Page 61 of In the Dead of Night

Outside, the storm had arrived in full force. Rain and wind lashed at the windows like frantic fingers pleading for her to get out of there before it was too late.

Staring at the gun in Stocker’s hand, she knew it was already too late.

* * *

NICK SPOTTED the skid marks a quarter mile from where Nancy’s car had gone off the highway a year earlier. Turning on the cruiser’s overhead strobe lights, he parked well off the highway and set up flares. On the west side of the road, the guardrail had been plowed over. A path as wide as a car cut through low-growing brush and disappeared toward the rocky shore below.

One thing Nick knew for certain. Whoever had gone over that guardrail hadn’t survived.

He’d broken every speed limit on the way to the scene. The paramedics hadn’t yet arrived. Intellectually, Nick knew there would be little he could do even if he was able to reach the victim. But there was no way he could stand up here and do nothing. His mother could be lying down there, broken and dying alone.

Throwing on his slicker, Nick quickly secured a rappelling rope to the trunk of a sturdy sapling and started down the steep ravine. He fought his way through prickly brush, sliding through mud and over rain-slicked rock. A hundred feet down, he heard the hiss of steam coming from an engine. Twenty-five more feet and he reached the wreckage.

Nick let go of the rope and faced the scene. The car lay on its side, the undercarriage visible from where he stood. The smells of gasoline and burning rubber filled the air. Steam rose from beneath the twisted hood. The car was red, but it was too mangled for him to discern the make. Still, all he could think was that his mother was inside, and it was up to him to get her out.

Nick fought his way around to the other side of the vehicle. As he drew near and the front end came into view, he realized the car was not a red Mercedes, but an older Chevy. Bracing himself, he looked inside. But the driver was nowhere in sight.

“What the hell?”

For an instant, Nick stood there looking around, assuming the driver hadn’t worn a safety belt and had been ejected. But there was no blood. No sign anyone had been inside. Withdrawing the flashlight from his belt, he shone it around the interior. A quiver of uneasiness went through him when he spotted the length of wood braced against the accelerator. The other end had been duct-taped to the seat.

Realization dawned in a rush of horrible clarity.

“Sara,” he whispered and began to claw his way back up the ravine.

* * *

“DON’T LOOK so surprised.”

Sara stared at the pistol, her mind spinning through all the reasons Brett Stocker could be pointing it at her. But deep inside she knew.

“I don’t understand,” she managed.

“Aw, come on. The dots aren’t that hard to connect, are they?” His gaze flicked to the manuscript on the counter. “Did you have a look-see?”

“I read enough to know your father is a cold-blooded killer.”

“Yes, he is.”

The answer surprised her; she hadn’t expected him to agree with her. So why was he here aiming that gun at her heart? “What I can’t figure is how you play into the story. You were just a kid when all of this took place.”

“Like you, it took me a while to figure out what had happened. Not the kind of thing the folks talk about over Sunday-morning eggs Benedict, you know? But I eventually pieced things together.” His laugh was bitter. “I knew my old man had a streak of mean, but I had no idea he was also sick.”

Sara slid her hand toward her cell phone, which was clipped to her belt. If she could dial 911 without being seen…“Then why go to all this trouble to protect his secret?”

“I’m not doing it to protect him.” He gave an animated laugh. “I’m doing it for the manuscript.”

“But you already have the manuscript. You told me so on the phone.”

He clucked, a parent gently scolding a slow child. “I lied.” His gaze once again went to the manuscript on the counter. “That’s the only copy. The original. The one I’ve been looking for.”

“You’re not doing this to protect your father.”

“Do you have any idea how explosive the information contained in that manuscript is? Do you have any idea what that kind of information is worth? Good God, I’ve been trying to write a bestseller my entire adult life.”

“You’re doing it for the money? The fame?” Sara slowly eased the cell phone from its case. “What are you going to do? Sell it to the highest bidder?”

“Silly, silly woman.” He clucked his tongue. “Think big. We’re talking headlines. A New York Times bestseller. I can see it now.” He raised his hand as if placing letters on some invisible billboard. “Son Writes Tell-All Book, Puts Hollywood-Director Father Behind Bars.”