Nightfall (20 page)

It was past eleven when they were finally bedded down and sleeping. Past eleven when Richard was finally alone again with Sally, ready to ask the questions that had been waiting patiently.

She handed him a tall glass of whiskey. "You look like you need it," she said, throwing herself down on the shabby chintz sofa in the sitting room.

He liked this place—he always had. It looked much the same as when he'd first bought it, three years ago, hoping to talk Diana into moving, away from the States, away from her family. She'd hated it.

He sat down beside Sally. She was looking calm, beautiful, and she'd done more for him than any other human being. He took her capable hand in his. "I do."

She pulled her hand away, smiling at him. "Don't, Richard. That's history, and you and I both know it."

"Sally…"

"I know," she said gently. "You'd do anything for me. Even convince yourself you were in love with me once more. There's no need, darling. You don't owe me anything."

"I owe you my life."

"It doesn't look as if you're getting out of this mess with your life," she pointed out.

"I'm getting what's most important to me."

"It's important to me as well. I just wish things hadn't taken such a turn. Perhaps I don't need…"

"Don't even think it," he said, his voice tight. "You've sacrificed enough."

"I'd do more."

"I know you would. I'm doing my best to ensure that you don't need to. What did you think of her?" He asked the question casually, taking a sip of the dark whiskey, wondering if he could fool her.

Sally knew him too well. "Don't worry, Richard. She'll be perfect. You know it as well as I do. But how much have you told her?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? She didn't even know about the children?"

"Or you. You're one of my many victims, you know. In the states they pretty much put every missing female to my account. I'm suspected of more crimes than Ted Bundy."

"That's ridiculous."

"I traveled a lot. And Diana dropped more than a few hints. They don't need to convict me of the others—Diana's death is enough to make certain I get the death penalty. The tabloids can just enjoy themselves."

"Are you so very sure you can't tell the truth?"

"Very sure," he said, leaning his head back on the shabby sofa. He wished there was some way he could bring himself to want Sally. To love her again, if he'd ever really been in love with her. But all he could see, all he could think about was Cass, with the wounded eyes and the soft body, and not the woman who had already given up everything for the sake of his children. He wanted one break, damn it. One tiny little advantage.

He thought he'd gotten everything safely settled. He'd been ready to go to his death, either by official hands or by a murderous fellow inmate, when Sally had gotten word to him. And suddenly an appeal was necessary. He had more to do.

He only hoped the appeal wouldn't screw things up too much. His complete lack of interest in his defense had ensured that things moved along very quickly especially with his esteemed father-in-law pulling the strings and calling in favors. As long as he hadn't put up any argument, his fate had been sealed.

He didn't want to spend years in and out of courts. He wanted it finished, over and done with. He wanted punishment, he wanted the end.

But not until everything was taken care of.

"What did you tell her?"

"She asked if they were your children. I said yes. She asked if I was Sally Norton. I said yes. And then she left."

"That simple? Do you know where she went?"

"Are you going after her?"

"Not now. I only have a limited amount of time with the children."

"Will she call the police? Do you trust her?"

He thought about it. Thought about her warm green eyes, her soft mouth. Thought about what he needed from her, and what he wanted from her. "I'm not quite sure yet," he admitted. "I needed more time. I didn't need her to follow me here, before I was ready…"

"I think you'd better go after her."

"The children…"

"The children are delighted you're here, but they know your time is limited. I've talked to them, they know to take what they get and be happy. Children are resilient, Richard."

"They shouldn't have to be."

"True. But it's a little late to change things."

He grimaced. "Can't you stay here?"

"You know we can't. You don't want to endanger everything we've worked for, do you? We'll head back down to Cornwall in the early afternoon. If things seem safe enough, you could come down in a day or two, for another short visit. The children have school, and they need to keep up a normal life. Bring her back with you, if you think she's ready."

He managed a faint smile. "You've gotten bossy in your old age, Sally."

"It comes to all of us, when the stakes are high enough. Will you go after her?"

"I have no choice."

"What are you going to do when you find her?" Her voice was hushed, edgy.

He glanced over at her. At the face he'd once loved. "It depends. If things go as I wish, then I'll tell her a small part of the truth."

"If not?"

"Then I'll have to kill her."

Her brain had ceased to function, Cassidy decided. It wasn't surprising, she
was operating on a major case of jet lag, on top of one of the most devastating
twenty-four-hour periods immediately preceding her abrupt trip to England. That
twenty-four hours had included very little sleep and far too much emotional and
physical upheaval. To come face-to-face with Richard Tiernan's murdered mistress and children, very much alive, was a shock she wasn't ready to assimilate. So she didn't even try.

She drove, far too rapidly for the twisting, narrow roads, but fortunately with the approaching dusk, the traffic was nonexistent. She was too tired, too distraught to read a map, and she didn't give a good goddamn. She just wanted to get as far away from Wychcombe, from Richard Tiernan and his inexplicable lies, as she could.

She headed toward London, toward Heathrow and Gatwick and escape. To get away from the mind games and confusions she was willing to get back on a hated airplane, and as far as she was concerned, Richard could stay hidden in England. Mabry was right, Sean wouldn't live long enough to miss the money he'd forfeit. And Richard's disappearance would probably only help the sales of the book.

She didn't even know the name of the town where she stopped for the night. She paid no attention to clocks, to time. Her dreams were fitful and haunted. It wasn't until she reached the outskirts of London the next morning that she slammed on the brakes, turned the car around, and nearly got herself killed in the process.

A born victim, she thought as she sped back toward Wychcombe. A glutton for punishment, a masochist, a fool, and an idiot, who should have known better. She'd spent her adult life protecting herself, from dysfunctional relationships, men who were no more than grown babies, people with draining needs and hidden agendas.

So why in God's name wasn't she smart enough not to fall in love with Richard Tiernan?

It was dark when she reached the edge of Wychcombe once more. She'd spent the day in the car, finally coming to terms with right-hand driving and steering wheels and rearview mirrors. She was ready to confront Richard, in front of his mistress and children if need be. She was ready to demand answers.

The farm at Herring Cross was harder to find in the dark. The narrow, winding roads seemed ominous, and the distant hush of the sea, mixed with the wind rushing through the newly budded branches overhead, seemed to warn her. She was past listening to any warnings, and had been for weeks.

She pulled into the driveway. An ancient, gorgeous Morris Minor sat there, and the lights in the old house were minimal. There was no sign of the larger sedan Sally had been driving when she drove Cassidy off the road, and she had to accept the fact that Richard Tiernan might very well be alone.

She wasn't going to let it stop her. She was tired of running. Tired of being a coward. She thought she'd gotten braver, more resilient in the last few years, but Richard had taught her the error of her ways. She wasn't going to let him defeat her. She wanted answers. She needed answers. And she was willing to risk anything to get them.

The door was unlocked, the living room deserted when she let herself in. She looked around her, taking a deep breath to calm herself. It was a beautiful room, shabby, chic, with faded chintz slipcovers, comfortable old chairs, scratched, ancient furniture, a rose-colored rug, and piles of books everywhere. The vase full of daffodils stood in a corner, and she stared at it. Surely a man who picked daffodils was no danger to her.

But he was, and he proved it time and time again. He was alone in the house, she knew that with sudden certainty. The night was dark, no one knew she was there. Even Sally Norton, his obvious partner in crime, thought she'd left. He could bury her in the back garden, hide the car…

She shook her head, forcing the vicious thoughts to recede. He hadn't murdered Sally Norton or his children. He hadn't murdered anyone, and he wasn't going to start with her.

She turned, slowly, to see him standing in the doorway, watching her. He was wearing black, and his face, his expression was in the shadows.

"You came back," he said, his voice enigmatic.

She didn't move, and when she spoke, it seemed almost an errant thought. "I ran away from home for the first time when I was eight years old," she said. "I got as far as the Port Authority Bus Terminal, where a policeman found me and brought me home. My mother gave him a tip, me a slap, and locked me in my room for three days. I ran away the first day she let me out. Sometimes it seemed like the only answer."

"And you never stopped running?"

"Oh, no," she said. "I thought I'd outgrown it. Learned to face my fears, face whatever threatened me. Until I met you. And then I started running again."

"Do I threaten you?"

"Of course you do. You do it on purpose, but I'm not sure why. Will you ever tell me?"

"Perhaps." He moved into the room, toward her, and she hoped she'd see some kind of possibility in his dark face. All she saw was danger. And desire.

"Your children aren't dead."

"No," he agreed.

"Neither is Sally Norton."

"Obviously. She's been taking care of them. Keeping them safe."

"Safe from what?"

He smiled, a brief, terrible smile. "From the dangers of modern life."

"I came back to find out why."

"Why what?"

"Why you haven't told the truth. Why you allowed the prosecution to accuse you of murdering your children and your lover and you never told anyone they were alive."

"Why should I? I wasn't convicted of their murders. Diana's death was enough to send me to death row."

"Why didn't you fight it?" She heard the desperation in her voice, ignored it. "If you'd told the truth, you could have had a fighting chance. Diana's parents could have taken the children. Instead you let those poor people believe their entire family had been wiped out, when the children could have provided comfort for the general and his wife…"

She was unprepared for his reaction. His face drained entirely of color. Only his eyes blazed with anger, and her own life hung by a precarious thread as he moved toward her, slowly, sinuously, and she was mesmerized, willing to die, unable to move, as he reached his hands up to cup her throat.

"It's easy to kill," he murmured, and the pads of his thumbs stroked the fragile hollow of her neck. "Did you know that, Cassidy? Just a certain amount of pressure, and it would crush your throat. You'd suffocate, fairly quickly. It wouldn't be very messy, at least at first. But then, when someone dies a sudden, violent death, their bladder and bowels empty. Diana stank when I found her."

She tried not to swallow convulsively. He would have felt her fear against the faint pressure of his thumbs. "You found her?" she echoed, trembling slightly.

"Haven't I always said so?" He let his thumbs trace the line of her neck, and his hand, his elegant, murderous hand, paused for a moment as it traced the mark he'd left, less than forty-eight hours earlier.

"Why would you kill me?" she asked, with far more bravery than she felt.

His thumbs kept up their gentle stroking, and she realized with sudden shock he'd been drinking. There was a glitter in his eyes, a faint deliberateness in his speech, and the smoky tang of whiskey was on his breath. She knew, to her sorrow, what people did when they were drunk. The emotional, the physical hurt they could inflict.

Richard Tiernan was far from drunk. But he was already dangerous. The whiskey he'd drunk that night might be enough to push him over the edge.

"Why would I kill you?" he murmured, considering it. "Maybe I like to kill. Maybe Sally and I have a grand plan, and I'd be afraid you'd expose it. It might be worth murder for that."

"Those are two possibilities," she allowed, watching him. "But I don't believe them."

"More fool you," he said softly, moving his thumbs back to the front of her throat. "I could kill for what I want."

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

"Why not?"

She could see the cynical, frightening curve of his mouth. She could see the torment in his dark, haunted eyes. She could feel the faint tremor in his hands as they circled her neck, and she knew. "You didn't kill your wife," she said with sudden, complete certainty, and the relief and joy that filled her heart was explosive. "And you're not going to kill me."

He dropped his hands as if burned, stepping back from her. "Stop it, Cassie."

"You didn't kill her. I don't know why you've let things go on like this. Why you haven't tried to find out who really did it. Unless you know, and you're shielding him. Or her."

"Stop it," he said again. "I'm not interested in your romantic theories. You don't know anything about it."

"I know that you never killed anyone in your life, and you're not about to start now. You're innocent, Richard. I know that as well as I know my own name."