In the Dead of Night (10 page)

“Sara! Where are you?”

The prints led him into the ravine and up the other side. Two sets of them, he was sure. Larger ones with a plain sole. And smaller imprints, with a sharper heel.
Sara’s,
he thought.

The footprints led to an outcropping of rock on the north rim of the ravine. Nick paused to listen, but heard nothing over the downpour and the crash of the sea. Cupping his hands on either side of his mouth he called out her name.

He was midway down the rock when he heard a cry. A first, Nick thought the sound was a figment of his imagination, brought about by wanting to hear her voice so badly his brain had conjured it. Then he heard it again.

He rushed to the top of the rock and looked around wildly. “Sara!”

“I’m here!”

His stomach dropped when he realized her voice was coming from below. Scrambling to the ledge, he knelt and peered over. His breath jammed in his lungs when he spotted her on a narrow shelf ten feet down. The first thing that registered was that she had blood on her face. A dozen horrible scenarios rushed through his brain. She’d been shot. She’d fallen and struck her head. Then it occurred to him that she was standing, trying to climb back up the face of the rock.

Dangerous, considering that just a few feet from where she stood, the ledge dropped fifty feet to the rocky beach below.

“Don’t move,” he shouted. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay. Just…banged up.”

“Stay put. Don’t try to climb up. I’ll come get you.”

“Be careful,” she cried. “There’s someone else up there. He pushed me.”

His sidearm was out of its holster even before she’d completed the sentence. Nick stood, looked uneasily around. The hairs on his nape prickled when he spotted the crude letters scrawled on a rock face ten feet away in dripping red paint. The same type of paint that had been used to write the words on her car window the day before and again today.

Blaine Stocker.

“What the hell?”

Crossing to the rock, he set his finger against the paint—Blaine Stocker.

The name sparked a memory, but he couldn’t place it. The only thing he knew for certain was that he’d heard it before. The paint was slowly being washed away by the rain. The cop in him wanted to preserve it for clues, but the man in him wanted only to get Sara off of that ledge.

To do that he needed a rope. Ten feet wasn’t that far to pull someone up, but the rocks were slick with moss. If he couldn’t find a foothold, pulling her up would be difficult. But Nick didn’t want to leave her alone. As far as he knew the bastard who’d pushed her might return to finish the job.

He walked back to the ledge. Setting his gun on the ground, he stretched out on his stomach and reached for her. “Can you reach my hand?”

She tried, but their fingers were several inches apart. “Maybe we can use my purse strap. It’s leather.”

“That’ll work.”

Grabbing her bag, Sara stepped up on a small jut of rock, stood on her tiptoes and extended the strap.

Nick scooted dangerously close to the edge and grasped the strap. Her fingertips touched his hand as he twisted it around his fist. She did the same, wrapping the leather strap around her wrist. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Whatever you do, don’t let go,” he said.

“Like that’s an option at this point.”

He dug in with his feet as much as he could and began to pull. His muscles quivered with the exertion. Even though he was soaked, sweat broke out on his skin.

“Use your feet to climb,” he ground out.

He could hear her choking with effort as she squirmed and pushed her way up the sheer face of rock. Her free hand grasped dry grass next to his shoulder, her fingers digging into mud like claws.

Nick heaved as hard as he could. Her shoulders emerged. He scrambled back, using his weight to pull her full length onto the rock.

Relief made his muscles go slack. For several seconds the only sounds came from their labored breathing and the crash of the surf below.

Because he was angry, Nick didn’t go to her right away. Instead, he focused that burst of energy on the person who’d pushed her off the cliff. The thought of someone hurting her—trying to
kill
her—filled him with a cold and dangerous rage. Reaching for his weapon, he rose and scanned the area. He wanted to go in search of the son of a bitch; he wanted to smash his face with his fist. But Nick needed to calm down and make sure she was all right first.

Next to him, Sara struggled to her hands and knees. Her hair hung wetly in her face. Her clothes were soaked and covered with mud. When she looked up at him, the pale cast of her complexion and the blood dripping down her forehead unsettled him.

“Let me help you.” Setting his hands beneath her arms, he helped her rise. She was small within his grip, her entire body trembling violently. “Easy does it,” he said.

“Did you see anyone?” Her eyes were already scanning the surrounding brush and the shadows within the trees in the ravine.

“No.” But that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone out there, watching them, waiting.

“There was someone here. A man. I—I followed him from the house. He pushed me.” Her voice shook, the words tumbling out too fast.

“I’ll get a couple of officers out here.” He looked at the cut on her forehead and another wave of anger engulfed him. “Right now I need to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine. I just…I need to know who did this and why.”

“Sara, you’re cut. Let’s go inside.”

“Oh my God.” She gaped at the last remnants of the name someone had painted in red on the rock. “I know that name.”

“How so?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ve heard it.”

“It’s familiar to me, too. But we’ll have to figure it out later. For now we need to get you inside. That cut looks nasty.”

When she balked, he took her hand and gently tugged her in the direction of the house.

He led her back into the ravine and up the other side. All the while, he kept his eyes on the surrounding underbrush. The line of trees to the east. The thought that someone had tried to kill her never left his mind.

Once inside, Nick locked the door behind them and headed toward the kitchen. Only then did he realize he was shaking nearly as badly as she was. He wanted to blame it on adrenaline or anger or the physical exertion of his sprint into the ravine. But he knew his pounding heart and shaking hands had more to do with Sara and how close she’d come to being seriously hurt—or worse.

Not wanting to examine that too closely, he walked to the sink and ran water from the tap into a glass. He turned to hand it to her, only to find her at the patio door, looking out.

Frowning, he approached her and handed her the glass. “Do you have any idea how crazy it was for you to come here alone?”

“I know. It was stupid. I’m sorry.” Her hand shook when she accepted the glass. “I guess I didn’t think the situation would escalate to something like this.”

“Most people don’t expect to become crime victims.” The words came out more angrily than he had intended. He couldn’t help it. Her coming here alone had been worse than foolhardy. “Damn it, Sara, it could have turned out a hell of a lot worse.”

“It didn’t.” She touched the cut on her forehead, and he shook his head in disbelief.

Because he was dangerously close to losing his temper, he tugged his cell phone from his belt and dialed the police station. B.J. answered on the first ring. “Hey, Chief.”

“I’m out at the old Douglas place. A prowler assaulted Ms. Douglas. I need an officer.” A K-9 unit would have been helpful, but it wasn’t in the Cape Darkwood budget, so he had to settle for a single officer.

“Damn, Chief. Is she okay?”

He scowled at Sara. “She’s fine, but the guy nearly pushed her off the cliff.”

B.J. whistled. “I’ll dispatch Sammy right away.”

Nick thanked him and disconnected. Now that his nerves had settled and the initial burst of fear had ebbed, a controlled anger was setting in. He looked around for a place for her to sit and some decent light so he could see to the gash on her forehead. Since there wasn’t a breakfast table, he crossed to the counter and patted it. “Have a seat and let me take a look at that cut.”

She crossed to the counter. “You’re angry.”

“Damn straight I am.” Setting his hands beneath her arms, he lifted her onto it, trying not to notice how good she felt in his arms. He found a kitchen towel hanging by the sink and took it to her. For the first time he got a good look at her face.

“Damn it, Sara.”

Her eyes were dark and wide within her pale face. The cut on her forehead oozed blood. A bruise was beginning to form beneath it. Wetting the towel, he dabbed at the cut, hoping the wound wasn’t as bad as it looked.

“Were you unconscious at any time?” he asked.

She gave him a half-hearted smile. “I was too scared to pass out.”

Nick didn’t smile back. “You should go to the emergency room.”

“I’m okay.”

“What you did was unbelievably foolhardy.”

She met his gaze levelly. “Yes, what I did was dumb. I’ve already admitted that. But put yourself in my shoes.”

He was feeling far too hostile to concede to her, so he remained silent.

Her lips turned down into a frown. One glance and Nick found himself thinking of the kiss they’d shared the night before. Before he could stop himself, his gaze dipped lower. To the damp T-shirt and jeans that clung to her like skin. Considering the circumstances, she shouldn’t have looked sexy. He shouldn’t let himself notice. But he did.

“Don’t be angry,” she said.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he growled.

“I scared the hell out of myself.”

Steeling himself against the pull to her, he turned his attention to the wound. “It doesn’t look like you need stitches, but you’ve got one hell of a bump.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got a hard head.”

Nick couldn’t help it; he smiled. He knew that was what she wanted. To draw him out so he wouldn’t berate her for doing something stupid. Usually, he wasn’t so pliable, especially when it came to the safety of someone he cared about. But there was something about Sara that made him feel light inside, made him want to smile.

“If I didn’t like you so much, I’d give you a good dressing-down.”

“You’d probably be wasting your time.”

He dabbed at the wound and she winced. “Sorry.”

But her mind obviously wasn’t on the cut. “We need to find out who Blaine Stocker is.”

“We will. Give me a minute here, will you?”

She didn’t seem to hear him. “Who would do something like this? What could they possibly have to gain?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But we need to find out because I’m not going to let the son of a bitch get away with trying to kill you.”

Nick’s officer was gone by the time Sara stepped out of the shower and slipped into dry clothes. She’d thought the hot water would soothe the bruises and aches she’d sustained in the fall. Instead, every insult to her body had come to life with a vengeance.

She started down the stairs to find Nick standing near the front door. He looked up as she descended. “Any sign of the man who pushed me?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Sammy and I set up a grid and searched the area, but we didn’t find anything. Most of the footprints were washed away by the rain. Even the writing on your car window is gone.” He grimaced. “He’s heading over to talk to the caretaker now.”

Skeeter,
Sara thought, and felt a tinge of sadness. She didn’t think the caretaker was responsible; the man who’d pushed her had seemed much more agile. But she couldn’t say for certain. “Did your officer recognize the name Blaine Stocker?”

“He had the same reaction we did. The name seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it. I’ll hop on the Internet when we get back to the bungalow.” He regarded her, concern evident in his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Sort of like I got run over by a stagecoach and a team of mules.” She managed a smile.

He didn’t smile, but his expression lightened. “You look better.”

“Purple becomes me.” When he simply stared at her, she pointed to the bruise on her forehead. “That was a joke.”

“Not funny.” But he finally smiled.

His clothes were still damp. She wished she could offer him something dry to wear, but all she had were the few items she’d left in her closet.

“We need to talk about what happened,” he said after a moment. “Then we need to get a few things straight.”

“Nick, I’m not in the mood for a lecture—”

“I’m not going to lecture you.” Gazing steadily at her, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I think we need to take a long, hard look at everything you’ve uncovered since you’ve been here.”

Her pulse kicked with anticipation. Sara knew it was a silly reaction, but she also felt grateful that he was finally starting to believe her. “So you think the police may have been wrong?”

“I believe all of this warrants a very careful look.” He scowled at her. “By me.”

The memory of the journal she found sent her rushing for her bag. “I almost forgot.”

“What?”

She tugged the faded tapestry journal from her purse and set it on the table in front of her. “I found this hidden in a compartment in the hearth mantel.” Her hand shook when she held it out.

He opened the journal and began to page through it. “That’s my father’s writing.”

“It’s the same writing as the notes I found in the attic.”

“What the hell are my father’s notes doing at your parents’ house?” he wondered aloud.

“Nick, I think maybe they’d been working on something together.”

“A book?”

She nodded. “It makes sense.”

As if by unspoken agreement, they began to read.

Twenty-two-year-old Helen Murchison went to a photo shoot in Hollywood and never returned. Her roommate, Kim Cable, reported her missing the next morning. No one would have dreamed her torn and battered body would be found a week later in a dry riverbed in East L.A.

Toward the end of the journal, Nicholas Tyson wrote:

I watched the film today, and I was literally sickened. Filth. Alex and Rich saw it, too. Alex broke down and cried. I watched it a second time with them. There’s no way the police are going to go after B.S. Someone inside the Hollywood PD, and more than likely the D.A.’s office, is on his payroll. We’ve decided to continue gathering evidence on our own and complete the book. In the interim, we can only pray more young women don’t fall victim to his secret hunger for violence.

“My God.”

Sara’s voice snapped him back to the present. He glanced at her, saw terrible knowledge in his eyes. He felt that same awful knowing in his own heart.

“I’ll bet the farm that B.S. is Blaine Stocker,” Nick said.

“We need to find out who he is.”

Sara rose on legs that weren’t quite steady and paced to the kitchen window. Outside, the rain had stopped, but a thick fog had rolled in from the cape.

Absently, she touched the burgeoning bruise on her forehead. “I think your father and my parents were working on a book.”

“Or a documentary.”

She turned to him. “Is there a possibility the manuscript could be packed away with your father’s belongings? Maybe at your mother’s house?”

“Mom went through all of my father’s things when he was killed. She was angry. Most of it went to charity. The rest went into the trash.”

“Is there any way you can get into her house and check?”

“I’ve got a key,” he said. “Maybe I can duck in while my mother’s at the shop.”

“Thank you.”

He joined her at the window, his expression troubled. Beyond the glass, fog swirled around the juniper and rock. “In the interim, you can’t stay here alone.”

“Maybe there’s a motel off the highway.”

He remained silent for so long that for a moment, Sara thought he wouldn’t respond. Finally, he turned to her, his eyes seeking hers, holding them with such intensity that she needed to look away, but couldn’t. “Your things are already at my bungalow. Stay with me. You’ll be safe. We can work on this thing together.”

It was the logical thing to do. Practical. But, a refusal teetered on her lips. Maybe because of the way he was looking at her. As if she were the only woman in the world and he was the loneliest man on earth.

“All right,” she said.

Something she didn’t understand flashed in his eyes. “Bring everything you’ve found so far,” he said. “Notes. Photos. The journal. Anything you can think of.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I’m going to get into some dry clothes. Then we’re going to sit down and figure this thing out, starting with the name Blaine Stocker.”

N
ICK HAD ALWAYS
prided himself on his level-headedness. His ability to keep his cool under pressure. On taking the high road over the low. On doing the right thing even when the right thing wasn’t necessarily the easiest.

Until tonight, anyway.

Inviting Sara to stay with him was a train wreck waiting to happen. He was too attracted to her. Too willing to let down his guard. And far too willing to set aside his reservations for the promise of a touch or the taste of her lips. A hell of a dilemma for a man who’d sworn he was going to be smart about this and steadfast in his convictions.

The fog thickened on the drive from the mansion to his bungalow. Visibility dwindled to less than twenty feet. As his cruiser crept along at a snail’s pace, he knew neither of them would be going anywhere the rest of the night.

Inside, Nick locked all the doors, then headed for the second bedroom, which he’d turned into a sort of home office. He picked up his laptop and carried it to the kitchen table and turned it on.

“Nick, you should put on some dry clothes.”

He glanced at her as the laptop booted. “In a minute.”

“What are you doing?”

“Checking on the status of my inquiry with the Missing and Unidentified Persons Unit.” Taking a chair, he sat. “And seeing what we can find on Blaine Stocker.”

His hands danced across the keyboard as he brought up the Department of Justice database. “Here it is,” he said, leaning forward.

Sara bent and read the report. “Jenna Sherwood. Twenty-four years old. Reported missing. Status: unresolved.”

“She was reported missing and never found,” Nick said.

Sara didn’t know anything about the young woman, but the fact that she’d never been found saddened her. “Do you think she’s dead?”

“No way to tell at this point. I’ll forward the stills and see if the techies at the Unit can match them.” Nick logged out of the database, then pulled up a search engine and typed in the name Blaine Stocker.

The inquiry returned several dozen hits. “Popular guy,” he muttered and clicked on the first link.

Sara leaned over his shoulder as he read the headline from the
Los Angeles Times
newspaper dated just over a year ago.

Former Hollywood Director Suffers Massive Stroke.

In his heyday, Blaine Stocker was one of the hottest and most controversial moviemakers in the business. The director of over a dozen films, including
The Dread
and
Come Hither the Night
, Stocker’s talents invariably leaned toward the dark and artistic side of filmmaking. After suffering a minor stroke two years ago, however, he retired to his home in San Francisco with his wife, Channing, and virtually disappeared from the Hollywood scene. Rumor had it he was working on another movie when a second stroke rendered him unable to work just six weeks ago….

“A Hollywood director?” Taking the chair next to him, Sara shot Nick a puzzled look. “I don’t get it. How does he tie in to all of this?”

“Maybe there’s a Hollywood connection,” Nick answered.

Her eyes widened. “My God. Snuff?”

“Could be.”

“And my parents? Your father? How do they tie in?”

“Your parents were Hollywood insiders.”

“Maybe it’s like we said. A book. Your father and my parents were trying to expose him.”

“Some proof would be nice.”

She nibbled on a nail, her eyes never leaving the laptop screen. “If this Stocker dude suffered a stroke, he’s probably feeble. There’s no way he stole those notes or pushed me today.”

“Yeah, but he’s got enough money to pay people to do his dirty work for him.” Nick clicked on the second link. The story focused on the former director’s slow recovery from a series of strokes that had left him partially paralyzed.

One by one, they went through each link. Sara jotted notes while Nick maneuvered the mouse. It took almost an hour to get through all the links. Afterward, Nick knew a lot more about Blaine Stocker. But he had no idea how any of it tied in to what happened twenty years ago.

“Any word from the lab?” Sara asked.

Nick shook his head. “Might take a couple of days.”

“There’s no link between Stocker and my parents,” Sara said.

Hearing the frustration in her voice, Nick glanced over at her. “San Francisco isn’t that far.”

Her eyes widened, her hand already reaching for the laptop. “I’ll make myself a reservation tonight—”

Nick set his hand over hers. “If you go, I go with you.”

That silenced her, but only for a moment. “You’d do that?”

He knew accompanying her to San Francisco would probably be a mistake. She was already messing with his head, making him want her. Making him want things that would only complicate his life. But looking into her eyes, he thought he’d probably jump through a flaming hoop just to see her smile.

“There’s a commuter flight that leaves the Shelter Cove Airport first thing in the morning,” he heard himself say. “The return is late, so it would only be a day trip.”

“We won’t need much time.” She glanced at her watch. “Maybe I should see if I can find Blaine Stocker’s phone number, give him a call and set up an appointment.”

Nick shook his head. “This might be one of those times when it’s better to surprise him. Catch him off guard.”

Looking restless, she tapped her fingers against the table. “So what do we do in the interim?”

He glanced at his wet clothes. “I think the first order of the day is some dry clothes.”

“I’m sorry.” Her glaze flicked over him. “You’ve been sitting here all this time in damp clothes.”

He waved off the statement, but her concern warmed him in a way it shouldn’t have. Not at all comfortable with that, he motioned toward the notes and papers they’d brought with them from the house. “Maybe we could go through what you’ve found so far and see if we can come up with a connection or some angle we haven’t seen yet.”

She was already reaching for the folder containing the pages she’d printed at the library when he started for the shower.

Ten minutes later he found Sara sitting at his dining room table, every scrap of information on the deaths of their parents spread out before her. On the stove, a saucepan steamed, and he realized she’d heated soup.

“I hope you like chicken noodle.”

“Grew up on it.” But Nick wasn’t thinking about soup. He couldn’t take his eyes off Sara—the way she looked, sitting at his table, her attention fastened to the papers in front of her. Even pale, a bruise the size of a walnut forming on her forehead, she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on. She was determined and smart and brave and he suddenly had the urge to go to her and take her mouth in a kiss. He knew better than to entertain inappropriate thoughts at a time when he needed to keep his distance. But she didn’t exactly invoke his best judgment.

“I’ll make an ice pack for that bruise,” he said.

“It doesn’t hurt.” She gave him only half of her attention as she paged through a mountain of papers.

“If you don’t get that swelling down, you’ll feel it in the morning.” He carried bowls to the table and set one in front of her. “Sorry for canned food. The scourge of a bachelor.”

She glanced up from the paper she was reading. An emotion he didn’t understand scrolled across her features, then her expression turned somber. “Sonia told me about your late wife, Nick. I’ve been so caught up in this, I didn’t broach the subject. But I wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

The statement shouldn’t have taken him by surprise, but even after a year he invariably had a difficult time knowing how to respond. He didn’t like condolences. Didn’t like remembering those dark months following Nancy’s death.

She must have noticed his reaction because she set the paper down and set her hand over his. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m such a klutz.”

“You’re not.”

“You okay?”

“Sure.”

Judging from the way she was looking at him, he figured it was a safe bet they both knew he wasn’t. Not that he wanted to talk about it. He didn’t. Not now. Not ever. That was how he’d dealt with the loss. The pain. In the year since the accident, Nick hadn’t discussed Nancy’s death with anyone. He hadn’t told a soul she’d been eight weeks pregnant. Or that for months afterward he’d struggled with nightmares and flashbacks and cold sweats in the middle of the night.