The Last Noel (14 page)

Tim and Sheila were on the sofa. Scooter was standing by the fireplace, one elbow resting on the mantel. She could see the bulge of his gun tucked into his waistband beneath his flannel shirt.

Couldn't the cops see it, too?

But Sheila wasn't even looking at Scooter. “I've been telling Tim how talented all you kids are,” she said. “Would you play something for him, Kat?”

Kat saw that Craig had taken a seat beside Sheila on the sofa. He seemed very calm. Of course he was. He was one of
them,
after all. Or was he? And what the hell was going on in the kitchen now? Was Quintin hearing this? How could she possibly play the piano? Why didn't Craig or Scooter say something to stop this farce?

“My mom is the one who can really play,” Kat said.

“You're good, too, Kat. How about just one song while we finish our coffee?” Sheila suggested.

Frazier lifted Brenda off his lap and joined Kat at the piano. “Let's do our public servants a Christmas Eve kindness and give them some music with their coffee,” he said. “I'll sing backup.”

“No, you sing lead, and I'll take the harmony,” Kat said.

“Sure.”

Her twin's eyes met hers, and she knew that he was trying to look reassuring, strong. As if help were an actual possibility.

She stared back at him, her smile sad. They both knew that Quintin and the others were counting on them to play it out until the end, and that they were all going to die.

But we'll pretend until the bitter end, she thought, and looked around the room as she started to play.

Scooter looked almost misty-eyed, as he stared at them from his place by the mantel. Her father's fingers were clenching the arms of his chair. Craig was leaning toward Sheila, looking as if he'd just finished saying something. And Sheila…

Sheila didn't seem to be paying any attention to the music. She was watching Scooter with a thoughtful look on her face, as if she were weighing whatever Craig had just said.

Despite herself, Kat felt hope begin to bloom in her heart.

She turned back to the piano, and she and Frazier launched into a song. When they finished, their audience broke into applause. Tim even gave them a standing ovation. “Sheila, you were right. They're great.”

“Thanks very much,” Frazier said, then walked back to rejoin Brenda in the armchair.

“Well, I guess we'd better be going back out into the cold,” Sheila said with a sigh. She and Tim both rose and started toward the door.

Craig walked casually over to Kat and slipped an arm around her waist. She swallowed. She couldn't pull away without revealing the pretense behind their relationship, much less turn on him and demand to know the truth.

For the moment she needed to focus on being grateful that he could play his part so well. She needed to thank God that her text message, which had once seemed to be their only hope, hadn't gone through. She needed to just keep playing her part so Sheila and Tim would leave.

Before they all wound up dead.

Craig led her to the door, where everyone was congregating to say goodbye.

“Have you checked on the other families in the area?” Frazier asked.

Was there a slight hesitation before they answered? Kat wondered. A moment when the two officers looked at each other almost conspiratorially?

“We checked in on everyone we could get to. I was a bit worried about Mrs. Auffen—she's eighty, you know. But she was fine. Everyone in this area has a generator,” Sheila said.

“I've trying to convince Sheila that we can go back to the office and warm up while we wait for the morning crew,” Tim said.

“If they make it in,” Sheila said skeptically. “I have a feeling we'll be on till afternoon,” she said to Tim, who just shrugged.

“Well, good night, folks. And thanks for the coffee, and the entertainment,” Sheila said.

“Yeah, thank you, guys,” Tim said. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Good night. Take care,” David said.

“Drive safe,” Craig added.

The two cops were almost out the door. Any second they would be in the clear, Kat thought, and she could rush back into the kitchen and see if her mother was all right.

“Hey, wait,” Scooter said suddenly, his voice low, sounding like a growl deep in his throat.

C
raig's heart froze in his chest. They were in the clear, dammit. The cops were leaving. And they knew.
They knew.
He'd managed to whisper a few words to Sergeant Polanski, and she had nodded her understanding. They were safe, at least for now, and the cops would come back when they could do something. It was a miracle.

Or so it had seemed. But now…just when they were leaving, Scooter was stopping them. What the hell was going on?

“Wait,” Scooter repeated.

“What?” Craig asked, knowing he must sound almost desperate, as he stared at Scooter.

“We're forgetting something,” Scooter explained. His narrow face seemed to broaden with his sudden smile. “It's Christmas!” Scooter exclaimed. “It's Christmas Day. Merry Christmas!”

Craig thought his sigh of relief was almost as loud as the blizzard that was still raging, although with a little less vehemence than before, just outside the open door.

But Scooter was still grinning, apparently unaware of anything besides his own joy in the holiday. “Come on, everybody. Wish each other Merry Christmas.”

“Right. Merry Christmas,” David gasped in what was clearly relief.

“Merry Christmas, Bren,” Frazier said, then smiled down at his tiny girlfriend and lightly kissed her lips.

“Merry Christmas, Dad,” Kat said, and turned to her father.

Of course, Craig told himself, trying to tamp down what he knew was an irrational sense of disappointment.

“Sheila, me love.” Paddy laughed, and hugged the deputy.

“Merry Christmas, bro,” Scooter said, and shot Craig a warning look before hugging him.

Brother? Craig thought. Oh, no. Not in any way. But he couldn't allow himself to show his revulsion—his horror at how this night was turning out.

He'd known all along that Quintin and Scooter were thieves, he just hadn't realized how much could be stolen. Not just property, but sanity. Love. Christmas spirit.

Lives.

He drew away from Scooter, trying to maintain a cheerful expression as he watched the others. They had gone from Christmas Eve to Christmas Day, a time to offer love and the olive branch of peace to family and friends.

Under Scooter's encouraging eye, Kat gave her brother a hug. Then Paddy and Brenda and even Tim and Sheila.

And then him.

He tried. He tried so hard with his eyes, to explain everything he had never been able to tell her. To somehow make her understand that he'd never intended to be here tonight, to bring danger to her family's door. That he hadn't shared the truth before because the truth had been too painful, and because, at the time, he'd believed that even if she knew the truth, she couldn't—wouldn't—love him.

He lifted her chin and said softly, “Merry Christmas, Kat. And many, many more,” he added, even more softly, then lightly kissed her lips.

And she didn't pull away.

She stared hard at him when he finally lifted his head. She'd always had the most beautiful eyes. Irish eyes, green cat eyes to fit her name.

Sheila cleared her throat. “We'd really better go. The best to you all. Good night.”

“Merry Christmas,” Tim said.

And then, finally, the door closed behind them, and Craig was able to let out a silent sigh of relief at last. The cops were gone. It was Christmas Day. And he'd already witnessed a miracle.

No one here had died, and finally they had hope.

 

“They're gone,” Craig announced, pushing his way through the swinging door. “They're gone, Quintin, and the O'Boyles played it just like pros.”

The sound of the opening door had made Skyler jump. Actually, any movement made her jump. And that wasn't particularly smart, because every time she started, she felt the touch of the gun. One of these times she would startle Quintin, and without even thinking, he would pull the trigger.

“I probably should have killed them,” Quintin said thoughtfully, almost as if he weren't still standing behind her, his words casual—as if he didn't still have a gun pressed against her temple.

“Quintin, no,” Craig argued. “You don't want to kill cops. It makes other cops crazy. They've been here, and now they're gone, and they're not suspicious of anything. Think about it. It's the best thing that could have happened.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Quintin said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

Skyler didn't like the other man's tone. He sounded more on edge than ever.

“Quintin, I'm telling you the truth,” Craig said.

Skyler didn't like the curl of Quintin's lips. The man was sneering. Quintin didn't like Craig, really didn't like Craig. And Quintin was the one who called the shots.

While Craig…

Scooter had boasted that the man had been the one to catch Kat. Maybe so, but just looking at him, and then at Kat, she was certain there was more to the story. Something was going on between the two of them. It was as if they knew each other. Certainly they were close enough in age for it to be a possibility, but Frazier didn't seem to know him.

And what the hell difference did it make whether he and Kat knew each other or not?

A lot. Because things might come to a point when the only thing that mattered was whether Craig was with them…or against them.

Scooter came barging through the swinging door, herding the rest of the family in front of them. “It's Christmas,” he said happily. “Merry Christmas, Quintin!”

“Merry Christmas, Scooter,” Quintin said, but he didn't move. At Skyler's side, neither did Jamie. It felt as if a week had gone by, as if the three of them had been frozen there forever.

She squeezed her son's hand.
Giving false encouragement?
she taunted herself. But maybe it wasn't false.

And wasn't it a parent's job to teach hope against all odds?

She dared to turn her head away from the muzzle of the gun and face her son. “Well, we made it through another crisis,” she said, and forced a smile. She released his hand and looked up at Quintin. “May I turn the coffeepot off?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

She rose, and David ignored their captors and strode straight over to her, then slipped his arms around her, turning her to face him. She frowned slightly, wondering how the cops had come and gone without noticing that both Frazier and David had darkening bruises on their faces.

“Merry Christmas, Skyler,” David said, and he kissed her.

She kissed him back, forgetting for a few seconds that they had an audience and pouring all her love for him and her relief that they had made it this far and were still alive into the kiss.

“Get a room,” Frazier teased.

“We have a room,” David said, grinning slightly and not looking away from his wife.

“Yeah, they have a room, they're just not going to be using it tonight,” Quintin said.

“But would it be okay to get some sleep?” Jamie asked.

“Sure. Anyone who wants to can drift off right in the living room,” Quintin said.

“I could never sleep,” Skyler said with conviction.

“How about you just try to rest?” David suggested.

“You'd better rest. You have to cook that turkey in the morning,” Scooter said.

Skyler nodded, suddenly exhausted. “All right, I'll try.”

“Not until I've had me chance to say Merry Christmas to me niece,” Paddy announced. He walked over to her and hugged her, taking the chance to whisper, “Sheila knows.”

She hugged him more tightly, adrenaline racing through her. Was he crazy? Was he just trying to give her hope?

Or could it be true?

As Paddy pulled away, she lowered her eyes to hide the light of hope, choosing to believe what he'd said was true—that the cops knew—and realizing that everything had to be played out meticulously.

Or else someone would die.

 

Sheila didn't want to go far from the O'Boyle house, but it was freezing and the snow was still flying and their snowmobiles didn't offer any protection against the storm. She also knew they had to carefully weigh every possible course of action and that they wouldn't think clearly if they were freezing.

Her small Colonial house was closer to the O'Boyle residence than the office was, so she led the way there to make plans. Since they had no way of communicating to anyone from the office, anyway, it didn't make much sense to go all that way back.

“I know that guy's face,” Tim told Sheila, rubbing his hands in front of the fire she had quickly stoked. “The youngest one.”

“From where?”

“I don't know. But I've seen him.”

Sheila was doubtful. “On a most-wanted list?” she asked skeptically. “I sure don't know who he is. That's not the kind of face you forget. But he managed to talk to me. Smooth as silk. He told me there were two armed men, the one we saw and another one in the kitchen with Mrs. O'Boyle and Jamie, and he'd kill them if we acted suspicious in any way. He said we had to find a way to take them both down.”

Tim glanced at her. “He said all that?”

“Right in the middle of an Irish lullaby,” she said flatly.

“Well, we thought our guys might be in there,” he said.

She produced a piece of paper. “He was definitely telling the truth. Paddy Murphy slipped this into my pocket.”

Tim took the note from her. It was crumpled, since Paddy had wadded it into a tiny ball before slipping it into her pocket when he hugged her.

“‘Two men with guns. Must be taken together. Will kill if threatened. Be careful,'” Tim read aloud. He looked at her. “Clever old geezer,” he said.

“Thank God we went in carefully,” she said. “But what do we do? Try to get hold of the state police somehow? If we go at them with enough guns…”

“No,” Tim said.

She looked at him.

“Sheila, Lionel Hudson is already dead. They killed him. It won't make any difference to them if they have to kill again. If we go up against them in force, the first thing they'll do is kill that family just to get them out of the way.”

They were both silent, thinking.

“He had it right, that guy Craig,” Sheila said. “Scooter, or whatever his real name is, and the guy in the kitchen have to be taken down together.”

“The question is, how?” Tim said, turning away from the fire to pace. “We can come up with some excuse and go back over there.”

“Sure. And then we're up against the same thing we were before, only this time we know it. One of them will hole up somewhere with a couple of the O'Boyles, and he'll kill them if we make a move. They'll do it—even if they're going to die themselves—because they don't intend to go down alone.”

“Oh God,” Tim said suddenly.

“What?”

“They're going to figure out pretty soon that not only have we figured out who they are, but that we've seen their faces. If they want to get away clean, they'll need to kill us, too.”

“Tim, we have to go at this logically and reasonably,” Sheila said.

“What about negotiations, then?” he asked.

“They won't negotiate, I'm sure of it,” Sheila said. “But we won't give in, either. And we'll have help,” Sheila said.

He looked at her questioningly.

“The family,” she said. “They're not armed, and they're scared as hell, but I promise you, they'll fight to the death for one another.”

He nodded. “Good point.”

“And I don't know who the hell that Craig kid is, but he'll help us, too. He's not one of them.”

“Maybe he was just trying to sucker you in,” Tim warned.

“No, he was being honest. I'd swear to it,” Sheila said.

“Here's the thing. I'm armed, you're armed, and the killers are armed. There's not going to be a chance for any warning shots. We have to take them both out.”

“Easier said than done,” Sheila replied.

“We just have to get back in that house.”

“Ring the doorbell again?” Sheila said. “I don't think so.”

“Of course not. We have to get in without being seen.”

 

The house remained comfortably warm, despite the bitter cold outside. Thanks to the generator, the lights on the tree continued to blink their message of Christmas cheer. But the living room was silent.

Quintin had dragged one of the big upholstered chairs over to block the front door and was on guard, a watchful eye on the living room, his gun resting comfortably in his lap. Scooter was in the other armchair, asleep, his gun tucked in his waistband, where no one could steal it without waking him.