Night Moves : Dream Man/After the Night Read online

  “You bastard!”

  The shriek came out of nowhere. Blinded by the fierce glare of the fire, Gray couldn’t see anything at first. Then Monica materialized out of the night, dressed head to toe in dark clothing that had cut down her visibility. His sister’s face was dead white, her dark eyes wild.

  “You bastard!” she shrieked again, advancing on Alex like a Fury. The firelight gleamed on the barrel of the revolver in her hand. “All these years . . . you’ve been screwing me . . . pretending I was Mama . . . and you killed my father!”

  Maybe Alex saw her intention to fire in Monica’s eyes. Maybe he was simply startled by her appearance, her screaming attack. For whatever reason, he swung the rifle around toward her. Gray leaped for him again, a roar of protest on his lips, knowing he couldn’t reach him in time any more than he’d been able to a moment before.

  Monica closed her eyes and fired.

  Twenty

  “The bastard,” Monica kept whispering in a drained, lifeless voice. “The bastard.”

  Faith sat in a county patrol car with Monica, holding her when she cried, letting her talk as she would. The door on her side of the car had been left open, while the one on Monica’s side had been closed; a subtle splitting of hairs on the part of the parish law enforcement. Monica didn’t seem to care that the door beside her didn’t have any inside handles. She was in shock, shivering occasionally despite the heat of the night, added to that from the fire, and Sheriff McFane himself had carefully spread a blanket over her.

  Faith stared out the open door, feeling more than a little numb herself. It had all happened so quickly . . . The house was gutted, a total loss. Alex had poured gasoline all around the house and tossed a match to it, intending that she be trapped inside with no clear way out. Had she somehow managed to get out, he had been waiting with a rifle. It would have been assumed that she’d been killed by whoever had been sending her the notes, and since he was innocent of that, he’d felt safe. But Gray had hidden his car behind the shed, and in the darkness Alex hadn’t seen it. When Gray had come stumbling out of the burning house, Alex’s careful plans had been shattered. He had been shocked by Gray’s presence—Gray, whom he loved like a son. All they could do now was guess what Alex would have done, faced with that dilemma.

  Her car, sitting so close to the house, was also a total loss. Without the key to crank the engine and pull it away, she had watched as a section of wall fell on it and set it afire. Gray’s Jaguar had been pulled away from the shed and now sat safely on the side of the road. The shed still stood, though. She stared at it through the smoke. Maybe she could sleep there, she thought with ghoulish humor.

  Her small yard swarmed with people. The sheriff and his deputies, the volunteer firefighters, the fire medics, the coroner, the sightseers. God knows what so many people had been doing out that time of night, but an inordinate number of them had evidently followed all the flashing lights.

  She watched Gray’s tall body, silhouetted against the dying blaze. He was talking to Sheriff McFane, a few yards away from Alex Chelette’s covered body. He was shirtless, his long hair flying around his bare shoulders, and even from here she could hear him coughing.

  Her own throat felt like fire, and she could feel the stinging of several burns, on her hands and arms, her back, her legs. It hurt to cough, which didn’t stop her lungs from periodically trying to clear themselves, but all in all she felt lucky to be alive and in relatively good health.

  “I’m sorry,” Monica said abruptly. She was staring straight ahead. “I sent the notes . . . I just wanted to scare you into leaving. I never would have—I’m sorry.”

  Stunned, Faith sat back, then immediately straightened her sore back away from the seat. She started to say, “That’s all right,” then changed her mind. It wasn’t all right. She had been frightened, and sickened. She had known there was a killer out there. Monica hadn’t known, but that didn’t excuse her. She hadn’t killed the cat, but that didn’t excuse her either. So Faith said nothing, leaving Monica to find her own absolution.

  Faith watched as a medic approached Gray and tried to get him to sit down, tried to put an oxygen mask on him. Gray shook him off, gesturing angrily, and pointed him toward Faith.

  “I’m going to tell them,” Monica said, still in that expressionless voice. “Gray and Michael. About the notes, and the cat. I won’t be arrested for shooting Alex . . . but I don’t deserve to go unpunished.”

  Faith didn’t have time to respond. The medic brought his equipment over to the patrol car, and squatted in the open door. His penlight flashed in her eyes, making her blink. He took her pulse, checked the burns on her hands and arms, tried to put the oxygen mask on her. She pulled away. “Tell him,” she said, indicating Gray, “that I will when he does.”

  The medic stared at her, then gave a little grin. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and jauntily returned to his first reluctant patient.

  Faith watched as he repeated what she’d said to Gray. Gray wheeled around to glare at her. She shrugged. Annoyed and frustrated, he grabbed the oxygen mask and with ill grace clapped it over his nose and mouth. He immediately began coughing again.

  Because she had promised, she had to submit to treatment when it came her turn again. The medics agreed that her lung function was good, meaning that her smoke inhalation wasn’t critical. Her burns were mostly first-degree, with a few second-degree blisters on her back, and they wanted her to see Dr. Bogarde. Gray was in much the same shape. Both of them were extremely lucky.

  Except he had lost a friend, and she had lost every possession except the robe on her back and the shoes on her feet. And an open shed, a lawn mower, and two rakes, she reminded herself. She had insurance on both the house and car, but it would take time to replace everything. Her tired mind began trying to catalogue all the things she would have to do: have her credit cards replaced, get new checks, buy new clothes, get a car, find a place to live, have her mail rerouted to somewhere.

  So many things to do, and she was so tired that she felt incapable of accomplishing a single one. At least nothing was irreplaceable, except for the few photographs she’d had of Kyle. There were no other family mementos.

  Alex’s body was eventually taken away. Monica stared at it being loaded in the hearse, for transport to the parish morgue. Because he had died by violent means, there would be an autopsy. “For seven years he used me,” she whispered. “He pretended I was Mama.” She shuddered. “How do I tell Michael?” she asked bleakly.

  “Who’s Michael?”

  Monica gave her a puzzled look. “The sheriff. Michael McFane. He’s asked me to marry him.”

  Faith sighed. The tangle just kept getting worse. “You don’t,” she said, and touched Monica’s arm. “Put it behind you. Don’t hurt Michael by telling him. It won’t make you hurt any less, and it’ll give Alex just one more victim. Pick up from here and go on.”

  Monica didn’t reply, to either agree or disagree, but Faith hoped she took her advice. She had picked herself up enough times to know the value of going on.

  Eventually both she and Gray were taken to Dr. Bogarde’s clinic and put in separate examining rooms. The dapper little doctor checked Gray first; Faith could hear them talking through the thin walls. Then he came bustling into the tiny room where she sat uncomfortably on the table. He cleaned and dressed her burns and checked her breathing, then gazed at her with a sympathetic eye.

  “Do you have a place to sleep?”

  Faith gave him a rueful smile and shook her head.

  “Then why don’t you stay here? You look out on your feet. There’s a rollaway bed that we use sometimes, and you’re welcome to it. I can give you a set of scrubs to wear—don’t tell, but I sneaked them from the hospital in Baton Rouge.” His eyes twinkled at her. “A few hours’ sleep will do wonders for you. My nurses get here at eight-thirty, and then you can call your insurance agent, buy clothes, handle all those things. Trust me, you’ll feel a lot more capable after you’ve had some