Christmas At Timberwoods (26 page)
Read Christmas At Timberwoods Online
Authors: Fern Michaels
“What are you looking at?” he snarled.
Angela turned around, pulling her tangled hair out of her mouth. “Nothing.”
“Come on.”
Her wrist hurt where he grabbed it, taking her nearly to the edge of the roof this time. He stopped in front of something that looked to her like a pile of junk.
“There it is. My answer to all my problems,” he said in a raw undertone.
“Wh-what is it?” Her teeth chattered in her head.
“An IED—an improvised explosive device. Also known as a bomb.”
She swallowed hard and looked at it, making out a big propane tank leaning against a roof vent. There were tubes and wires going in and out of both. Another, thinner wire was pressed into a lump of something that seemed to be modeling clay. And was that a timer? He was gently brushing snow off a round glass face.
“Still operational.” He blew the last of the snow off it. “One, two, three, boom. And we all fall down.”
“Charlie, you can’t—you don’t want to—”
He straightened. “I can. And I do want to. But for a while I had second thoughts.”
“Why?” she asked desperately. Keep him talking. Someone had to come. Help must be on the way. Didn’t Heather Andrews and her staff monitor the whole mall on security cameras? Someone besides her poor father must have seen her and Charlie disappear into the stairwell.
Only if someone had been watching.
“Because of you,” he finally answered. “I fooled myself into believing you cared. But you didn’t.”
She made a move forward, as if she was going to pat his shoulder, but he brushed her hand away. “Don’t touch me. I don’t want to be touched ever again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re lying, Angela.”
She crossed her arms, hiding her hands underneath them to keep her fingers from freezing. He was right about that. Why was she apologizing to a psycho who was prepared to kill thousands of people? A little voice he couldn’t hear answered that question. To keep him from doing it.
Say anything. Swallow your damned pride.
Say anything. Swallow your damned pride.
“No, I’m not lying,” she said firmly. “And I really do apologize for not leaving you a letter, or contacting you.”
“That’s over and done with,” he snarled. “It’s okay that you lied. Everyone does.”
“Charlie, that day I left—that was a misunder-standing. I never got a chance to explain to you.”
A mean gleam brightened his eyes. “And now you never will.”
Tears welled in her eyes and a few rolled down her cheeks, turning into ice. The wet trails stung with salt and coldness.
“Crybaby,” he taunted her. “Go ahead. Run away and tell daddy. Oh, I forgot. Your daddy isn’t feeling too good right now. I guess I don’t know my own strength.”
His childish cruelty was obliterated in her mind by the mention of her father. She strained to summon up a mental image of him, but nothing came through. Angela closed her eyes. Still nothing.
Silently she waited, hoping for a vision that would tell her what to do. Her mind was scoured blank by her fear. Then—there was something, moving indistinctly. Hands. Whose? Then there were words.
Hand over hand.
What on earth did that mean? Was she supposed to climb down the sheer side of the building? Her one gift was failing her when she needed it most. Angela’s eyes flew open when Charlie’s gloved fingers brushed her cheek.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked. His tone was bizarrely gentle.
“I was praying,” she said quickly. Of all things to lie about.
“For what?”
“Help. For you.”
His short laugh was fierce and devoid of humor. “Too late for that.” His gaze moved to a silver cell phone in the palm of his hand.
“Can’t you—call someone?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know anyone to call. There aren’t any numbers in this, anyway. It’s new. A prepaid. My Christmas present to myself.”
“I see.” The wind stole the reply and cast it away into the freezing air.
He fooled with the cheap little phone, pushing buttons and getting different screens. “Look at this. I can put my favorite people on speed dial. A is for Angela. That’s the first key. What’s your number again?”
She told him. Slowly. Every second counted.
“You can’t call me, Charlie. My cell battery’s dead. I don’t even know where the damn thing is.”
He shrugged. “The phone company software will record the outgoing call. That’s proof of a connection between us. I’ll hurl the phone way out over the edge before this baby blows.” He nudged his bomb with a toe. “Maybe they’ll find it, and blame you and not me.”
Her mouth went dry. If she didn’t get free, didn’t stop him, that was a distinct possibility.
“That’s not why you bought a prepaid cell.”
He grinned and patted the propane tank. “Smart girl. You’re right. I took this crummy phone apart and rigged it as a detonator.” He caressed the first key. “A is for Angela. In memory of you.”
The brief vision that she hadn’t understood came back to her. Hand over hand.
What did it mean?
His fingers tightened around the phone.
Compelled by an impulse she didn’t understand, she put her white, shaking hand over his.
That was it. So simple.
Startled, Charlie dropped the phone. Angela kicked it into the snow. She reached out again and took his empty hand. He held on. She had no idea why.
“I can’t let go,” he whispered.
Angela dropped to her knees and he did the same thing.
“What’s going on? What are you doing to me?” His face turned up to the winter sky.
“The lady said she was praying,” came a deep male voice. “Better join in.”
Out of nowhere, a solid punch came from above and connected with Charlie’s jaw. He fell backward, knocked unconscious by Eric Summers’s fist.
Angela scrambled to her feet. In less than a minute, the detective had Charlie tied up with cable cuffs, his face shoved halfway into the snow, still unconscious but groaning.
Summers unclipped a walkie-talkie and pushed a button. “Send backup,” he instructed. “Yeah, to the roof, southwest quadrant near the edge. The SOB is trussed up like a Christmas turkey; he’ll hold. Get to the guy at the bottom of the stairs first. He’s breathing, but just barely.” He looked at Angela. “You all right? Did I forget anything?”
She pointed to the assemblage of tubes and wires and the propane tank. “He was about to detonate it. With a cell phone. It’s in the snow.”
His eyes widened. “Jesus!” He grabbed her hand and ran toward the roof door with her in tow, still on the walkie-talkie. “Call in the bomb squad and hurry! Land on the roof and make it quick! Hell yes, evacuate the damn mall! Everybody out, as fast as you guys can do it without causing a stampede! I’m bringing the girl down now!”
He ran with her to the door, then looked back at Charlie, who’d rolled over.
Eric told himself to forget it. His baby was about to be born. Let Charlie Roman blow up with his bomb. If he came to and found the cell phone . . .
There were thousands of people in the mall who didn’t even know they were in mortal danger.
The detective shoved Angela through the door. “Go!” he shouted. He ran back to Charlie, who was pawing through the snow around him, groggy but determined. Eric grabbed the man’s hood, pulled him up, knocked him out again with a second punch, and dragged him to the roof door, running against Charlie’s deadweight.
Too bad he wasn’t actually dead. In fact, Eric would have been happy to send Charlie straight to hell, but not when the lives of several thousand innocent people were at stake. He’d done what he could. A court of law would determine the man’s ultimate fate. Eric yanked and pulled Charlie’s heavy body down the stairs behind him. In another few seconds, his angry groans were drowned out by the choppy roar of a helicopter landing on the Timberwoods roof.
Those guys knew what they were doing. They put their lives on the line every damn time. He wished them luck. They would need it.
It was over. The bomb was defused and Charlie Roman was behind bars, with no bail granted. He’d be there for a long, long time.
Angela had been told she was free to go home after several hours at precinct headquarters. Eric Summers had stayed with her through the police questioning and after that, until someone called to let him know his wife was in the early stages of labor. Considering the shock of the events at the mall, her doctor thought it best for her to go to the hospital for monitoring. Eric agreed.
The authorities formally released Angela after Heather Andrews, seconded by Harold Baumgarten and Felex Lassiter, extracted a promise to keep Angela’s name and role in the capture of Charlie Roman out of the media for now. The evidence, like the letters, would have to be analyzed. Eventually she would have to testify against him in court. But that was months away. She didn’t want to think about it.
“You ready?” Eric asked.
“Yes.” Angela got up quickly. “Can we go to the hospital? How’s Mrs. Summers?”
“I just talked to the obstetrician,” Eric said, smiling but weary. “He said she’s doing fine. Looks like the baby could be born by early morning.”
“That’s great. They’re keeping my dad overnight for observation. I was planning on sleeping in a chair in his room.”
“Ask for a cot. They don’t mind.”
They parted company at the hospital, Eric heading for the maternity ward and Angela for pediatrics. She wanted to check on Maria.
Several floors above the lobby, she stopped at the nurse’s station and made inquiries.
“Maria Andretti? Yes, she’s here. But she’s been moved to an isolation room. Her mother’s with her.”
Angela’s heart skipped a beat. “Is she that sick?”
The nurse smiled understandingly. “Yes and no. She’s being prepared for a bone marrow transplant tomorrow. The doctor thought it would be best to keep her in a sterile environment.”
Angela’s panicked look said more than she could.
“I guess you didn’t know that she has leukemia. Isolation is standard prior to the procedure and afterward. But you could wave to her through the glass window if you like. She’s a talkative little mite. Room seventeen-D. That way.”
“Thanks. Thanks so much.” Angela rushed down the hall to where the nurse pointed. She spotted the room before she got to it—holiday cards were taped to the glass on the outside so Maria could see them.
Carol and Joe Andretti, in gowns, gloves, and face masks, had their backs to the window, bending over their tiny daughter who lay in bed. Angela watched, not wanting to knock on the glass. She glanced at the cards taped to it, smiling at one with glittering figure skates on the front and a warm message inside. Tina Twinkles had come through. Sooner or later, if all went well, Maria would have her first skating lessons. Exhausted, Angela rested her forehead on the glass and closed her eyes for a few seconds. Instantly, a vision came to her of a rosycheeked, dark-haired child running through a field of daisies, a child who was older than Maria was now. Angela heaved a sigh of relief, knowing instinctively that she was seeing spring—next spring. Maria was going to make it. Thank God.
She opened her eyes with a start when she heard the little girl’s voice, somewhat muffled by the thick glass that separated her room from the hospital corridor.
“Look, Mommy! It’s the angel lady!”
The Andrettis waved at her and Carol pointed to the masks that she and her husband had to wear. Their hellos were even more muffled.
Angela nodded in understanding. “I just wanted to see Maria again,” she called. “Merry Christmas to all of you . . .”
The remaining days of the holiday were a blur. Angela didn’t return home, if you could call it that. Neither did Murray. They were ensconced in a fancy hotel, but she hated it. However, she liked her Christmas present from him. His idea, and a surprise. Two tickets to London, one for her and one for him. An ocean away from her mother. A chance to start over.
At the airport, Angela waited in the bar area of the restaurant outside the boarding gates, not ready to go through the endless security line yet. She’d ordered plain tonic over ice to get herself in a British mood, taken one sip, and found it unpleasantly bitter. Gin wouldn’t improve it and she’d get carded if she asked for it. She hadn’t wanted the rest. The ice was melting rapidly, and beads of water trickled down the outside of the glass. It was like watching rain through a window—kind of sad, but it passed the time.
She looked up when a man entered the darkened room. Even in silhouette, there was something familiar about him.
“Angela?”
She knew that voice, had heard it in a trance, but not since then. Dr. Noel Dayton.
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