The Stroke of Midnight Page 9

  On the sidelines, Hannah appeared infinitely more distressed than her sister. Hell, Jacob thought, he probably looked worse than any of them.

  The constant movement of Devon’s fingers gave her away to him. That and the restless nerves she displayed when she swept those fingers through her hair. She was shaken down to her bones, yet for Hannah’s sake, she was determined not to show it.

  A song teased his conscious mind. A song and a memory. A connection he couldn’t pinpoint.

  “Dugan’s tied up,” Rudy announced, coming back in. He scanned the room, then did a double take at Jacob. “What? Have I got something on me?”

  Jacob shook his head but couldn’t shake the stare—or the words that filtered through his mind. “Peace on Earth,” Rudy had said to him today at lunch. “Pray for a midnight truly clear.”

  “‘It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,”’ Jacob murmured.

  “That was the tune he sang. Well, sort of sang. It was creepy, Riker, really creepy.”

  Jacob helped her into her coat. As he did, his gaze slid sideways to Rudy. Coincidence that he’d alluded to the same song sung to Devon by her attacker? Or was it just possible...?

  Jacob blocked the thought, ruthlessly, completely. Not possible, not in a million years. And yet...

  “You look positively grim, Riker,” Devon observed, bracing one hand on the wall as they descended the broadloomed staircase. “You are glad, aren’t you, that no one was seriously hurt tonight?”

  He caught a small rustle and glanced upward into the shadows. “Of course I’m glad.” He kept his tone and expression carefully banked. “I’m also mad as hell over what might have happened.” Seeing no one, he steeled himself to meet her gaze. “Are you sure you didn’t get a good look at any part of him?”

  She pressed her lips together. “I’d love to say I did, but it all happened in a flash. And then I hit my head...”

  Hannah’s gasp cut her off. Jacob’s teeth gnashed. He halted her on the landing to probe the back of her skull. “Hit it where?” he demanded.

  “Right—ouch—there.”

  “We should take her to the hospital,” Hannah said instantly.

  “No hospital. It’s not that—”

  “I agree.” Jacob’s brows came together in a frown. “Who’s your doctor?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Lennon,” Hannah told him. “She’s my doctor actually; Devon only goes for a checkup when forced.”

  Terrified by the discussion taking place over her head, Devon held up both hands. “Stop it, right now, both of you. Look, I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. Really fine. No double vision, no slurring of words, nothing but a headache which will only get worse if I have to sit in an emergency room for what’s left of the night.” She tried not to look desperate as she appealed to Riker. “I want to go home. I promise I won’t stir out of my room until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Devon,” Hannah objected.

  “Deal,” Riker agreed.

  His expression was shrewd, his manner only slightly hesitant. He looked troubled and very, very tired.

  Rubbing her throbbing temples, she willed away all thoughts of Joel Riker and concentrated instead on reaching his car. Too many doubts and questions rattled around in her brain. A hot bath, a warm terry robe, a pot of tea and a fire— that’s what she needed first. Then, just maybe, she’d allow herself to entertain one or two of the thoughts nagging at her about this complicated man beside her.

  The ride home took forever. Hannah’s fingers linked with hers and squeezed, but whether in reassurance or fear Devon couldn’t be sure. Riker lapsed into a meditative silence, punctuated by numerous unreadable glances stolen whenever he thought she might be diverted.

  “Like I could be diverted when he’s hip-deep in his Heathcliff impression,” she muttered fifteen minutes later as Riker opened the car door for her.

  She took the hand he offered, shaking her head at his skeptical, “Excuse me?”

  Hannah ran ahead to open the apartment. Left alone with a man whose character she couldn’t begin to unravel let alone anticipate, Devon let one of the less pleasant questions slip in. Where had Riker gone while the phony Santa had been attacking her? He’d materialized from some obscure place while the valet she’d run into had gone off in search of a towel and someone to relate his weird story to. The valet had found Warren Severen. Riker had located Devon.

  “You should have pulled his beard off,” he’d snapped at her. Yet, oddly, the hands removing his jacket and wrapping it around her chilled shoulders had been infinitely gentle, verging on tender. “I never send messages, Devon.”

  She’d been too cold to respond. Not that she could have been bothered with a thousand jackhammers clattering away inside her skull....

  Riker followed her into the apartment, as determined now as he had been at the restaurant. Devon located the sofa and sank onto the overstuffed cushion, grateful at least that it was Riker and not Hannah who crouched down to trap her chin and stare into her blurry eyes.

  “I’m fine,” she lied. “Don’t alarm Hannah, okay?”

  His gaze narrowed. “You need someone with you tonight, Devon. If not your sister, then it’ll have to be me.”

  Panic speared through her. “No!”

  “For God’s sake, I’m a cop, Devon. I’ll sleep on the sofa, but I’m staying here tonight.”

  This was ridiculous. A waste of time, too, she suspected. She pushed back the unreasonable panic. Let him do his macho cop thing. She wanted to sleep, needed to, without nightmares. Everything else could wait until tomorrow: hot bath, Christmas carols and all thoughts of Detective Riker included.

  Relenting, she leaned her head against the cushioned rest. “All right, you can stay. But don’t worry Hannah about it.”

  His silence had her cracking open her eyes. She saw speculation on his face, but he made a motion of acceptance and stood when Hannah returned with a tray of steaming tea.

  He didn’t understand. How could he? Maybe she’d explain it to him in the morning. She wanted him to understand a great many things. At least she thought she did. Funny, she’d never cared if a man understood her before. What made Riker different?

  She drew an outline of him in her head. Large, dark eyes. A haunted, vaguely hunted, look. Exhaustion pulling at him; world-weary it seemed. And hiding something. Yes, definitely that. Something that troubled her as much as it intrigued. What was it? Why did her instincts tell her it mattered? Who had attacked her tonight in the service corridor of the Holly Tree Restaurant? Where had Riker been? Not kissing her, that much was certain....

  Her mind tilted. She imagined that Riker was watching her, a solemn, steady regard.

  Then the eyes seemed to alter. White whiskers sprouted below them. The wind swirled around her. She heard Santa Claus calling her name, sobbing, swearing. “Never again, damn you. This is the last time you’ll come back to haunt me.” The scarf snapped sharply in his mittened hands. “I’m going to kill you, Devon, remove your voice from the airwaves once and for all. If a cat has nine lives, then yours are about to expire.”

  If a cat had nine lives...

  Devon shied away from the angry, crooning voice, from the questions that lurked even deeper in her mind. In her dream, she ran. His voice followed her, echoing through the snowy air.

  “Your ninth life is about to expire, Devon Tremayne! Upon a midnight clear!”

  Chapter Seven

  If there was a hell, Jacob had been dropped into the heart of it. Nightmarish figures nipped at him, their sharp teeth sinking into the fleshy part of his brain.

  He spent half a sleepless night fighting a desire to kiss Devon’s tempting mouth, the other half wrestling with dreams that pinched and prodded in the guise of an old woman’s bony hands. She poked her wrinkled face into his mind’s eye. “Get tough,” she ordered finally. “You’ll die a young man if you don’t. Worse, you won’t amount to a damned thing. You’ll fail in everything you do, Jacob Price. You’l
l fail, and who will you have to blame but your own idealistic self...?”

  He shuddered free of the dream—then almost shot from the chair when a hand clamped down hard on his shoulder.

  “Rudy!” Jacob’s heart slammed into his ribcage twice before it steadied. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

  In the weird half light, Rudy’s leathery face looked infinitely older than his sixty-nine years. “I came to check on Devon.”

  “Only Devon?”

  The grip on Jacob’s shoulder tightened momentarily, before Rudy released him. He confined his response to a low growl. “You’re too wrapped up, boy. I don’t like it. This isn’t your style, all these lies and half-baked schemes to catch a killer. It’s police business. Official police business.”

  Devon shifted restlessly on the large bed.

  Jacob glanced at her in sleep, at the sprigged quilt which didn’t quite succeed in hiding her long limbs and graceful curves. With a brutal mental wrench, he motioned toward the living room.

  “You talked to Dugan.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  Rudy tossed his beat-up helmet onto a chair. “They’re up to their butts in paper right now. He’ll do what he can about the attack tonight.”

  Jacob sensed more. “But?”

  Rudy thinned his lips. “He doesn’t believe it’s the work of the Christmas Murderer.”

  “Just a random act of violence, huh?” Anger seared the blood in Jacob’s veins. “Your friend Dugan’s as big a jackass as his captain, Rudy, if he buys that load of bull. Did he check out the Holly Tree?”

  Rudy ran a tired hand over his face. “Where do you think we’ve been till four o’clock in the morning?” He straddled the sofa arm, palms flat on his thighs. “We went over it like ants at a picnic. Fingerprints are out, for obvious reasons. Bootprints, same thing. I asked earlier; there were no witnesses, and the Santa who got conked didn’t know what hit him. All we have is Devon, and I can’t see that he said anything to her that’ll help us make the guy.” He gave his head a slow shake, lower lip jutting. “We’re spinning our wheels here, Jacob. Now maybe if Devon were to go to the police herself.... Ah, hell,” he finished in disgust, “I don’t know what to tell you. They’ll investigate the incident the best they can.”

  Shoving a hand through his long hair, Jacob tuned out the testy last part of Rudy’s speech and circled a cluster of potted plants on the floor. Memories of bad dreams, of bony fingers yanking on his arm, taunted him from the corners of his mind. He hadn’t thought of the old woman for over seven years. Why lately? he wondered, then set the question aside and continued his pacing.

  “Do you have the files here?” he asked.

  Rudy grunted. “In your new apartment. I dropped them off before I came here.”

  Jacob regarded him, half-lidded. “How did you get in, Rudy?”

  His uncle shrugged. “I knocked. You didn’t answer. So I picked the lock.”

  Jacob’s humor kindled at the idea. “One of those useful talents you acquired on the force?”

  “As I recall,” Rudy retorted gruffly, “I acquired that particular talent from you. Caught you, cool as a cucumber, when you were ten years old, picking your way through the old woman’s mansion, and her sitting downstairs, insisting you wouldn’t know an impure act if it came up and bit you on the butt.”

  The amusement dimmed but didn’t quite die. “The old woman didn’t know me as well as she thought.”

  “Yeah, well, she was a funny old duck, I’ll admit. Every blessed bit of her estate would’ve gone to Laura if—well, you know. You only got the bulk by default....” Rudy’s comments trailed away to a cough. Difficult, Jacob supposed, for an uncle to miss the deadly calm expression on his nephew’s face. Dammit, if only he could shed the Christmas carol echoing in his head.

  “Listen, boy,” Rudy began.

  But Jacob cut him off with a firm, “I’ve done nothing but listen, Rudy, ever since this nightmare of murders began eight years ago. I listened to Riker, then I listened to you. I listened to Casey Coombes’s confession and to the life sentence he received for it. It’s crap, all of it. Devon’s been attacked twice. She’s been threatened, subtly and openly. Dammit, she hit her head on a wall tonight trying to escape a lunatic Santa with a scarf in his hands. She wound up running barefoot in the snow. She’s planned victim number eight, Rudy.” The muscles in his body vibrated like an overwound spring. When he pictured Devon’s pale cheeks, pictured a “midnight clear,” they wound even tighter. “Forget the book. Devon’s life is worth more than your precious police procedure. He had no right to touch her, let alone attack her. I’m going to nail this guy, Rudy.” Jacob’s eyes glittered with a light just fierce and foreign enough that he knew the old woman would have been shocked by it. “I’m going to nail him, and then I’m going to kill him.”

  “IT WAS A GERMAN IDEA originally to decorate fir trees.” Devon flipped from book to file to paper at her table. “The custom traveled to England courtesy of Queen Victoria’s husband, Prince Albert. Father Christmas metamorphosed from St. Nicholas. And then came Santa Claus.”

  “Who made the Santa we know?” Hannah asked from the counter. She was supervising Roscoe who was tearing lettuce leaves for a Caesar salad.

  “Coca Cola. Before that, though, back in Victorian times, Christmas carols gained popularity and beef and goose lost out to turkey as the dinner of choice.” Devon thumbed to the index. “Mom should read this before she tries to fob her veggie turkey off on us again this year.”

  Riker, who’d been testing his spicy lasagna sauce, arched dubious brows at her. “Veggie turkey?”

  Devon grinned. “It’s an acquired taste.”

  “One which requires the participation of an adventurous soul,” Roscoe added, giving Hannah a squeeze around the waist.

  Raising wary eyes, Devon regarded first her sister, then Riker who made a small motion with his head at the door.

  Fair was fair, she decided, pushing away from the overflowing table. Riker, and everyone really, had done their best all weekend, to take her mind off Friday night’s attack. Alma had dropped by Saturday afternoon armed with mincemeat tarts and a Scrabble board. Jimmy had sent her a floppy reindeer with gold lamé antlers and plaid hooves. Warren had wired a huge bouquet of lilacs, orchids and roses. “For a woman who looks and sounds like a Christmas angel,” was printed on the attached card.

  Andrew McGruder had even gotten into the act, although how he’d heard about the incident, Devon couldn’t imagine. There’d been no mention of it in any of the newspapers she’d read, and she knew Hannah hadn’t spoken of the matter.

  “A female alone,” he’d said, his pudgy cheeks wobbling as he shook his head in disapproval. “You should learn self-defense, Devon.” His flat brown eyes had brightened. “I could show you a few moves if you’d like.” His chest had puffed. “I took karate in college.”

  Devon had smiled. “Yes, I can see how dentistry and karate might mix.”

  Amusement aside, however, all she’d wanted was for him to disappear into the corridor shadows like the Cheshire cat he’d resembled right then. Instead, he’d continued to grin hugely at her. He’d even gone so far as to skate one large foot across the threshold.

  “It isn’t really late,” he started to say. Thankfully, he’d stopped and snatched his foot away when Riker had come bounding down the stairs.

  “Problem?” he’d asked at Andrew’s flustered appearance.

  “Not anymore.” Too kind by nature to be deliberately cruel, Devon had smiled at the blotchy-faced dentist. “Thanks for caring, Andrew, but I’m completely recovered, as you see.”

  She wasn’t sure what to make of the poisonous look Andrew darted at Riker, but she didn’t suppose it really mattered. She’d rather know how he’d learned of her situation in the first place.

  Riker had wondered the same thing, had pondered it out loud while he’d prowled her apartment, checking lo
cks, deadbolts and windows.

  “There’s something about that guy, Devon. He makes me think of Dr. Jekyll.”

  Devon had agreed. “But I don’t think he’s experimenting with the dark side of human nature, or whatever the good-bad doctor did. My guess is he’s lonely.”

  “A lonely eavesdropper.”

  “Possibly.” And preferable to the alternative that had popped into her head when she’d answered her door tonight. Andrew’s eyes were naturally squinty, his voice, if not precisely raspy, was certainly gritty enough to descend into such a sound.

  Devon hadn’t dwelled on those thoughts. She’d been tired and jittery, too much so to do more than thank Riker for coming down. Too bad, too, because he’d looked unutterably attractive in his faded jeans and cream denim shirt. His hair had been damp from a recent shower, his scent clean and masculine, disturbing to every one of her functioning senses. But he’d kept his distance just as studiously as she’d kept hers, giving her the time she’d needed to put things back in some sort of semi-rational perspective.

  She’d been immersed in the last bits of research for her series of Christmas shows when Riker had arrived late this afternoon, loaded down with grocery bags and wine, with Hannah behind him and Roscoe close on her heels. He made, he’d claimed, a killer lasagna. All she had to do was lend him her kitchen for a few hours, relax and enjoy.

  “Your sauce will burn,” Hannah warned now as Devon and Riker exited the kitchen.

  Roscoe sent them a get-lost smile and reached for the spoon. “I’ll stir it. Carry on.”

  “He’s pushing,” Devon remarked, crossing to the CD player.

  Pretty as it was, maybe the Christmas tree didn’t provide quite enough light with only two of them in the room. She had to grope for the disks in the slots.

  Riker came to stand behind her while she slid the “Nutcracker Suite” into the machine. His shirt was red cotton today. The color made her think of a bullfighter. “Why do you protect her so vigorously?” he asked quietly.