The Last Noel & Secret Surrogate, page 16
Maybe worried that Scooter was beginning to like the family too much, that he wouldn’t be able to do what was necessary when the time came.
“Where do you want me, Quintin?” Craig asked.
“Kitchen.” Quintin narrowed his eyes. “I trust you about as much as I trust your redheaded girlfriend.”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” Kat said, her voice hard.
“You’re a girl, and you were his friend,” Quintin said impatiently. Craig swallowed, every muscle in his body seeming to clench, as Quintin reached for Kat, the gleaming silver nose of his gun aiming for her temple. “Everyone move,” he barked.
Craig could see the agony that ripped at David O’Boyle as he watched his daughter being threatened and forced himself to remain in his chair. Meanwhile, Brenda and Paddy rose, ready to obey the order to move into the kitchen.
“Ye don’t need to be manhandling me niece,” Paddy said with dignity. “We’d know ye meant business without havin’ to terrorize the lass.”
“Just get in the kitchen,” Quintin said.
“Scooter,” Quintin snapped, holding the door open so he could see what was happening in both rooms.
“What?”
“Get the hell out here.”
“But—”
“Get out here. And be on guard. Keep your safety off and your gun on Dad. Now.”
Scowling, Scooter appeared. “Quintin, I was learning how to make candied yams.”
“Eating them will have to be enough for you,” Quintin said.
“Quintin, you don’t have to make a misery out of dinner,” Scooter said.
“Just get out here. I’m not going to make a misery out of anything. I just can’t figure out how you can keep an eye on Mom if you’re making candied yams.”
Pouting, Scooter went out to the living room.
Craig walked past Quintin into the kitchen, Paddy and Brenda ahead of him. With an impatient sigh, Paddy took a seat at the table, setting his cane on top of it. Brenda paused by the sink, and Kat, shoved forward by Quintin, walked over to her mother’s side.
“You’re starting the rest of the food?” Kat asked.
Skyler nodded, looking as if she had just lost a negotiation she thought she should have won. “Yes. I was just putting the brown sugar on the yams. Brenda, would you start the green-bean casserole? It’s easy, just the beans, mushroom soup and then the fried onion rings. Everyone loves it. Unless they hate green beans. Or mushrooms. Or onions.”
Skyler realized she was chattering on about nothing, just hoping to break the tension. But Brenda nodded and started on the casserole, while Kat took over the yams. Sighing, Skyler opened the oven to baste the turkey again.
Quintin took a seat next to Paddy, and Craig noted unhappily that someone sneaking up from the basement couldn’t possibly get a clean shot at Quintin. Nor was he certain that anyone would have tried. He was sure Quintin was keeping everyone split up to make sure at least one O’Boyle would die, no matter what.
“So, Quintin,” Craig said.
“What?”
“It’s Christmas.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, college boy.”
Craig forced himself to smile. “I was just thinking that we should have a drink to celebrate.”
“It’s early.”
“Not in Ireland,” Paddy offered.
“I’d even like a drink,” Brenda admitted.
“Well?” Craig asked Quintin.
“What the hell. Go on.”
As he stood to walk toward the counter where the liquor was kept, Craig felt Quintin’s hostile gaze following him, and he sensed that Quintin was practicing his aim, the 9mm Smith & Wesson pointing right at his back.
That gun could blow a hole the size of a dinner plate right through him, and he suddenly and inconsequentially imagined himself as a cartoon character looking down at a huge hole in his stomach. He wondered vaguely if cartoons were still as violent as they had been when he was a kid.
“What’ll it be?” he turned and asked the others.
“Whiskey, neat,” Paddy said.
Quintin shrugged. “Same as the old Mick.”
Craig poured the drinks, brushing by Kat. He couldn’t believe that three years had passed. Three years and a staggering change in his life.
Craig set drinks in front of Paddy and Quintin. He wondered if it would be possible to somehow block Quintin’s view of the others, forcing him to move and allow someone a good shot at him. But as he hovered, Quintin looked up at him suspiciously. Besides, he thought, if the two officers were in the house, which he had to believe was true, they weren’t going to take a shot until the exact right moment. They wouldn’t go for Quintin unless they had a clean shot at Scooter, as well. He moved back to the counter. “Brenda, did you want your whiskey neat, too?”
“Good God, no, you’ll have to put something else in it for me,” she said.
“Soda?” Craig asked.
“Sure. Cola, lemon-lime, whatever,” Brenda said, intent on getting the last of the mushroom soup out of the can.
“You should never mix good whiskey with crap like that,” Quintin said. “It’ll give you a hell of a hangover. Not that it will matter.”
A stunned silence followed his words.
Craig quickly handed Brenda her glass. She took it with shaking fingers, her blue eyes wide with fear.
He couldn’t reassure her. Not at the moment. “Skyler, Kat...would you like something?”
Skyler shook her head, staring in at the turkey again.
Kat looked daggers at him. He knew she was wondering what the hell he was doing and letting him know she didn’t want anything from him. Ever.
He poured himself a shot and went to sit next to Paddy. “Cheers,” he said, and lifted his glass.
Paddy stared at him. “Slainte,” he returned.
Craig turned to Quintin. “They’ve seen us, you know,” he said thoughtfully.
“What?”
Craig shook his head. “Those cops who came by last night. They’ve seen us. So when we leave here, after...whatever, they’ll know we were here.”
To his amazement, Quintin stared at him and blinked, and Craig realized that the other man hadn’t realized the mistake he had made. He’d been obsessed with having this safe haven. He’d thought he had everything under control. And he hadn’t realized what he had done.
Quintin sat perfectly still for a very long time, until finally Craig dared to speak out again. “It doesn’t make sense to kill anyone here,” he said.
Quintin smiled slowly, and he aimed the Smith & Wesson right at Craig’s face. “But they didn’t see me,” he said, and smiled malignantly. “And it won’t make any difference to anyone if I kill you.”
Would he have done it? Craig didn’t know, because Skyler was suddenly right there, and she had clearly reached the end of her rope. “Stop it! I mean it. I have had it with the bickering and the backbiting, and I don’t give a damn if it’s you two or my own kids. Read my lips. This is Christmas! I’m cooking a turkey. And I am sick of the entire world behaving like a pack of two-year-olds. There will be no more fighting around this table, do you understand?”
Quintin was stunned. He just stared at Skyler, who stood over him, her hands on her hips, her eyes flashing.
He didn’t shoot Craig, and he didn’t shoot Skyler.
And after a moment, he even began to laugh.
Craig could hear Kat’s gasp of relief, and he looked over and saw her doubled over, shaking.
He stood. “Kat, are you sure you don’t want a drink?”
“I can get it myself,” she said, and turned away.
* * *
David O’Boyle sat on his chair, in his living room, with his Christmas tree and his sons, and stared at the man who was holding a gun on him.
Scooter seemed to feel he’d been duly chastised. He wasn’t joking around, and he wasn’t talking about Christmas. He only glanced toward the kitchen now and then, as if he were willing Quintin to come back.
They could all hear the rise and fall of conversation coming from the other room. What’s going on in there? David wondered. To take his mind off the things he couldn’t control, he turned to Scooter and asked, “How long have you worked for Quintin?”
“I don’t work for Quintin,” Scooter said, frowning.
“Oh?” David said politely. He folded his hands in his lap.
“I don’t work for Quintin,” Scooter repeated, more vehemently this time.
“Sure. I believe you.”
“It’s the truth.”
“I said I believe you.”
“You know, if anyone works for anyone...it was my thing first. My gig.”
“Right,” David said. “That’s one hell of a gun you got there.”
Scooter sneered. “What would you know about it?”
“I don’t own a gun,” David said, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about them. I’ve heard the sales pitches, read about the laws. They always ask what you want a gun for. You know, are you a hunter? Marksman? Do you need it for self-defense? Strange, I never heard anyone claim they had the best gun for holdups and harassing innocent families. And killing, of course, but, hey, that’s just an assumption.”
A muscle started twitching in Scooter’s jaw. “Shut up. Just...shut up. You know, if you’d had a gun, you could have shot me.”
“And maybe Quintin would have shot half my family while I was doing that.”
Scooter looked down, embarrassed, for a moment. “You got a nice family,” he said when he looked up. “All you have to do is...well, don’t try anything, okay?”
“Quintin plans on killing us, no matter what,” David said.
“Now that’s just not true,” Scooter said, but he was a bad liar.
“He who lives by the gun dies by the gun,” Jamie said.
Scooter only laughed. “No death penalty in this state,” he said. “That’s why I moved up here.”
“From where?” Frazier asked.
“Louisiana. I went to Florida first, but then I figured a state without the death penalty would be best for me,” he said. He sounded pleased with himself, as if he thought he’d been very smart to have figured that out.
“Scooter, has it occurred to you that a cop could shoot you?” David asked.
“Yeah. You’re a nice guy, but a cop might not know that,” Frazier said.
“I don’t give cops a reason to shoot me,” Scooter said. “I just hold up places when no one is there. I mean...” His voice trailed away.
“Do you actually know how to shoot, Scooter?” David asked.
“Of course! I shoot beer bottles all the time. Hey, don’t you go thinking I’m easy. My aim is good. And this thing can blow a hole in you...well, you saw the lamp.”
David felt ill. He thought he had understood everything Scooter hadn’t said. Scooter had never killed anyone. But Quintin had.
And Quintin was more than willing to do it again.
And no matter what Scooter said, he did what Quintin ordered, which meant that if he had to, Scooter would shoot any one of them to save his own hide.
“Beer bottles and people. Two different things,” David said.
“But...” Scooter began, then fell silent.
“What?” David said. Scooter’s mood swings were the scariest thing about the man.
Scooter was frowning and looking toward the stairs. “What the hell?”
“What?” David asked, alarmed.
Scooter stared at him. He was nervous, wound up and angry. “How the hell many kids do you have?”
“Three.”
“No, really.”
“I swear to you, Scooter. I only have three children.”
“There was someone on the stairs.”
“It must have been a trick of the light,” David said, his heart thundering.
Craig had told him, when he’d tried to help him after Quintin had bashed his face half in, that help would be coming. And Craig had been sitting next to Sheila last night.... He was afraid to breathe. Were the cops in the house? Was that why Skyler had looked at him strangely earlier?
“I saw something,” Scooter insisted.
“A trick of light,” David repeated.
“Quintin!” Scooter shouted.
Scooter was going to say something, David realized. And if he did, everything might be lost. He stood and said, “My God...”
“What?” Scooter demanded.
“Smell that turkey.”
The kitchen door swung open and Craig appeared. Apparently Quintin was using him as his communications man. “Quintin wants to know what you’re shouting about, Scooter.”
“Turkey,” David said. “It smells absolutely great. We were just wondering how soon dinner would be ready.”
Scooter stared at Craig and frowned, as if he were trying to remember his train of thought.
“Scooter, what’s up?” Craig asked.
“I don’t want to be out here. I want to be in the kitchen,” Scooter said.
“I’ll tell Quintin,” Craig told him.
The swinging door closed.
“I thought you didn’t work for Quintin?” David said.
“I don’t.” He looked as if he were thinking about heading straight for the kitchen, but then he stopped. “I don’t work for Quintin,” he snapped. “But...we’re a team. You know. Teammates!”
“Sure,” David said.
“You’re wrong. You’re all wrong,” Scooter told him.
“Whatever you say,” David said.
“You have to understand. Quintin...he’s my friend. He cares about me. So I have to be his friend. Show him I care about him.”
“Friends don’t hurt friends,” David said.
“Or make them do things that will hurt them in the end,” Frazier offered quietly.
“Quintin is my friend,” Scooter insisted, his gun hand starting to shake.
“Whatever you say. We believe you,” David said reassuringly.
“Smell that turkey,” Jamie said encouragingly.
The nervous twitching in Scooter’s fingers abated.
“Turkey, potatoes, gravy...and dessert. Lots of dessert, Scooter,” Frazier promised.
* * *
Kat pretended it took great artistry to put the brown sugar on the yams, then sliced the butter into tiny increments to put on top, anxious to stay in the kitchen with her mother. Besides being constantly terrified, she was now completely confused.
Craig had purposely drawn out the truth they had all been trying to ignore—as if, by keeping quiet, they could keep it from being true. Then he had pointed out a fact that might actually save their lives.
And she...she was continually praying that the cops in the house would shoot Quintin and Scooter.
Was that a horrible thought? Wanting to see someone’s brains blown out? Maybe, but after the way the two men had terrorized her family...horrible or not, it was there.
But what the hell was Craig really up to, and whose side was he on?
She had seen what he had done, trying to maneuver Quintin into moving and giving one of the cops a chance to shoot him, if they had split up and the other one had been able to get a bead on Scooter. But Quintin hadn’t played along, and nothing had happened.
Had Craig somehow known nothing would happen? Was everything he was doing now just an act? Was he playing both sides against the middle, waiting to see who came out on top before jumping one way or the other? If Quintin and Scooter were able to escape, would he throw in with them and go, too? But if not, would he try to pretend he’d been a good guy the whole time, playing along with the gun-wielding duo just to survive?
Once upon a time she had adored him. She had gotten up every morning wanting to see him. She had done all the little things women did when they first fell passionately in love. Her legs were constantly clean-shaven. She had watched her diet, exercised, angsted over her imperfections, and she had marveled at the amazing fact that he was in love with her, too.
Lust had played a part, too. He had the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers. He was fit without being musclebound, and back in those days he’d sported a healthy tan. She’d watched him in class sometimes, hoping to meet him, then had been almost afraid to believe her luck when she did. They’d talked about spending spring break in the Bahamas, just the two of them. Renting a little cottage on a beach somewhere, diving, snorkeling, swimming, parasailing...making love in the waves, with a cool breeze wafting over them.
And then...
Cold, hard and fast, it had been over.
And, oh God, the heartbreak. To escape her pain, she’d done every stupid thing possible. Stayed out too late, drank too much, slept with the wrong guy just because he was on the football team. She seemed to remember that he’d been able to open beer bottles with his teeth. She wondered vaguely if he still had any.
She might even have gotten into drugs, but when she’d started on the wrong path, Frazier had suddenly thrust himself back into her life, yelling at her and, somehow, as her twin, suffering with her. Growing up, they had argued the way any siblings would, but when it mattered, he’d been there for her. He’d straightened her out.
And her mom... Back then, when she’d been in so much pain after Craig’s defection, her mother’s every word, her concerned calls, had driven her crazy. But now—now more than ever, with life hanging by a thread—she had to wonder how she had ever been so cruel to someone who loved her so much.
And, of course, there was her father. Jamie. Even Uncle Paddy. They meant everything to her. Surely she couldn’t lose them now.
It was suddenly very hard not to burst into tears as she thought about all the family stories and hoped she could remember them all to tell her own children one day, if she ever had any.
