Midnight Before Christmas (12 page)

“I’m certain of it. He hasn’t let the thing out of his sight since he got it.”

“Good. That makes matters ever so much easier.” He reached for the phone.

Bonnie placed her hand over his, stopping him. “Wait a minute. Let’s think this thing through.”

“We can’t wait any longer. Your precious offspring will be down soon, ready for his french-fry fix.”

“But I can’t call Carl. Not now. And you can’t either.”

He lifted the phone. “I don’t see why not.”

“He’ll recognize your voice.”

“Don’t be so sure. I’m a rather accomplished mimic, remember?”

“Frank, he got shot here, remember? Only hours ago. He may be a drunk, but he’s not utterly brainless! He won’t come here no matter what you say.”

Frank turned to her, smiled, and said, in a near-perfect imitation of Tommy’s high-pitched voice, “Please come, Daddy. Please. They’re hurting me.”

“You devil!” Bonnie’s mouth turned up in a huge grin. “That’s pretty good.”

“More than good enough for cellular phone transmissions.” He began to dial.

Bonnie came up behind him and wrapped her hands around his abdomen. “You’re so bad,” she purred, pressing up against him.

Frank smiled as he finished dialing the number. “I’m just getting started.”

Carl stared at the whiskey bottle resting in the middle of the kitchen table in his one-room apartment. God, he wanted a drink. Wanted it so bad every cell in his body seemed to ache for it. Wanted it so bad his brain seemed to be ordering him to unscrew the lid and take a swallow.

But he kept thinking about what that damned busybody priest-lawyer had said. Her words kept coming back unbidden: Maybe if you had more faith in yourself, you wouldn’t need the bottle.

Hell, what did she know anyway? It wasn’t as if she had some hot line to the truth. It wasn’t as if she’d been through what he’d been through.

He stared at that beautiful glistening damnable bottle. Just one drink would make him feel so much better …

But he wouldn’t stop at one drink, of course. He wouldn’t stop till he was tying on the floor swimming in his own urine, choking on his own vomit.

He turned away. He didn’t have time for this now. The cops could show up at any moment. He’d deal with the bottle some other time, when he could think straight. Later. But not now.

He threw on his heavy coat, grabbed all the money and loose change he could find, and headed out the door.’

He was almost gone when it called to him. Called him to come back.

Aren’t you forgetting something? the bottle said.

He heard the sweet siren song ringing in his ears. It’s me you really want, it sang to him. It’s me you care for.

“It isn’t true,” he said aloud, teeth clenched. “It isn’t.”

When he heard the sudden shrill sound, he almost jumped out of his skin. “Cops,” he murmured. “Gotta run.” He was almost on the fire escape when he realized the ringing sound was coming from his coat pocket. His cell phone.

“Who could …” He didn’t finish his question. There were only two possible answers. And they both seemed incredible.

He extended the antenna and pushed the Send button. “Hello?”

There was some static on the line, but not so much that he couldn’t make out the words. “Daddy! Please come, Daddy!”

“Tommy?” He pressed the phone close against his ear. “Tommy? Is that you?”

More static. “Daddy, please! Help!”

“Tommy? Tommy, listen to me!” He felt torn apart, desperate. “Tommy?”

“He’s hurting me, Daddy. He’s hurting me real bad.”

“Who is? Tommy? Can you hear me? Who’s hurting you? Frank?”

The voice on the other end of the phone cried out in agony. “Please, Daddy.
Please!”

Carl ran toward the door. “I’m coming, Tommy. Are you at home?”

“Yes, Daddy. And—can you wear the Santa suit? Like you used to.”

Carl’s brain raced. What had he done with the thing? Under the bed, in the closet… “I think so, son.”

“Good. Wear the Santa suit, Daddy. Come to the back door—over the fence. So the neighbors won’t see you.”

Carl nodded. If one of those neighbors saw him now, they’d call the police in a heartbeat.

“Come at nine-thirty, Daddy. I’ll sneak downstairs and meet you. You can come and take me away forever. Please!” The other end of the line clicked off.

Carl stood motionless, paralyzed with horror. He didn’t want to wait, he wanted to run out the door as quickly as he could.

But Tommy was right. If he just showed up like an idiot and got himself shot, he wouldn’t do anyone any good. Least of all Tommy. And he couldn’t call the police. They’d come after him, not Frank.

He ran back into the apartment. Like it or not, he would have to find that Santa suit and do as he was told.

He knew he was confused, knew he was probably screwing up somehow. But what could he do? His little boy was hurting. His little boy needed him!

He would have to go to him. Whatever the consequences.

M
EGAN RACED ACROSS THE
parking lot, shouting at the top of her lungs. “Mr. Collins! Mr. Collins!”

Mr. Collins, a balding middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper mustache, stopped.

His hesitation gave Megan the chance she needed to catch up. She ran the rest of the distance, watching her breath circulate in the cold night air. It was getting colder; those predictions of snow seemed more likely by the minute.

She stopped just before she collided with the man. He stood patiently, hands in his trench coat, an eyebrow arched. “Something I can do for you, ma’am?”

She pressed her hand against her chest, trying to catch her breath. The night air stung in her throat. “You’re the top man in ballistics, right?”

His brow wrinkled. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”

“That’s what they told me at the front desk. Just before they closed up.”

He nodded. “It is Christmas Eve.”

“Believe me, I know.” She took another deep breath. “What have you learned about the bullet that was fired at Carl Cantrell?”

He paused and scrutinized Megan with careful interest. “I don’t think I recognize you. Are you on the police force?”

“Uh … no.”

“DA’s office?”

“No.”

“Member of the fourth estate?”

“No. But I took some journalism classes in college.”

He did not appear amused. “Mind telling me why I would want to discuss the details of an ongoing investigation with you?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Ah. Well, that makes everything perfectly clear.” He turned and started toward his car.

“Wait.” She ran forward, positioning herself between Collins and his Dodge. “I’m trying to find out as much as I can about what happened out there today. At the shooting. Before I arrived.”

“Are you representing someone?”

“I represent Bonnie Cantrell. Or did, anyway.”

“And she wants to know the results of the ballistics tests?”

“Well, no. Not exactly.”

“Then I fail to see—”

“Look, I can’t explain everything perfectly, okay? I haven’t got it all figured out myself. I just have a really bad feeling about this, and sometimes, you have to trust your instincts and have faith—” She stopped, startled to find herself using the word. “I’m just afraid something terrible might happen if I don’t get to the bottom of this.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure I would love nothing more than to help you … trust your instincts. But all investigations are confidential till the chief says otherwise.”

“How do I get ahold of him?”

“On Christmas Eve? You don’t.” He pulled his keys out of his pocket and tried to gently nudge Megan out of the way.

“Wait!” she said, but he didn’t. He popped open the driver’s side door.

“But couldn’t you just—”

“No! Now if you don’t mind, I have some Christmas Eve plans of my own.”

With the door open, the car interior was lit and Megan could make out the photo dangling on a string from the rearview mirror. “Is that your family?”

“Of course.”

“I guess you’re going home to them. For Christmas dinner.”

He hesitated only a moment before answering. “Yes. Precisely.”

“Lucky man.” She inched forward. “Look, couldn’t you just answer a few questions? You don’t have to actually tell me anything. Just shake your head yes or no.”

“I will not.”

“Please!”

“I said no.”

“It could be a matter of life or death.”

“No!”
For the first time, Collins’s face began to flush red, and Megan didn’t think the chill was the principal cause. “Please leave me alone!”

“I’ll give you a present.” Megan plunged her hand into the depths of her shoulder bag and came up with the treasure she had acquired in the toxicology lab. “See?”

Collins stared at the object in her hand. “You’re offering me a plastic bus?”

“But it’s more—”

“I didn’t expect a million dollars, but as bribes go, that’s pathetic.”

“But it isn’t a bribe. It’s—”

“Yes?”

She drew in her breath. “It’s a Christmas present.”

“Ah. Well, that is different.” Somewhat reluctantly he took the bus into his hands. “I suppose this is intended as a stocking stuffer for preschoolers?”

“Oh, no. Definitely for grown-ups. See, it plays records.”

“What?”

“You heard right. There’s a stylus on the bottom.” She turned it over to show him. “You turn on the motor, put it on top of an LP, and it runs around playing the record. The sound comes out of those tiny speakers.”

Collins drew in his breath. “What’ll they think of next.” He held it up to his face for a closer look. “Is the music quality good?”

Megan shook her head. “Sounds like hell, I understand.”

“Is it good for your records?”

“Destroys them.”

He shrugged. “Well, what was I going to do with them, anyway? Use them for Frisbees?” He slipped the bus into his pocket. “Okay, you made me an offer I can’t refuse. Here, let me give you something.”

“I promise you—that isn’t necessary—”

He rooted around in the backseat of his car, then emerged again. “The truth is, I lied to you.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.” His eyes clouded. “I’m not going to see my family. My wife and I are divorced. I get visitation, but she got Christmas. And she made it clear she doesn’t want me anywhere near. I don’t get to see my boy till New Year’s.” He looked at the wrapped package in his hands. “I bought this for my kid. Ordered it months ago. But if I know my ex-wife and her parents, by the time I see my boy next, he’ll already have three of them. Why don’t you take it?”

Megan held up her hands. “I really have no need—”

He pressed it into her hands. “You never know. Take it.” Megan reluctantly accepted the gift. “So, anyway, what was it you wanted to know?”

Her eyes widened. “You mean you’ll tell me?”

“Well, it is Christmas, after all. Almost. So you’re investigating the Cantrell shooting?”

“Right.” There was precipitation in the air, a bit too cold and dry to be rain. It was definitely going to snow. “Do you know who shot him?”

“No. And I’m not likely to find out through ballistics analysis, either.”

“I thought every gun left individual markings on a bullet that could be used to trace it back to the gun that fired it.”

“That’s true. But the bullet has to be found in a condition such that it’s possible to read those markings. This bullet was found lodged in the bark of a tree.”

“Blast.” Megan’s fists clenched up. “I knew it passed through Carl’s body, but I didn’t know about the tree.”

“I’m afraid the bullet was squashed on impact. The markings are absolutely unreadable at this point. For all I can tell, the bullet could have come out of any of a million guns.”

“And there was nothing unusual about the caliber?”

“No. Exactly the same bullet all the city cops are firing.”

Megan wrapped her arms around herself. All of a sudden she was feeling the cold. Even though she didn’t know what it was, she had thought she was getting close to something. Now it seemed she had come up against a brick wall. “I had hoped I might learn something by talking to the police officer who actually shot him.”

“Police officer? What do you mean?”

“I mean, if I could talk to the officer who fired the bullet—”

“Oh, no. There’s no chance of that.”

“I don’t understand. You said the bullet was the same caliber—”

“And it is. But that doesn’t mean he was shot by a cop.”

“But … then who?”

“I can’t tell you. But I can tell you this. I was with Barney when he inspected the wound and took pictures for the evidence file. The entry wound was in the forearm, in the front. The exit wound was in the back.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“I was given to understand the man was running toward the house when he was shot.”

“That’s true. He was.”

“And I assume he wasn’t running backwards.”

“No, of course not.”

“Then there’s no doubt about it.” He folded his arms firmly across his chest. “The bullet was fired from the house.”

“What?”

“The police were behind him. They may have fired, but the bullet that hit the man came from in front of him. And that means it came from the house.”

Megan grabbed his arm. “Have you told this to anyone yet?”

“Told who? Everyone’s gone. It’s Christmas Eve, for Pete’s sake. I filed my report. And I expect the detectives working on the case will read it—when they get back after the holidays.”

A sudden frisson of horror shot down Megan’s spine. “That won’t be soon enough.” She spun around toward her car on the other side of the parking lot. “I have to tell Carl.”

“Carl?” Collins called after her. “Carl Cantrell?”

“Right.”

“Haven’t you heard?”

Megan froze in her tracks. What
now?
“Heard what?”

“It was on the radio. Carl Cantrell broke out of protective custody. Eluded his guards and snuck away from the hospital where he was recuperating.”

Megan’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, no!”

“I’m afraid it’s true. So you’re not going to be able to tell him anything. Unless you know where he’s going next.”

The short hairs rose up on the back of Megan’s neck. Something was bringing goose bumps to her skin, and it wasn’t the cold. “I only hope I don’t,” she said, and without saying another word, she raced across the parking lot to her car.