Silent Night (21 page)

The man grabbed Josh’s chin, pried his lips apart. Josh clenched his teeth so tightly, several of his fillings cracked. The bastard pinched Josh’s nose. He fought against opening his mouth. His body betrayed him. His mouth fell open, and he pulled in a huge gulp of icy air. Before he could release the scream ringing in his head, thick liquid filled his mouth, spilled up into his nose and one eye.

“Is anyone among you sick? Let him call for the elders of the church, and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord.”

He wailed against the acid he knew was eating away at his guts though he couldn’t feel it, and melting the flesh from his face—a pain he was all too aware of. Keeping his uninjured eye focused on the candles beside his head, he prayed for death. As a blade sliced through his chest, Josh Longwood swore he saw the hand of God reaching toward him as the devil pierced his heart.

T
HE MINUTE SHE
returned to her cottage that night, Miranda checked the microwave clock in the kitchenette, visible from the doorway. As she feared, the bright digits read the same time as her watch: 12:17 a.m. Whatever was going to happen, had already happened. The killer wouldn’t allow Monday to come before he’d performed his rite.

Having spent the evening trying to keep an eye on Anatole, her back ached and her rear end was numb. She’d parked her Range Rover across from the church, her laptop securely on her lap, one eye on the door, the other on her screen. She’d seen him leave his house around eight, and had somehow managed to lose him in town around eight-thirty when he’d headed into Town Square. She’d given up her search fifteen minutes ago, frustrated and pissed off that he’d given her the slip. She could only hope Tucker’s officers had been better at stakeouts than she was.

She tossed her purse and keys on the table. They promptly slid onto the floor. She left them there.

She was so exhausted she could’ve slept on her feet where she stood. A shower didn’t help. Neither did fresh pajamas or the hot tea she choked down while she collapsed on the sofa and mindlessly watched the late news on television.

When the news ended, she turned off the television, tossing the remote on the floor, her mind still tumbling over the events that had likely occurred tonight. Whose fate had landed on the wrong slot of the roulette wheel tonight?

Questions piled up in her brain until they spilled down her throat and settled like pebbles in her belly. She turned off the lamp and dragged the afghan from the ottoman and buried herself beneath it, her eyes open in the pitch-black room. There was no ticking of the grandfather clock to distract her, as in the apartment she’d rented in Dayton. Even the Christmas carols playing over town speakers had finally quieted for the night.

Frustrated, she put the throw pillow over her face and smothered a scream beneath it before throwing it across the room. It hit the curtain by the front door, letting in a bit of light before landing on the sill, holding the crack in the fabric open a couple inches. Her gaze strayed to the door. A tiny stream of light poured in through a crack. In her exhaustion, she hadn’t closed it properly.

With a groan, she crawled off the sofa and inched behind the recliner to retrieve the pillow and fix the drapes. Before she could extract herself to lock the door, a sound held her frozen. She jerked her head toward the door, certain she’d heard the handle move. Her breath hitched in her throat and stayed there until it burned.

She stood, watching. The handle moved slowly upward. Then down. She could rush the door, try to slam it shut before it opened . . . but she was stuck between the window and the recliner. Could she move that fast?

The door cracked. She ducked behind the chair, her breath trapped in her throat. A figure stepped inside, draped in shadow. It crossed to the hall, then moved toward the bedroom. Miranda inched toward the door, ready to bolt, but the shadow turned. She carefully placed the pillow over her hunched body, praying he wouldn’t turn on any lights. Her gaze landed on her purse and keys, still lying where they’d fallen. Watching the shadow, she inched her arm out and clasped the keys in her fist so tightly, they couldn’t make noise.

The sounds of the intruder came closer. A pair of black shoes faced the table, only inches away.

She clamped her hand over her mouth to keep her cry silent. She watched her purse rise from the floor by the chair. Heard the jangle of her belongings inside. A door closed outside, and laughter from her neighboring cottages created an eerie symphony through the partially opened door. Her curtains moved, casting more light into the room. It did her no good.

Without sticking her head out, she couldn’t see beyond the intruder’s knees. He stood at the window for several seconds—just inches from her. The curtains clanked against their hooks, then darkness again.

Jesus, her heart was pounding so loudly, he was going to hear it. She focused on those shoes, the only thing she could see clearly enough to tell Tucker. Boots. Wet from snow. Black and worn. They could belong to anyone. She didn’t hold out hope that the pants would offer any more details. From what she could see, they were also black, loose-fitting, nondescript.

The shadow disappeared, but she could hear movement toward the tiny closet by the front door, still blocking her escape. The closet opened and something heavy dropped to the floor. Something was being unzipped. Her bag?

She seized her phone, dialed Tucker’s number, kept the speaker on so he could hear and the volume down so her intruder couldn’t. If Tucker was home, he could be here in seconds. If he wasn’t . . .

He answered. She thanked God.

“There’s someone here,” she whispered, certain he wouldn’t understand her muffled words.

The shadow whirled in her direction. Had she given herself away? She eased her hand around to the front of the chair and gently placed the phone there, praying Tucker would hear if something happened.

He stopped by the window again. Miranda held her breath. Waited to be found. When the shadow moved again toward the hall, she bolted from her hiding spot. Her hand barely brushed the doorknob to freedom when strong arms grabbed her around the waist and threw her to the floor.

Her skull hit hardwood, jarring her teeth and her spine. She screamed, desperate to make enough noise now that Tucker would hear.

The figure strode to the chair, and she tried to scramble to her feet but was too dazed to do more than slide onto her belly. The intruder snatched up her phone and pressed it to his ear. She had no idea what he heard on the other end, but he powered it off, slipped it into his pocket, and bent over Miranda.

As he reached out to grab her again, she closed her fist around the nearest thing she could find. The floor lamp. It was heavy and awkward but she rolled over, swinging with all her might, sending him sprawling. Something slid across the floor toward the kitchen, and Miranda pulled herself to her knees, hell-bent on reaching the door before he could regain his footing.

She wasn’t fast enough. He fisted her hair, threw her as though she was made of air. Her back smacked into the kitchen table, her cheek coming down hard on the seat of a chair. Lights burst behind her eyes, but she willed herself to remain conscious. She hadn’t hit him hard enough to do damage the first time, but this time, by God, she would. She grabbed the coffee carafe, raised it over her head, and charged him. Glass shattered around his shoulders. He staggered. Swayed, but lurched for her again.

Ignoring the pain screaming through her body, she dashed for the door and headed for the party outside her neighbor’s cottage, casting only the briefest of glances behind her to see that Tucker’s truck and cruiser weren’t there.

The laughter stopped as she approached the group of five smoking on the porch. Someone grabbed her arm, the muffled words “Are you okay?” barely audible beneath the blood rushing in her ears.

“Ph-phone,” she panted.

Someone handed her a cell phone. She held it uselessly, realizing she didn’t know Tucker’s number without her contacts list. She dialed 911 and collapsed onto the stairs, trying to regain her breath. From here, she could see her cottage was dark and lifeless. Where had he gone?

A thick, smoke-tainted jacket was placed around her shoulders. As Shannon’s voice answered on the other end, Miranda’s thoughts grew cloudy. The phone fell from her hand and consciousness slipped from her grip.

I
F
T
UCKER HAD
been near his cruiser when Miranda’s call had come in, he would have had lights blazing and sirens blaring as he raced down the streets of Christmas. As it was, his cruiser was still parked at the station and he could only be thankful that the streets were quiet enough to allow him to maneuver his Raptor at full speed, taking no notice of red lights or stop signs or any other rules of traffic.

The two beers he’d had with Finn at the bar churned in his stomach as he pulled into his drive to open the gate. He didn’t even bother to cut the engine or pull up in front of his house. He just ran . . . straight to Miranda’s cottage.

He’d just made it to her open door, his heart in his throat, when he saw Miranda stumbling across the property from her neighbor’s. She was wearing a long shirt and an oversized jacket he’d never seen before.

He jogged toward her and she fell against him, sobbing. He lifted her, carried her back to his place and set her on his sofa, cranking the heat before she was fully settled. “I need you to tell me what happened, Miranda. Can you do that?”

“H-he . . . my cottage. He was th-there.”

“Who? Who was there?” He chafed her arms to help warm her. A bruise was forming on her cheek, but he couldn’t see any other marks right off. “Did he hurt you? Miranda?” He forced a calm into his voice he didn’t feel. “Did he touch you?”

She took a deep breath. “He just . . . came in. Wouldn’t let me run. I tried, but he’s strong. He was l-looking for something. I don’t know wh-what. He t-took my phone and I—I think I hurt him.”

“Where are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. Sore but not—nothing serious. He might still be in there, Tucker. I n-never saw him leave.”

“Let me look at you.”

“I said I’m fine.” She jerked her chin from his grip. Large, brown, watery eyes blinked up at him, and all he wanted to do was make her fear disappear.

He tucked her against his chest and placed a soft kiss on the crown of her head. She threw her arms around his neck and shook with sobs. Her skin was ice-cold, the strange jacket and the heater a sorry substitute for the feeling of security.

He rocked her, rubbing her hair in a pathetic attempt to offer comfort, but inside, his body was alive with adrenaline. If fear had a smell, she was coated in it. He wanted to push her aside and hunt down whoever was responsible for putting her in this state.

He gave her another light kiss. “Do you think you can walk up there with me? See if anything other than your phone is missing?”

“H-he checked my bags. I heard him. But I don’t think he took anything else. I think I took him by surprise. Please. Just make sure he’s gone.”

“Lock the door and stay by it. If you get scared, come outside and call for me, got it?”

He couldn’t tell if she nodded in understanding or if she was just shaking really hard.

“Tucker?”

“Yeah?”

“Why would he take my phone?”

To find out who the hell she was, more than likely. All of her personal information would be there. He didn’t think she’d appreciate hearing that, however, so he simply said, “I promise, I won’t be long.”

“Be careful,” she said, rubbing her cheek. “Really strong.”

He closed the door and waited until he heard it lock before making a quick trip around the exterior of her place. No one was hanging around outside. No one sped off in any cars from the property.

Satisfied that Miranda was safe where she was for the time being, he made his way inside her cottage. He wanted to dust for prints, even though he’d be willing to bet the guy was wearing gloves. He’d ask Miranda about that when he was done since he didn’t have any of his gear with him anyway. Just one piece that mattered most right now. His gun. With it held at the ready, he covered the place inch by inch. Every crevice and corner until he was certain he was alone.

There was no one there.

As he made his way back to the kitchen, his chest squeezed painfully as he saw the broken coffeepot, the overturned chairs. She could have died tonight. He hadn’t been there to protect her. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and angrily punched the number to the station, ordering an officer to the property to do a more thorough search so he could take Miranda’s statement and make sure she was all right.

As he bent to stand a fallen chair back up at the table, something in the corner caught his eye. He flipped on the kitchen light and saw, half hidden beneath another chair, a pocket-sized Bible.

Adrenaline pumped through him and he scavenged the kitchen for any baggies he might be able to use. The only thing she had was an empty grocery bag. It would have to do.

He slipped the Bible inside, holding it protectively with his plastic-coated fingers as he flipped the pages. It could belong to anyone, but from his quick scan, he could see several passages marked with glaring red circles.

He closed it, covered it fully in the bag, and headed back to his house to check on Miranda. Not wanting to scare her, he used his key to let himself in, calling out for her so she’d know it was him immediately.

She was sitting on the window seat, her gaze fixated on the door.

“Whoever it was is long gone.”

“Good.” She’d managed to pull herself together a bit in his absence, but while her voice no longer shook, fear still dulled her eyes and skin.

He had nothing to say that might make her feel better.

“You’re staying here.”

“Okay,” she whispered. In her lap, she wrung her hands together, and he could see the tremble of her fingers as they interlaced. She let out a breath that fogged the window.

He squeezed her hand. She didn’t let him go, clung to him even while looking away. Outside, he saw Bowen’s cruiser pull up and gave her hand another squeeze. “Let me talk to Bowen. I’ll be right back, all right?”

She gave a halfhearted smile. “I’m fine, Tucker. Just scared. Go. Do your job.”

By the time he finished telling Andy what he wanted done, Miranda’s color had returned to her cheeks. She’d found a blanket and had nestled beneath it, but she hadn’t moved from her spot by the window. When he sat beside her, she surprised him with a low giggle that turned into outright laughter.

“You okay?”

She nodded, struggling to compose herself.

“What’s so funny? You could have . . .”

“Died tonight. I know.” More laughter. “I just can’t help thinking . . . Bobby is so going to owe me.”

As he pulled her against his chest, her laughter turned to heartbreaking sobs.