Silent Night (5 page)

M
IRANDA CURLED IN
the recliner in front of her living room window and stared out the frosty window at St. Catherine’s. She didn’t know how the people of this town dealt with Christmas year-round. For most people, herself included, it wasn’t an easy time to survive when it came only once a year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of ho-ho-hos and sleigh bells would turn her suicidal.

She clutched her backpack, slipping her hand inside the outer pocket to check for the ninth time to make sure the cameras were still inside. She’d gone over her plan at least a dozen times, had made two practice runs by Anatole’s home. The minute the Mass bells rang . . .

She prayed like hell this break-in attempt would go unnoticed. If she got caught, the priest would know that she was on to him. What that would mean to her safety . . . She shuddered, not even wanting to think about what Anatole might do to her.

As the mantel clock’s hand ticked slowly, she thumbed through the newspaper she hadn’t had time to read that morning. There was no mention of Tucker’s missing teen. Highlights of the festival dominated the front page of the thin
Christmas Chronicle
. The remaining three pages were filled with upcoming parties, an engagement announcement, and a call for volunteers to help out with a local Baptist church’s food bank.

Small-town life at its finest . . .

By the time the clock read five-fifteen, she’d zipped her parka to her chin and was well past ready to get this over with. With a glance toward Tucker’s house, and seeing no cars in the drive or lights on inside, she took a deep, shaky breath and opened the iron gates separating his property from the rest of the town.

She couldn’t blow this chance. She needed to see what Anatole was up to. Maybe find evidence that would finally land him behind bars. She knew from the church pamphlet she’d swiped that Mass ran for about an hour on Thursdays, starting at five-thirty. That meant she had about forty minutes to get to his house, get in, place her cameras, and get out again without being discovered.

Piece of cake.

People meandered the streets enjoying the ongoing festival. Their laughter blended with the piped-in Christmas carols. She tucked her head against the wind and headed to the parking garage, trying not to focus on anything other than tonight’s mission.

She kicked the snow from her shoes before climbing inside the Range Rover, cranked the heat, and wiggled her fingers in front of the vents. Why did her legs feel like rubber? She could totally do this. No one should be there . . . she was pretty certain Anatole lived alone. Get in, get out, drive away.

She could definitely do this.

Refusing to acknowledge her shaking hands, she opened the console and pulled out a black beanie. She shoved it on and crammed her hair inside it before checking her reflection in the rearview. If anyone glimpsed her from behind, she’d look more like a teenage boy than a fully grown woman. For once, she was happy about her petite frame and bulky jacket.

She slid her gloves on, put the SUV in drive, and exhaled as she pulled onto Main. It was a five-minute drive to Anatole’s. As she hit the red light just past St. Catherine’s, the Mass bells chimed over the town and Miranda’s entire body broke into uncontrollable trembles.

“I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.”

The DJ on the radio laughed, his timing a perfect mockery of her mantra as he rattled off a jolly ad for a snowball war to be held next week. She turned off the radio, too rattled to take any more noise in her already overcrowded head.

As she approached Anatole’s little house, she slowed, drove past his driveway, squinting to make sure there was no sign of vehicles or movement inside. The house sat on a wide lot, and there weren’t any neighboring houses. As long as she stuck to her plan, she was pretty sure she could remain unseen.

At least, that was her prayer for the evening.

She parked behind the gas station a quarter mile down the road, got out, and glanced through the window of the small building. An elderly man was watching television and hadn’t even noticed her arrival. Good. And in a town like this, she doubted they’d have security cameras running at all times.

The SUV sat on the back side, near the Dumpster and the bathrooms, out of view of the window. So unless he emptied the trash, he shouldn’t even know she’d ever been there. And if he did, hopefully he’d just assume she was in the women’s room and think nothing of it.

She checked the bag she’d brought with her. A screwdriver, flashlight, a small crowbar she’d found behind the seat of the SUV, the cameras, and her cell phone. All the things a girl needed to get inside somewhere she shouldn’t be.

Easing the bag’s strap over her head and tugging her hat farther down over her ears, she slid down the embankment and followed the road from the safety of the trees back to Anatole’s. It took a minute to gather her courage before she could make herself dash across the open road.

When she was safely ensconced in the woods around Anatole’s, she rested her head against the rough bark and pulled in huge gulps of icy air.

I can’t do this.

Yes, the hell you can!

Anatole’s house stood just beyond a scattering of trees. A yellow porch light cut through the shadows, lighting up the grounds just enough to keep her from breaking an ankle, but the rest of the house was dark and quiet. If she approached from the rear, she shouldn’t be visible at all from the road.

All she had to do was get off her ass and get it over with.

She sprinted up the driveway and around the back, stopping near a toolshed on the far right corner of the house to dig the flashlight from her bag. She checked the back door and windows. They were all locked.

With a more determined stride, she continued to work her way around to the left side of the house, saving the front as a last resort. About halfway down the length of the building she spotted a window open just a crack. It was smaller than the others, and would probably dump her in a sink or tub, but at least it was open. Retrieving the screwdriver, she pried out the screen. Thankfully the window slid open without a groan of protest. Needing a boost, she carefully moved the battered trash bin beneath the sill. She pulled herself up and stuck her head inside. As she feared, her entrance was over the kitchen sink, but there was no sign or sound of anyone inside.

She aimed the beam of light at the small, spotless sink and pristine counters. At least the man washed up after himself. There was nothing to knock over or break on her way in. There was also no way she’d fit through the opening with her thick parka on. Removing it, she shoved it through first, then hoisted herself onto the sill. Spider-Man she wasn’t, but she managed to make it inside without putting herself in the sink or breaking her neck when her foot slipped on her jacket and she landed on the floor.

“Real graceful,” she mumbled, snatching her jacket out of the sink and moving into the living room. The room was small but neat, everything in its place. A ceramic nativity scene lined the mantel, and a Charlie Brown–style Christmas tree stood on a round table. There was no television or even a radio. A large Bible sat on a glass coffee table. She gave it a quick flip-through before returning to the mantel.

Taking one of the cameras from her bag, she positioned it carefully in the manger. She pulled out her cell phone, started the monitoring program, and checked the view. After adjusting it twice before she was satisfied that she had the best location, she moved down the hall to the single bedroom.

Like the main room, there were no frills. She checked the closet, but found nothing out of the ordinary. Clothes perfectly organized by function and color, a large plastic container holding what looked like summer attire. At the bottom, a flawless line of shiny shoes and a tiny box that shot her adrenaline into high gear for a moment before she discovered it contained nothing more than a collection of laminated baseball cards.

The nightstand held nothing of interest, either, nor did the narrow space under the bed.

She quickly positioned the second camera by the window, just above the curtain rod where it couldn’t be seen, and checked the feed before returning back down the hall toward the bathroom.

It was freshly cleaned and, other than a shelf of extra toiletries on the wall and a bottle of Tylenol in the medicine cabinet, there was nothing. Back in the hall, she pushed open the last door and found herself in a home office, and smiled. He was far more likely to hide something here than at his church office.

Making sure to memorize where everything was so she could put it all back where she found it, she emptied each desk drawer, glancing through files of past or future sermons and church-related agendas. Nothing personal, and certainly nothing incriminating.

She sighed, positioned and checked the third camera, carefully tucked against the wall atop a massive crucifix facing the desk, and rubbed her eyes.

Defeat was a lead weight in her gut as she searched the rest of the little house. Other than his baseball cards, there was nothing personal. Anyone at all could have lived here.

Making her way back to the kitchen, she bypassed the window. No way was she leaving the same way she’d come in. She closed it, making certain to leave it open a crack like she’d found it. She’d have to replace the screen when she got back outside, but other than that, she couldn’t see any evidence that she’d been here.

And three of her cameras were in place.

At least she’d done that much right.

She struggled briefly with the deadbolt on the back door. Staying in the shadows, she stumbled to the front of the house. Checking to make sure she was still alone, she found a slot in the porch’s awning and placed the last camera there, making certain it had a clear view of the drive and the front door.

After a quick check to verify its position, she started back to the rear of the house so she could replace the screen she’d removed. The sound of a car’s engine startled her, forcing her back into the shadows. She broke into a full-body sweat and her brain lost all communication with her body. Her feet were rooted to the ground, her gaze on the driveway as she hugged the side of the house and peered around the corner.

Get the hell out of here!

Switching off the flashlight, she searched her surroundings for a better place to hide, but before she could find one, headlights cut through the darkness. She tried to make herself as small as possible and watched as Father Anatole climbed out of the car and strode toward the house. The moment the door closed behind him, she bolted into the trees and back toward the main road, not stopping until she was back at the gas station and safely locked in the SUV.

T
WO DAYS HAD
passed since Tucker had last seen Miranda, and she was all he could think about. He’d checked in on her again last night, but she hadn’t been home. He’d fixed her heater anyway and had left a note telling her she was still welcome to come by for the wine he’d promised, but she’d never showed. And today, he’d been too busy looking for the Schneider kid to try again. Didn’t mean he didn’t want to.

“Chief?”

Tucker sighed and forced his attention back to his lieutenant. “Yeah, sorry. I heard you. A kid with no social media accounts in this day and age . . . maybe he created one under a different name?”

Andy Bowen collapsed onto the chair across from Tucker’s desk and tossed his hat on the empty seat beside him. “He could have created a hundred under different names. But without the names, how can we look?”

“And the library computer search?”

“Pretty much anything that could be Googled, was Googled. I did find some pagan pages in the history, but there’s no real way to tell who pulled them up. Mrs. Perry isn’t all that up to date on her technology. There’s no log-in or codes required. It’s a veritable free-for-all.”

Tucker flipped open Ricky Schneider’s file and looked at the picture of the kid again. The
Chronicle
had posted it that morning, and flyers had been hung on nearly every window on Main Street. But there had been no more calls about Ricky since Wednesday. The last one he’d received had been a cold lead, the wrong kid. The article in the paper had sparked nothing.

Sad that a kid so young could go missing and the only people who noticed were his pathetic parents.

“Doc Sam called this morning and confirmed the blood behind the library didn’t belong to an animal,” he said. “She’s going to run the brush and toothbrush you took from his house, see if there’s any DNA on there that matches it.”

Andy’s eyes widened. “You really think the kid was killed?”

Tucker shrugged. “No way to know at this point. Still praying it’s a runaway case, but have to cover all our bases.”

He rubbed his forehead, a massive headache forming between his eyes. He’d already checked every bus station and airport in a hundred-mile radius. If Ricky had run away, he hadn’t left a paper trail that Tucker had been able to find yet.

Tucker felt like he was chasing a ghost.

M
IRANDA STEPPED ONTO
her porch to collect the day’s issue of the
Chronicle
and found yet another stack of fresh firewood waiting for her beneath the window. She smiled, collected the bundle, and returned inside to drop the logs with the five she still had left from yesterday. Tucker was stealthy. She hadn’t heard her porch steps creak once.

Still smiling, she dropped back into the chair she’d been occupying all day and opened the newspaper she’d forgotten to snag that morning. Her eyes needed a break from the strain of staring at her laptop all day. Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t even thought to eat since noon and now it was a little past eight.

Her gaze drifted down to the newspaper. The same teen boy’s face that had graced the front page for the past couple of days stared back at her. The same photo Tucker had dropped off for them to print. The same face looking at her wherever she went from flyers posted all over town. There was no big story to accompany the picture. Just a large block of text asking: “Have you seen me?” followed by the kid’s name, age, and last known whereabouts.

Poor kid. And his poor family.

Miranda closed the paper and leaned back in her chair. She should call it a night. She’d been watching the camera monitors on her computer since yesterday, and other than watching Anatole eat, sleep, and come and go, she’d yet to see one interesting thing inside his house. She had to get her cameras into St. Catherine’s. Had to watch him where he spent most of his time.

But how the hell was she supposed to get in there unseen? His house had been nicely secluded. But the church? Right smack in the center of Main Street. It wasn’t going to be easy.

She jiggled her mouse to stop the screensaver on her laptop just as a knock pounded on her door. She jumped up, slamming the lid closed, her heart stuttering at the unexpected sound.

Wrapping her robe tighter around the pajamas she hadn’t changed out of all day, she peered out the window to find Tucker standing on her porch, hat in hand, his badge glinting at her beneath the lamplight. He saw her and she gave a slight wave of her fingers before making her way to the door and opening it.

“Hi,” she said, suddenly very aware of how desperately she needed a shower and that she hadn’t run a brush through her hair since that morning. The mess of black was now piled loosely on top of her head in a sloppy bun, stray bits sticking out in every direction as she caught a glimpse of herself in the door’s glass.

He opened the screen, the squeak jolting in the otherwise peaceful night. The faint sound of carols playing from Town Square carried into her cottage, reminding her how close it was till Christmas Day, and how close she was to spending it alone. Again.

“Just wanted to make sure you were all right. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Thank you. I’ve been catching up on some reading.”
And spying.

He nodded. “And the heater’s still working?”

He’d been by to fix it when she’d been breaking and entering. She hadn’t thought to thank him yet. And in all honesty, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. She wasn’t keen on the thought of him being in the cabin without her. She had things—especially now—that she certainly didn’t want him to stumble upon. “Sorry I haven’t stopped by to thank you. It’s running fine.”

Small talk. She hated it so much.

“Did you . . . did you want to come in?”

He shook his head. “It’s late. I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

A bit of relief mingled with disappointment at his refusal. “It is, thank you. And your hand?”

He held it up and smiled. “Won’t scar. You’re a good nurse.”

God, he was cute. And sweet. His continual check-ins with her were beginning to get to her. She was used to cops knocking on her door, but never to ask if she was all right. Never to deliver her soup, or firewood, or . . . a friendly smile.

She was so alone here. Lonely. Tucker was becoming an invaluable friend, even if she hadn’t spent too much time with him.

It was a fragile thing, this friendship. One that was going to shatter if he ever found out what had really brought her here.

“Listen,” she heard herself say. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. If you don’t have to go in early, you could stop by? I have some eggs and bacon . . . I make a mean omelet. If you want to, I mean. It’s okay if you don’t.”

She was rambling like a buffoon. Why hadn’t her college offered a class in social interaction along with proper bedside manner?

“Sorry. Just wanted . . . didn’t mean to put you on the spot . . . you know, forget about it. I’m sure you have—”

“Are you always this nervous when you invite someone to breakfast?”

“Yeah. No. I mean I don’t—”

His rich laughter shut her up. She was making an ass of herself trying to do something nice to thank him for the meals, heater repair, and daily firewood delivery.

“I really wish I could take you up on your offer but I have an early shift. Rain check?”

“Yeah, sure. Anytime.”

“Good night, then.”

He was halfway back to his house before she closed the door and returned to her computer. She studied the screen, trying to focus on the grainy images and not on the rejection burning in her belly or the sadness it evoked. Tucker had a life. She couldn’t expect him to spend all his free time with her. He had to work. She shouldn’t take it personally.

But as loneliness settled around her, she took it very personally. Cursing, she stood and plucked the small Christmas tree from the table by the window and shoved it in the closet. She didn’t need any more reminders of just how alone she truly was.

T
HIS TIME, WHEN
Tucker walked back to his house, he didn’t turn to see if Miranda was watching him. If she was, it would be enough to make him change his mind about her breakfast invitation.

Unlocking the door, he made his way down the hall to the shower. He did want to have breakfast with her, so why had he turned her down?

He flipped on the shower and leaned against the counter. His reflection mocked him. “You’re a damned idiot.”

That he was. He scrubbed his hand over his face. Having an early shift wasn’t reason enough to reject Miranda. He had to eat regardless. It could have been with her.

But she was a tenant. A very temporary, week-by-week tenant. Getting any more mixed up with her wasn’t smart.

Yet he’d asked her for dinner.

He wasn’t stupid. There was a very juvenile part of him that had wanted her to feel the same rejection she’d slapped him with.

As he stripped off his clothes, he could have sworn he heard his reflection laugh at him, and with good reason. That kind of attitude certainly wasn’t going to get him laid.