Nightfall (33 page)

He knew that now. He could thank Cassie for liberating him. Making him breathe again, hurt again, hate again. Making him love again.

He wasn't going to tell her. He'd considered it coolly, during the long hours of the night drive. Originally it had been part of his plan, to lie to her, to convince her he loved her, so that she'd be tied to him, body and soul, past death.

The damnable thing was, he did love her. And loving her, he couldn't tell her. Couldn't tie her to a dead man. She would love the children, take care of them, without that kind of emotional blackmail. She'd heal that much faster if she never knew.

She stirred again, frowning. He wanted to see her in the summer, with freckles across her nose. He wanted to see her in a bathing suit, that lush, gorgeous body that she was so self-conscious of kissed by the sun. He never would. He'd never make love to her in a field of daisies. It was mud and darkness and rain for the likes of them. Sleet and snow and eternal night.

Fields of daisies were for other people. For Cassie and another man. Not for him.

His hands were clenched tightly around the steering wheel, and he was driving too fast. He slowed down, deliberately. He had to let her go. He knew that, and the sooner the better.

"Damn."

She stirred, looking up at him sleepily, disoriented. There were motels and ski lodges all the way up the road, and for just a moment he was tempted to stop, to take her inside one and just hold her. Just for an hour or two. Was he so evil that he didn't even deserve that much comfort?

"What's wrong?"

"The road is closed."

"What do you mean?"

"The road over the Notch is closed. It's usually snowed-in for most of the winter, but by this time of year they open it. Apparently they've closed it because of the storm."

"Where does that leave us?" she asked.

"Heading up the Notch without snow tires." He waited for her protest.

She made none. "All right," she said, leaning back.

He jerked the wheel, too suddenly, and the BMW skidded over to the side of the road, sliding several feet before coming to a stop. She turned to look at him through the early dawn, her face composed. He wanted to rattle that composure. He wanted to shake her, to scream at her, to…

He saw the bruise. It was a beauty, dark purple, beneath the right side of her chin.
He'd forgotten. He stared, sickened, at the mark. He'd never hit a woman in his life, no matter how much Diana had pushed him.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "What are you staring at?"

He couldn't help himself. He reached out and touched the bruise, and she flinched. "Oh," she said in a dull voice, turning her face away from him. "I'd forgotten."

He wanted to push, to punish himself. "Are you used to being hit?"

She kept her face averted. "Not since I was a child."

"Hit?" he said. "Or spanked?"

"Hit."

Again the dark rage. At whoever had hit her, a helpless little girl. And at himself. "Who hit you? Sean?"

"Whoever was drinking the most at the time," she said. "You don't have that excuse."

"I don't have any excuse."

To his astonishment she managed a faint trace of a smile. "True enough. What are we waiting for?"

"I can take you to a motel. You could wait there…"

"No. And don't think you can clip me again. I'm coming with you, and there's nothing you can do to stop me. I'm your albatross," she said with a fierce kind of humor. "Your barnacle, your worst nightmare."

He stared at her. At her pale, defiant mouth, her sorrowful eyes. "I'll dream about you in hell," he murmured.

"See that you do."

The barricade at the foot of the Notch road was feeble enough—just a couple of highway sawhorses with flashers attached. He stopped the car, but before he could move Cassie had jumped out, moving swiftly through the slush to pull one of the barriers out of the way. He drove through, waiting for her, squinting at the slowly lightening sky. The stuff coming down was something between rain and snow, wet, but not icy, and the gritty stuff beneath the tires had at least a trace of traction. Cass jumped back into the car, and he started up the twisty road slowly, keeping up enough speed to maintain his steady climb.

They made it farther than he would have thought. The tires spinning, BMW traveling sideways, they slid their way up the hairpin turns, until the slush turned to ice and the car ended up sideways in a ditch. He switched off the motor, turning to look at her. "You're not dressed for this," he said in an even voice.

"Neither are you." She was already out of the car, a determined expression on her face. She looked like an Irish Valkyrie, an amazon, ready to do battle. That strength would have to carry her through whatever they faced at the top of the hill.

He pulled himself out of the driver's seat. He was wearing Nikes, not the best for climbing an icy mountain trail, but then, he didn't have a choice. The mist that was falling had already coated Cassie's hair and sweater, and she blinked. He wanted to kiss her eyelids.

"Let's go," he said in his coolest voice, starting the rest of the way up the road.

She trudged behind him, silent, steady, no complaints. Her feet would be wet and soaking, blocks of ice. He knew, because his were. She was having trouble keeping up with him, but he didn't slow his pace. He didn't dare. Too much time had already elapsed.

He almost couldn't find the trail. He'd climbed it years ago, when he and Diana had first married and they'd come up here for a family visit. Even then there'd been trouble, and he'd gone for long hikes, discovering the back trail up to Scott's mountaintop retreat. It looked different, years later, in the snow and ice, than it had in the height of summer, but for once his instincts were working.

The trail was slippery, the rocks coated with ice. He heard her scrambling behind him but he didn't dare pause, dare help her. He had to concentrate on what lay ahead.

Her voice came from behind, breathless. "What do you think he'll do to Francesca?"

"You don't want to know," he said grimly.

"I have to know. If I'm going to make it up this goddamn cliff, I need to have a reason," she snapped, panting.

"How old is she?"

"Thirteen going on thirty. She's precocious, very Italian, very loving…" her voice cracked for a moment, but Richard kept on walking.

He took pity on her. She needed fear and rage to keep her going. She also needed hope. "I don't think he'll have touched her yet," he said, hoping it wasn't a lie. "I think he'll be waiting for me."

"What about his wife? How could she stand by… ?"

"She'll be drugged. She's been an addict as long as I've known her, and Amberson keeps her well-supplied. I never realized why. With luck he'll have knocked your sister out with something. She might never have to know what happened to Amberson."

"What will happen?"

He paused, turning to look down at her. The evergreens were shorter and more scraggly as they climbed higher, but the trail was dark and brooding, making it hard to see her expression. He knew it in his heart anyway. "You don't need me to tell you, Cassie. You know."

"Richard, you can't…"

"I no longer have any choice."

She looked up at him, and he felt her despair echo in his veins. "Richard, I love you."

"I know," he said. And he started back up the mountain.

Cassie had never been so miserable in her entire life. Her feet had gone beyond numb to a kind of stinging pain, the cold had seeped into her bones along with the liquid air, and her sweater hung wetly around her frozen jeans. The rocks were icy, the dirt was mud, and for every few steps she took, she slid back at least one.

Richard moved ahead of her, tall, unyielding, untouched by mortal concerns. It was always possible she hated him, even as she followed him, turning her mind off, turning her fears off, simply enduring, as the icy needles of mist coated her, seeping through the cotton sweater, encasing her arms.

She barely felt it when her ankle twisted beneath her. She went down again, scrabbling for a handhold, sliding in the ice and mud a few feet until she ended up against a stubby pine tree.

She lay there for a moment, catching her breath. Richard hadn't stopped, moving relentlessly upward, and cursing silently, Cassie struggled to her feet.

Only to collapse again, as the pain sliced through her in white hot waves, and she couldn't stifle her soft moan of agony. She sat back, pulling her foot out from under her, carefully, leaning against the tree, watching as Richard climbed back down to tower over her.

She tilted her head back to look up at him. "I blew it," she said.

"Do you think it's broken?"

"I have no idea. I heard a crack. I know I can't stand on it, at least now. Go on ahead."

He stared at her, and she waited for some token protest. She got none. "All right," he said. "The path is well-marked. If Francesca doesn't come to find you, the police will find the car abandoned on the road and send out a search party. They'll find you before long. Make sure they check at the general's house. They probably have orders to leave him strictly alone—Scott has that kind of power—but make up some story. About your friend going on for help."

"You aren't coming back down?"

He knelt down beside her in the rain, and she wasn't sure what she expected. Not the gentleness of his hand, touching the bruise at the side of her face. Not the tender brush of his lips, against her eyelids, her cheekbone, her lips. A benediction. A promise.

A farewell.

She watched him until he disappeared into the woods up ahead. Listened until the sounds of his climb were swallowed up in the mist and rain. She sat back, shivering, miserable, still feeling the warmth of his mouth on her. She trusted him. He would save Francesca. He would stop the general. He would…

He would die. Her eyes shot open in sudden horror as the final realization hit her. He wasn't coming back down. He wasn't planning to survive. He was going to kill General Scott, and stop the threat to his children forever. But he was going to die as well, to expiate his sin, his crime—a crime no court would recognize.

She sat up, screaming his name, but the sound was swallowed up in the mist. She couldn't let him do it. She was a fighter, a survivor. And right now her survival depended on Richard's, Her life, and any possibility of happiness.

She started after him, crawling, scrambling, dragging her wounded ankle behind her, her fingers sliding in the mud, her face scratched by branches. She was as relentless, as determined as he had been. Nothing was going to stop her.

She reached a rise, a leveling off of the steep terrain. She had no idea how long she'd been scrambling after him—she'd lost all track of time. Suddenly everything began to look a little less wild, a little more ordered. Military order. She had to be getting closer.

She slid again, landing on her stomach in the mud, and she lay there, panting, trying to catch her breath. Listening to the sounds of the forest. The drip as the mist condensed and dropped off the trees. A distant, quiet hum. And the sudden, horrifying sounds of footsteps, coming closer.

She lifted her head, ready to roll into the bushes and hide, but it was already too late. The general stood there, dressed in impeccable fatigues, a walking stick in his hand, looking down at her as she lay in the mud, an amused expression on his kindly face.

"I'm quite impressed, Cassidy," he said. "I've been watching you for quite a while. You would have made one hell of a soldier. Most new recruits start whining the moment things get tough. A sprained ankle would have them screaming for their momma. But you just kept crawling up this mountain."

"I had a reason."

"So you did," he said pleasantly. "I expect you're wondering how I knew you were here. This place is a fortress, but I'm not interested in having a private army interfering with my personal life. The security system is the best in the world. I can watch anyone who gets within a mile of this place. That's why I'm wondering where Richard is."

The hope that flooded her was warming, strengthening, and she struggled to sit up. "He's not here."

"Don't be ridiculous. You would never have found this place without him. I don't like liars, Cassidy. I have to discipline them."

"Where's Francesca?"

"Safe."

"Safe?" she echoed. "In your hands?"

"Ah," General Scott murmured. "I gather Richard told you the truth. Or what he considers to be the truth. Did he tell you how he murdered my little girl? He didn't understand the bond we had. He was jealous, he always had been. Diana and I used to laugh about him, about his efforts to make her what he wanted her to be. Diana knew who she was."

"Diana never had a chance. Not with a monster like you for a father."

His expression didn't alter. "No one understands," he said lightly. "I don't expect them to. Come along, Cassidy." He leaned down and hauled her to her feet, putting an arm around her waist. "I'll help you up to the house, and we can wait for Richard."

She tried to push him away, to free herself, but he was almost unnaturally strong. He half dragged, half hauled her up the mountain, oblivious to the mud and filth, oblivious to her struggles.

The house was just over the rise, a peaceful, sprawling mélange of wood and glass. "My little aerie," the general murmured, not even out of breath, as they started across the stretch of ice-rimed lawn leading to the deck.

"I don't see any state-of-the-art security system," she muttered.

"I have all I need. Cameras, so I know who's coming. And a high-powered sniper rifle. I was an expert marksman when I was younger, and I believe in keeping up my skills. The moment Richard appears in one of my surveillance cameras, I'll be ready for him."

"You'll kill him?"

"Eventually." He was panting now, a fact that gave Cass only faint satisfaction. He opened the sliding glass door and shoved her inside. She collapsed on the pure white carpeting, smearing it with mud. "I want answers first."

Cass was silent for a moment, listening. "Where is Francesca?" she demanded. "Where's your wife?"