Nightfall Page 2

  At one point he’d even considered confessing, but some stray remnant of self-preservation had stopped him. Once he confessed, there’d be no going back. As long as he kept silent, denied everything, there would always be an element of doubt. No matter how tiny.

  He remembered the first time he’d gone into that dark, empty place. It had been automatic, as he knelt beside the body of his dying wife, her blood staining his hands and clothes. When the police had come he’d still been there, silent, lost. Unable to answer their simple questions. Thank God.

  It was much better like this. Free and floating, in a vacuum with no sun or wind, no warmth, nothing but a vast emptiness.

  He blinked, a tiny movement, and the bright blue of the winter sky invaded his stillness. The bed beneath him was neither thin nor hard. It fit his tall, rangy body far better than the narrow cots in prison, and he supposed he should summon up some kind of gratitude. But gratitude would require emotion, and he had no emotions.

  He could hear the two of them arguing, the voices more intrusive than the muffled obscenity of Dannemora. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be anyplace at all, but that still, white-blue emptiness. But he wasn’t finished yet. He wasn’t ready to rest.

  He pulled himself upright, barely noticing his surroundings. Sean O’Rourke’s upscale Manhattan apartment with its pseudo-Southwestern decor meant no more to him than the spartan cell he’d shared with another murderer. All that mattered was getting through the next hour, the next few weeks. All that mattered was doing what he had to do. No matter what the cost.

  “You’re awake, then.” O’Rourke stood in the doorway, his aggressive chin pushed forward. He was like a bantam rooster, short, bandylegged, pugnacious. Tiernan had no illusions as to what O’Rourke wanted from him, believed of him. He had every intention of exploiting him to the fullest.

  “I’m awake,” said Richard Tiernan. “Where’s your daughter?”

  CASSIDY WAS AFRAID of flying. It wasn’t something she admitted very often, even to herself, but three days later she blessed the fact that what existed of the United States railroad system was still working reasonably well between Baltimore and New York. She didn’t have to mess with getting to and from airports, and she didn’t even have to think about sitting in a contraption that lifted off the ground and suspended her in midair for a ridiculous amount of time.

  Unfortunately, it left her with too much time for distraction, and she’d made the mistake of grabbing People magazine just before she got on the train. By sheer force of will she’d managed to avoid any of the media stories involving her father and a convicted killer, but trapped on a crowded train with a sour-tempered bureaucrat to her left, there was no way she could resist the temptation, particularly with Sean’s pugnacious face on the cover. “‘He’s innocent,’ claims Sean O’Rourke, who’s putting his money where his mouth is,” said the teaser. In the corner, over her father’s shoulder, was a grainy snapshot of a happy family, a blond, perfect wife, two young, beautiful children, and a tall, dark man standing behind them, a protective hand on the woman’s shoulder. Or was it a threatening hand?

  Suddenly she couldn’t stand even touching the magazine. She dropped it on the floor, but the man beside her immediately scooped it up. “D’you mind?” he asked, not giving her a chance to object. “Disgusting, isn’t it?” he leaned over and breathed expensive Scotch in her face. “They let monsters like that go free, just because someone with a little clout talks them into it. He’ll kill again, you’ll see, and then that asshole O’Rourke will write a book about it. It makes me sick.”

  Cassidy controlled her trace of amusement in hearing her father called an asshole. She couldn’t put up an argument on that front. “Maybe Tiernan didn’t do it.”

  “Have you heard his story? He says he came home, found the bodies of his wife and children, and then went into shock and doesn’t remember another thing. They never found the bodies of his children, but his fingerprints were all over the murder weapon. He was covered with her blood. And he’s never shown a trace of sorrow or regret.”

  Cassidy glanced over at the photograph on the cover. They looked so normal, so happy. The perfect family, now destroyed. She leaned back and closed her eyes, turning her face away. She could only hope to God her father wasn’t going to want to talk about Tiernan. The whole subject made her faintly ill, the thought of a man murdering his own children. Not that she had any illusions about the sacred nature of the father-child bond. She’d lived with Sean for too long to retain her innocence. Her father could wallow in the mud as much as he wanted, but she wasn’t going to let him drag her there with him.

  A light snow had begun to fall when the train pulled into Penn Station. She considered calling Mabry and warning her that she’d arrived, then thought better of it. Sean fancied himself an old-fashioned Irishman, one who kept a welcome for any friend or family who happened to stray near him. There’d be room for her in the cavernous old apartment on Park Avenue, and she’d prefer to see Sean without giving him time to prepare. He wanted something from her, she was certain of it, though she doubted it had anything to do with writing. Sean had always ridiculed her lack of creativity, referring to her as his little Philistine. He’d hardly be asking her editorial expertise.

  No, he wanted something else, enough so that he was willing to play sick, to enlist Mabry in his little games. And if he wanted something that much, Cassidy was curious enough to play along. For a day or two.

  As luck would have it, Sean and Mabry were coming out of the door just as Cassidy reached the apartment building on Seventy-second Street.

  “Cassidy, my love!” Sean boomed when he caught sight of her, flinging his arms around her. Cassidy stood within his burly embrace, bemused as always by the rush of love and irritation that swept over her when she was in her father’s presence. He pushed her away a moment later, glowering fiercely. “Let me look at you. You’ve been eating too much again. Don’t you know a woman can never be too thin or too rich? Mabry, talk to the girl. I swear, she looks positively voluptuous.”

  Irritation took over as Cassidy glared down at her father. “What can I say, Sean, I’m hopelessly curvaceous. Nothing short of cosmetic surgery would whittle down my hips, and I’m not sure that would work.”

  Mabry’s cool blue eyes met Cassidy’s over her father’s head, and she smiled faintly. “You’re father’s an asshole,” she said. “You’re absolutely beautiful, as always.”

  “You’re the second person today who’s said that,” Cassidy said, moving past Sean to hug her elegant stepmother.

  “Said you were beautiful?” Sean demanded, not liking to be ignored.

  “No, said you were an asshole,” she replied.

  Mabry laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more we haven’t heard about. How long are you staying, darling? We’ll come back up and get you settled.”

  “No, we won’t!” Sean snapped. “You’ve been harassing me to go to the doctor’s for weeks, and now that I have an appointment, I’m not going to miss it. Cassidy can get herself settled in. Take your old bedroom, Cassie. Just make yourself at home—-I’m not sure when we’ll be back.”

  “But . . .” Mabry began, a worried expression on her face.

  “But nothing,” Sean said. “Don’t fuss over the girl. Lord, you’re becoming an old lady before your time, Mabry, fussing over everyone. You’ll be here a good long time, won’t you, Cassie? We’ll have plenty of time to spend with her.”

  “As a matter of fact, I wasn’t . . .”

  But as usual, Sean had no interest in anyone’s thoughts but his own. He dragged Mabry down the sidewalk toward Park Avenue, waving an irritated hand. “Later,” he shouted, and they disappeared around the corner.

  “He never changes, does he, miss?”

  Cassidy turned and flashed a smile at the doorman. “He doesn’t seem to, Bi
ll. How’s he been? Mabry said he was sick.”

  “Not so’s I’d notice. Still getting into trouble, like always. It’s good to see you back. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

  “Now, why does everyone seem to think I can do the impossible?” Cassidy demanded with a wry grimace. “Sean doesn’t know the meaning of the word caution.”

  “That he doesn’t,” Bill said with a sigh, walking with her to the elevator. “Mind you don’t forget. Can I carry your bag up?”

  “And have Father disown me? We’re staunch believers in democracy, remember? No one’s allowed to wait on us. Unless it’s a bartender.”

  Bill shook his head. “You watch out for yourself, miss. I’ll be down here if you need any help.”

  “Why should I . . . ?” But the elevator had already closed, and it was making its swift, silent way up to the twelfth floor.

  Cassidy wasn’t much fonder of elevators than she was of airplanes, but she wasn’t crazy about walking up twelve flights, and Sean always wanted to be on the top floor wherever he lived. He and Mabry had been in their current apartment for the last ten years, and it felt oddly like home. She had every intention of kicking off her shoes and walking barefoot through the thick pile carpets, scarfing down Mabry’s supply of Perrier or whatever designer water she was currently favoring, and finding something impossibly fattening in defiance of her father’s strictures.

  She dropped her suitcase in the inside hall, stepped out of her shoes, and took a deep breath. She looked at the wall of mirrors that Mabry, the ex-fashion model, had had installed, and she stuck out her tongue at her reflection.

  Sean never failed to make her feel gangly, clumsy, and huge. He didn’t like the fact that her five feet nine inches towered over him, and had since she was in her early teens. He didn’t like it that she came equipped with an hourglass figure that no amount of rigid dieting, compulsive exercise, or self-hatred could change. He didn’t like the calm intelligence in her eyes. He didn’t like her flyaway red hair or her choice of professions. In fact, he didn’t approve of one damned thing about her.

  The odd thing was, he loved her. Cassidy had no doubt whatsoever about that. Which was why she put up with him, for as long as she could stand him.

  She tossed her down coat over a chair and began unbuttoning her silk blouse, running a hand behind her neck, freeing her mass of curls that never stayed in a neat bun. She had at least an hour alone in the apartment, and she was going to enjoy every minute of it.

  The refrigerator was surprisingly well stocked. Mabry had switched to Clearly Canadian, and Cassidy grabbed a bottle of peach water and a chicken drumstick, shoving the latter in her mouth with relief. She’d been starving, but nothing on earth would make her eat in the train station.

  She didn’t hear a sound. Indeed, the silence was so strong that she didn’t bother to remove the chicken leg from her mouth as she wheeled around to stare at the far doorway. She simply stood there, her mouth stuffed with food.

  He filled the doorway, but the room was in shadow, and she couldn’t see his features. She didn’t need to. The man standing there watching her with such an unnatural silence could only be one man. Richard Tiernan.

  And her father had let her come up to the apartment like a sacrificial lamb.

  Chapter 2

  THE MAN IN the doorway took a step forward, into the murky light of the kitchen, and Cassidy finally had the presence of mind to remove the chicken leg from her mouth. She took a faltering step backward, putting a nervous hand to her throat, only to realize that her blouse was unbuttoned.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. He had a deep voice, quiet, with a thread of menace like a strand of silk winding through it.

  She took another involuntary step backward, away from him, furtively trying to wipe some of the chicken grease from her mouth. “You didn’t,” she said, her voice shaking slightly.

  It was the merest ghost of a smile that danced across his face. Clearly he wasn’t a man who found much to amuse him. “I’m not going to hurt you, you know,” he said, stopping his advance. He was close enough so that she could get a good look at him in the murky kitchen light, and she didn’t like what she saw.

  He was attractive. Not handsome in a conventional way—his face was too austere, his narrow nose a bit too forceful, his eyes a bit too haunted. But there was something about him—charisma, charm, perhaps—that reached out beyond the wary cynicism and called to her, even as she knew better than to respond.

  He was tall, towering over her own substantial height, and very lean, almost to the point of gauntness. His skin was pale, a prison pallor, she thought belatedly, and his dark hair was cut too short. His mocking, enigmatic eyes were very dark, he hadn’t shaved in several days, but he was one of those lucky men who simply looked more appealing when he had a two-day stubble.

  He was wearing jeans, a wrinkled oxford shirt, and socks, no shoes. He looked far too much at home in her father’s sprawling apartment.

  She stopped her retreat, straightening her shoulders, unable to decide whether she was better off buttoning her blouse, or whether that would simply draw his attention to it. “I never thought you would,” she said with spurious calm. “I’m Cassidy Roarke. Sean’s daughter.”

  “His name’s O’Rourke.”

  She shrugged. “So he says. He was born John Roarke, but he decided to change it so that he could get in touch with his Irish roots. According to him, he was simply reverting to the name his ancestors used.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Not as far as I know. But Sean adjusts reality to suit his own purposes. You’re Richard Tiernan, aren’t you?”

  There was a quality of stillness to the man that was unnerving, despite the fact that he’d stopped his advance. “Guilty,” he said.

  If he’d been looking for a conversation stopper he couldn’t have chosen a more effective one. Cassidy felt a shiver of pure, superstitious panic wash over her, and then she fought back, hating the feeling, the sense of oppression he brought out in her.

  “Really?” she said brightly, buttoning her blouse, realizing with perverse disappointment that he didn’t even notice. “I gathered you were insisting on your innocence.”

  His faint smile should have warned her. “Merely a figure of speech. I didn’t realize you were familiar with my case.”

  She shrugged, refusing to be intimidated. “Actually, I’m not, compared to most of the world. I don’t like horror stories, and I was never fond of Stephen King.”

  “If you think Stephen King is frightening, you should try reality some time.”

  “I try to avoid it. At least, Sean’s version of reality. Life doesn’t have to be that unpleasant.”

  “Sometimes there’s no escape.”

  The conversation was getting odder by the moment, the two of them, conversing in her father’s deserted kitchen about death and murder when they hadn’t even been introduced. “It’s none of my concern whether you butchered your wife and children,” she said, her own words shocking her. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “Don’t worry, I wasn’t about to confess,” he said in a cool, meditative voice. “You’re right, it’s none of your business. Unless, of course, I felt the sudden urge to repeat my heinous crime. After all, we’re alone in the apartment, and your father won’t be back for hours.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m suggesting that you might benefit by being a little less trusting.”

  “I don’t trust you, Mr. Tiernan,” she said briskly, “I’m not an idiot. I just don’t think you’re going to take a gun to me. If you’ve been around Sean and haven’t resorted to your murderous ways, then I’d think I’d be relatively safe.”

  “Maybe I only like to kill women,” he said. “And it was a butcher knife, not a gun.”

&nb
sp; Chicken grease wasn’t the best choice on an empty stomach. Cass wondered for a moment what would happen if she threw up, right in front of the rumpled elegance of Richard Tiernan. Probably nothing. He looked like a man who didn’t faze easily.

  “Did you do it?”

  There was nothing pleasant in his cynical smile. “Ask your father,” he said.

  “Sean doesn’t have a great allegiance to the truth.” She moved then, reaching behind her to switch on the overhead lights, flooding the room with brightness. It dispelled the physical shadows. It didn’t dispel the emotional ones.

  “So I’ve noticed,” Richard said. “What about you?”

  “Oh, I worship the truth. The one benefit of a typically dysfunctional upbringing—I always say what I think and I never lie.”

  “I’m not so sure I think that would qualify as a benefit. Lies can be quite useful.”

  “I’m sure they can.” She sounded starched and repressive, like the old maid Sean frequently accused her of being. At least she didn’t sound frightened. “What are you doing here?”

  “Didn’t you realize? I’m living here.”

  She should have known. It was just the sort of thing Sean would do, give houseroom to a convicted murderer and then fail to tell his daughter about it. “For how long?”

  Tiernan shrugged. “Until they send me back to jail, I presume. Your father wants my help on his newest project.”

  “A book proving your innocence?”

  His smile was no more than a faint curve of his mobile mouth. “That would seem logical, wouldn’t it?”

  “You’re not very optimistic about staying out of jail. What if your appeal works?”

  “I won’t be holding my breath.” He moved away from her, heading toward the refrigerator. “Does your father know you’re here yet?”

  “I met him as he was leaving.”

  “And he didn’t tell you I was up here?”