tormenting. He hated it. He hated her.
He breathed deeply, felt himself in the darkness, growing stronger. It would end after tonight. A midnight clear, then Christmas, then freedom. She would not return. Cats only had nine lives. Surely angels could have no more than that.
The hands of his watch crawled slowly forward. Must do it now. Elimate the guard, infiltrate the building. He could do that no problem. You dealt with rats every day, grew up watching them come and go from your home, you learned their tricks. Five minutes tops, and he’d be in.
He’d been paying close attention today. Of those who mattered, he knew who was where. To facilitate the frame, he’d have preferred to have the times nailed down, but as long as Jacob had no alibi, the plan would work. And he would have no alibi. Watchful eyes coupled with beeping devices in his pockets assured him of that.
Quick knock on the door, slash of a knife over soft, shocked flesh, suffer the piercing scream and run. Out she flew. All was well.
Skulk in the dark for a time. Wait out more minutes. Follow the trail. Jacob was bright but oh, so predictable. And trusting of locks and dumb uniforms on surveillance. First rule of protection, Jacob. Know the enemy. See through his eyes.
A snicker escaped him as he left his vehicle and finished his two-block journey on foot through a welcome curtain of snow. He was good at this, really quite proficient after so many years of doing it. In some ways it seemed a shame to end the matter.
“Hello, darling...”
Out of nowhere, her velvety voice came to him. The words scraped across his soul, as painful now as they’d been then. He smelled wet wool, felt his muscles bunch in that tiny enclosed space. How dare she! He’d come all this way to surprise her, and she’d called another man darling. His Morning Angel, not someone else’s. How could she do this to him, rip out his heart and stomp on it? Well, he’d put a stop to that soon enough.
He’d begun to shiver in the dark space. What if she didn’t listen? Who ever listened to him? One small voice in a crowd. She might laugh, or worse, be kind and try very sweetly to brush him off.
No, no, he must be clever. In a crowd, clever worked. It would work even better with Angela.
Blurred memories rolled across his mind as he trudged, head downbent, through the snow. He spotted the unmarked car, checked his devices, approached carefully, casually. Mustn’t alert the dumb officer.
Snow pelted him, icy flakes, like the ones at Angela’s funeral. He’d stood at her gravesite, showed sorrow and horror. Nothing faked about the emotions. Then a hand had touched his arm. His head gave the same convulsive jerk now that it had in the cemetery.
“I’m Angela’s cousin,” a whisper-soft voice had said. “You must have worked with her at the Q.”
Was it a trap? He’d almost panicked, but something in her gentle eyes had dissolved his fear, and much of his anger. No trace of the Morning Angel here. Nothing to remind him of her treachery. He’d fondled the rosary beads in his pocket. Prayer worked, it really did. No one suspected him of murder, and now, this gift. A new woman for him to love. A worthier one. And he would love her well....
The uniform directed his gaze at the apartment building as he’d been instructed. Sorrow scratched at his subconscious mind. What had this young cop done to deserve death?
No, he couldn’t care. It had to be done. The man paused, rubbed his forehead. More innocent blood spilled. Please, God, he begged. Let this be the last of it.
Teeth gritted, he reached into his coat for the gun he’d stolen from Jacob. Tap on the window, look helpless.
“Yes?” The glass rolled down. The officer’s eyes came up. “Is there a problem?”
He saw a heart explode in his mind, his beloved’s heart. Angela’s voice covered the image. “Call it a payback,” she’d said once over the airwaves. She’d understood some things, if not all.
The scratch of sorrow stung briefly, then was ruthlessly obliterated. “No, officer, no problem.”
The cop craned his neck. “Wait a minute, you look...”
The shot caught him in the throat. Didn’t even have to be silenced in the storm. Garbage can lids lifted by the wind made as much racket in alleyways.
Hands sweating and shaking, he switched off the cop’s radio, then moved swiftly to the shelter of the nearby shrubbery and watched for inquisitive neighbors. His gaze rose to Devon’s window. No light there, but she was in the building. Alive for now.
Unfortunately for her, she would not be alive much longer.
MORE CLIPPINGS, more victims’ names. Devon skimmed the yellowed pages. None of the other Christmas Murder victims had relatives she knew. Only Laura West.
She rubbed her arms and struggled to rationalize. Did it compromise her safety because Rudy was related to the first confirmed victim of the Christmas Murderer? What had Riker said less than an hour ago? Rudy had lived in New York once. Briefly. Had he known the Morning Angel who’d worked at the now defunct Manhattan Q?
She spread the clippings around her like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and continued to dig.
She unearthed a picture of Laura West, buried halfway down the pile. There was no apparent order to the storage of the articles. Why would Riker clip newspaper accounts when he had access to the police reports?
Devon’s nerves refused to steady. Angel Barret had died eighteen years ago, Jimmy Flaherty had disappeared less than a week ago. Were those two events somehow connected?
Warren had worked at a Manhattan radio station for several years. Maybe Andrew McGruder had pulled teeth there once. Roscoe had definitely lived in New York. His family still did. Had Jimmy been familiar with that city? Why hadn’t she gotten to know him better?
Her head swam with unanswered, unanswerable questions. She lifted her gaze to the unshaded bedroom window. Hannah would be waiting for her downstairs. She should go, forget about the shoebox. Surely it couldn’t be relevant to her predicament.
“Damn you, Riker.” She hissed out a spiteful breath. “You knew, and you didn’t tell me. Why didn’t you
tell me?”
The snow danced beyond the frosted glass, teasing her like tiny fairies. Something hovered on the fringe of her brain, a fragment of memory.
She swiped the hair from her eyes and delved deeper into the box. More articles. Another picture of Laura West. Laura who’d been survived by her Uncle Rudy, her Great-Aunt Ida and her brother Jacob.
Jacob...
A different image flickered and held. Gina Bartholmew, alias Eden White. She’d called Riker Jacob. Coincidence? Or something worse?
She pictured Riker’s somber eyes, sincere, intense. “I love you, Devon. Never doubt that, no matter what happens.”
A water pipe made a clunking sound that sent her heart rocketing into her throat and brought her, jittery as a cat, to her hands and knees.
When nothing in or out of the shadows stirred, she released her tightly held breath and relaxed the muscles in her neck.
Her gaze fell on the open shoebox. So close to empty.
Her hands slid forward. Two more articles about the Christmas Murders emerged, then another newsprint photo.
She stared at it. It wasn’t a picture of Laura this time, or any of the other seven female victims. This was a man, bearded. His features were partially obscured. His hair, a mass of shoulder length curls and waves, flowed loosely about his shoulders.
The words beneath the photo fuzzed. Blinking, she brought them into focus.
The moment she did, she wished she hadn’t. Her mind bobbled, rejected, then finally absorbed. God help her, she knew who it was. Faced with this photo, the Christmas Murderer could only be one man.
“ABOUT TIME,” Jacob muttered.
A new name rolled up. Not Angel Barret after all. His eyes narrowed. Same last initial, different surname. His fingers tensed. A damned familiar surname.
The ringing telephone was real this time, though the handset remained silent Feeling for it, Jacob shifted the Ring Off button and punched Phone. “What?”
“Jacob?” Mandy sounded shaken. “You’re there. Is Rudy?”
“No. Why?” Fear jittered in. He needed to get to the apartment. Digging out his keys, he started for the door. “Where are you?”
“At the hospital.”
That slowed him. “What happened?”
“I don’t know exactly. Rudy—I went to make us a snack. The phone rang and next thing I knew, Rudy was shooting out of the den like a missile. He wouldn’t tell me where he was going or why; he just left. I heard his bike roar off, then a few minutes later, someone knocked on the door.”
In the kitchen now and impatient, Jacob paced. “Get to the point, Mandy. Bare bones.”
Annoyance superseded fear. “He cut me. Is that bare bones enough for you?”
Jacob swore. “I’m sorry, Mandy. I have to get to Devon. Who cut you?”
“I don’t know.” Tears moved in. “A man in black. He slashed my shoulder. He might have been going for my throat, but I jumped away and slammed the door on him. I was bleeding. I started to go upstairs, then I thought of Millie Hart next door. She’s a nurse. She took one look and drove me straight here. I thought—” her voice quivered. With shock, or something else? “I thought Rudy might have come back by now. I’m worried, Jacob. He’s been acting funny. Moody. Withdrawn. Then he up and charged out of the house. His bike’s no good in the snow. He could have an accident.”
Could but likely wouldn’t, not on the street at any rate. Desperation set in. Angela’s name flashed neon-bright in Jacob’s head.
“I have to go, Mandy. Are you all right? Can you stay with Millie tonight?”
“Yes, but...”
He cut her off, tossed the phone onto the counter. When had Rudy left? He should have asked. 8:20 now. Pray to God the cop assigned to Devon was good.
He ran to the Blazer and skidded it into the snowy street. He shouldn’t have left her. Damn, damn, why hadn’t he considered this angle? Because he’d been too caught up in the lies, that’s why.
Ida had lived her life by lies. Laura had died from them. He’d used lies, hoping to bring a killer to justice—and in the nature of all deceptions, had wound up leading that killer to Devon’s front door.
THE PHOTO CRUMPLED in Devon’s terrified fist. The caption underneath had already burned itself into her mind.
Detective Joel Riker of the Philadelphia Police Department. Riker, whose face, though blurred, resembled, no, was the face in the picture Jimmy had tried to show her.
Devon started to shiver. She wanted to beat her head on the wall in fear and frustration. The man she loved was an impostor. Not Riker at all, but someone else. Jacob Price, brother of Laura West.
The shiver degenerated into a bone-chilling tremor. Had he killed his sister? Killed the other women? Had he tried to kill her?
Devon’s legs trembled as she forced herself to her feet. Vertigo threatened to set in, but she couldn’t allow that. Wouldn’t. This was his place. He had a key. He could return any time and—what? Strangle her? Stab her? Shoot her?
No, dammit. She refused to believe that, simply could not accept that the man she’d come to love with all her heart was a cold-blooded serial killer. Nobody was that good an actor.
But what if she was wrong?
The water pipe clunked again, and with the sound, Devon’s state of temporary shock broke. She bolted from the bedroom across the half-renovated apartment and out into the hall.
Below her, a door opened and closed. Stealthily? She couldn’t be sure of anything at this point.
Crouching, she wrapped one hand around a railing post and peered downward. She saw a shadow, indistinct, moving toward the stairs. The treads creaked slightly as the person descended.
Andrew? Possibly. Didn’t matter. She had to get away, get to Hannah.
Hauling herself up, she plunged down the stairwell. Whoever had been ahead of her was gone by the time she reached three.
“Devon?”
A blond head materialized, startling her so badly that she barely muffled a scream. “Hannah!”
“What? Are you all right?”
Heart thudding, Devon grabbed her sister’s shoulders, spun her around and pushed.
“What’s wrong? Devon, what are you doing?” Confusion blended with fright, but it was fright that won out.
Devon heard the street door open, felt the blast of wind that funneled up the stairwell.
“My place,” she hissed. “Quickly.”
Fumbling for her key, she shouldered the often-stubborn door open, shoved Hannah inside and slammed it.
“Devon, please, what’s going on?”
She flicked the deadbolt. Funny that her door should suddenly seem so flimsy.
She backed away from it. Did she hear footsteps on the other side? Ice pellets rapped against the window like the spray of machine-gun bullets. She swung her gaze to the pane, spied the frozen terror in Hannah’s face and crossed to her.
“What...?” her sister began, white-lipped.
“It’s Riker.” Shoulder to shoulder, Devon pried her fingers from the crumpled newsprint photo and pressed it flat. “This is Riker, Hannah, the real Riker. Detective Joel Riker of the Philadelphia Police Force. It was—I found it upstairs in a shoebox, along with a bunch of clippings about the Christmas Murders.”
“But who—” Hannah’s voice deserted her as the horror of the lie sank in. Huge brown eyes appealed to her sister. “Then who’s the man we’ve been calling Riker?”
“I don’t know.” Devon pushed the tumbled hair from her eyes. “Jacob Price, maybe. Probably. Oh, God.” She whirled, let the picture flutter to the carpet. “I have to call the police. Detective Dugan.” She stopped her hand partway, curled her fingers. “But he’d be in on it, wouldn’t he? Maybe he’s not a real cop either? Rudy was, though. The desk sergeant knew him the night I phoned from the Wave.”
“Devon!” Hannah backstepped into her arm. Her eyes were glued to the far wall. “There’s someone on the stairs.”
Devon barely made it to the door
before heavy fists began to pound it down.
“Open up, Devon. Do you hear me? Open this door!”
“Rudy!” Hannah breathed the name over her sister’s shoulder. Her fingernails bit in. “We’re trapped!”
“Devon!” Her name was a coarse bark, spit like an army command.
Devon’s overtaxed brain ground into a functional mode. She swung Hannah around and pushed. “Use the bedroom phone. Call Roscoe. Tell him to find a police officer. Tell him Riker’s not Riker, and Rudy—” Hysteria threatened to bubble up. “Just tell him to get over here with help.”
Hannah opened her mouth, then promptly closed it again and fled.
Rudy used his fists like mallets. Devon could scarcely hear his shouts above the weighty pounding.
She’d only turned on one light. It glared at her, seemed to expose her somehow to the maniac in the corridor. She ran to extinguish it, then jumped swiftly backward.
“Devon...!”
His growl broke off abruptly. The hammering ceased. Devon held her breath and her stance, ridiculously afraid that if she moved the horrible noise might begin again.
The silence grew deafening. Ice and snow continued to pelt the windows. She thought she heard Hannah’s frantic whisper in the bedroom, hoped she did. Any help would be good help at this point.
The seconds stretched out agonizingly. Still no sound came from the other side of the door. It must be a trick. He couldn’t have gone away.
She dragged in a deep breath, lightly pressed fingers to the carved wood panels and said clearly, “It won’t work, Rudy. I know the truth.”
The explosion of wood and metal together with the choking stench of gunpowder caught her completely off guard. Smoke and sawdust blew up to blind her. A vicious inward thrust sent her sprawling to the carpet.
Stark light from the corridor revealed a silhouette, larger than life to Devon’s reeling senses. It breathed hard, its chest and shoulders heaving as it stood, legs spread, on the threshold. One hand held a gun, the other a length of green silk scarf.