Read Christmas At Timberwoods Online
Authors: Fern Michaels
Christmas At Timberwoods (25 page)
Tina laughed that idea away. “Well, thank you. I’m happy you think so.”
Despite her thick makeup and inch-long fake eyelashes, her voice was genuine and sweet. Angela realized that Maria had most likely forgotten all about chatting with Santa Claus. For the moment, anyway.
“I wish I could skate like you,” Maria said wistfully.
One of the handlers had made his way through the crowd with a folding chair. Tina sat down graciously and more cameras flashed. She whispered something in the guy’s ear and he got busy keeping the curious onlookers at a respectful distance.
“I think I was about your age when I started,” Tina said. “How old are you, Maria?”
“Six.”
“That’s just right. I was six, too.”
Maria beamed at her. “But I have to get better. Then maybe I can learn. Can I, Mommy?” She craned her neck to look back at her mother, who clutched the wheelchair’s handles.
“Of course,” Carol murmured.
“I tell you what,” Tina said. “Your mother can call me as soon as you’re well, and I’ll give you your first lessons. Would you like that?”
Maria’s eyes were wide as saucers. “Oh yes!”
Their semiprivate conversation faded into the background noise as Angela noticed Charlie stumble forward. Was he drunk? Or lost in an unhappy world of his own?
She barely noticed Tina giving Maria her autograph and jotting a number on a piece of paper for Carol. The figure skater bent down to kiss the ecstatic little girl on the cheek and went back to the float, followed by her handler carrying the folded-up chair. She stepped up and remounted her throne, and the float began to move again at a stately pace, inch by inch.
The crowd began to disperse the second it passed, creating gaps. Charlie would have a chance to escape. Angela had to stop him. She squeezed through, glad for once that she was so skinny, heading for her father, standing firm. Angela reached him.
“Daddy—your key ring. Do you still have that little knife you used to keep on it?” she whispered urgently.
“What? I mean, yes, but—what do you want it for?” Murray fumbled in his pockets for the key ring.
“I’m not going to hurt anybody,” she hissed. “Just give it to me!”
With one click, he detached the metal sheath and gave it to her. “Now what?”
“Stay here!”
Murray folded his arms over his chest and watched her anxiously.
Angela moved back alongside the float, waiting until it paused to let children cross its path. She could hear their laughing shouts as the handlers shooed them away. If she could stop it—create a barrier—she took a deep breath and stabbed the tire nearest her in the sidewall, feeling a slow whoosh of air when she pulled the tiny knife out. No one seemed to have seen. The immense weight of the float did the rest. It was less than a minute before the corner of it dropped several inches. The wheel’s rim grated against the mall flooring and someone ahead called a time-out when the teenagers on the float squealed in alarm.
Angela edged away in the commotion, around the back of the float and forward along the other side. She hoped and prayed that Charlie hadn’t disappeared.
There he was, still standing in the same spot. His face was flushed and his eyes were dull. He had taken off the fur-trimmed hat and unbuttoned the red velour jacket. As she watched, he slid that off his shoulders, revealing a nondescript, heavy jacket beneath. The red velour pants stayed on, wrinkled and wadded. He must have pulled them on over his pants. No one besides her seemed to notice his removal of the costume.
She didn’t bother to wonder why he had taken off the hat and jacket but kept on the black gloves if he was warm. But maybe it was a good thing. If the mayhem he planned came to pass, at least he could be identified as Charlie Roman in his own clothes. Not effectively invisible as just one of many hired Santas.
The thought that little children might look to him for help in that getup if anything happened made her shudder. But the following thought—that he might get away with it—put steel in her spine.
Charlie stuffed the red jacket and hat into the greenery around the angels. Then he pushed past a group of older boys who had seized the opportunity to ogle the skating queen and the teenagers. They kept their voices low, but their interest was obvious. Tina Twinkles and her court regally ignored them while the handlers inspected the flat tire.
Angela followed Charlie.
Two levels above, Heather and Lex watched the ebb and flow of the crowds around the float.
“What the hell just happened?” he asked her. “Can you zoom in? Right there.” He pointed.
“Of course.” She tapped on a computer key and a section of the display on the monitor enlarged. But it took a few seconds for the zoomed image to come into sharp focus.
One of the handlers was kneeling by the tire, his fingers framing a spot on its side. Another man leaned in for a better look at a barely visible gash. “Someone slashed the tire. What the hell is going on?” Lex asked with disgust. “Hey, can you get an instant replay with a close-up on that area? Maybe we can see who did it.”
“Good idea. Yes.” She tapped a few more keys and the security feed from two minutes previously popped up in the lower part of the screen.
“Okay. There’s the tire . . . rolling . . . rolling . . . now it’s stopped,” Lex said slowly. “Whoa. There’s a hand. And a knife. Zoom back out. Go wide—not that wide—there it is. No. That can’t be. I don’t want to believe what I’m seeing. That looks like Angela.”
Heather froze the frame on the girl’s furtive expression.
“That’s definitely Angela,” Heather said, dumbfounded. “She slashed the tire. Why?”
“Have her arrested. Now. And don’t ask Eric Summers to do it. He’s on her side.”
“So was I,” Heather reminded him.
“And now?”
There wasn’t time to hem and haw. “We have to,” she said grimly. “For her own safety.”
“Whatever. Just do it, Heather! Or I will.”
Heather nodded and picked up a phone to get an inside line but replaced the receiver when Lex spoke again.
“It’s not just Angela. There’s that guy—” He broke off.
“What guy?”
“Charlie Roman. Your secret admirer.”
Heather swore at him. “Shut up, Lex!” She shouldered him aside to stare at the unfolding action on the screen. There were still plenty of people clustered around the stopped float, but Angela was several feet away from it. Heather caught a glimpse of Murray Steinhart swiveling his head around as his daughter pushed past him, and followed his line of sight.
Heather could see the back of Charlie’s head. He was taller than nearly everyone around him. Determined, rough, he was forcing his way through the crowd. People complained, but once he’d gone by they returned their attention to the dazzling float and the queen on her throne.
“If only there was a camera mount above Tina,” Heather said desperately. She clicked on key after key, trying to get a better view. “The ceiling cameras are too far up to track two people in a crowd like that—damn it!”
Frustrated, Lex reached for the phone and started punching in a short number. Heather grabbed the receiver from him.
“I said I’ll do it! But the officers on the floor are going to have a hell of a time seeing anything. You know that, Lex.”
“Then stay here. I’m going down there myself.” He turned and left her to make the call that would get Angela arrested.
Angela followed Charlie to an unmarked door of thick steel. She was only a few paces behind him when he used a key, one of several on a heavy ring he must have had in a hidden pocket, and unlocked the door.
He swung it open and stepped inside. Angela hesitated. She could just glimpse a stair well, but it was too dark to see anything more. Charlie paused on the other side of the threshold. Watching to see what he would do next, her whole body tensed.
Suddenly he turned around and stared her right in the face. His dull gaze made her recoil. But she didn’t dare to scream. She knew that unwanted attention made him angry, and any noise or gesture on her part that would attract notice could trigger the worst.
“Hiya,” he said in a flat voice. “Want a tour of the roof?”
Angela didn’t know whether to shake her head no or nod yes. She stood rooted to the spot.
Until he reached out one long arm and jerked her to the other side of the door. He tried to slam it, then looked down when it didn’t close. A foot was in the way. Angela looked down. It was a man’s foot, shod in an expensive English wingtip.
Charlie cursed and opened the door just enough to let Murray through.
“Let go of her, you bas—” The last syllable choked in his throat.
“Daddy!” Angela looked on in horror as Charlie wrapped a black-gloved hand around the older man’s neck, letting go when he slumped against the wall, watching with satisfaction as he slid down to the floor. She struggled to free herself. Charlie hadn’t let go of her when he’d done that. His strength was intensified by his strange mental state. She could sense the whirling rage within his mind, an exact mirror of her visions.
But this was no vision. This was real. This was happening now. It was almost Christmas Eve and the tragedy she’d foreseen was about to come true.
Charlie was breathing heavily, but not from the effort of controlling her. He began to speak, staring into her eyes but talking to himself. None of it made any sense. A minute went by as he muttered, then another. His grasp on her grew tighter and meaner. The enclosed space seemed to close in around her, with only a sliver of light coming from the not-quite-shut door.
The sliver widened, then narrowed again to what it had been. There was no sound other than a faint howling. Angela focused on Charlie’s face.
Charlie looked up to the half ceiling of the landing above. “The wind,” he mumbled, as if that were an explanation. “Not much time.” His clouded gaze swept the stairwell. Next he glanced down at Murray, who was moaning faintly, more dead than alive.
“Leave him alone,” Angela begged.
Charlie didn’t answer, just dragged her over to the thick steel door, closing it with a sharp click, then locking it shut from the inside. She felt a cold draft, and a rush of air. He was right about the wind coming from the roof. The unseen door at the top of the stairs had begun to bang. Blunt rectangles of light came and went on the walls.
Charlie held up the square-shaped key, taunting her with it. “Check it out, Angela. That’s a maintenance key—I took them all. They’ll have to saw through that steel door. Or blow the hinges. I’ll be finished by then. We’ll all be finished.”
He half carried, half dragged her with him. Going up. And up.
Angela fought back her overwhelming fear. He couldn’t have all the keys—higher-level staff carried their own. And there was a chance she could reach out to Charlie long enough to stop him—she had to try. For her father—for Maria— for the thousands of innocent people who could be hurt.
They reached the roof and Charlie kicked the door shut. “Here we are. Isn’t it nice? No crowds. I hate crowds.”
Try. Try anything,
she told herself. “Very nice. Awfully cold, though. Come here often?” she asked lightly.
she told herself. “Very nice. Awfully cold, though. Come here often?” she asked lightly.
“You’re funny.” But he didn’t smile. “No, I don’t. Only when I have to.”
Angela realized that he wasn’t hanging on to her anymore. But it wasn’t like she could run away. His long strides would catch up with her in seconds. The other alternative would be to jump off the roof. She knew better. The walls went straight down for several stories. The high snowdrifts below wouldn’t cushion her fall.
He flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt. She had nothing between her head and the icy air. Her curly hair whipped in the frigid wind, tangling instantly. She stuck her hands in her pockets to keep them warm, surprised to find the tiny knife folded into its metal sheath. She wasn’t going to brandish it and get it knocked out of her hand. He might use it on her, and she was no match for him. But her fingers curled around it.
Her father had given it to her, no questions asked. Somehow that gave her the strength to go on.
“Come on.” Charlie’s mouth tightened when she stayed put. “Do I have to make you?” He grabbed her wrist and yanked her to his side. “Maybe you like to play rough. Forward march.”
Angela kept her head down and obeyed, stumbling against the wind. He gave her a push every time she faltered. On and on.
There was no sign of Christmas up here on the vast, flat roof of the mall. Mostly there was nothing but snow, blown into shallow, blueedged drifts where it hadn’t been scraped off. An occasional air vent spun in the wind, sending a faint, eerie drone echoing over the scene.
Where was he taking her? Hearing a creak, Angela glanced back at the door to the roof. It was closed. But not locked, she thought suddenly. He hadn’t taken the time to do that, unlike the lower door.
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