The Last Noel (18 page)

“But…” Scooter began, then fell silent.

“What?” David said. Scooter's mood swings were the scariest thing about the man.

Scooter was frowning and looking toward the stairs. “What the hell?”

“What?” David asked, alarmed.

Scooter stared at him. He was nervous, wound up and angry. “How the hell many kids do you have?”

“Three.”

“No, really.”

“I swear to you, Scooter. I only have three children.”

“There was someone on the stairs.”

“It must have been a trick of the light,” David said, his heart thundering.

Craig had told him, when he'd tried to help him after Quintin had bashed his face half in, that help would be coming. And Craig
had
been sitting next to Sheila last night…. He was afraid to breathe. Were the cops in the house? Was that why Skyler had looked at him strangely earlier?

“I saw something,” Scooter insisted.

“A trick of light,” David repeated.

“Quintin!” Scooter shouted.

Scooter was going to say something, David realized. And if he did, everything might be lost. He stood and said, “My God…”

“What?” Scooter demanded.

“Smell that turkey.”

The kitchen door swung open and Craig appeared. Apparently Quintin was using him as his communications man. “Quintin wants to know what you're shouting about, Scooter.”

“Turkey,” David said. “It smells absolutely great. We were just wondering how soon dinner would be ready.”

Scooter stared at Craig and frowned, as if he were trying to remember his train of thought.

“Scooter, what's up?” Craig asked.

“I don't want to be out here. I want to be in the kitchen,” Scooter said.

“I'll tell Quintin,” Craig told him.

The swinging door closed.

“I thought you didn't work for Quintin?” David said.

“I don't.” He looked as if he were thinking about heading straight for the kitchen, but then he stopped. “I don't work for Quintin,” he snapped. “But…we're a team. You know. Teammates!”

“Sure,” David said.

“You're wrong. You're all wrong,” Scooter told him.

“Whatever you say,” David said.

“You have to understand. Quintin…he's my friend. He cares about me. So I have to be his friend. Show him I care about him.”

“Friends don't hurt friends,” David said.

“Or make them do things that will hurt them in the end,” Frazier offered quietly.

“Quintin is my friend,” Scooter insisted, his gun hand starting to shake.

“Whatever you say. We believe you,” David said reassuringly.

“Smell that turkey,” Jamie said encouragingly.

The nervous twitching in Scooter's fingers abated.

“Turkey, potatoes, gravy…and dessert. Lots of dessert, Scooter,” Frazier promised.

 

Kat pretended it took great artistry to put the brown sugar on the yams, then sliced the butter into tiny increments to put on top, anxious to stay in the kitchen with her mother. Besides being constantly terrified, she was now completely confused.

Craig had purposely drawn out the truth they had all been trying to ignore—as if, by keeping quiet, they could keep it from being true. Then he had pointed out a fact that might actually save their lives.

And she…she was continually praying that the cops in the house would shoot Quintin and Scooter.

Was that a horrible thought? Wanting to see someone's brains blown out? Maybe, but after the way the two men had terrorized her family…horrible or not, it was there.

But what the hell was Craig really up to, and whose side was he on?

She had seen what he had done, trying to maneuver Quintin into moving and giving one of the cops a chance to shoot him, if they had split up and the other one had been able to get a bead on Scooter. But Quintin hadn't played along, and nothing had happened.

Had Craig somehow known nothing would happen? Was everything he was doing now just an act? Was he playing both sides against the middle, waiting to see who came out on top before jumping one way or the other? If Quintin and Scooter were able to escape, would he throw in with them and go, too? But if not, would he try to pretend he'd been a good guy the whole time, playing along with the gun-wielding duo just to survive?

Once upon a time she had adored him. She had gotten up every morning wanting to see him. She had done all the little things women did when they first fell passionately in love. Her legs were constantly clean-shaven. She had watched her diet, exercised, angsted over her imperfections, and she had marveled at the amazing fact that he was in love with her, too.

Lust had played a part, too. He had the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers. He was fit without being musclebound, and back in those days he'd sported a healthy tan. She'd watched him in class sometimes, hoping to meet him, then had been almost afraid to believe her luck when she did. They'd talked about spending spring break in the Bahamas, just the two of them. Renting a little cottage on a beach somewhere, diving, snorkeling, swimming, parasailing…making love in the waves, with a cool breeze wafting over them.

And then…

Cold, hard and fast, it had been over.

And, oh God, the heartbreak. To escape her pain, she'd done every stupid thing possible. Stayed out too late, drank too much, slept with the wrong guy just because he was on the football team. She seemed to remember that he'd been able to open beer bottles with his teeth. She wondered vaguely if he still had any.

She might even have gotten into drugs, but when she'd started on the wrong path, Frazier had suddenly thrust himself back into her life, yelling at her and, somehow, as her twin, suffering with her. Growing up, they had argued the way any siblings would, but when it mattered, he'd been there for her. He'd straightened her out.

And her mom…Back then, when she'd been in so much pain after Craig's defection, her mother's every word, her concerned calls, had driven her crazy. But now—now more than ever, with life hanging by a thread—she had to wonder how she had ever been so cruel to someone who loved her so much.

And, of course, there was her father. Jamie. Even Uncle Paddy. They meant everything to her. Surely she couldn't lose them now.

It was suddenly very hard not to burst into tears as she thought about all the family stories and hoped she could remember them all to tell her own children one day, if she ever had any.

If she lived to have any.

Once she and Craig had talked about having kids, lying in each other's arms and musing about the future. He'd believed passionately that children needed a mother and a father, and said that he wanted at least two, because no one should have to be an only child. And he had believed that both parents should have dreams.

So what had happened to his dreams?

“What
are
you doing?”

She nearly jumped a mile, stunned to see that Quintin had walked up without her noticing and was standing next to her.

“Yams. I'm making the yams.”

“It looks as if you're trying to paint the Mona Lisa.”

“Hey, this is Christmas dinner. It has to be perfect,” she said, and looked around. She was alone in the kitchen with Quintin. Where had everyone else gone? And when?

“Get that in the oven,” he said. “Let's go.”

“Where are we going?” Her heart skipped a beat. She couldn't help it. Quintin scared the hell out of her.

He smiled, as if he knew and enjoyed the fact.

“It's Christmas, baby girl. And there are still gifts to open. Don't you want your mom and dad to get their presents?”

He touched her then, brushed her face with his fingers, and she thought she would scream, or fight or do something terrible that would get her killed, and then everyone else.

The swinging door opened, and Craig came in. A criminal? Or the boy next door?

Whichever, he had arrived at just the right moment. She tried to keep her heart from leaping. She couldn't forgive him now, not even if they were all going to die. Only an idiot forgave the person who had crushed her.

“Hey, Quintin, come on,” Craig said impatiently. “Mrs. O'Boyle said we can eat in about an hour after Kat gets the yams in the oven.”

Quintin took a step back and aimed the gun at her, then turned to aim it at Craig for a moment. “I call the shots,” he reminded them both, then grinned. “The shots—get it?”

Kat turned her back on him and shoved the casserole dish into the oven, in the space left for it right beneath the turkey.

 

Upstairs, their backs against the wall of the hallway, Sheila hovered with Tim. They had quickly realized, once they were inside, that they weren't going to be able to rush up the basement stairs and shoot the men from the top step, so they'd crept up the back stairs when everyone was in the living room.

“Shit,” Tim swore, glancing down the stairs.

“What?” she whispered.

“It's as if they know,” Tim said.

“They don't know we're here,” Sheila said. “I know that no one saw us come in.”

“Maybe when Mrs. O'Boyle opened the door to the basement that Scooter guy sensed something,” Tim said thoughtfully.

“It doesn't matter now. We've got to find a position where we can both get a clear shot,” Sheila said.

“We'll never get a good chance at both of them.”

“They'll have to get careless,” she argued.

He nodded, then looked at her. “Sheila, we may have to…well, in the end, it might be better to take light casualties rather than—”

“No, don't say it,” she warned him.

“We're running out of time,” he said flatly. “We have to do something.”

“Not yet.”

“Sheila, can't you hear it?”

She swallowed hard. “You mean the storm.”

“It's letting up.”

“I know.”

“In war, there are casualties.”

“This is a house, not a war zone.”

“Soldiers have to die sometimes.”

“We're the only soldiers in here,” she told him. “And we have a little more time. Plus we know the layout of the house now.”

“So we're going with my plan then?”

She nodded, and he looked down toward the living room, then lifted his hand.

She slipped by him, hurrying for the landing of the servants' stairway.

C
raig tried desperately not to appear anxious, but he couldn't help wondering what the hell Sheila and Tim were doing and how much longer it was going to be before they made their move. Had they gone upstairs? Were they watching from the landing, as Kat had apparently done earlier?

The two of them had to be upstairs, he decided. And they had better move soon, because time was running out.

But how the hell would they ever get the opportunity when Quintin and Scooter seemed to be more on guard than ever, constantly surrounding themselves with members of the family to shield themselves at all times. But from
what?

They couldn't know the cops were in the house, could they? He was absolutely certain Quintin hadn't seen the two deputies outside.

Every second was terrible.

Quintin had decided he wanted to hear more music, so Skyler was back at the piano. Scooter was on the bench next to her, protected by her. To reach him, a bullet would have to go through Skyler.

Clearly the tension was wearing on the family, as well. Skyler had played a few Christmas carols and everyone had joined in, but the performance had been lackluster, and now she was just sitting there, looking lost and defeated.

“What's the problem?” Quintin asked.

She shrugged. “I just…”

Suddenly a plaintively beautiful sound filled the air. Frazier, who was sitting on the floor by the tree, had picked up his violin. Skyler smiled, as if her son had given her a surge of energy. Her fingers moved over the keys, and she started to sing what sounded to Craig like an old folk melody. The entire family sang along, and then, to Craig's amazement, Scooter joined in on the last verse.

When the song ended, Scooter was staring at Skyler with tears in his eyes. “That's a sad, sad song,” he said.

“You're depressing me,” Quintin said, irritated. “Sing something else. Something cheerful. Let's have a happy Christmas carol,” Quintin said.

“‘Frosty the Snowman,'” Scooter insisted.

Then “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Scooter liked that one, too.

Finally Quintin looked at his watch. “Enough,” he said. “Mrs. O'Boyle, time for you to open something. But come over here, where I can see you.”

Scooter, too, remained wary, and positioned himself directly behind Skyler. There was no way anyone could get a shot at him from the top of the stairs, Craig realized unhappily. He kept his attention on Scooter and was barely aware when Jamie handed his mother a box.

“Oh my God, I love it!” Skyler exclaimed, drawing his attention back to her. “It's wonderful.”

The gift was a gold locket. The chain was thin, the locket itself small, of far less value than the jewelry Frazier and Brenda had exchanged. Value that Quintin and Scooter had assuredly already assessed. In fact, he was surprised Quintin was allowing them to live out their fantasy until after the meal. Did he intend to take that ring off Brenda's bloody fingers once he had shot her? He had to force himself not to look toward the stairway again, afraid of giving the game away.

“I put a picture of your parents inside,” Jamie said.

“Oh, Jamie, what a wonderful gift,” she told him, tears in her eyes, though she quickly blinked them away. She started to get up to hug her son.

“Sit,” Scooter said. He seemed agitated, and he shrugged, as if confused as to why he had spoken out so quickly and vehemently.

Skyler looked at him questioningly.

“Just…just open the rest of your gifts,” he said.

Quintin, frowning, looked over at him. “You all right, Scooter?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Skyler continued opening her presents. Her gift from Kat was a delicate bracelet of diamond-chipped clovers. Frazier and Brenda gave her a cashmere shawl and a brooch, and Craig found himself getting more and more nervous about all the jewelry, but he didn't get really uneasy until she opened her gift from her husband. He had gotten her a diamond necklace, one with three beautiful and clearly valuable stones.

But as she exclaimed over it and thanked her husband, no one attempted to move.

“Dad, your turn,” Frazier said.

As they began again, it seemed to Craig as if the O'Boyles were making a concerted effort to ignore their unwanted guests. The final gift was for Uncle Paddy, ten hot-stone massages.

“Now maybe you'll get through a day without complaining about the pain in your poor aching back,” Kat teased him.

They were all laughing. Almost as if, for just a few minutes, they had forgotten what was happening and were having a good time, just like any family at Christmas.

But that time was slipping away. Or rather, being stolen away,
Craig thought.

But the cops were in the house, he reminded himself. There were two cops, himself, the family and Brenda.

How would they ever pull it off?

He thought that maybe Scooter was so strange because he was sad and just wanted a family. And the relationship between Quintin and Scooter was sort of familial, in a bizarre way. He glanced at Quintin, who was clearly growing impatient, then was surprised when Scooter suddenly stood up and pulled Skyler to her feet. “That turkey must be cooked by now. Come on, I want my Christmas dinner.”

“Scooter, the turkey has to sit for a little while before I can carve it,” David said.

“But we'll get it out of the oven
now,
right, Quintin?” Scooter demanded. “I'll take Skyler in, we'll get the turkey out. Now.”

“Yes, fine,” Quintin said. But he seemed distracted and stood very still for a minute. “Listen,” he said softly.

“Listen to what?” Jamie asked.

“The wind,” Quintin said.

“I don't hear it,” Jamie told him.

Quintin smiled and said softly, “Exactly.”