Silent Night (6 page)

“I
’
VE BEEN BY
the church and talked to Father Anatole,” Michael Levi said, loosening his tie as he settled on the bed, shoes and all. “He’s going to submit my request to the diocese, but it’s not going to be an easy process.”

“Do we have to go through all this? Can’t we just get married in another church?” Jennifer settled beside him and rested her hand on his chest.

It had been a beer kind of day. He popped the top off the bottle he’d grabbed on his way in. Actually, it had been a whiskey kind of day, but he was fresh out. And he was sick of having the same conversation with Jennifer over and over. He loved her till death and beyond, but sometimes he wished she’d just let things be. Would understand him just a little more, the way Bethany had.

He sighed. “Because despite everything I’ve done in my life, I’m still Catholic. I can’t enter into another marriage until the first has been annulled. It doesn’t matter what church the service takes place in.”

She was Catholic as well, but had never really practiced the religion so she couldn’t fully grasp the rules and processes of their church. Her parents had divorced, something she constantly threw in his face. But her parents hadn’t stepped foot in a church since her christening, and her mother hadn’t been bound by guilt as he was. Breaking a sacrament was nothing to her.

But for him . . . it still meant something.

He swallowed a quarter of the bottle before turning his attention to Jennifer’s crown of blond hair resting below his throat. Hopefully, all of this would be resolved soon and they’d finally be able to move toward a real future together—even though they’d been together for several years already.

“Have you told them yet?”

Michael looked at her reflection in the glass but didn’t answer. Of course he hadn’t told them. He didn’t intend to until all the paperwork was finalized and the process was under way. Then maybe they’d see Jennifer as his future and not just his mistress.

Ignoring her question, he grabbed his jacket and dropped a kiss on Jennifer’s forehead. “I’m going to take a drive. Clear my head before I head to the main house. See you Tuesday night?”

She nodded, looking absolutely pitiful. Leaving her was getting harder and harder, but in order to keep his family—especially his grandmother—from sniffing around, he had to carefully divide his time between the hotel and Levi estate. When he knew his grandmother, Ethel, was going to be around a lot, he stayed there. When she was busy, which was blessedly often, he came back to Jennifer, feeling more and more guilty with each new departure.

“I really would love to meet them,” Jennifer whispered. “I hate feeling like a dirty secret.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” And he truly was. His mother would probably accept Jennifer the way she did everything else, with impeccable manners, a smile, and a lot of Southern hospitality. His dad would be reserved, watchful, wondering what all this might do to his career—and the career he still hoped Michael would step into.

Ethel, however, was going to be the hardest to win over. She was already talking about him moving into
her
home, and resuming his life with his wife and daughter. They didn’t,
couldn’t
, know yet that he was involved with someone, that he’d brought her here, and he wanted to keep it that way for a little while longer.

“Tuesday.” He kissed away her pout. “I’ll take you to a nice dinner. Just you and me.”

She didn’t look the least bit appeased when he left her and rode the elevator from the presidential suite to the lobby. As he waited for the valet to bring his car around, Michael pulled out his cell phone and dialed Bethany’s number again. Like the three dozen times before, he got her answering machine. “Bethany, it’s Michael. I know I’m the last person you ever want to talk to again, but I really need to see you. Please, call me back.”

He tipped the valet and slid into his pristine, white Audi R8. He fastened his seat belt and pulled out of the hotel’s parking lot. He still had an hour or so to kill before he would be expected at his grandmother’s dinner table, so he didn’t have a destination in mind and found himself driving aimlessly toward the waters of the Duvet River, his childhood stomping grounds.

Years of swinging on old tires and rope swings, fishing and skinny-dipping as he got older, led him there like a magnet. How long had he fantasized about getting away from backwards Christmas? Away from the aspirations of his family, running the small town since its inception? And now, all he could think about was returning here. Where his memories were the happiest and people respected him. Not just because of his bloodline, but because he mattered. Smiles went a lot further here than hundred-dollar bills stretched in Los Angeles.

He drove over the wooden bridge that connected the river to the old hermit Walt’s place and cut the engine when the tires hit the snow-banked sands of the shore. He saw headlights behind him, but they turned in the opposite direction, leaving him alone. Make-out point. Another fond memory. Of course, back then, it used to be
on
Walt’s place. But by the time Michael had reached make-out age, Old Walt had become too ornery to mess with and his friends had moved to the other side of the river.

He thought of Bethany. She’d loved this place. Bonfires during summer and beer guzzling with their friends. She’d been a good wife. Too good. The mundaneness of their Cleaver-like marriage had been too much for him. Had put too much on his shoulders. Earn all the money while she took care of the house. The potential kids she couldn’t stop talking about. It had been nothing to her because she hadn’t minded him living off his parents’ money one bit.

He tried Bethany one more time, and when she didn’t answer, tossed the cell phone into the passenger seat where it promptly slid onto the floor. Ignoring it, he climbed out of the car and moved to the water’s edge. Careful of the ice accumulating on the mud, he sat on a pitted railroad tie and looked at the cluster of trees still standing tall and strong against the countless harsh winters they’d faced. Bethany had called it a giant fairy ring, had thought it was magical. He still remembered the night they’d discovered that magic for the first time.

Everything had changed in that moment. There’d been no going back. His entire future, dismantled and put back together that night with pieces created out of hormonal teenage mistakes. But at least they had Charlotte. He wouldn’t have changed that outcome for anything in the world. Ten years old, and the apple of her daddy’s eye.

A family of raccoons shuffled out of the woods to the empty fire pit, scavenging for food. He zipped his coat and tucked his hands in his pockets. He sat until the cold and snow drove him back to his car. Before he could close the door behind him, something gripped his arm. He was yanked from the seat like he weighed nothing at all, thrown into icy mud and left there, dazed.

“What the hell?” He pushed up onto his hands, but something—a boot?—connected with his ribs. The force of the blow rolled him to his side. “What are you doing?”

Michael struggled to his feet, ready to beat the living shit out of the bastard.

He swung, but before his fist could find its target, the hooded man ducked. When he straightened, his left hand curving overhead, the hood moved just enough to give Michael a glimpse of a long beard. It was askew. A fake? He tried to see the man’s eyes, but something silver glinted in the moonlight seconds before a pipe crashed into his arm, then his leg.

Michael cried out and fell to his knees, gripping his injured arm close to his stomach. “Take the car! Take it! It’s yours!”

The pipe smashed into the side of his head, and as his brain clouded, he heard the distinct crack of his jaw breaking. Pain rolled through him. His stomach pitched violently and he spewed blood and vomit onto the ground. He tried to find his feet but the figure pressed his boot against Michael’s head, digging his broken jaw into the mud.

“Whoever divorces his wife and marries another commits adultery against her.” The pressure on his head was replaced by the sting of something cold around his neck. “Divorce will make your wife an adulteress. It would be kinder to make her a widow. She has done no wrong and should not have to pay for your crimes against her. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”

His broken jaw and the wire cutting into his throat prevented him from answering. He gurgled, choked on his own blood. He clawed at the mud, trying to find a weapon. Something sliced into his good arm. The thwack of the blade cutting into him rang out in the still night.

Michael’s cry of pain and outrage was nothing more than a moan. He curled into a ball, trying to make himself as small as possible as the blade sliced into his legs, his back.

The faces of his loved ones danced before his eyes. Bethany and Jennifer . . . and Charlotte. Sweet, sweet Charlotte. The women he’d loved most in his life and had let down so gravely.

His bellow was nothing more than a gurgle as he wished he could make amends for all the wrongs he’d done. In the distance, a coyote howled, a dog joined in on Michael’s attempt to wail in agony, turning it into a chorus.

“Pray the good Lord has mercy on your soul, for your death will finally bring peace and a chance at happiness to a tormented soul.”

The man’s fist gripped Michael’s hair, pulling his head back toward his ankles and snapping his spine. The wire cut off his air. Michael was going to die. As the world began to fade and spots danced before his eyes, Michael’s gaze found the circle of trees. The giant fairy ring. In the center stood his sweet Charlotte. Her bright smile and shy wave brought him peace as he exhaled his last breath.

F
ROM HER LAPTOP
, Miranda watched the grainy image of Father Anatole climbing into his sedan and pulling slowly out of his driveway. She checked the clock over the kitchen sink and took a deep breath. For two and a half days, she’d watched his dull routine. Wake up at five, some brief exercises on the floor by his bed—push-ups, sit-ups, a few poses of what might have been middle-aged-man yoga. A quick breakfast, always the same thing. Boiled egg, blender drink, and what looked like oatmeal. Shower. By six-fifteen, he was out the door, not to return home again until evening, where the routine was just as mundane.

It was just past eight in the evening, and he hadn’t yet come home. It was what she was hoping for. He was usually home by seven, but tonight, the town was scheduled to have a full fireworks display at the park in Town Square. The church might finally be empty . . .

She’d have to hurry. The church was close enough that she could be back before the fireworks were over if she was quick about it.

Twenty-five minutes later, she was standing at the side of St. Catherine’s, wet snow and icy wind pelting her stinging cheeks. She’d scoped out the chapel, found it empty, but had also found Anatole’s office locked. She was no lock picker. Cursing her luck, she’d headed back outside and now stared at the window in front of her. She’d counted twice to make sure it was the right one. If she was wrong, she’d have wasted precious time.

She had no choice but to go for it. There was no telling when she’d get another opportunity like this. Looking around, she blinked against the blowing snow, making certain there was no one around. Finding no one, she stood on her tiptoes and tested the window. It was unlocked.

Thankfully, the sill wasn’t that high off the ground. She hoisted herself onto the ledge and shimmied forward. Just before her hands reached the floor, someone grabbed her calves and yanked her out of the window.

T
UCKER WALKED HIS
patrol of Main Street as the fireworks display lit up the sky. As he passed each family and spectator, he handed out a flyer with Ricky’s picture on it, his old training putting a pit of despair in his stomach. Forty-eight hours. That was the window of hope for finding a missing person. Ricky Schneider had been missing for a week now. And today, he’d found out that the blood in the alley was a match to Ricky’s DNA. He’d spent a good portion of his afternoon at the Schneider house, explaining the new development. Tanya had surprised him with an outburst of tears he hadn’t thought her capable of.

Stan hadn’t said a word.

Tucker had every intention of bringing the asshole in for questioning but was pretty damned certain the bastard wouldn’t cooperate one bit unless Tucker showed up with a warrant for his arrest.

And since he had nothing to base a warrant on . . .

What a fucking mess.

All hopes of Ricky being a runaway had disintegrated. All Tucker could hope for now was that he was hurt and unable to get help.

But there’d been so much damned blood.

“Merry Christmas,” he said to a passing couple. “Please take this and call the number at the bottom if you see this boy.”

He passed them a flyer and watched with disgust as they smiled, walked on, and promptly threw the paper in the trash without so much as glancing at it.

No one ever thought
they’d
be the one to see a missing person. To have information. That was why those forty-eight hours were rarely successful. People just didn’t bother with things that didn’t concern them personally.

His phone buzzed. It was dispatch. Frowning, he answered. “Shannon?”

“No, it’s Lisa. Shannon went home sick. Sorry, Chief, tried to radio but you didn’t respond so I had to call your private line.”

Tucker cursed. He’d left his radio in the car to charge while he patrolled. “No problem. What is it?”

“Got a call from St. Catherine’s. Apparently there was an attempted break-in. Father Anatole asked that we send someone right away, but I didn’t know who you wanted to pull off their post to take the call.”

Tucker felt his frown deepen. “I’ll take it. You said attempted?”

“The priest caught the culprit in the act so you might want to hurry. Said he’s got things handled till you come but he’s not exactly spry.”

“On my way. Will radio in when I get there.”

“Ten four.”

The call went dead and Tucker put the phone back in his pocket, already heading toward the cruiser he’d left parked in front of City Hall.

This night just kept getting longer.

S
O MUCH FOR
keeping her cover.

It had been twenty minutes since Father Anatole had caught Miranda Winnie-the-Pooh-ing it through his office window. She’d been stupid to think she could successfully break in, and the little cameras in her bag were making her twitch. Hopefully, the police wouldn’t check her bag when they arrived or she’d have a lot of explaining to do. But she’d been caught trying to break and enter. She was probably screwed.

And she’d only made it halfway through the window.

If she could just get Anatole and his minions to find a distraction, she still had a shot at placing the cameras. But how the hell was she supposed to do that? Anatole hadn’t taken his eyes off her since he’d escorted her into his office and told her to sit while he called the police.

Her guts were a knot of nervous threads. Frayed threads. Really, really
old
frayed threads. Every time Father Anatole’s pacing by the window brought him closer to her seat, she tensed, and every time she told herself that he didn’t scare the piss out of her, her insides gave another little tremor to remind her that she was a liar.

His three deacons stood at the office door, should she try to escape, and talked among themselves. Distracted a bit. But not Father Anatole. He was watching her like a hawk. As though running was even an option. Her legs would never obey
that
command. She was pretty sure she’d just melt into one of the cracks in the scuffed plank flooring, one big boneless pool of terror.

She looked at the cracks. Might not be such a bad getaway . . .

What a wasted, disastrous night this had turned in to. And on top of it all, she was probably going to end up spending the night in jail.

Father Anatole stopped pacing to study her better. “You’re sure we haven’t met before?”

It was the third time he’d asked her that since pulling her out of the window. “I told you, we met the other day.”

“Yes, and there was something familiar about you then, too.” He fingered his salt-and-pepper goatee, the glint in his eye letting her know he wasn’t buying one word. “You still haven’t told me why you felt compelled to break into the church.”

Since yanking her out of his window, he’d asked her that repeatedly as well. She still didn’t know what to tell him. Why hadn’t she come up with a story before coming here?

Because your brain doesn’t have room for anything else anymore. Father Anatole has taken up each and every cell . . .

“I checked out of my room, and turns out I can’t leave town yet,” she lied. “All the motels are booked and I just needed a place to sleep until a room opens up.”

Another of the deacons moved to her side. “They
are
booked, Father. My sister and her brood were forced to stay with me.” A circumstance he obviously disdained, given the look of constipation those words evoked on his face.

Anatole still didn’t look like he bought her story, but now that the deacon had backed her up, he didn’t seem as eager to call her a liar anymore. She said a silent prayer of thanks for that small blessing. She needed to get the heck out of here and regroup, figure out her next move. It was going to be a lot harder to maneuver around Anatole now that she’d put herself on his radar.

A car door slammed outside, saving her from another awkward lie, and Anatole rushed back to the window, followed by his deacons. As they watched through the glass, she fumbled in her bag, clutched a camera between her fingers, and quickly cupped it.

She stood, feigning interest in what was happening outside, and gingerly reached up and pushed the small camera between two books on the top shelf behind her. Her heart pounding, she elbowed her way between the men to shake off any traces of guilt that might be cloaking her.

A man stepped around the front of a squad car. Her body sent a jolt of awareness long before her eyes could detect who the newcomer was. This was just getting better and better. It was Tucker.

Of course it was Tucker. Her luck wouldn’t have it any other way.

Regardless, he was a welcome sight. At this point, jail was a much safer place than here with Father Anatole. She glanced at the camera again. It was noticeable, but small enough that it shouldn’t draw immediate attention. She hoped.

Tucker disappeared from view, and a few seconds later, she could hear his footsteps coming down the hall. She braced herself, swallowed the bile of indigestion building in her throat, and sat back down in her chair, her gaze nervously dancing around the doorway. He didn’t look at all happy when he appeared.

He didn’t seem to notice her as he stepped into the room, the deacons partially blocking her from his line of sight. He shook Anatole’s hand. “Father.”

“Chief.” Father Anatole rubbed the deep lines between his eyebrows.

The deacons moved aside and Tucker finally noticed her, his head jerking in surprise. “Miranda?”

She offered a little wave of her fingers. “Hi.”

He looked back at the priest. “This is who you caught climbing through your window?”

“Long story,” she muttered, silently pleading with him to get her the hell out of here. She braced herself for more questions, and more lies. She despised liars and hated that she’d become one, but she didn’t know whom she could trust.

Tucker removed his hat and turned on her. “All right. Start explaining.”

Mr. Friendly Deacon repeated the story she’d told them. “She didn’t know we kept the chapel doors unlocked.”

“She was breaking into my office, which I do keep locked, however,” Anatole added.

“So she broke in through your window?”

Anatole’s gaze narrowed. “I sometimes crack it open for fresh air. I must not have locked it back.”

Tucker’s glare sent a heat wave over her. She was about to find out if melting through the cracks in the church floor would get her out of this mess. “Looking for a bed, huh?”

“I—um—”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and faced the priest. “Do you want to press charges?” he asked, saving her from an explanation she couldn’t possibly give in front of the people she’d lied to.

“I don’t see why that would be necessary. If she was looking for a place to sleep, then there really was no harm done,” Friendly Deacon said.

Father Anatole narrowed his gaze. “No need to penalize anyone for looking for a place to stay. Nothing was taken, and she didn’t break the window she was crawling into. If all she really needs is a bed, maybe you could simply help her locate one.”

“Pretty sure that won’t be a problem,” Tucker drawled, shooting her a Lucy-you-have-some-’splaining-to-do look. But since he didn’t seem on the brink of giving her away, she stood and moved a bit closer to him.

His hand clamped around her elbow like a vise. The tingling jolts of awareness were quickly chased away by his cold, hard stare.

“Let’s go.” He motioned toward the door, stopping to look back at the priest as he shoved his hat back on his head. “I’ll have someone stop by tomorrow to get a statement so it’s on record.”

Father Anatole waved him away. “No need. I’d rather just drop the matter altogether.”

Tucker muttered an insincere thank-you and ushered Miranda down the hall and outside. She followed him as fast as her nearly frozen legs would allow.

Why had she ever thought she could do this alone?

Tucker swung open the squad car’s back door and helped her in. Her gaze settled on the steel mesh barrier separating her from the front of the vehicle. He might not be arresting her, but she certainly felt like a criminal.

“So.” He slid behind the wheel and started the car. He tossed his hat onto the passenger seat and ran his fingers through thick, black hair. “Why were you really sneaking into the church at this hour?”

She glanced out the back window and found Anatole watching her from his office. A shiver snaked down her spine and she spun back around. Tucker was watching her through the rearview mirror, his scowl revealing fine lines on his forehead that hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him.

She blinked against the massive headache creeping from the back of her skull to behind her eyes. “I screwed up. Can’t we just leave it as a colossal case of bad judgment?”

“I want answers, damn it, and I want them now. You were intent on taking his picture the other day, then nearly keeled over after you got away from him. Now he’s catching you breaking and entering. What are you really doing in my town, Miranda?”

“I didn’t technically break in. They caught me before I got more than my shoulders in the window.” She held his gaze in the mirror. He didn’t show the slightest hint of amusement over her smart-assery. He was rightfully pissed off at her and she didn’t have anything to tell him that he was going to readily believe. “Is this the part where I ask for a lawyer?”

“You’re not under arrest. Yet.”

She shrugged, exhausted and frustrated that all her planning had come to nothing so far. That she was the one sitting in the back of a squad car while Father Anatole was still free.

Soon, she was going to prove the truth. That Father Anatole wasn’t a God-fearing man of the cloth.

He was a goddamned murderer, a serial killer, and she was the only one in this town who knew it.