Dangerous Temptation (43 page)

Nathan wished he'd admit that he had defeated him. He wanted his father to beg him for his life. He didn't want to see this pathetic figure, staring at him as if he were a phantom. He wanted some animation; he wanted an excuse to use the gun.

He hadn't realised how powerful a gun could make you feel. Cowering behind the desk, all he'd felt was fear for his own safety, but now he felt almost invincible. The realisation that Jacob might have been experiencing these selfsame feelings when he was holding the gun made him angry. He'd killed Jake; he deserved to die. But Nathan found he just couldn't pull the trigger. He couldn't kill his own father in cold blood.

So he had to do something, say something, to arouse some sort of reaction. Aggression, preferably. It would be easier if he was mad. The old man probably thought he wouldn't use the gun against him. A half-hysterical gulp rose in this throat. If he only knew.

Jacob was getting to his feet now, and for all his bravado, Nathan felt a return of the terror he had experienced earlier. His father straightened his back and looked at him, his eyes dull and unseeing. He was beaten, thought Nathan firmly, but he tightened his grip on the gun just the same.

"I—I guess I ought to say thanks," he taunted, his voice higher than he would have liked, but it wasn't easy keeping his cool. "You've done me a favour, getting rid of that bastard. Now that Jake's out of the way, it makes things so much simpler for me."

The roar that erupted from Jacob's throat as Nathan spoke was almost too primitive to have human origins. It seemed to well up from the depths of his father's being, and his whole face took on an unholy glow. It terrified his son, despite the gun, and his breathing quickened instinctively. The old man was mad; did he need any further proof? God, he breathed, give me the strength to fire the gun.

"Keep back," he warned as Jacob started towards him, but although he'd wanted this to happen, his finger still trembled over the pin. "I—I don't want to have to kill you," he added, aware that he was backing away and despising himself for it. "For Christ's sake, don't make me do it, Pa. I didn't mean what I said."

But Jacob didn't seem to be listening to him. He just came on like some lumbering beast, closing the space between them, until he was only the length of the desk away. Behind Nathan was a wall of bookcases, with no escape possible. Oh, God! He closed his eyes, and using both hands, pulled the trigger. It clicked once—twice—and then his father's body fell.

When he opened his eyes again, Jacob was lying face down on the hearth. A trickle of blood was coming from his head and pooling on the stone beneath. Nathan didn't know if he was dead. It certainly looked that way, but he couldn't be positive. Not without touching him at any rate, and for the moment he could only stare at the gun in disbelief.

A mirthless laugh escaped him, and after fiddling with it for a few seconds, he at last managed to pull the magazine out. It was empty. It had been empty since his father fired the shot that had killed Jake. There must have only been four bullets in it.

He hadn't shot his father, he thought unsteadily. The clicks he'd heard were just that—clicks—of the hammer hitting the firing pin. Proof that he hadn't gone suddenly deaf as he'd feared. No, ironically enough, his father had fallen headlong over the open drawer from which Nathan had removed the whisky. His thirst had saved him. Or, God knew, he could be dead.

Steeling his nerves, he put down the gun and approached his father's prone body. A shudder of revulsion ran through him, but he managed to lay two fingers beneath the old man's ear. He was warm from the embers of the fire, but there was no pulse, not even the faintest thread of a heartbeat. He shivered. Like Retch, the fall must have killed him. Jacob was never going to threaten him again.

Nausea almost choked him, but he turned aside and took another mouthful of the whisky. Christ, he thought, wiping his mouth, who would ever believe he was the innocent party here? If he called the police, he could say goodbye to his freedom for good. They'd probably lock him up and throw away the key.

He permitted himself a brief glance in his brother's direction. But the sight of the blood issuing from the wound on his head turned his stomach, and he quickly looked away. God, he thought incredulously, Jake had survived the plane crash just to be killed by his own father. If that wasn't ironic, he didn't know what was.

He tried to think, but his brain felt as thick as leather. It felt as if it was swollen, enlarged, pressing against the walls of his skull, until he felt sure it was in danger of splitting his head apart. What the hell was he going to do? Who would believe his story? Not Carl; not the Websters; not Caitlin. That bitch wouldn't lift a hand to bail him out.

No one knew he was here.

The thought came out of nowhere, and the bottle fell from his nerveless fingers as he acknowledged something that until then had been little more than a niggling awareness in his mind. No one knew he had been staying with his father. As far as the people of Prescott were concerned, his father hadn't had any visitors. And when they found his body—and Jake's, too—they'd probably blame his brother for what had happened.

He frowned. It might not be that easy to arrange, he realised grimly. If they found the bodies right away, they'd probably be able to tell who had died first. Jake could hardly be accused of killing his father if he'd been already dead, could he? Nathan needed a way to complicate the evidence. To ensure no one knew exactly how they'd died.

It was almost light. If he wanted to get away from here without anybody knowing, he didn't have much time left. He had to think of some way to delay their examination. Then the sale of this old woodpile would be his inheritance.

Not that it was worth much, he conceded bitterly. If the old man had sold out years ago, he'd have been worth a hell of a lot more. The insurance was probably worth more than the sawmill. His eyes glittered. It would serve him right if the whole place went up in smoke…

It was the smell that brought Jake to his senses.

The acrid aroma of smoke and kerosene was all too reminiscent of the plane crash, and for a moment he felt as paralysed as he had been then. He had a vivid image of himself, lying on the edge of the runway, incapable of doing anything to help himself or anybody else. He could hear the crackling of the flames; he could feel the heat. But this time his memory was clear.

And he could move. His head hurt—pretty abominably, actually—but he didn't think he was seriously injured. The bullet must have grazed his temple, he decided, tentatively exploring the area where it hurt. And, as with all head wounds, it had bled profusely. He wondered if he'd lost a lot of blood.

But that didn't explain the fire, he realised dizzily. Although his head swam when he moved, and his limbs felt like jelly, he levered himself slowly to his knees.

For a moment, nausea assailed him. Despite the urgency he felt to get to his feet, he had to wait for the sickness to pass. That was when he saw his father's body. The old man was lying half over the hearth, and he looked ominously still.

All around him now he could see billows of smoke swirling. The old house was as dry as tinder, and it was a mercy this room hadn't yet been engulfed by the flames. He realised the noise he could hear was coining from the staircase, and it was only a matter of time before the fire leapt along the hall.

Panic gripped his stomach. The realisation that he was in a house that was rapidly being consumed by fire was terrifying. How the fire had started—
why
the fire had started— were questions that barely licked along the edges of his consciousness. His first task was to get himself and his father out of the building. If he could, he acknowledged unsteadily. Somehow he had to find the strength.

If only he didn't feel so helpless. The bullet, which he thought must have ploughed a shallow furrow along his hairline, had combined with the lingering effects of the accident to sap his will. Confronting Nathan earlier had robbed him of most of his resistance, and now the amount of blood he'd lost was adding to his fatigue.

The smoke was getting thicker, and pulling off his jacket, he used it to shield his nose and mouth. Then, ignoring his own pain, he crawled across the floor towards his father. There might be some way he could protect the old man.

There was a pool of blood beneath Jacob's head that was rapidly staining the stonework of the hearth. Jake uttered a groan as he leant over him, but he sensed before he touched his cold cheek that his father was dead. He didn't know how long he'd been lying there. Although his skin felt cold, that was no guarantee. This was a cold room; it had been a cold house; and he was no expert. And the old man's blood must have been thin for a long time.

A feeling of helplessness was his first reaction, followed swiftly by an almost numbing sense of disbelief. He hadn't realised Jacob's death would mean that much to him. But it did. The man had been his father, and neither time, nor distance, nor their years of estrangement could alter that.

With trembling hands, he turned him over, catching his breath at the ugly wound that split his temple. Blood had congealed around the wound, and the old man's face was deathly white. Dear God, he thought sickly, had Nathan done this? Was that why he could smell the kerosene?

A splintering sound came from above his head, and looking up, he saw an ominous crack appear in the ceiling. Evidently, the intense heat was buckling the floorboards. The wood was baking and tearing the beams apart.

He staggered, but he managed to get to his feet. For all he would have liked to spend more time mourning his father's passing, he knew he couldn't indulge in maudlin sentiment now. If he didn't get out of here soon, the whole building would collapse around him, and he'd never find out if Nathan was to blame.

But he couldn't leave the old man behind. For all he was sure Jacob was dead, there was always a chance he might be wrong. Just because he couldn't find a pulse didn't mean there wasn't one. He'd seen men in Vietnam who'd looked as bad and made a full recovery.

But they'd been young men, with youthful constitutions. His father had been old and far from well. Looking at him now, he felt a pang for his frailty. He wouldn't have had much resistance to the blow.

All the same, it took every ounce of strength he had to move the body. With an immense effort, he managed to lever his father's shoulders off the hearth and haul him unceremoniously across the floor. It was an undignified exit, but it was the best he could do in the circumstances. The old man would remember nothing about it, and it was better than leaving him behind.

He'd reached the doorway when he heard the sound of hurried footsteps. He'd expected Nathan to be long gone by now, and the realisation that he might have misjudged his brother caused him a moment's grief. What if Nathan hadn't started the fire? What if he'd just panicked when Jake was shot and run away? Could the old man have thought Jake was dead and lit the fire himself?

The smoke in the hall was so thick Jake couldn't immediately be sure it was Nathan, As he'd suspected, the stairs were burning, and sparks from the flames would soon have the hall alight. Already the worn ribbon of carpet was smouldering, and as he watched, the curtain at the foot of the stairs was swiftly consumed.