Heather Graham - The Last Noel

When the heavier man took off his hat, he was bald—clean-shaven bald. He had thick dark brows, and eyes that were set too close together.

Beady eyes, Kat thought, then chided herself for watching too much C.S.I.

“Good heavens, come in and get out of the cold,” her mother told the pair.

Her mother would have taken in Genghis Khan, Kat thought, although she didn’t sound entirely happy about extra guests at the moment. Maybe because it was Christmas Eve, she decided. But really, what choice was there? The two men could hardly go anywhere else.

But what the hell were they doing out to begin with? Maybe they didn’t live here near the mountains, but anyone who lived anywhere in New England knew how treacherous the weather could become in a matter of hours, and the TV and radio stations had been talking nonstop about this storm for two days before it even got here. It had been touch and go whether the family even made it up here in time.

“Thank you, ma’am, and bless you,” the tall man said, holding out his hand. “I’m William Blane, but folks call me Scooter. And this is my associate, Mr. Quintin Lark.”

“How do you do, and I, too, thank you,” the stocky man said.

Her father looked at her mother and smiled in solidarity. At that moment, despite the bickering that never seemed to stop, she was reminded of how much she loved her parents. And that she was proud of them. Her father worked hard, doing everything around the pub. He lugged boxes and kept the books, but he could pick up a fiddle or a keyboard and sit in with a band, and he was always willing to pitch in and wash glasses. He managed the kitchen, the bar and the inventory.

And her mother…Her mother had raised three children, working all the while. Like Kat’s dad, her mom could sit in with the band. She had a clear soprano and a gift for the piano. She served drinks and meals, tended bar and always picked up a broom and a dust rag when needed.

Her mother was the key element that truly turned the place from a bar into a pub, Kat decided. She listened. She knew their customers. She knew that Mrs. O’Malley’s cat had produced five kittens and that those kittens were as important to Mrs. O’Malley as Mr. Browne’s new grandson was to him. She knew old man Adair had gotten part of a mortar shell in his calf during the war—World War II, that was—and that as stubborn and sturdy as the old fellow might appear, his leg ached on an hourly basis. Her mother cared about people, perhaps too much. And in her pursuit of constant cheer, she had often sacrificed the truth.

Even now, she was frowning sympathetically. “You say you had an accident? Where? What happened?”

“We didn’t listen to the weather report, I’m afraid,” Quintin said.

“We were listening to a CD, instead of the news,” Scooter said. “We ran off the road just at the edge of your property. I wasn’t even sure we’d make it this far.”

“Not to worry,” Skyler said. “We have plenty of food. Come on into the kitchen.”

“I’ll just get some more chairs,” David said.

“Wasn’t—” Jamie began.

“No,” Skyler said firmly, staring at Jamie. “No…we’ll be fine in the kitchen. We just need more chairs.”

Kat’s jaw dropped. Her mother—her mother—was suspicious.

And pretending that she wasn’t in the house.

“Right,” her father said. “Two more chairs. Jamie, take Quintin and, uh, Scooter into the kitchen. Get them a drink.”

“A shot of whiskey,” Skyler said. “You both need a good shot of whiskey. Just to warm up.” She sounded nervous, Kat thought, though no one who didn’t know her would notice.

“Whiskey sounds great,” Scooter said.

“Let’s all go into the kitchen,” Quintin added, and Kat thought she heard something ominous in his voice.

“I’ve got to get more chairs,” David said.

“No,” Scooter said softly.

It should have been a perfect holiday tableau: a family opening their doors to stranded travelers on a cold and stormy Christmas Eve.

But something just wasn’t right. It was as if the picture was out of focus.

Everyone just stood there awkwardly. And then, subtly, Quintin’s face changed.

Kat could see the way he smiled. It was a slow smile. A scary smile.

“We need to stay together. All of us,” Quintin told them.

Kat felt as if she were staring down at a scene in a play, and someone had forgotten a line.

What in God’s name had tipped everyone off? How had her mother, the soul of trust, figured out—and so quickly—that there was something unsavory about their uninvited guests?

And how had the creep, Quintin, realized that her parents were suspicious?

“This is my house,” David said. “We’re happy to keep you from freezing to death, but you’ll behave by my rules in my house.”

“Can’t, sorry,” Scooter said. He actually looked a little sad.

“Oh? Come on now, we were just about to have dinner, so let’s all honor the spirit of the holiday and sit down together.”

Good acting job, Dad, Kat cheered silently, then realized that it hadn’t made any difference.

Quintin was staring at her mother. “What made you become so mistrustful? Surely you’re not a detective, but…a psychiatrist, perhaps? No matter. Yes, this is your house. But I’m the one with a gun. In fact, my friend Scooter has a gun, too. Neither one of us wants to hurt you, but we’re outnumbered. Thankfully, you seem to be a nice family. A smart family. So I’m sure you’ll see the wisdom of behaving when I tell you that if any one of you gets out of line…Mom here gets it. So the rest of you might be able to take us, but you’d go through the rest of your neat little suburban lives without a mom. So we all stay together,” he said softly. “Can’t take any chances. After all, you might have a gun of your own squirreled away somewhere,” he said, turning to her father.

“Bullshit!”

Her father was a big man—in good shape, as well. He lunged at Quintin, and her brothers, bless them, followed his lead. But Quintin was fast. He pulled his gun before her father got to him.

“Stop now, or Mom is dead!” Quintin roared.

The sound of a bullet blasting ripped through the night, followed by the shattering of glass exploding into a thousand pieces, as Scooter took out a lamp.

“Nobody move,” Quintin said.

Everybody stood still, as ordered. Brenda started to cry.

“Shut up!” Quinton said.

Frazier put his arm around Brenda, drawing her close to him.

Uncle Paddy seemed the least disturbed of all of them. He seemed to be assessing the invaders with remarkably sober eyes.

“No more heroics,” Quintin said. “We’ve given you one chance. Next time, someone dies. Because I’m not going to prison again, ever. I’d rather die first. And if I’m going to die, I’ll happily take someone with me. Understand?”

Her poor father, Kat thought. She had never seen him in so much agony. His whole family was threatened, and he was powerless.

A sense of panic seized Kat, like a wave of cold that washed over her and left her trembling. For a moment the world went black. She fell back against the wall in an effort to remain vertical as she fought the nausea that seemed to grip her stomach with an icy, merciless hand.

She inhaled deeply and tried to think. Despite their threats, she didn’t know if the pair had ever actually murdered anyone. They were probably thieves. On the other hand…

They were armed. And they had introduced themselves, she realized with a further wave of nausea. That could only mean that whether they’d killed before or not, they weren’t planning to leave any witnesses. She shuddered, fear threatening to consume her. She only hoped they hadn’t realized just how much danger they were in.