Nightfall (19 page)

She spent the night at a bed-and-breakfast, sharing the loo, eating cholesterol, and drinking lousy coffee for breakfast. By the time she reached Devon in late afternoon the sun had come out, but her mood had darkened considerably. She didn't know what she would find at journey's end, and she doubted she was going to be happy about it.

Wychcombe was a tiny village on the west coast. She parked her car in the marketplace and sat for a moment, stumped. Why in God's name would Richard Tiernan risk everything to come to this tiny town, and how was she going to find him? The police were out of the question, the post office a little too official for Cassidy's state of mind. She settled for the newsagent, buying a diet Coke and a stack of tacky postcards while she fumbled with the British coins she'd exchanged at Heathrow.

In the end, it was surprisingly easy. The woman behind the counter liked to talk, and in late March it was too early for the vast influx of American tourists. By the time Cassidy could tear herself away, she learned the nationality of every guest staying at the two bed-and-breakfasts in town, and none of them were American. She also learned of the elderly businessman who lived down by the cove, who might or might not be American, and the Canadian professor who owned the home farm out by Herring Cross. He'd just come for his annual vacation, and his widowed sister and her children would be joining them.

Cass wanted to weep with frustration, but she didn't dare. Once she started crying she had a tendency to weep for everything, and she couldn't afford to give in to it. Her father had always despised tears, and likely Richard felt the same way. The hell with both of them. She'd wait till she found a quiet, deserted spot in the English countryside and then she would howl her heart out.

She started the Vauxhall, stalled out as usual, and then got the wretched thing in gear as she drove aimlessly, down the coast. The roads were very narrow and twisty, the hedgerows blocking the view, and she was driving too fast when another car came careening around the corner. Cassidy jerked the wheel, ending in a ditch, and at that final indignity she did finally burst into tears, resting her head on the steering wheel.

The car that had just passed slammed to a halt, and a moment later a woman's figure appeared at the window. "I'm terribly sorry," she said. "I always take that corner too damned fast. Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," she muttered wetly, not wanting to raise her head.

"I think you can drive out of the ditch, but maybe I'd better wait and make sure…" The voice was uncertain.

"I'll be fine," Cass said. "Please, just leave me alone."

"But I feel responsible… "

It took Cassidy that long to realize what was commonplace in her life was not commonplace in Devon. The woman who'd run her off the road wasn't British.

She lifted her head, wiping her tears away, and squinted upward. The sun was too bright, leaving the woman in silhouette. "You're American," Cassidy said.

The woman laughed. "Actually, I'm Canadian. I'd ask you back to the farmhouse for a cup of tea, but I'm in a bit of a hurry. If you're certain you're all right? You've been shaken up, and I feel responsible."

The sun nipped behind a cloud, and Cassidy got her first close look at the Canadian widow. She barely managed to keep her voice steady. "Really, I'm fine. You were on your way someplace—don't let me keep you."

"Are you certain you're okay?"

Cassidy looked up into Sally Norton's elfin face. "I'm feeling much better now," she said firmly.

It wasn't strictly the truth, Cass thought as she watched the woman drive off down the narrow road. On the one hand, she'd obviously found Richard, found his reason for being in England, and discovered that whoever he might have killed, at least Sally Norton wasn't one of his victims.

On the other hand, she found she didn't particularly like his reason for being in England.

The Herring Cross Farm was easy enough to find. A perfect little English cottage, complete with thatched roof and picturesque outbuildings, it rested on the edge of a hillside, not far from the sea. It was hardly the spot for a murderer and his accomplice to retire in style.

She parked the Vauxhall in the narrow lane, sliding out of the driver's seat. In the distance a dog barked, and she walked through the front yard with unseeing eyes.

The door was open. The place was deserted. She didn't know quite what she expected, but then, she never had with Richard Tiernan. She walked through into the kitchen, past the clutter of dishes, and looked out to the back garden.

He was out there. Shirtless in the sunshine, digging in the dirt. Looking for bodies, she wondered? There were scratch marks on his shoulders, and it took her a moment to realize they came from her. She'd marked him. She wondered what Sally Norton had thought of that.

There was a straight-backed chair in the corner of the cluttered, cozy old kitchen. She sat in it, her arms wrapped around her, and waited.

He didn't see her when he first came in. He was whistling, under his breath, sounding disgustingly happy, and the knowledge was like a blow to Cass's belly. He moved to the sink, and he was carrying an armload of daffodils.

He shoved them in an old jar, switched to humming, and then turned, reaching for his shirt that was lying across one of the chairs. And then he saw her, waiting in the shadows.

It was as if the light had been stripped from his face, his eyes. His expression went blank, wary, as he stared at her, almost as if he couldn't believe his eyes. He pulled the shirt on, and she noticed it was an old shirt, faded, one she hadn't seen before. She supposed it was waiting here for him. Along with Sally Norton.

"Are you alone?"

The words almost startled her. "Entirely," she said, her voice deceptively cool.

"Does anyone know you're here?"

"Mark. But he's covered up for you before. He'll probably cover up again."

"What would he need to cover up for?"

"If you decided to kill me. That's what you're thinking, isn't it? Maybe you could stash me in the garden."

"You have your father's imagination." He was back in control once more. That lightness vanished, the wariness, the taunting, back where she remembered it. "What are you doing here, Cassidy?"

"I'd think that would be obvious. I'm here to take you back."

"Against my will? I doubt you could manage. For one thing, I'm bigger than you are. If you have any sense at all, you'll leave. Go back to America and keep your mouth shut. I'll be back in four more days."

"And if I don't have any sense at all?"

He closed his eyes for a moment. "What do you think is going on? I'd be interested in hearing just how your fevered mind works."

She leaned back, looking at him. He was remote, a stranger. A very dangerous stranger, but she was past the time of being careful. "There are a number of possibilities. Obviously you aren't a serial killer."

"Why do you say that?"

"I ran into one of your victims down the road."

"Which one?"

She vaulted out of the chair. "Don't mock me, Richard. I won't let you run out on my father. You mean too much to him at this point. I won't let…"

"You won't have any say in the matter," he said coolly. He was buttoning his shirt with deceptive ease. "I don't mean a goddamn thing to your father except as the means to an end. You know why he won't let you see the manuscript? He doesn't want you to know the truth. That he's writing my story. How I spent my adult life killing women who were foolish enough to fall in love with me."

There was a knife on the table. A large, sharp-looking butcher knife. She hadn't noticed it before. She noticed it now. "You didn't kill Sally Norton."

"Is that who you saw? She's my partner in crime." His eyes followed her wary gaze, and he leaned over and picked up the knife. "Not a very good specimen," he murmured, running his long thumb against the blade. "Too dull to cut. It hurts more when the blade is dull. Did you know that, Cassidy?"

She didn't move. "I knew that."

He turned the knife over. "I should sharpen it." he said dreamily. "There's a whetstone out back. Maybe I'll go do that, right now. It would give you time to leave, you know. You could get away from here, before I had a chance to stop you, before I had a chance to hurt you. You could take your adventurous little ass back to New York and forget you ever came here."

She was mesmerized by the knife in his hands. And by the elegant, deadly beauty of those hands. "And what would happen to you?"

"Oh, I'd be back when I said I would," he said, waving the knife airily. "I always keep my word, don't you know?"

"And I suppose you never lie?"

"Oh, no," he said calmly. "I lie all the time." He started toward her, the knife still held in one hand, and it took all the courage she possessed to stand her ground. He wasn't going to use that knife on her, she knew it. Even if he wanted to convince her that he would.

"You aren't going to hurt me," she said.

He brought the knife up, letting the dull edge stroke the side of her face. "Why do you think that, Cassie? Don't you think I like to hurt women? I've hurt you already, and I've enjoyed doing it."

"You aren't going to frighten me."

"You're scared shitless." He turned the blade, so that the sharp edge touched her delicate skin.

"You have no reason to kill me."

"Madmen don't need a reason. We just do it because those little voices in our head tell us to," he said, his eyes glittering. "And I have a reason. You'll tell people where I went. The fewer people who know about this place, the better. It might be worth killing to keep it a secret." The tip of the knife trailed down her throat, a steely caress, and she couldn't keep herself from swallowing convulsively.

"You're not a madman."

"I'm doing my best to convince you that I am," he said with eerie calm.

"I know. And I wonder why."

They heard the car at the same time, pulling to a stop outside the house, the sound of laughing voices, the slamming of several doors. All Richard's taunting malice disappeared, wiped clean, and he looked pale, almost sick.

"Get out of here, Cassie," he said, and it sounded almost like a plea. "Just get the hell away from here before it's too late."

She didn't know what she expected to burst through the door. What hounds of hell, what evil personified to race in.

Richard had dropped the knife, taking a step away from her, and his face was set, pale, unreadable. As the door opened, and two small figures hurtled toward him, flinging themselves in his arms.

"Daddy!" they shrieked, a babble of noise almost too much for two children. Ariel and Seth, showering their father with kisses, with questions, with demands and with love.

Cassidy stood there, numb, when she felt a hand on her arm. It was Sally Norton, looking up at her, an unreadable expression on her piquant face. "I should have known," she said wearily. "Another American out here was too much of a coincidence." She tugged at her. "Let's leave them alone for a bit, shall we? They haven't seen each other in more than a year."

Cassidy followed her, too shocked to hesitate. The side garden was just coming into bloom, and Sally pushed her down into a chair, then sat across from her.

"They're not dead," Cass said.

"No, they're very much alive. And thriving. As you can see, I'm not dead, either."

"And Diana?"

"Diana's quite dead," Sally said emotionlessly. "Rotting in hell at this very moment, if there's any justice." Her sudden smile was almost a shock. "You're not what I expected."

"Expected?" Cassidy echoed, still reeling.

"Then again," she continued, "it makes a certain amount of sense. I'm just surprised he didn't bring you when he came. He said you weren't ready yet."

"Ready for what?"

Sally Norton's eyes narrowed in sudden concern. "Exactly why are you here?"

Cassidy shook her head. Jet lag, confusion, postcoital dementia, had melted her brain. She was surrounded by Richard Tiernan's victims, each of them alive, healthy, and she didn't know what to think. Her mind refused to function.

"I don't know," she said simply. And she rose, walking out of the garden without a backward glance, back to the hated confines of the rental car.

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She'd run away again, Richard realized. It was to be expected, Cassidy Roarke had an unfortunate habit of always being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why the hell couldn't she have gone to the Hamptons with Sean and Mabry? Why the hell did she have to come back to the apartment when he'd finally reached his limit? Why did she have to follow him here, when he needed just five days alone with his secrets? And then, why the hell did she have to disappear again, after she'd blundered in and jeopardized everything?

He couldn't go after her. He had to trust that she wasn't about to go off half-cocked, that she'd simply needed to run away and hide. She was tougher than she realized, but she knew her limitations, and he expected she'd simply gone to ground someplace, to lick her wounds and try to make sense of what she'd seen.

He doubted she'd be able to. It wouldn't make sense to her, that a man would stand by and willingly go to his death for the murders of his wife and children, when he knew his children were very much alive and thriving. Hidden from sight, hidden from danger. In the safe, capable hands of Sally Norton.

They were thriving, indeed. Seth, after his initial exuberant welcome, grew a little hyper, ending in exhausted tears. Ariel was uncertain, watching him out of blue eyes that were identical in color to her mother's, if completely lacking Diana's eerily calm expression. By the time Seth had fallen apart, Ariel had started talking, and she prattled away, nonstop, tucking her small, delicate hand in his and looking up at him trustingly.

No one had looked at him with any kind of trust in well over a year. It was a novel experience, shattering, reminding him of just how he had come to this desperate, barren place in his life. Reminding him, if he had any chance of forgetting, just what his priorities were.