In the Dead of Night Page 5

  “I didn’t see a car,” she said. “How did you get here?”

  Using his fingers, Skeeter indicated he had walked.

  “So you still live in the cottage?”

  He nodded.

  The “cottage” was actually a tiny mobile home from the 1960s perched high above the cliffs a mile or so down the beach. Skeeter had lived there alone for as long as Sara could remember.

  He signed rapidly, mouthing words and then picked up the toolbox at his side. From his body language, Sara understood he’d finished his work and was leaving. “Can I drop you at the cottage?”

  Shaking his head, he headed toward the staircase. Sara trailed him to the kitchen, waving as he went through the back door to the steps that would take him to the narrow beach below.

  She’d always liked and enjoyed Skeeter. She’d been happy to see him, pleased to know he was still around. It wasn’t until she grabbed her notes off the kitchen counter and looked down at the photo of her mother, Nicholas Tyson and the missing manuscript that she realized his being inside the house also troubled her.

  THE PHONE CALLS had worked. After twenty years the girl was back. Better yet, she was doing exactly what he wanted her to do. But she was also doing some things he hadn’t anticipated. Like asking questions about that night. Too damn many questions.

  He assured himself she couldn’t possibly uncover anything that could be dangerous to him. The case was closed. Her parents and Nicholas Tyson were dead and buried right along with all the dark secrets.

  There was one element he had to consider. Little Sara Douglas had been there that night. She’d witnessed the shooting. She’d seen the killer. The real question was had she heard the argument? Had her seven-year-old mind understood it? What the hell was he going to do if she started piecing things together?

  It was some comfort knowing she couldn’t remember. Shortly after the killings, he’d read in the newspaper that she’d been so traumatized by the ordeal that she couldn’t remember anything about that night. But he knew from experience that memories had a way of resurfacing at the most inopportune time.

  This was definitely an inopportune time.

  With Sara Douglas sniffing around, he was going to have to be very careful. He couldn’t let her ruin this for him. This was his one and only shot at the big time. He’d worked too hard to get where he was. He’d paid his dues. Paid a lot more than anyone should have to. It finally looked like things were going his way. Like he would get the break he deserved. Success. Recognition. A place in the spotlight.

  So long as that bitch Fate didn’t go and lay down a wild card. But he had to wonder. Was Sara Douglas a wild card?

  For the moment, he needed her. She was the one person who could find what he needed. An item that would catapult his career right to the top. But she was also the only person who threatened his ticket to stardom. His dreams. His future. Everything he’d ever worked for. Everything he deserved.

  All he could do was give her some rein. Let her sniff. Let her look. If all went as planned she would find the prize. When she did, he would be there to claim it.

  Once that happened, Sara Douglas would become a liability. She would become more dangerous to him than ever because she wouldn’t stop there. Once she found what he needed, he would have to find a way to silence her forever.

  SARA HAD KNOWN the mansion well as a child. She and her sister had explored every square inch, no matter how dark or dusty and despite her mother’s scolding. Tonight, searching for a manuscript that might not even exist, she felt overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place.

  “If I were going to hide something, where would I put it?”

  Standing in the foyer, she nibbled on her thumbnail and tried to put herself inside the minds of her parents. Her father had designed and built the house himself. Had he considered a place to hide valuables such as jewelry or important documents or family heirlooms?

  Rain slashed at the windows as Sara ascended the narrow and winding stairs to the attic. The old hinges creaked like arthritic bones when she opened the door. The odors of dust and mildew tickled her nose. She flipped the switch, and stark light rained down from a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Her shoes thudded hollowly on the old wood floor as she walked inside.

  The attic was relatively small with an A-frame ceiling and a single gable window. Cardboard boxes were stacked neatly against the far wall. Someone had painstakingly packed her parents’ things. Perhaps one of her aunts or uncles in the weeks following their deaths. Sara had not only been too young, but also too distraught. She hadn’t set foot in the house since that terrible night.

  Crossing to the boxes, she went to the nearest one and opened it. Inside, she found clothing. Even after twenty years she thought she caught a whiff of her mother’s perfume. The scent brought tears to her eyes. She remembered spending time up here with her mother. Sun streaming through the window. Music floating from the radio. The smell of the sea mingling with the sweet scent of roses….

  Shoving the melancholy thoughts aside, Sara closed the box and went to the next one. Inside, she found a few of her old toys, a seashell collection from the beach, and several stuffed animals. Deciding to make a trip to the thrift store in town the next day, she closed the box and started a stack of things she would be donating. The third box contained an ancient-looking reel-to-reel recorder, the kind she and her sister used when they watched Godzilla movies and laughed until they cried.

  Smiling, Sara closed the box and shoved it against the wall. The next box held dozens of books, old bills, bank statements and several file folders. She paged through a few of the folders and was about to close the box when a spiral notebook caught her attention. Sliding it from its ancient nest, she opened it and began to read.

  Strongly slanted handwriting she didn’t recognize covered the first dozen or so pages.

  Contact in Santa Monica. Evelyn. Real name? Not sure. May be a prostitute. Photo shoot in Hollywood warehouse. Doesn’t know where. No police. She has warrants. Nudes. Hinted that she was in danger. Is she credible?

  Arlene in East L.A. Photo shoot in Hollywood warehouse. Brother was the last person to see her. Mother filed a missing persons report with LAPD.

  Jenna Sherwood. Roommate claims she went for a photo shoot. A magazine spread. Never returned. Owed roommate money for rent. Roomie thinks she may have skipped town. Did she?

  Rachel Garza. Twenty years old. Left behind a one-year-old baby. Her estranged husband believed she was trying to break into acting and/or modeling. Mentioned a job in Hollywood. Significant?

  “What on earth?” Sara stared at the words, something dark and disturbing enveloping her like a cloud. It appeared someone was tracking women who’d disappeared. But why? What were the notes doing in her parents’ things? And whose handwriting was this?

  Setting the notebook aside, she pulled out a brown clasp envelope. Inside, she found several yellowed newspaper stories about young missing women. She checked the names against the ones mentioned in the spiral notebook and found two that matched. Someone was, indeed, researching missing persons cases. But who? And why? What was the notebook doing with her parents’ belongings?

  She paged through several more files, but found nothing relative. Closing the box, she tucked the notebook and envelope beneath her arm. She was almost to the stairs when the lights flickered and went out.

  Alarm skittered through her. But remembering the old fuse box, she felt her nerves settle. There was nothing ominous in the works. Just an old house that hadn’t seen maintenance in quite some time. Or maybe the storm had taken out the transformer again.

  Eyes wide, she felt her way along the wall toward the stairs. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, telling her she only had a few feet to go. Two steps and she rapped her shin against something hard. The old rocker, she realized. “Damn.” Reaching down, she rubbed her shin. When she looked up movement ahead sent her heart into overdrive.

  For the span of several heartbeats
, she stood frozen, trying to decide if she’d really seen a shadow or if it was a figment of an overactive imagination. Or perhaps the shadows of the tree branches moving outside the window.

  Her heart tripped when a floorboard creaked off to her right. “Who’s there?” she snapped.

  A noise directly behind her spun her around. Sara stared blindly into the darkness, certain there was someone in the attic with her. Her breathing quickened. Her pulse roared in her ears. Backing away from the sound she reached for her cell phone only to realize she’d left it downstairs. Damn. Damn. Damn!

  “I’m calling the police,” she called out. “Right now.”

  A crash to her right sent her into flight mode. Blind and frightened, she turned and dashed in the general direction of the door. She sensed movement ahead. Heard the shuffle of shoes against the floor. She was nearly there when a large body crashed into her.

  The impact sent her reeling. Rough hands yanked the notebook and envelope from her grasp. Sara tried to fight, but her feet tangled and she went down, landing hard on her backside. Half expecting an attack, she scrambled to her feet. Disoriented, she lunged in the general direction of the door only to hear it slam.

  Two steps and her hand closed over the knob. Panicked breaths rushing in and out, she twisted it and yanked. But the door refused to open.

  Not sure if her attacker was still in the room, Sara fought to open the door, yanking at the knob with both hands. She pounded with her fists. Kicked at the wood, but the lock held firm.

  “Help!” she screamed.

  The only answer to her pleas was the flicker of lightning outside the window and the echo of thunder in the distance.

  NICK KNEW BETTER than to let himself dwell on thoughts of Sara. He sure as hell knew better than to drive out to the old Douglas mansion to see her. He had no good reason to be there. He was off duty, after all. Damn it, he shouldn’t be here. But she’d dominated his thoughts since the moment he’d laid eyes on her the day before.

  He didn’t like it one bit. Didn’t like having a monkey on his back, telling him what to do. Since losing his wife, Nancy, in a car accident last year, he’d focused on healing. On moving ahead and getting on with his life. Leaving the grief and that dark place he’d been in in the past.

  The last thing he needed in his life was someone to care about. Certainly not a woman. He wasn’t interested in dating or a relationship. He simply didn’t have the emotional energy. Not that Sara would be interested in him, anyway, he assured himself. Chances were, she had some successful, executive-type boyfriend back in San Diego who showered her with gifts and took her to fancy restaurants.

  Once she left, Nick would never see her again. He told himself that’s the way he wanted it. He didn’t need complications. Healing had been a long and grueling road. Now he needed to stay focused on keeping his life on an even keel.

  And one day California was going to fall into the ocean and disappear.

  Nick wanted to believe it was the year of celibacy that had him chomping at the bit to see her, his hands itching to touch. He’d only gone on a handful of dates since Nancy’s car ran off the coast highway and his own life had crashed and burned right along with hers. He didn’t want to feel. Didn’t miss women. Or intimacy. He didn’t miss sex.

  Until now, anyway.

  Cursing beneath his breath, he pulled into the driveway of the Douglas place. Drizzle danced in the headlights as the beams played over her rental car. Surprise rippled through him when he noticed the house’s windows were dark. Odd, since it was only seven o’clock. Had the power gone out again? He hadn’t heard anything on the police radio. Only then did he find himself thinking of the message someone had written on her car window—Curiosity killed the cat.

  Grabbing his flashlight, he left the car and started toward the front door. Beyond the junipers, the ocean crashed against the rocky beach below. He stepped onto the porch and knocked twice. Concern rippled through him when no one answered. Knocking one final time, he headed around to the rear of the house. Uneasiness washed over him when he found the back door open several inches.

  Nick set his hand on his sidearm and silently entered the house. His flashlight beam played over the kitchen and living areas. He listened, but heard nothing as he moved down the hall. Entering the foyer, he shone the light up the nearest staircase. When he saw no movement, he took the steps two at a time to the top.

  He cleared three bedrooms, the bathroom and master suite before noticing that the narrow door at the end of the hall stood ajar. The attic, he thought, and drew his weapon. The door opened to a narrow spiral staircase. At the top, a second door was closed.

  His pulse spiked when he heard pounding and a muffled voice.

  “Sara!” He rushed the stairs. A dozen scenarios scrolled through his mind, none of them good.

  “In here!”

  Relief flashed through him at the sound of her voice. He tried the knob, found it locked and put his ear close to the door. “Sara!”

  “I’m here! Locked in!”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” But fear laced her voice.

  “What happened?”

  “Th-there was an intruder. I think he locked me in.”

  Using the flashlight, he checked the old-fashioned keyhole for a key, but found none. “Where’s the key?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He ran the beam over the floor. “Do you want me to see if I can find it?”

  “Just get the door open. It’s pitch-black in here.”

  “Stand back.” He gave her a moment to move, then landed a hard kick near the knob.

  Wood cracked. The door swung open and banged against the wall. Before he could bring the beam up, Sara rushed out.

  She impacted with him hard enough to make him grunt. He caught a hint of fragrant hair and soft skin and a body vibrating with fear.

  He backed up a step. “Whoa.” Wrapping his hands around her arms, he slowed her. “Take it easy.”

  For a moment she trembled against him, her words rushing out on quick, shallow breaths. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just…a little claustrophobic.”

  “It’s all right.” Directing the beam between them, he got a look at her face, found her pale, her forehead damp with sweat. “How long have you been in there?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe twenty minutes.”

  “You locked yourself in?”

  “No way.” She shook her head. “Someone was there.”

  “Who?”

  “A man. The lights went out. He came at me, knocked me down.”

  Fury whipped through him at the thought of some goon knocking her down. “You okay?”

  “I’m okay. Just…shaken up.”

  He trained the beam on the lock, trying not to notice the split wood or the antique knob he’d damaged. It wasn’t the kind of lock that could engage on its own. “You’re sure someone was in there with you?”

  Even in the semidarkness he saw anger flash in her eyes. “Of course, I’m sure, damn it.”

  “All right.” Setting his hands on her shoulders, he backed her to the wall. “Hang tight for a moment while I check it out, okay?”

  He felt her shiver. “He’s gone.”

  “Stay put. I’m going to take a look anyway.” Giving her shoulder a squeeze, he stepped into the attic. The room was small and dark as a tomb. It took him less than two minutes to ascertain that it was also empty. By the time he’d finished, Sara was back inside.

  “There’s no one here now.”

  “Someone was, Nick. Someone turned out the lights. They…took the notebook. Locked me inside.”

  “What notebook?”

  “The one I found. In the box.”

  He raised his hand as if to touch her, then let it drop. “Okay. Let’s go downstairs. Make sure you’re all right. Check the fuse box. I need to check the grounds, then we’ll call this in and file a report. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  In the kit
chen, he put Sara in a chair and went through the back door. He shone the flashlight beam along the juniper and jagged rocks surrounding the deck. Taking the wooden steps that led to the beach, he stopped halfway down and illuminated the low-growing bushes and rock. There were a hundred places a man could hide around the old house, but Nick saw no one.

  Back inside, he found her in the utility room, looking at the fuse box. “There’s no one out there.”

  “I was in the attic for quite some time,” she said. “They probably ran out the back door.”

  “Any idea who it was? Anything familiar about them?”

  She shook her head. “All I know is it was a man. Strong. Tall.”

  “That certainly narrows it down.” Brushing her aside, he put the beam on the fuse box. Sure enough the main fuse was unscrewed. “Loose,” he said.

  “Or someone loosened it.”

  He tightened the fuse. Sudden light shone down. For a moment, they stood there blinking at each other. He found himself looking into pretty brown eyes wide with the remnants of fear. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, but several wisps teased her face. Dirt smudged her white T-shirt. He didn’t want to see more. Sure as hell didn’t want to notice any more detail. But his eyes took on a life of their own and swept down her. He saw the outline of a lacy bra beneath a threadbare T-shirt. A strip of flesh where the T-shirt hem met the waistband of low-rise jeans. Lower, he saw long legs and soft curves encased in denim. Painted toenails peeked out from beneath frayed hems.