Night Stalker Page 12

  Now...

  Now she was only sad for what they’d lost when they’d given up on each other.

  “Are you sure? Bubbles doesn’t keep a spare key anywhere,” she said, her voice husky with longing and regret.

  He heard it. She knew he did.

  His brow furrowed, and he studied her face, his fingers still on her arm. He looked like he might say something, but his gaze shifted to Wren and then to the group of law enforcement officers who crowded into her living room.

  “I’m sure,” he finally said. “River has a way with locks. They tend to open for him without much trouble.”

  “That sounds illegal,” she murmured.

  “Only if he gets caught,” Wren said. “Let’s go.”

  She opened the door, letting cold moist air sweep in. The rain hadn’t let up. It was still falling steadily as Adam nudged Charlotte out onto the front porch.

  “You said someone from an Alzheimer’s facility called and asked you to come for a visit, right?” Wren asked as she opened the Cadillac’s back door and gestured for Charlotte to slide in.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Just thinking that it’s an interesting proposition.” Wren slid into the driver’s seat, starting the engine as Adam settled into the seat beside Charlotte.

  “What’s interesting about it?” he asked.

  “If it’s a place we can secure easily, it might not be a bad idea,” Wren responded, putting the car in gear.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Adam responded.

  “Why would I be?”

  “Because the Night Stalker wants her dead. The only safe place for her is somewhere far away from any place he’s familiar with.”

  “The best way to catch a rat is to bait the trap with something he likes,” Wren responded.

  Adam stilled.

  Charlotte could feel the tension in his muscles, the stiff way he held himself. “No,” he growled.

  “It’s not your decision to make,” Wren responded calmly. “We’re going to discuss the options and weigh the risks. We’ll make the decision as a team.”

  “Without consulting me?” Charlotte broke in, her pulse racing. If she was going to be used as Night Stalker bait, she’d at least like to have some input into how the plan would go down.

  “Of course we’ll consult you. If you’re not comfortable with the plan, we’ll change it.”

  “There is no plan,” Adam grumbled. “And if the one you’re thinking of really involves prancing Charlotte all over town like she’s a hot fudge sundae at an ice cream lover’s convention, there is never going to be one.”

  “A hot fudge sundae at an ice cream lover’s convention?” Charlotte repeated, laughter bubbling out and filling the car.

  “You did always say that I had a way with words,” he responded, and she realized he was watching her, his tension gone, his expression unreadable.

  She looked into his eyes, because he was there and she was, and the years apart didn’t seem to matter nearly as much as the time they’d spent together, the secrets they’d shared, the life they’d planned.

  Her laughter died, and she touched his jaw, her fingers running over prickly stubble and warm skin.

  She shouldn’t have done it.

  She knew that, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself.

  Her hand dropped away, and he captured it, running his thumb across her knuckles.

  “I missed your laughter, Charlotte,” he said so quietly she almost didn’t hear.

  “I missed you,” she responded, the words coming from a place so deep in her soul that she hadn’t even realized they were there or that she was going to say them.

  “What I mean—” she began.

  “Don’t ruin it, okay?” He cut her off, squeezing her hand gently before releasing it. “Just let it be what it is.”

  “What’s that?” she asked as Wren turned into Bubbles’s driveway.

  “A truth we both should have spoken a long time ago,” he replied.

  She wanted to ask him what he meant, but the car stopped, and he got out, the moment lost. Just like so many others had been.

  When he reached for her hand, she took it, though, and when he held on to it as they walked to Bubbles’s house, she didn’t make any attempt to pull away.

  This was where she should have been all along.

  This was what she’d been missing for five and a half years.

  This was what she should have fought for, what she hadn’t dared believe she could keep.

  Maybe she should have trusted a little more, believed a little harder. Maybe she should have had more faith that God could fill the silences between them with peace and comfort and love, but her faith had been weak at best. Nonexistent at worst. It had taken losing Daniel to understand how much she needed to believe that God was there. She’d been lost in her sorrow, consumed by her despair. Reaching out to Adam had been as impossible as going back in time and saving her son.

  Now that she was through the worst of it and the pain was more a nagging ache than stabbing agony, she could see how easy it would have been to agree to Adam’s plan. Right now, in this moment, if he asked again, if he told her once more that he had to leave to heal, she’d go with him so they could heal together.

  But, of course, it was too late.

  The time for making that decision had passed, and now she could only move forward in the direction she’d been heading before Adam stepped back into her life.

  She tugged her hand from his as he opened Bubbles’s door, stepping into the cool musty house alone, and telling herself that was exactly how she was meant to be.

  * * *

  To Adam, Bubbles’s house had always felt like a mansion. Even now, after years of being away and seeing plenty of bigger, grander houses, it felt that way.

  He followed Charlotte through the foyer and up the curved stairs that led to the second floor. Wren was right behind him, her footsteps light on the carpeted tread. He wasn’t sure where River was. Probably somewhere in the bowels of the house, checking to make sure no one was lurking there.

  “This place is creepy,” Wren huffed as they reached the landing.

  “What makes you say that?” he asked, and she pointed to an old armchair that sat against the wall. Several porcelain dolls were piled on top of it, their glass eyes staring lifelessly.

  “That,” she responded.

  “They’re dolls.”

  “Dolls belong in little kids’ playrooms. Not on chairs at the top of stair landings.”

  “If you don’t like the dolls, don’t come in Bubbles’s room. She collects them,” Charlotte said as she pushed open a door at the end of the hall.

  He walked in behind her, stopping short when he realized just how many dolls the elderly woman had acquired.

  He whistled under his breath, scanning the shelves and chairs and bed, all of them piled high with her collection. “Wow,” he said, because it was all he could manage.

  “I know, right?” she responded, opening Bubbles’s wardrobe and grabbing a small carryall from it.

  “When did this happen?” he asked, because it hadn’t been this way when he’d left. In all the time he’d known her, Bubbles’s house had never been anything other than pristine. He’d learned to be neat from her. He’d learned the value of clean and organized spaces by helping her dust and polish and put things away.

  Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and it also keeps a person from being embarrassed when people stop by unexpectedly.

  That had been her motto, and he’d embraced it, because neat was better than the clutter he’d lived with at home. The house he’d shared with his mother had been just like this—filled with stuff. Only the stuff had been mostly trash, dirty dishes and cigarette butts.

  “I don’t really know.” Charlotte pulled a gauzy nightgow
n from the wardrobe and folded it neatly. “It wasn’t like this when Daniel died, and then it was. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “She was filling up the emptiness,” he said, lifting one of the old porcelain dolls and touching a crack on its face.

  “She could have filled it with puppies,” Wren said, peering in the open doorway. “Or kittens. Or even goldfish. Why dolls?”

  “I think Bubbles always wanted children. She was so happy when Daniel was born. He was the grandson she never thought she’d have.” Charlotte opened a dresser drawer and pulled out clothes that she tucked carefully into the bag. “She used to buy him trucks and cars from flea markets. Remember, Adam? She loved bringing him surprises.”

  Yeah. He remembered.

  He also remembered the way Bubbles had looked when she’d seen the baby for the first time—his face still red and pinched, his eyes clenched shut. She’d bustled into the room with balloons and a giant stuffed dog, all business and ready to get on with things. And then she’d seen Daniel; she’d touched his fisted hand and downy hair. When Charlotte had handed him to her, she’d held him like he was the most precious gift she’d ever received.

  She’d loved him.

  Somehow Adam had let himself forget that.

  “I remember,” he said, setting the doll down.

  “You guys almost done?” River called, and something in his voice cleared Adam’s head, made him push the memories aside and remember exactly why they were in Bubbles’s room.

  “Are we?” he asked, and Charlotte nodded.

  “Just let me grab a few things from the bathroom.” She jogged past him, the carryall bouncing against her slim hip. She’d changed into yoga pants, a fitted T-shirt and a long cardigan. He’d noticed that when he’d walked into her room and found her sleeping. She’d been curled up on her side, her body tense even in slumber, the clothes emphasizing her reed-thin frame, the narrowness of her hips and shoulders.

  She’d looked fragile and vulnerable, and he’d grabbed a blanket from the linen closet to cover her, because there’d been nothing else he could do. He’d given up his right to watch her sleep. He’d abdicated his role as protector, confidant and friend.

  “Let’s go,” River said, suddenly on the landing, his firearm out, his muscles tense.

  “What’s wrong?” Adam asked, and he shook his head.

  “I don’t know. Just a feeling that something isn’t right. All the windows and doors were locked up tight, but the cellar door wasn’t bolted from the inside.”

  “I doubt Bubbles spends much time down there,” Adam said, but he was already moving toward the bathroom, ready to grab Charlotte and leave.

  “Maybe not, but Charlotte told us that Bubbles is a little paranoid. That she’s obsessive about locking doors.”

  He was right. Charlotte had mentioned that more than once when they’d discussed the open door at the cottage.

  “Your feelings are usually impeccable, River. If you’re worried, so am I,” Wren said. “Let’s get Charlotte and head out.” Wren strode toward the stairs, obviously planning to assess the situation herself.

  She didn’t have a chance.

  Something exploded, the force of it shaking the house on its foundation. Smoke billowed through the cracks in the wood floorboards, snaking up and tainting the air.

  Everyone was moving. Charlotte running from the bathroom, a brush in her hand, the old wool coat billowing out around her. Wren sprinting downstairs, gun in hand. Adam and River flanking Charlotte and rushing her toward the servant staircase in the back of the house.

  They didn’t have a plan.

  They didn’t need one.

  They each knew the priority. Get the civilian out unharmed.

  Adam had been in plenty of dangerous situations. He’d freed hostages and led them to safety. He’d been in gun battles where innocent people were being used as shields. Every life he’d saved had been important. Every innocent person he’d helped had been worth the effort.

  But this was Charlotte.

  The woman who’d once held his heart.

  He couldn’t fail her. Not again.

  He flung open the door that led into the narrow stairwell.

  No smoke there. Just chilly air and darkness.

  “Move!” he shouted, nearly lifting Charlotte off her feet as he propelled her through the opening.

  EIGHT

  The house shook again as they stumbled down the dark staircase, and Charlotte’s foot slipped, her legs going out from under her. If Adam’s arm hadn’t been around her waist, she’d have fallen, but he yanked her back up, tugging her closer to his side.

  “We’re almost there,” he said, his voice steady and calm.

  “How do you know?” Her voice was shaky and panicked. She didn’t know what was going on, but it was bad. Really bad. She could smell smoke, taste it in the air. Worse, the house seemed to have shifted, the old staircase uneven, the floorboards seeming to give as she stepped on them.

  “I used to work for Bubbles, remember? I’ve used this stairway hundreds of times. There are twenty-three steps, and we just hit the last one.” He reached out, and she could see his arm in the darkness, his hand feeling for the door that led into the kitchen.

  He found it. Finally. Pushed it open.

  The kitchen was dark. No lights from the appliances. No soft tick of the clock that usually hung from the wall. The house felt silent, empty and cold, but the floor vibrated beneath Charlotte’s feet, the old wood unstable.

  “Careful. If the foundation is shot, some of the support beams might be gone, too.” River stepped in front of her, leading the way into the room, moving slowly and cautiously. Below them, old timber creaked and groaned, the soft hiss of the old radiator mixing with the whistling sound of steam being pushed too rapidly through a narrow opening.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” she whispered, afraid if she spoke too loudly the entire house would tumble in on them.

  “None of this is good,” Adam replied.

  “What happened? What’s going on?”

  “My guess is that the Night Stalker planted explosives. Maybe he planned to use a detonator to set them off when Bubbles returned.”

  “He didn’t do a very good job if they exploded before she got here.”

  “I don’t think he was finished,” River said, testing the floorboard in front of him before putting his weight on it.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think he was here when I arrived. The house felt off, but the front and back doors were locked. All the windows were locked. I was able to pick a lock on a side door, and I was fairly quiet when I arrived, but if the Night Stalker was down in the basement, he’d have heard my footsteps as I was walking through the house.”

  “So, you interrupted him, and he left?” She stumbled over something—maybe a chair—and Adam pulled her closer. She could feel his heart thrumming in his chest, feel the tension in his muscles. Hear the soft controlled breaths he was taking.

  “He didn’t go far. He was probably in the woods when you arrived, realized that this was a golden opportunity to get rid of you and set off the detonator.” River was moving a little more quickly now, making his way through the room, his body silhouetted by moonlight that streamed in through the kitchen window.

  Charlotte and Adam followed, picking their way across the kitchen, following the path River was forging. Smoke streamed up from cracks in the wood floor, drifting into the darkness in lazy tendrils of inky blackness that stung Charlotte’s nose and throat.

  “You doing okay?” Adam asked.

  “Dandy,” she replied, and she was certain that he smiled at her through the darkness.

  River had reached the three-season room that jutted off the back of the house. Decades ago, it had been a porch, but one of Bubbles’s grandparents had closed it in and create
d a room that could be used most of the year. There were windows on three sides. Any one of them would give the Night Stalker a clear view of the interior. Charlotte hesitated at the threshold, scanning the windows and searching the landscape beyond them. She didn’t want to escape an explosion and get killed by a sniper’s bullet.

  She also didn’t want to stand in the darkness too terrified to act.

  “It’s okay,” Adam murmured in her ear, nudging her into the room. The floor was more stable there, the air clearer. Unlike the rest of the house, it was built on bedrock rather than a basement.

  “Okay? He could still be out there,” she responded. “We need to go see if we can stop him before he takes off.” She would have darted for the door, but he pulled her up short.

  “Wren is already searching for him. I’m pretty certain a dozen other law enforcement officers are on their way.”

  “You called this in?”

  “I didn’t have to. The explosion was loud enough to be heard at your place. Come on. We’re clearing out.”

  “And going where?”

  “To the hospital. Like we originally planned.”

  “But—”

  “Let’s go,” River snapped, opening the exterior door and stepping outside. Adam nudged Charlotte forward, and she followed, sandwiched between the men as if they could block a bullet that might fly toward her, keep her safe from the maniac who wanted her dead.

  Her and Bubbles dead.

  The thought left her cold with fear and rage.

  “What if he’s on his way to the hospital?” She spoke out loud. “If he’s trying to kill Bubbles, isn’t that the first place he should have gone?”

  “Why do you think he hasn’t already been there? It’s been five hours since she was admitted. Plenty of time for him to get there and back,” Adam responded as they rounded the side of the house and hurried to the Cadillac.

  Sirens were screaming, emergency lights flashing on the road. Help was on the way, but it was too late for the house. The structure was listing to the right, sinking into the ground it had been built on.