At the Midnight Hour (20 page)

But as she rose, Richard saw something else move. A glint of the afternoon sun off metal, coming from behind, in the woods. Metal where no metal should have been.

He didn’t think, he just moved, throwing himself powerfully forward even as he heard the distant boom. In slow motion, he could see Liz’s face turn to shocked alarm, but then he was on top of her, dragging her to the ground as he threw an arm over Andy, as well.

And the gunshots echoed through the deep autumn sky.

E
mbers flew as a burning branch of the fire exploded, the bullet plowing into flames. Before Richard could think of a good area for cover, another shot rifled overhead. Underneath him, he could feel Andy’s shaking form, but the child was silent. Under his right arm was the still form of Liz, but there was no time to see if she was hurt. Above, as he tensed with the waiting, the chilled October air was silent.

Seconds grew into agonizing minutes, the silence unbroken but for the crackling of the injured bonfire. Finally, muscles bunching for action, Richard raised his head. Silence reigned.

He waited one moment longer, sharp eyes scanning pine trees for any sign of attack. But whatever—whoever—had come, seemed long gone by now. Richard looked down to see Andrew gazing at him with solemn blue eyes. His glasses had fallen off when Richard had pushed the child down. Now, Andrew reached down to pick up his thick lenses from the crushed grass. In unison, both father and son turned to Liz.

She was still half under Richard, and he pushed himself completely away, looking at her intently for signs of injury. He couldn’t find any sign of even a scratch, but her midnight eyes were glazed over with shock.

Concerned, Richard reached over to touch her shoulder.

“Liz,” he said quietly, his eyes intense. “It’s over, sweetheart.”

But her eyes wouldn’t focus, turning to him only with an opalescent mix of anguish and fear and shock. Belatedly, he remembered what she’d told him of her husband. He’d been shot down. Even more worried, Richard shook her shoulder lightly.

“Snap out of it,” he ordered this time, keeping his voice firm and low to penetrate her fog. He was rewarded by a distant nod, as if some corner of her mind was with him.

“There’s so much blood,” she whispered. “I can’t stop all the blood. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” Her head had dropped to look at her hands with unseeing eyes, the past mixing with the present. She could swear there was pavement beneath her, the sound of cars screeching to a halt. The screams of pedestrians, the wail of sirens. It was all there again. And Nick’s head on her lap, the blood pouring, pouring, pouring....

“What’s wrong with her?” came the distant sound of a child’s voice.

“She’s in shock,” a low male voice replied. “She’ll be all right. She just needs a minute. Liz. Come on now, Liz.”

She shook her head at the voices, her eyes falling once more to the golden head on her lap. This was Nick, Nick, needed her. She had to keep him alive. It was up to her. But the blood kept flowing through her fingers, his blue eyes peering up through the haze of pain to find her. She wasn’t going to be able to do it. She wasn’t going to be able to stop the blood, after all. Nick, oh, Nick.

But then abruptly the blue eyes weren’t Nick’s anymore; instead, she was peering into the intent gaze of a solemn little boy.

“Liz?” Andy said, his voice tight with worry. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, her eyes swinging over to find Richard, who was sitting just a foot away. She could still feel the pain like a knife in her gut. She’d loved Nick so much, he’d been her life, her future. They were going to grow old together. So many dreams lost on a Sunday afternoon. And there had been nothing at all she could do but hold his head on her lap and cry on his golden hair.

Why couldn’t she have done something?

Richard could feel her blue eyes pleading with his, and the pain he saw there was more than he could stand. Without another thought, he reached out and drew her into his arms. “Shh,” he whispered against her head, stroking her long hair with a gentle hand as she trembled against him. “It’s all over now, Liz. It’s all behind you. Now you’re here with Andy and me, and a couple of hunters who couldn’t hit the broad side of barn. It’s all okay now.”

Behind her, Andy nodded his vigorous agreement. His face was still tight with worry, but the look he gave his father was filled with trust. Something bad had happened, but Richard would fix it, the look said.

Richard held Liz a little tighter, and wondered how a lost man like himself had ever garnered the trust of two such people, and why the thought filled his chest with such fierceness.

His hand kept smoothing through her hair, reveling in the silky feel of the long, mahogany strands. He could feel her soft and vulnerable against him, the gentle brush of her shaky breath against his shoulder. Her hands wrapped around him, pulling herself closer to his strength, as if in his arms, she truly found comfort. As if she needed him. She shuddered, the last of the tension leaving her body as her head relaxed against his shoulder. It touched him far deeper than any of their intense kisses ever had, and in that instant, he wouldn’t have let her go for all the supercapacitors in the world.

Minute turned into minute, and slowly Liz collected herself. It was so nice in his arms, warm and solid and safe. She’d always thought he could be tender, and now she knew the truth. She wanted to stay just like this, and the intensity of the need frightened her a little. What if the shots had been a little closer? What if he hadn’t gotten them down in time?

She didn’t want to go through another Sunday afternoon. She would never be able to bear that kind of pain again.

Once more she was conscious of Andy’s eyes upon her. Richard gently let her go, and she forced herself back into functioning, not wanting to disturb the already troubled little boy. She gave Andy a weak but determined smile to let him know she was all right.

“I guess we should be packing up,” she said, her voice only lightly trembling. “Richard will need to check in on who was hunting, so such things won’t happen again.”

She drew in the last sentence as much to comfort Andy as herself. But after the darkness of the past few days, she found she couldn’t quite believe her own words.

She shivered slightly and turned to the picnic basket.

“Come on, Andy,” she said, forcing herself to sound brisk and calm. “Help me pack up.”

Andrew still looked at her with troubled blue eyes, but then wordlessly, he began to help.

It was a silent group that returned to the house. All wanting to think it was an accident, but not all quite willing to believe in such coincidences. Liz had thought she would never welcome the sight of the dark, sprawling mansion. This cold afternoon, however, she discovered she was wrong.

Andrew was the most troubled by the incident, as she found out later that night when she tucked him into bed. He’d been silent for the rest of the afternoon, watching her with dark and worried eyes. She’d tried to distract him by playing dominoes, but his mechanical movements had revealed his mind wasn’t really on the game.

He made her tell him another bedtime story as she tucked him in. This time she went through the story of Peter Pan and Never-Never Land. She even got him to clap for Tinkerbell. But in the end, as she went to turn out the light, his true thoughts surfaced.

“Liz?” he called out softly as she stood in the doorway. “Liz, my mom’s dead.”

Liz stood there, not sure what to say. This was a different tactic from the one he had used that very first day, when he’d announced his mother had been murdered to try to frighten and scare her. Now, his young voice was solemn, with just a small quiver in his lips.

Finally, she nodded. “Yes, sweetheart,” she said. “Alycia is dead.”

He paused, the uncertainty clear on his six-year-old face.

“Did—” He seemed to have a problem with the words, but finally they came rushing out, “Did my father kill her?”

Taken aback, Liz was slow to react. But resolutely, she drew herself up. She would not have this little boy tortured by such thoughts. Whoever had told him his mother had been murdered had been cruel enough. It was time to put his young doubts to rest, once and for all.

“Of course not,” she said firmly. “Your father would never have done such a thing.”

For one moment, she could see the fierce relief on his face, then Andy nodded solemnly. Her word was clearly good enough for him. The absoluteness of that trust staggered her.

“Good night, Liz,” he said softly. She nodded, turning once more to leave.

“I won’t let anything bad happen to you,” Andy said suddenly, the words determined. “I won’t, Liz.”

She glanced back, meeting his solemn oath with her own serious expression. Andrew was just a six-year-old boy. For all his brilliance, he did not yet know of life’s monsters and tragedies. Like holding your husband’s head on a bright Sunday afternoon as he bled to death in your arms. Like shredded portraits in long, abandoned hallways. But she knew what an intense little boy Andy was, and she would not wound him by treating his promise lightly.

“Of course,” she told him. “And I’m going to take care of you, too. Promise.”

Andy raised his small hand. “Promise,” he returned.

She turned out the light, blanketing the room in darkness.

Outside in the hall, however, she could feel the dull throbbing of her head. She had spoken to Andy with conviction, but there was no conviction in her heart. This house held dark stirrings and five-year-old hatreds.

She needed to get back to the diary, she thought abruptly. Perhaps it held the key. But first, she decided, she was going to find Richard. This situation with Andrew had gone on long enough. The child was scared, he needed to be able to believe in his father. And there was no reason that he shouldn’t be able to.

She stormed her way to the library without giving it much thought. She knew he would be there. Of course, he would be there.

And he was.

This time, Richard wasn’t sitting. Instead, he was standing before the crackling flames of a newly made fire, one hand resting on the fireplace’s mantel while his other hand held his nightly glass of brandy. He didn’t turn around when she entered, but she knew he was aware of her nonetheless.

“I want to talk to you,” she said straight out, coming to a halt just inside the doorway. The words seemed to echo across the distance as a challenge, and already she could feel the faint humming in her blood.

Slowly, he turned enough to see her.

“About this afternoon?” he asked softly. In his own mind, he’d seen the scene time and time again—the faint glint of metal in the trees, followed by the cracking sound of a rifle shot. He’d gone through the forest after they’d returned to the house. All he’d found were two spent shells from a .22 rifle. And there was no way in hell he believed some hunter had shot into a bonfire by mistake. Certainly not twice and not on private land. He would have gone to the police, but his relations with the local law enforcement were not the best. Besides, whoever had done this had been far too clever, leaving nothing behind that was traceable. Involving the police, with no evidence—and considering the source—would be seen as a case of the boy who cried wolf.

“Partly,” Liz said. Her chin was up, her cheeks flushing with adrenaline. She looked beautiful, Richard thought. Beautiful and vital and much too young to be shot at. He could feel the bitterness eating up his gut, more potent than even the brandy. He could still remember her trembling in his arms, and he hated to know he’d helped cause that pain. Inwardly he cursed. His life swirled with darkness, tainting everything around him. Even a fresh, wholesome woman like Liz.

He lifted the glass, willing the brandy to burn away all the confusion. But Liz remained clear and strong before him.

“I’m worried about Andrew,” she said abruptly. She didn’t move toward him, instinctively wanting the distance between them. But even from here, she could sense the turmoil surrounding him as thickly as a fog. His face was grimmer tonight, the lines etched more firmly in his face than ever before. His eyes, however, were no longer a steely blue. Instead, they had darkened to something much more dangerous, and much more compelling.

“What about Andrew?” he asked, his voice deep and low. “Is he still upset about this afternoon?”

For the first time, Liz hesitated. Then she forced herself to get it all out. “It’s more than just the afternoon,” she said boldly. “It’s the knowledge that his mother was murdered. It’s living in a house that’s too dark and foreboding for a normal child. It’s having a father who seems intent on ignoring him.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed, his look becoming even more guarded. He didn’t want to hear any of this, not with his emotions already so raw. “I warned you before,” he said tautly, “that Andrew’s and my relationship is no concern of yours.”

“And
I
told
you
before,” Liz countered fiercely, “that it is.” She took a step forward. “For God’s sake, Richard, even you can see what a serious and morbid child he can be. He needs a stable, giving household. He needs to feel that being a genius doesn’t mean being a freak. He needs you, Richard.”

There was silence as her words echoed away, a silence broken only by the crackling pop of a burning log. Slowly, Richard’s eyes never left hers as he deliberately raised his glass for another sip.

“I’m sending the child to boarding school soon,” he said silkily, though for the first time, doubt about that decision clouded his mind. “That ought to take care of the problem.”

Liz looked at him incredulously from across the room. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?” she asked intently. “He does not need boarding school. He needs a
father.
Do you know what he asked me tonight? Do you know what he said?” She crossed the library with determined strides until she was only inches away from him. “He asked me if you murdered Alycia. He wanted to know if his father had murdered his mother!”

Richard didn’t say anything, only the tightening of his hand on the glass giving him away. Inside, however, he felt the unwanted emotions rip through him once more, her words slamming into his gut one by one until he had to call upon all his iron control to even breathe.

He didn’t want to care about the boy. He didn’t want to feel anything. But even now, he felt pain, fierce and burning, tighten his chest.

Andrew wanted to know if he’d murdered Alycia. Even Andrew. And who could have been so cruel as to tell a little boy such things? It wasn’t his concern, Richard tried telling himself, but the emotions continued to war within him. Andrew was brilliant and, yes, he was morbid. No one would look at him and think of him as a normal, happy child. And despite his best intentions, that realization filled Richard with guilt.