In the Dead of Night Page 2

  “I—I want to see your badge,” she managed.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them.” He shone the light at her, sweeping it from her head to her feet. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  “I own this place,” she said.

  Sliding a badge from the pocket of his trench, he shoved it at her. “You’re the homeowner?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Show me some ID.” Tilting his head slightly, he spoke into a lapel mike. “This is zero-two-four. I’m ten-twenty-three. Over.”

  “Whatcha got, Chief?” crackled a tinny male voice.

  “Cancel that ten-fourteen, will you?”

  “Roger that.”

  Convinced this man was indeed a cop, Sara sidled to the bed and pulled her driver’s license from her wallet. “You scared the hell out of me,” she snapped as she crossed to him and held it out for him to read.

  He shone the beam on her license. “Sara Douglas.” He said her name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Th-there was a prowler,” she said. “I saw him. At the kitchen window. A man.”

  Dipping his head slightly, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “How long ago?”

  “A minute. Maybe two.”

  “That was probably me.”

  “Oh.” Sara choked out a nervous laugh, releasing some of the tension that had built up inside her.

  He frowned, apparently not seeing any humor in the situation. Maybe because he had a bump the size of a quarter on his left cheekbone from where she’d thrown the cell phone.

  “I’m sorry I threw the phone at you.”

  “Yeah.” He touched the bump. “I’ll let you know if I decide to arrest you for assaulting a cop.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  He didn’t answer, and Sara found herself wishing she could see his face better.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “A 911 call came in about twenty minutes ago. Someone reported seeing lights up here.”

  Realization dawned. “Someone thought I was a prowler?”

  “This place has been vacant for quite a few years. Neighbors aren’t used to seeing any kind of activity up here. Unless, of course, it has to do with ghosts.”

  The word hung in the air like a bad joke. “Ghosts?”

  “Word around town is that this place is haunted.”

  “That’s pretty ridiculous.” Her laugh held no humor.

  “Considering what happened up here.” He lifted a shoulder, let it drop. “People love a good ghost story.”

  Or a murder mystery, she thought.

  He shoved the badge back into his pocket. She caught a glimpse of a pistol and leather shoulder holster. But even more dangerous than the weapon was the man himself. He was built like a distance runner. Tall with narrow hips and long, muscular legs encased in snug denim. The navy T-shirt was damp from the rain and clung to an abdomen that regularly saw the inside of a gym.

  “So are you planning on hitting me with that?”

  Realizing she was still clutching the lamp, Sara returned it to the bedside table. “I thought you were an intruder.”

  “Good thing for you I’m not.” He motioned toward the lamp. “Wouldn’t do much good against a gun.”

  Sara didn’t know what to say to that; she knew firsthand the damage a gun could do.

  “I didn’t mean to spook you,” he said. “You okay?”

  “Just a little rattled. Electricity went out.”

  “Lightning took out a transformer down on Wind River Road. Crews are out, but it’s pretty remote out here. Could take a while.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Do you have a flashlight or candles?”

  “I dropped the flashlight and broke it, but I think there are candles in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll stay long enough for you to get a few lit if you’d like.”

  “Not that I’m afraid of ghosts or anything.”

  “Of course not.” Touching the brim of his cap, he left the bedroom and started for the stairs.

  Feeling silly for having overreacted, Sara followed.

  “Where are you from?” he asked as they descended the stairs.

  “San Diego.”

  At the kitchen, he moved aside and motioned her ahead, shining the flashlight so she could see. Sara went to the candle she’d left on the counter, relit it, then began rummaging for more.

  “Alexandra and Richard Douglas were your parents?”

  That he knew her parents’ first names shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. Cape Darkwood was a small town, after all. She looked up from the drawer. In the candlelight, she was able to get a better look at his face. An odd sense of familiarity niggled at the back of her mind. Her hands paused as she reached for a second candle. She wasn’t sure why, but her stomach went taut in anticipation of some unexpected and ugly surprise. “Yes, they were my parents. Why?”

  “I used to know them. My parents knew them, actually. A long time ago.”

  Sensing there was more coming, she stopped rummaging and looked at him over her shoulder. His eyes met hers. A little too curious. A little too intense. A keen awareness of him rippled through her. She wanted to blame it on the darkness. The storm. The strangeness of the house. Whatever the case, he was one of the most disconcerting men she’d ever met.

  “I used to know you, too,” he added.

  Sara faced him, certain she would have remembered meeting this man. He had one of the most memorable faces she’d ever encountered. Definitely unforgettable eyes. “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s been a while,” he said.

  “I didn’t get your name.” The words came out as a whisper.

  “I’m Chief of Police Nick Tyson.” He stuck out his hand. “Your father shot and killed my father the same night he murdered your mother.”

  Chapter Two

  Sara stared at Nick, her mind reeling. She’d known that at some point she would have to face this. The past. The people whose lives her father had ripped apart all those years ago. But to face this man now—a man whose life had been shattered by the actions of her father—seemed a cruel twist of fate.

  “Nicky?” she said.

  “People don’t usually call me that now.” His grin transformed hardened features into a hint of the boy she’d once known. A rough-and-tumble kid with black hair and eyes the color of the Pacific. Her memory stirred like a beast that had been hibernating for two decades. She’d been seven years old. Twelve-year-old Nicky Tyson had talked her into playing hide and seek, but when she’d closed her eyes, instead of running and hiding, he’d stolen a kiss. Her first kiss from a boy. It had been innocent, but made a huge impact on Sara.

  Funny that she would remember something so silly at a moment like this. But then she’d blocked a lot of things that happened that last summer.

  The man standing before her was nothing like the ornery kid who’d pestered—and secretly charmed—her. There was nothing remotely innocent about him. His eyes were still the color of the sea, but now it was a stormy sea, all crashing surf and churning waves and water the color of slate. Beneath the brim of the Cape Darkwood PD cap, his black hair was military-short. He might have looked clean-cut if not for the day’s growth of beard and the hard gleam in his eyes.

  “Surprised?” he asked.

  Realizing his hand was still extended and she had yet to take it, Sara reached out. “I don’t know what to say.”

  His hand encompassed hers completely. His grip was firm. She got the impression of calluses and strength tempered with a gentleness that belied the obvious strength.

  “Hello would suffice,” he said.

  An awkward silence descended. Intellectually, Sara knew what her father had done wasn’t her fault; she’d been a little girl at the time. But it was disconcerting to think that this man’s father had been her mother’s illicit lover. That her father had murdered Nicholas Tyson in a jealous rage then turned the gun on himself. T
hat was the story the newspapers had reported, anyway.

  Sara was no longer sure she believed it.

  She studied Nick Tyson and thought about the call she’d received two days ago. The electronically disguised voice that told her Richard Douglas hadn’t murdered anyone on that terrible June night. Had there been a fourth person involved as the caller intimated? A person filled with hatred and a secret that was now up to her to expose—or disprove?

  The memory of the voice spread gooseflesh over her arms. She studied Nick’s face. Familiar now, but somehow every bit as threatening. His was the face of a cop. Hard, knowing eyes filled with suspicion, cool distance and an intensity that thoroughly unnerved. She couldn’t help but wonder if, as a policeman himself, he’d ever doubted the scenario the police had pieced together.

  “Ah, you’re in luck.”

  The words jerked her from her reverie. She let go of his hand. He must have seen the uncertainty on her face because he motioned toward the drawer she’d opened. “Another candle,” he said.

  “Oh. Right.”

  His eyes shone black in the semidarkness. She could feel them on her, probing, wondering. Wondering what? Why she was back? Or was he wondering if a capacity for violence was inherited?

  “I should probably check the fuse box while I’m here,” he said.

  “We wouldn’t want those ghosts getting any ideas.”

  He gave her a half smile. “Everyone knows they do their best work in the dark.”

  The tension drained from her body when he started toward the utility room and, beyond, the garage where the fuse box was located. Using the dim light slanting in through the window, she began searching for another plate or saucer to use as a candleholder.

  “Fuses look fine.”

  She jolted at the closeness of his voice and nearly dropped the saucer she’d found. He was standing right behind her, so close she could smell the piney-woods scent of his aftershave. For the first time she realized just how tall he was. At least six-three or maybe six-four. He towered over her five-foot-three-inch frame. Uncle Nicholas had been tall….

  Nick stared at her intently. “You’re not still afraid of storms, are you?”

  “Of course not,” she said a little too quickly.

  One side of his mouth curved. “Looks like you’ll have to ride this one out in the dark.”

  “Thanks for coming by. And for checking the fuses.” She wanted to say more, but what? Thank you for not hating me. I’m sorry my father ruined your childhood. Oh, and by the way, he didn’t do it….

  The words flitted through her mind, but she didn’t voice them. Even though she was no longer convinced her father had done anything wrong that night, she needed to figure out who to trust—and find proof of her suspicions—before going to the police.

  “Just doing my job.” His gaze flicked to the saucer in her hand. Usurping it from her, he set the candle on it and dug out a match. “This should help keep the ghosts away.”

  “If you believe in that sort of thing.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Not for a second. Don’t tell me you do.”

  “I guess it depends on the ghost.” He set the saucer on the counter. “Hopefully the utility crews will get the transformer up and working in the next couple of hours.”

  “Does the electricity go out often up here?”

  “They don’t call this stretch of beach the Lost Coast for nothing.” He stood there a moment, studying her. “How long will you be in town?”

  “I’m not sure,” she answered. “A few days. Maybe a week.”

  “Any particular reason you’re back?”

  Sara wished it were lighter so she could gauge his expression. Was it an idle question? Or was he uneasy that someone was sniffing around a mystery that, in the minds of a few, had never been solved? Somewhere in the back of her mind, the caller’s voice echoed eerily. Don’t trust anyone….

  “Family business,” she said vaguely.

  “I see.” But his expression told her he didn’t. “How’s your sister?”

  “Sonia’s doing great. She and her husband live in Los Angeles now. She thinks I’m a nut for staying here.”

  “It’s not exactly the Ritz.”

  She smiled, but it felt brittle on her face. “I think she was more concerned about how the citizens of Cape Darkwood would react.”

  As if realizing to whom she was referring, Nick sobered and shoved his hands into his pockets. “There might be a few people in this town who can’t differentiate between what your father did twenty years ago and you.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Some people have short memories and small minds. If you run into any hostility, give me a call.”

  “I hope I don’t.” But Sara knew she probably would. Emotions had run high and hot in Cape Darkwood after her father had allegedly shot and killed his pretty young wife and her lover, then himself, leaving two little girls without parents, a little boy without a father.

  She looked at Nick. “It seems like if anyone in this town has a right to be angry with the Douglas family, it’s you.”

  “I wasn’t the only one hurt that night.”

  The statement made Sara think of Nick’s mother. Laurel Tyson had been widowed at the age of thirty and left with a mountain of bills and a young boy to raise. Sara had been too distraught to remember much about her parents’ funeral, but she would never forget the look of hatred in Laurel Tyson’s eyes.

  “How’s your mother, Nick?”

  “She’s doing fine. Owns an antique shop and a couple of bed-and-breakfasts in town.” His expression darkened. “But then, you knew about the B&Bs, didn’t you?”

  Sara nodded.

  “Then you’ve already realized it might be a good idea for you to steer clear of her.”

  His meaning was not lost on Sara. She’d often wondered if Laurel Tyson had recovered from the grief and scandal surrounding her husband’s murder.

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  He studied her a moment longer, then touched the brim of his cap. “Welcome back, Sara.”

  At that he started for the door, leaving in his wake the smell of pine and rain and the undeniable feeling that she would see him again.

  THE MEMORY of her sultry perfume still danced in his head when Nick climbed into his cruiser. Sara Douglas was a far cry from the freckle-faced little girl he’d played hide and seek with some twenty years ago. She’d grown into a gypsy-eyed beauty with a throaty laugh and a body any Hollywood actress would give her right hand to possess.

  As a man, he’d enjoyed seeing her, talking to her. Touching her, an annoying little voice chimed in. But as a cop, he knew her return to Cape Darkwood spelled trouble. He couldn’t help but wonder why she’d really come back. He didn’t buy the family-business bit. Why would she fly all the way from San Diego to Cape Darkwood and spend a week in a dilapidated mansion when most business matters could be handled via phone? The mansion was barely habitable. Especially taking into consideration what had happened there twenty years ago.

  But Nick knew why she hadn’t stayed at one of the bed-and-breakfasts in town. His mother owned both of them. Sara must have done her homework and realized it would have been an uncomfortable situation to say the least.

  Thoughts of his mother elicited a sigh. He’d lied to her when he’d said his mother was doing okay. Laurel Tyson had never recovered from the events of that summer night twenty years ago. Nick had never been sure if her bitterness stemmed from the fact that her husband had been having an affair or that he’d been gunned down for it. Whatever the case, her happiness had ended that night right along with Nick’s childhood. Neither of them needed the past dredged up.

  As he started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, he decided Sara Douglas bore watching. He was the chief of police, after all. It was his job to keep an eye on people.

  He didn’t want to admit that his interest went a tad beyond professional concern. Twenty years ago he’d had
a crush on her the size of California. In a kid-sister kind of way. He knew it was crazy, but the old attraction was still there, as clear and sharp as the dawn sky after a storm. Only now, there wasn’t anything kid-sister about it. Nick wasn’t happy about it. He had a sixth sense when it came to trouble. Sara Douglas had trouble written all over that shapely body of hers in big, bold letters.

  As he pulled onto Wind River Road and started for town, he decided it would be best for everyone involved if she let the ghosts of the past rest in peace. The citizens of Cape Darkwood—including him—would rest a hell of a lot easier when she went back to San Diego where she belonged.

  Chapter Three

  She saw blood, stark and red against pale flesh. The metallic smell surrounded her, sickened her. Horror punched through layers of shock. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream.

  “Mommy,” she whimpered. “Wake up. I’m scared. Wake up!”

  Sara shook her, but her mother didn’t stir. Feeling something warm and sticky between her fingers, Sara looked down at her hands.

  Blood.

  Her child’s mind rebelled against what she saw. Against what she knew in her heart. Against the terror of knowing her mommy wasn’t ever going to open her eyes again.

  Ten feet away her daddy lay on the floor, his head surrounded by a slick of red. Next to him, Uncle Nicholas lay sprawled on his back. His eyes were open, but when she called out to him he didn’t answer. Why wouldn’t he answer her? Why wouldn’t he wake up and tell her everything was going to be okay? That they were just playing? Making a movie?

  Thunder cracked like a thousand gunshots. Sara screamed and crawled to her mother’s side, curled against her. “Mommy,” she choked out the name and began to cry. “Please wake up. I’m so scared.”

  Outside the French doors lightning flashed, turning night to day. Beyond, a man in a long, black coat stood in the driving rain, staring at her. He held something dark in his hand. A gun, she realized. It had a shiny white grip, like the ones cowboys used in movies. But he was no Lone Ranger; he was a bad man.