Nightfall (31 page)

And Richard had something to live for as well. He was the only one who knew the truth. Even if he tried to tell someone, he wouldn't be believed. What little he'd confided in Mark had been met with guarded doubt.

He had to go after Cassie's sister himself. That was what Amberson wanted, he had no doubt of that. A final, deadly confrontation, with the old soldier meting out justice. But Richard was going to bring the general down with him. The last defenses had fallen—he was no longer a cool, dangerous automaton, moving through what was left of his life, manipulating fate. He was alive, furiously, wildly alive, and it was too late to change.

Mabry stared in shock when he barged into her bedroom. "Do you have a car?" he demanded.

She yanked her shirt back around her too skinny body. "I beg your pardon?"

He caught her by her scrawny arms and shook her. "Goddamn it, do you have a car in the city? I can't waste time renting one."

"Waste time?" she echoed. "What in God's name is wrong with you, Richard? What do you need a car for?"

"To go after the general. When did you last hear from him?"

"You're not making any sense. The general and his wife have taken my stepdaughter to Vermont for a few days, so she doesn't have to go through the upset of Sean's illness."

"How long ago did they leave?" He shook her again, taking his fury and panic out on her and not caring.

"This morning, I think. For heaven's sake, Richard…"

"Leave her alone." Cassie's voice was almost unnaturally calm.

He turned and snarled at her. "You told him, you stupid bitch. You must have let something slip. And now he's taken your sister, and God only knows what will happen if I don't get there in time."

"What are you talking about?" Mabry demanded, yanking herself out of his angry clutches. "Why should the general hurt Francesca? Why, he absolutely dotes on her."

The wave of nausea that washed over him made him sway for a moment. "He'd hurt her to get back at me," he said flatly.

"I still don't understand."

"You don't have to understand. You just have to tell me where you keep your fucking car."

"Seventy-fifth and Lexington," Cassie answered for her, moving to one of the tall pine dressers and fetching a set of keys. "It's a grey BMW…"

He snatched the keys out of her hand before she could finish, turning on his heel.

"Wait a minute," she called after him, and he could hear her running to catch up with him. "I'm going with you."

He stopped at the front door, long enough to turn and look at her. She looked pale, disheveled, and frightened, and he felt not the slightest pity for her.

"If your sister is hurt," he said in an icy voice, "it will be your own fucking fault."

She flinched, almost as if he'd hit her. "I'm coming with you," she said again, grabbing his arm.

"The hell you are." He didn't even stop to consider his options. Cassie was a strong woman, a determined woman, and he'd reached the end of his endurance.

He hit her. Hard. A sharp jab to her chin, forceful enough to knock her on her butt, to knock the breath and the sense from her. By the time she regained her equilibrium, he'd be long gone.

She went down like a felled oak. He was aware of several things, the delicacy of her bones beneath his fist, the sheer astonishment in her eyes, the grace with which she fell, the lashing regret that seared through him. And then he was gone, slamming the door behind him, before he could let his damnable, renewed conscience attack him again. He didn't have time for morality, for a conscience, for anything but driving north to Vermont as fast as Mabry O'Rourke's BMW could take him. And he didn't need Cassie along for a distraction.

He grabbed the first taxi he found, though he probably could have run the distance in a shorter time. He browbeat and bribed the attendant into letting him get the car himself, shoving a handful of twenties into his grubby fist. By the time he swung around the final curve of the parking garage and aimed the headlights into the city night, his adrenaline was popping, and nothing was going to stop him.

Including the figure of a tall, lone female with a cloud of hair, silhouetted against his headlights.

She could see him, see the car, and she didn't move, standing there. He didn't hesitate. He was more than adept at playing chicken—the last year of his life had been an elaborate game of it, and he wasn't about to be bested by Cassie Roarke. He shoved his foot down on the accelerator and headed straight for her.

He saw her, she knew it. The headlights illuminated her, and she didn't budge, still trying to catch her breath after her wild race to the parking garage. She'd almost missed him. It had taken her a moment to regain her bearings when he'd hit her. She'd scrambled to her feet and gone after him, not even taking the time to consider what he'd just done. She used the stairs while he took the elevator, coming out on the street just in time to see him disappear around the corner in a taxi. She started after him, at a sprint.

She could hear the roar of the engine, feel the heat of the headlights spearing through her. He might very well kill her. He'd looked at her as if he'd wanted to. If he thought she'd put his children in danger, then he was more than capable of it, she'd realized that about him. She shut her eyes, breathing deeply, and didn't move.

The engine roared. The tires squealed. She could feel the air rush toward her with the force of a speeding train, and she squeezed her eyes more tightly shut, bracing herself.

The BMW screeched to a stop beside her, close enough that the door handle brushed her clothes. The electric window opened. "Get in," he said from the darkness inside the car.

She opened the door and got in.

She barely had the seat belt fastened around her when he tore out into traffic, just missing an oncoming truck. The drive through midtown would have been horrifying if she were in any condition to care, but she simply sat there, clutching the leather seat, and let him drive.

She didn't speak until they had crossed the George Washington Bridge and were heading north. His elegant hands were clenched around the leather-covered steering wheel, and his face, reflected in the dashboard lights, was set in frightening lines.

"I'm sure you're not in the mood to hear any advice," she began in a carefully neutral voice.

"You've got that right."

"But if the police stop Richard Tiernan for speeding, I don't think they're going to let you keep driving. Are you even supposed to leave the state of New York?"

"No," he said flatly, but the BMW slowed down marginally.

"What's the general going to do to Francesca?" she forced herself to ask.

He didn't answer.

"Damn it, I have a right to know. She's my sister, I didn't say anything when he offered to take her, even though I had a funny feeling…"

"A funny feeling," he echoed in an odd voice. "Did he say anything to cause that 'funny feeling'?"

The memories came flooding back, along with a guilt strong enough to strangle her. She'd forgotten. In her jet-lagged, sleep-deprived, grief-shattered, lust-engorged mind she'd forgotten all about the general's cryptic words and subtle threats.

"He said to tell you that Francesca was in good hands," she said.

"Did he, now?" Richard said in a distant voice. "Didn't you think that was odd? Considering I've never met Francesca?"

"Yes. I asked him. And he said you were protective of children."

"Damn him," Richard said quietly.

"And he said something else. A moment later," she said, misery in her voice. "He asked me where they were."

"Ah," said Richard, and she could see his long fingers wrap tightly around the steering wheel, and she imagined her neck in his deadly grip. "And what did you say to that?"

"Nothing."

"No, I'm sure you didn't," he said smoothly. "You just jumped, and looked guilty, and probably blushed, didn't you? Didn't you?" His voice was vicious.

"Yes," she admitted.

There was a long silence. "And to think there was a time when I thought your blushes were charming."

"I didn't tell him they were alive!" she shot back fiercely.

"You didn't need to. He's a very clever man, the general. Your face told him all he needed to know. That's why he's done this. He's holding Francesca hostage. He wants me dead. He wants his grandchildren."

"Did he kill her?"

He turned to look at her for a moment, and the amusement on his face was macabre. "Still looking for a scapegoat, Cassie? I thought you knew who killed Diana. I thought you had it all figured out, blame apportioned, motives examined, judgment passed."

"What happened that night?"

"I told you everything."

"I don't think you did. I think your confession of guilt was just one more part of this massive test you've been running on me, a test I keep failing. It's a long drive to Vermont. Why don't you tell me what happened?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

"Tell me, damn it. There's no reason to hold anything back," she cried. "For God's sake, just tell me."

She could feel his hesitation, and she wanted to hit him. "You don't want to know," he said finally, "but you don't have a choice anymore. I'll tell you. And then you can see whether you can still sleep at night."

The house was quiet when he came home. Deceptive of course, the house was always quiet on the outside, and inside storms and furies raged, alternating with quiet, drugged despair.

Diana stood motionless, waiting for him, and he could see in the glitter of her mad blue eyes that she hadn't taken her pills that day. He'd never decided which was worse, the taking of the pills, or the forgetting. He tried to get her into treatment, even managed to get through a nine-month period where she was only on mild tranquilizers. Until her father returned from the Middle East, and found a new doctor for her. And she was gone again.

Thank God for his instincts. He'd taken the children to Sally, asking her to keep them until she heard from him. He was used to Diana by now, by the way the storms built until they exploded in a poisonous rage. He could trust Sally. She wouldn't turn the children over to anyone except him.

"Where are they?" Diana asked. Her voice was clear and childish, eerily like that of a six-year-old, and her beautiful blue eyes were opaque.

"They're taken care of," he told her, calm, soothing. But she was already past the point of listening.

"They're coming with me." She was standing on the stairs, and she moved down, deliberately graceful, deliberately coquettish, dressed in pink, with ruffles and bows. Something too young for her. Something her father bought.

"Where are you going, Diana?" He was very calm, already knowing the answer.

"To my father. He's the only one who really loves me. He always has. People don't understand about us. The bond we have."

"I understand." And he was beginning to. Finally.

"I promised him I'd bring the children," Diana continued in a wheedling little voice. He half expected her to twist a curl around one finger and shuffle her feet. He half expected her to be wearing shiny black Mary Janes.

"No."

The trusting expression vanished from her face, leaving it white with rage. "They're my children!" she shrieked. "They come with me."

"No."

Her eyes were suddenly crafty, and her voice softened into a gentle murmur. "They won't stay with you. My father is very powerful. He's a national hero, beloved by everyone. He has friends. Judges, lawyers. You're already under suspicion, you know."

"Suspicion of what?"

"Seth's broken collarbone," Diana said sweetly. "They didn't think it was accidental. I mentioned that you were capable of frightening rages."

"You said what?" He took a step toward her, fury overriding any concern.

"Taken on top of Ariel's fractured arm, and the bruising their teachers noticed, I think an investigation is finally under way. They weren't sure whether to believe me or not. But I convinced them."

He closed his eyes with sudden guilt and horror. How did he let this happen? Hadn't he been protective enough? He never realized just how very dangerous Diana could be.

"Why did you hurt them, Diana?" he asked carefully, afraid he might kill her.

Diana's pout was horrifyingly innocent. "They're horrible to me. They deserve it." She moved past him, graceful, closing the front door behind him. "They don't do what I ask them to. They don't love me. They only love you. And you love them. More than you ever loved me."

He controlled his fury with the last of his strength. He hadn't known what it felt like, to want to kill someone with his bare hands, to rip their heart out. Now he did. "Then why do you want to take them with you?"

"My father wants them."

It was a shot in the dark, torn from his deepest, most terrible suspicions. "What's the matter, Diana? Are you too old for him?"

"Yes," she said simply. She turned, and for the first time he saw the knife. A butcher knife, large, recently sharpened.

"Diana," he said softly, warily.

"You were supposed to protect me, you know. You were supposed to love me to distraction, and keep him away from me. But you didn't. You didn't think I was a little princess at all. You got tired of me. You said I was spoiled, that I had tantrums. You put the children ahead of me. That wasn't fair. It was no wonder I turned back to Daddy."

"Not fair at all," he said in a sick voice.

"Are you going to try to stop me?" she crooned. "My father wants my children. I'm going to provide them for him. After all, I should be a dutiful child. I've always been a dutiful child, ever since I was five years old and he started coming to my room. I was his little soldier, waiting for him when he came home, brave and strong. I never cried. No matter how much it hurt, I never cried."

He wanted to throw up. He stared at his fairytale princess of a wife, the one who froze in bed with him, who hadn't let him even touch her hand for more than a year. "I would have done anything he wanted," she continued, surveying the knife with a fond air. "But he only likes children. I'm pregnant, you know. Because sooner or later Seth and Ariel will be too old for him as well. And this child will be our special one, just Daddy's and mine."