The Last Noel (11 page)

 

Kat stood silently on the landing again, shaking.

What the hell had just happened? Her brothers had bested Scooter. The confrontation should have gone their way, but instead…

That bastard Quintin! She found herself furious that Massachusetts didn't have a death penalty. She would have liked to slip a noose around the man's neck herself.

She swallowed, her thoughts racing.
What now?

They had all gone into the kitchen, so her mother could make Irish coffee—except for her father and Craig, who were still in the living room.

Craig…

She tried to harden her heart as she crept close enough to the banister to see. His hair was too long, and his face looked thinner. Too thin, as if the last three years had been rough on him. If so, he'd deserved it.

How had he gone from being Mr. Perfect to Scuzz of the Year?

He was talking to her father, she realized. She strained to hear, but she couldn't make out what he was saying. What she
could
tell was that her father had regained consciousness, because he was saying something back.

Craig rose and started toward the kitchen.

“Hey,” her father said hoarsely, quietly.

“Yeah?” Craig asked, pausing.

“Thank you,” David O'Boyle said softly.

Thank you?

Why was her father saying thank-you to one of the men who'd invaded their house?

Craig went toward the kitchen. “What the hell are you doing?” Quintin demanded as he pushed open the swinging door.

“He's starting to come around. I'm going to get some ice for his head,” Craig said, and then the rest of the conversation was lost as the door swung shut behind him.

Kat hesitated. Everyone except her father was in the kitchen, she realized. How long would they stay there?

Suddenly she didn't care.

She flew silently down the stairs and raced to her father's side.

“Dad?” she whispered.

“Baby, get away from here.”

“But, Dad, I'm afraid for you.”

“I'm all right, honey. I had hoped you'd gotten far away by now,” he said, his tone hopeless.

He had hoped she wouldn't die with the rest of them, she thought.

“I…It's a blizzard, Dad.”

He smiled sadly. “I know. Get back upstairs.”

“Dad, I texted the cops and I think it went through,” she said. “So hang in there, okay?”

“We're hanging.”

They both heard the sound of someone pushing against the swinging door to the kitchen.

“Go!”

“I'm gone!”

She flew back up the stairs to her previous vantage point and watched as Craig walked over to her father with a bag of ice in his hand.

How?
she wondered again. How did you go from bad jokes and the world's most charming smile to…this?

Did you hear about the three guys who headed out for a good time one night? Two of them walked into a bar.

Yeah?

And one didn't.

I don't get it.

He ducked.

They'd both laughed, and then she was in his arms, and she could still remember the way his fingers had felt, moving over her bare flesh….

 

Quintin seemed to be relishing his Irish coffee. “Delicious,” he told Skyler, and he grinned, as if he were a welcome guest in her home and not a monster holding a gun on her family.

“Glad you like it,” she said dryly. “May I please go to my husband now?”

“He's okay. The kid's taking care of him. The kid has a heart,” he said, and it wasn't a compliment.

“And that's a bad thing?” she said.

“It'll get him killed,” Scooter said curtly. He was seated at the table and had gulped down his own drink, all the while continuing to eye her two sons bitterly.

“Would you like another?” she asked Quintin.

“You trying to get me drunk?” he asked.

“On Irish coffee?” she inquired.

Quintin shrugged. “Sure. Make me another.”

As she rose, she asked, “Would you open the door and ask your friend how my husband is doing.”

“Scooter, do it,” Quintin said.

“I'm not your slave,” Scooter protested.

“No, you're just the idiot who almost got us killed,” Quintin said pointedly.

Scooter flashed them all an angry look but rose. “I'll have another one, too,” he said.

“Of course,” Skyler agreed, deciding it might be a good thing to mollify Scooter at the moment. Quintin was more dangerous, but, cornered, Scooter could be very bad, she was certain. “And thank you,” she added.

“Sure.” He opened the kitchen door. “Hey, Craig,” he called.

“Yeah?”

“How's O'Boyle?”

“He's conscious, and he seems okay.”

Skyler tried not to show just how relieved she felt as she fixed more drinks.

“Can I have another hot chocolate, Mom?” Jamie asked.

“May I,” she corrected.

“You can have as many as you want,” Jamie answered pertly. “You're the mom.”

“Jamie…”

“Yeah, yeah,
may
I? Please?”

“Of course.”

She turned around. “Anybody else?”

“Indeed, I'd be pleased to accept another,” Paddy said.

“Me, too, thanks,” Frazier said.

Brenda was just staring ahead, seemingly lost in her own world again, after her earlier bravery. Then, to Skyler's astonishment, the younger woman blinked, looked at Frazier as if to take strength from him, and stood up. “May I go out and check on Mr. O'Boyle? I
am
planning a career in medicine, as you know.”

Quintin leaned back, looking genuinely amused.

“Yeah, that's right. But you know what? I haven't got any degree, and I can tell you this. He took a thunk on the head, but he's going to be all right. He may have a headache for a while, though.”

“I'll just see how he's doing,” Brenda said, and started for the door.

“Wait just a minute,” Scooter protested.

“Let her go,” Quintin said.

“You're the one who keeps saying—” Scooter began.

“She's two inches high, O'Boyle is still dizzy and Craig is out there,” Quintin said.

Scooter stood, taking the first drink from Skyler's hand. “I'm going out there, too,” he told Quintin. “You and I are the ones with the guns. Besides, you never know.” He glared at Jamie. “It's the innocent-looking ones who cause all the trouble.”

Jamie looked at Quintin after Scooter left the room and shrugged. “Hey, it's not my fault he was an idiot.”

Quintin leaned forward. “No, it wasn't your fault. But you act up again and I shoot your mom. And that would be a pity since we all want a good turkey dinner tomorrow, don't we?”

Skyler set his cup down before him, then returned to the counter, got the other cups and placed them before Paddy and her boys.

She realized that Paddy was staring at Quintin, assessing him. Just as he had been doing ever since their house—and their lives—had been seized.

“I'm going to see how David is,” she said in a tone that brooked no interference.

Quintin lifted his cup to her. “Go on. Then we'll see about sleeping arrangements for the night.”

“What?”

“You'll need some sleep to cook that turkey tomorrow,” Quintin said cheerfully. “We'll need blankets and pillows if we're all going to camp in the living room.”

She stared at him blankly, and he started to laugh. “Did you think the family was going to go up to their nice warm beds tonight? Please, Mrs. O'Boyle. We're all going to stay together. Just like one big happy family.” He smiled as if he'd just thought of something. “And I never did get my Irish music. That will go well with my drink, don't you agree?” He rose then, still grinning. “Irish music and a slumber party. What a perfect Christmas Eve.”

“I
t's dying down some, thank God,” Sheila told Tim as they surveyed the department's snowmobiles, which were half buried, despite being parked under a carport behind the station. “Let's start digging.”

 

One big happy family, having what amounted to a pajama party on Christmas Eve, Craig thought, looking at the sham festivities going on around him.

Quintin was crazy, he decided. Psychotic. The man was actually enjoying this. He was playing with these people, making them enact some sick mockery of what the night should be, letting them hope that if they did just as they were told, he would let them live. But he wouldn't. As soon as he was ready to leave, he would kill them.

But what the hell else was there to do but play along and pray that the moment would come when at least some of them could be saved?

He was amazed that he hadn't given himself away when the lights had gone out. He couldn't believe Quintin had believed he'd tried to save him, not attack him.

David O'Boyle had stood up for him. And he'd done it just right.

Why?

He'd never met the O'Boyles. His relationship with Kat hadn't gotten that far before everything went to hell. And yet her father seemed to have figured out that he had no intention of killing them, that he even planned to help them—when the time was right.

Somehow they had to wrest both guns away before blood was shed. But for the moment…

Kat, at least, was still safe—somewhere. He had to pray she would remain so.

God, he loved her. Still. He hadn't seen her in nearly three years, but she hadn't changed, at least not on the outside. But inside…Inside, she was stronger. There didn't seem to be a naive bone left in her body. Or a trusting one.

He had done that to her.

“Bravo,” Quintin said as the O'Boyles finished a rendition of “Silent Night” that belonged on CD.

Craig happened to look up then, and he saw her. Kat was on the second-floor landing, looking down, tears in her eyes.

Eyes that met his briefly before she realized she had given herself away and disappeared.

“Hey, what are you looking at?” Quintin demanded.

Craig turned to Quintin and said calmly, “Nothing. Just wondering where the bathroom is.”

“My jaw is killing me,” Frazier said flatly. “Can I quit for a while?”

“Why don't we play a game?” Jamie suggested.

“A game?” Quintin said, and again there was that awful edge amusement in his voice.
Yes, entertain me.

The sick thing was, Craig knew they had probably all lived so long precisely because they entertained him. And, of course, because they were snowed in and Quintin wanted turkey tomorrow.

“A game,” Craig said. “Like…?”

“Trivial Pursuit. We can be on teams,” Jamie said.

“No more going upstairs to get things,” Quintin said.

“It's under the coffee table,” Skyler said.

“All right, get it out,” Quintin agreed.

Craig dared to glance upstairs again, and he silently whispered a prayer of thanks when Kat was nowhere to be seen.

 

The storm wasn't over, but it had definitely eased up.

Kat certainly had done lots of thinking. There were ways to fight, it was true. The problem was that Quintin had been telling the truth. The next time they fought, someone was going to die.

She stood in the basement by the window, reflecting on her chances of getting out and finding help.

There really wasn't anything to think about. She might die of exposure if she went out there, but she had to give it a try, because they didn't stand a chance if she kept hiding out here. Quintin's strength—along with the two guns, of course—was that he didn't care if his cohorts died, while her family would fight to the death for each other.

Imagine that. Dysfunctional as they were, they would always be there for each other when the chips were down. Besides, weren't all families dysfunctional?

She gave herself a shake.

There was only one way to win. And that was to take down Quintin.

Craig would never hurt them. He might have gone the wrong way. He might be scum. But she just couldn't believe he would hurt her family.

Who was she kidding? He hadn't loved her. He'd made that clear.

Something had gone wrong with Craig, terribly wrong. But no matter how wrong it had gone, she couldn't believe he would kill her or anyone in her family. She couldn't let herself believe it, because if she did, she would lose her courage, and then they would all be doomed.

But there was still Scooter. He might be weaker than Quintin in every way, but he still had a gun, which meant he was dangerous.

She hesitated, afraid. Terrified that any move she made would be the wrong one.

Then she squared her shoulders. There was only one way for her entire family to survive. Both men had to be disarmed. And for that to happen, she had to somehow reach the sheriff's office and pray someone was there.

If she was caught…

She was dead.

And she didn't want to die.

But if she just stayed here and waited and just cowered as her family was massacred…

She wouldn't want to live.

She wrapped her scarf more tightly around her neck and pushed up the window.

 

David looked over at Skyler and forced himself to smile reassuringly at her.

What a joke, he thought. He was supposed to be the man of the house, the protector of his family. Well, he'd been one hell of a failure, hadn't he?

But his wife wasn't looking at him as if that was the case. Strange and bitter, but true. They'd been at odds getting ready for Christmas. She'd complained for years about how hard it was to pull everything together when they went away to celebrate, so this year, he'd been ready to give in and stay in Boston, but she'd wanted to come here.

To keep the family together, she'd said. The kids might have come around for dinner otherwise, but someone would have shown up late or left early. There would have been bitching. Arguments. And by five or six, everyone would have been gone. Even Jamie, who always wanted to spend more time with his friends than his family these days.

But could you really hold a family together by force? And did the kids really want to be here? Did he and Skyler really even know each other after all these years of constantly being at odds?

And yet…

Skyler was staring at him as she hadn't in a very long time. There was so much caring and concern in her eyes. And more. A message, as if she were trying to tell him it had been a good run, and that she loved him…whatever might come.

He tried to make his eyes say something, too. He tried to tell her that they
would
survive this.

And he knew there was something else, something they both agreed on: their children were going to survive, no matter what it took.

And they both knew that Kat was still there, a hidden asset against these men.

He returned his attention to the game, trying to hide his true feelings about this insane parody of family life Quintin was making them play out.

Suddenly Quintin was on his feet. “I hear something,” he said, tension in every line of his body.

“Yeah, us,” Craig said, frowning.

“No. Outside,” Quintin said. “Somebody's out there.”

 

The wind was still blowing, the snow still falling, but damned if Tim hadn't gotten the snowmobiles dug out and ready to go.

Sheila, so bundled up that she doubted she would even recognize herself, took her seat, gunned the motor and took off. Tim followed right behind.

There were abandoned cars along the road. They checked every one, glad not to find anyone frozen inside. They kept going—up a hill and across the valley—as a full moon struggled to shed its glow through the dark clouds hiding the night sky. Finally Sheila saw a shadow rising up beside the road and knew immediately what it was.

An old building that had stood there as long as she could remember, with a sign on it reading Hudson & Son, Fine Art, Antiques, Memorabilia and Jewelry.

“Hey,” she shouted to Tim over her radio. “There's the Hudsons' store.”

“Let's go.”

He was off his snowmobile and on his way to the door before she was.

She followed him, her nose freezing, so cold that she was afraid it was frostbitten. She couldn't help but wonder what she would look like if she had to have the tip of her nose cut off. It wouldn't be a pretty sight.

When they reached the old building, the snow was piled high against the door, but that didn't seem to daunt Tim in the least. He ran back to his snowmobile in a flash, then came back with the snow shovel he had loaded on the back.

“Good thinking, kid,” she complimented him, then examined their surroundings while he started to dig. What she saw made her blood run cold.

“Look,” she said, pointing toward the rear of the old structure.

They both paused in silence. Lionel Hudson's huge old Cadillac was still parked and collecting snow beside the building.

“He's in there,” Sheila said.

Tim redoubled his efforts to clear the door. As soon as the drift was out of the way, he tried the door. Unlocked. Struggling against the wind, he pulled it open.

They both drew their weapons, tense, staring at one another for a long moment, and then Sheila nodded. She had a feeling their guns wouldn't be necessary. Whatever evil had visited here, it was already gone.

Even so, they entered carefully, making all the right moves.

They were greeted by darkness and silence. Tim drew out his flashlight and sent the beam skidding around the shop.

“Lionel?” Sheila asked into the void.

There was no reply.

Sheila turned on her own flashlight and walked around the counter. There was no sign of Lionel.

Tim headed toward the back of the store. Suddenly Sheila heard him gasp.

“Sheila?”

“Tim?”

She joined him and heard her knees creak as she crouched down beside him.

“It's blood, Sheila,” he said.

Her heart flip-flopped. “Do you think they might have taken him hostage?” Tim asked.

She shook her head.

“Where is he, then?”

She stared at him for a long moment, then rose. She ran back outside, suddenly heedless of the dark and wind and pelting snow. She plowed her way through until she reached the old Cadillac.

“Sheila, stop,” Tim said, racing up behind her.

“But—”

“There's blood on the snow,” he said quietly. “I'll look.”

“I've been a deputy for most my life,” she told him. “I've seen it all.”

“He was a friend of yours.”

Was.

She swallowed.

“Help me,” she said to Tim.

Together they dug away the snow with their hands and struggled with the door to the Cadillac. As soon as they got it open, she directed the beam of her flashlight into the backseat.

“Oh God,” Tim breathed.