Nightfall

v1.5

July 2007

LOVE WITHOUT MERCY

The lightning flashed, illuminating the kitchen for a timeless moment, and they stared at each other. She was wearing a long, flowery dress, her flame-colored hair was wild about her face, and her eyes were dark with knowledge and longing.

He took a step toward her, waiting to see if she'd run. She didn't. She couldn't. He reached out, sliding his hands up her legs, pulling the dress up her thighs, drawing her toward him.

She came, unresisting, as his hands slid along her bare thighs, pulling the material with them, and her breasts were against his chest. She was damp from the rain, she was hot, and she was his. He moved her head to kiss her, and she tried to turn her face away. "Don't," she whispered, a plea that should have broken his heart.

He had no heart. "I can't afford to be merciful," he said. And he kissed her.

Lightning flared again… and she was lost in the blaze of light…

Prologue
 
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I don't usually write these sort of things, since they tend to be a little precious, but this time I couldn't resist. I owe too many people for their help, hand-holding, love, and support. First, to my luscious husband, the finest man of this or any other generation, and my wonderful, monstrous children, Kate and Tim, who did their best to keep me from ever finishing this book in the first place. To my beloved Aunt Beatrice, who provided a place to hide and write, and my writing buddies, Judith Arnold and Kathleen Gilles Seidel.

For the music of Richard Thompson, which inspired and sustained me.

Special thanks go to Sally Tyler Hayes, for her journalistic expertise, and those two little British ladies, Mrs. Whippett
and Mrs. Baggit, for their help on the roads of Somerset.

To Maureen Walters, who puts up with my whining and helps me navigate the dangerous waters of publishing.

And most of all, to Jennifer Enderlin, for her vast leap of faith.

^
»

She dreamed that night. Visions of blood and sex and death, surrounding her, smothering her. She reached out, but there was no one there. No one to hold her, comfort her, tell her it was nothing but a nightmare. No one to promise that the darkness couldn't touch her, couldn't hurt her. No one to make her believe in happy endings. She opened her eyes, and it was still and silent, peaceful, the snow drifting down past her apartment window. She was safe and warm.

He dreamed that night. Lying on the thin mattress, the ceaseless noise of prison pressing down on him. He dreamed of fields and flowers and a woman, calling to him; he dreamed of peace and comfort and happy endings. But when he awoke, cold and sweating in the dark cell, there was no one there. Only the knowledge that darkness was all around him, death lived in his soul, and his hands were stained with blood.

«
^
»

THE NEW YORK POST…

Richard Tiernan, sentenced to death for the brutal murder of his wife, was released today on one million dollars bail pending the outcome of his appeal.

In a strange twist, Pulitzer Prize—winning novelist Sean O'Rourke posted the bail, but insists there's no book in the works about the stabbing death of Diana Scott Tiernan fifteen months earlier. O'Rourke has no other known connection to Richard Tiernan.

The special prosecutor, Jerome Fabiani, was visibly angered by the judge's decision to release Tiernan, but said he didn't expect the killer to be free for long.

"He's been convicted, and he's not going to walk away from it. We're pursuing our investigation into the disappearance and probable death of his two children and several other women, and we have no intention of giving up on this one without a fight."

Gulf war veteran and national hero retired U.S. General Amberson Scott, who testified against his son-in-law, expressed his profound anger over Tiernan's release. "I'm just an ordinary American citizen seeking justice," said Scott, who was at the courthouse trying to block Tiernan's release.

Richard Tiernan is scheduled to be back in court within the next two months. He left in the company of Sean O'Rourke, and his whereabouts are presently unknown.

O'Rourke refused to confirm or deny that he had received a seven-figure advance on a book about the notorious Tiernan case.

Richard Tiernan was sentenced to die by lethal injection, the first death sentence in the state of New York since the death penalty was reinstated.

Cassidy Roarke was running late, and she wasn't happy about it. At the age of twenty-seven, she had done her best to make a safe, predictable life for herself. She worked hard at her job, always being careful not to put her heart and soul into it, only her intellect and energy. She was a reliable friend, a shoulder to cry on, a good, decent, determinedly ordinary young woman who just happened to have a notoriously colorful father. She'd moved away from that, from the noise and excitement of her childhood, to a comfortable life in Baltimore, with good if not particularly close friends, a stimulating job, and an existence that other people might characterize as deadly dull.

Cassidy reveled in the dullness. The safe constancy of day after day, with little or no variation. No one needed her here, no one made impossible demands. And if she hadn't knocked over her diet Coke on the way out the door and been forced to change her clothes, she wouldn't have been ten minutes late in meeting Emmie and John for dinner. And she wouldn't have been there to answer the phone.

"Cassidy. It's your da."

It had been months since she'd heard her father's voice, but there was no mistaking Sean O'Rourke's gruff, determinedly Irish tones, even if Cassidy wanted to.

"Hello, Sean," she said carefully, all her instincts alert. He wanted something from her. He always did. And she'd been working very hard at not giving in to his life-draining demands. "What do you want?"

"Can't your father call just to find out how his elder daughter's doing? I've missed you, girl. It's been ages since I've seen you."

"You've been busy," she said.

"That I have. A new book, a new project. Life's been grandly entertaining, Cass."

"If you like child murders," she said wryly.

"You've been reading the tabloids, have you? I would have thought you'd be too well protected in that ivory tower."

"I admit I don't have your tabloid mentality, but even I can't avoid the checkout lines at the supermarket. And working for an academic press doesn't really qualify as an ivory tower, you know."

"And glad I am that you've chosen to follow in my literary footsteps, even if it's on the side of the enemy," Sean said magnanimously. "You haven't inherited my talent for writing, but at least you've got a bit of my love for the written word."

"Sean, I'm late," Cass said wearily, knowing her father would go on all night before he finally got to the point. And there was a point, she was sure of it.

"Faith, you haven't got a moment to spare for your old man? It's your mother's fault. She must have been on to you…"

"I haven't talked with her in a week."

"You see, it proves my point. She called to warn you about Richard Tiernan, didn't she? I know the woman. Our married life was a hell I won't soon forget. She must have filled your head with stories about him. You should know better than to believe her melodramatic crap. What did she tell you? That the man's a sociopath, with no sense of right or wrong? That he's one of those charming, evil creatures who's at the mercy of destructive, irrational urges?"

"Why would she tell me any such thing? Sounds like you've been working on your newest book, Sean. As a matter of fact, she called to wish me a happy birthday."

Dead silence on the other end of the line. Finally, "I was never good with dates."

"I know, Sean," she said, her voice gentling. He was doing it to her again. Making her forgive him, when she should be trying to make him feel guilty. "Why should Mother warn me about Richard Tiernan?"

"I can't imagine," Sean said blandly. "Cass, darling, I want to see you."

"Why?"

"Why?" he echoed. "I haven't seen you since last summer, when you came to the Hamptons. I miss my daughter. I'm getting on in years, and I won't live forever…"

"Stuff it, Sean. You saw me at Christmas, even if you've conveniently forgotten, and you'll never get old, much less die. So that won't work. What do you want from me?"

"Just a visit," he said, wheedling now, as he was so good at doing. "I thought maybe we could spend some time together. I could make use of your professional services…"

Cassidy laughed. "You once told me that all copy editors should be stood up against a wall and shot."

"You're more than a copy editor, Cass, and you know it. And if you just let me put in a word for you, you wouldn't have to be stuck in a place like Baltimore…"

"I'm very happy where I am, Sean."

"Come and see me, lass." He started the wheedling again. "You must be due for some vacation by now. Mabry misses you, and so do I. She's worried about me, the fool woman."

Her quiet alarm at Sean's unprecedented phone call began to grow. "Why is she worried about you?"

"A cold that won't go away," he said blithely. "I've told her she's being ridiculous, but she insisted I call you."

That, Cassidy could well believe. Sean never called anyone. "Why do you really want me?"