Heartbreaker (Buchanan-Renard #1)

Heartbreaker (Buchanan-Renard #1) Page 37

“So that’s how it is.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Does Tommy know?”

“Know what?” he hedged.

“That you’ve got the hots for his sister.”

Before Nick could answer, Theo laughed. “You’re going to have to tell him.”

Nick pictured his hand going through the phone and grabbing his brother by the throat. “Theo, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop fishing. There’s nothing to tell. Laurant’s fine. Just fine. Okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed. “Tell me something.”

“What?”

“Does she still have those long legs?”

“Theo?”

“Yeah?”

“Go to hell.”

CHAPTER 26

He came in through the back door.

He’d tried using the key he had duplicated, but the bitch had obviously changed the locks. Now why had she done that, he wondered. Had she found the camera? He stood on the back stoop nervously flipping the key over and over in his hand while he pondered the possibility and finally decided no, she couldn’t have found it. It was too well hidden. Then he remembered how old and rusty the lock was, and he assumed that it had simply broken.

Fortunately, he had worn his black windbreaker, and he could use it to protect his hand and break the glass. He’d put on the jacket so that he could blend into the night and wouldn’t be seen by the two, dried-up old hags living next door to Laurant. They were like cats sitting in their windows looking out. He’d parked the car three blocks away, another precaution against her nosy neighbors, and walked over to her house, making sure he stayed away from the streetlights and close to the bushes.

Twice he felt like someone was following him, and he got so spooked he considered turning around and going back home, but the rage inside of him kept propelling him forward. The need to strike out was eating at him like acid, forcing him to take the calculated risk. He craved hurting her the way an alcoholic craved a drink of whiskey. The need wouldn’t leave him alone, and he knew he would take any risk to get even.

He slowly removed his jacket, carefully folded it to double thickness, wrapped his hand inside the material, and then, imagining the glass was Laurant’s face, he slammed his fist through the window, exerting far more force than was necessary. The glass imploded, shattering fragments into the back hallway.

The rush of adrenaline felt like an orgasm, and he almost shouted God’s name in vain just for the sheer thrill of it. He suddenly felt powerful and invincible. No one would touch him. No one.

He certainly wasn’t concerned about being heard, for he was sure the house was empty. Nick and Laurant had been picked up by her brother and another priest and had gone to the rehearsal dinner. He’d watched them leave before he’d gone back home to wait and then get ready. It was just after eleven now, and they wouldn’t be back until well after midnight. Plenty of time, he thought, to do what he wanted and get out.

He reached in, unlocked the dead bolt, opened the door, and came inside. He had to resist the urge to whistle.

The silent alarm began to flash the second the door opened, but Nick already knew someone was inside the house. He and Laurant had returned home earlier than expected, and he had taken the watch while Joe caught up on his sleep. Nick was upstairs on the landing and had just started down the steps when he heard the sound of glass breaking. The noise was distant but unmistakable.

He didn’t hesitate. Drawing his gun, he flipped the safety off and headed for the guest room to alert Joe. He was reaching for the doorknob when the door opened and Joe stepped out, his Glock already in his hand, the barrel pointed to the ceiling. He nodded to Nick to let him know he was ready, then faded back into the darkness of the room, leaving the door wide open. Nick pointed to the flashing alarm, and Joe quickly unplugged it.

Without making a sound, Nick turned and hurried into Laurant’s room. He quietly closed the door behind him. She was sound asleep on her back, her hands at her sides, an open Frank McCourt memoir resting on her chest. He went to the side of the bed, squatted down next to her, and put his hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t make any noise when she woke up.

“Laurant, wake up. We’ve got company.” His hushed voice was calm.

She woke up trying to scream. Her eyes flew open, and she tried to focus as she instinctively shoved his hand away. Then she realized it was Nick touching her. His words registered at the same time that she saw the gun.

“I need you to be real quiet,” he whispered.

She nodded. She understood. Nick pulled his hand back and she pushed the sheets aside as she bolted upright. The forgotten book went flying and would have struck the hardwood floor had Nick not grabbed it in midair. He put it down on the bed, reached up to switch off the reading lamp, then took her hand and gently pulled her to her feet.

Her heart was pounding frantically, and she had trouble catching her breath. The room was so dark they had to feel their way along the wall. Nick led her into the bathroom, and she was reaching for the light switch when his hand covered hers.

“No lights,” he whispered.

He stepped back into the bedroom and quietly pulled the door closed behind him.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

She wanted to beg him to stay with her, but she knew he wouldn’t and couldn’t do that.

It was pitch black inside, and she was afraid to move for fear she would accidentally knock something over and let the intruder know the household was awake. Head bowed, she folded her arms across her stomach and stood frozen while her mind raced. How could she help? What could she do that wouldn’t be a hindrance?

She was terrified for Nick. The unexpected could trip up even the most experienced man. Everyone had a vulnerable point, and Nick was no exception. If anything happened to him, she didn’t know what she would do. Please God, keep him safe.

It was deadly quiet. She pressed her ear against the door and strained to hear any little sound. She stood that way for over a minute��it seemed like an eternity to her—and still nothing but the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.

Then she heard it. A scratching noise, like a branch scraping across a window, but the sound wasn’t coming from inside the house. It was above her. The roof. My God, was the intruder on the roof? No, no, he was already inside downstairs. She tried then to convince herself that the noise she had just heard had simply been a branch swaying in the wind.

She strained to listen. She heard the sound again. It was closer now to where she stood, and it didn’t sound like a scraping noise at all this time. Now it sounded like an animal, a raccoon or a squirrel, she thought, scurrying across the roof ledge outside the bathroom window.

Was the window locked? Yes, of course it was. Nick would have seen to that. Calm down. Don’t let your imagination run wild.

She stared at the window. It was above the bathtub, but it was too dark to see if the lock was latched. She needed to check it. If she moved slowly and carefully, she wouldn’t make any noise. She was beginning to inch away from the door when she saw a red, pencil-point beam of light shine through the windowpane. It danced across the vanity mirror, closing in on her. Searching . . . looking for a target.

She dropped to her knees, then to her stomach, and edged over to the bathtub. She pressed the length of her body against the cool porcelain, her eyes glued to the red beam. Too late, she realized she should have gotten out of the bathroom when she had had the chance. The beam would catch her if she moved now. It was bouncing along the door, back and forth, back and forth. My God, if Nick opened the door and tried to come inside, whoever was on the ledge would have him clearly in his sights.

Calm down. Think. How could he have gotten on the roof without being seen? Nick had told her that there were agents watching the house night and day, but there was a treed lot next to her bedroom and bath, and another empty lot behind her backyard. It would be easy to climb up one of the hundred-year-old trees and make his way from the treetops to her roof. Easy, she thought.

But without being seen? It would be daring, tricky, but it could be done. Don’t panic. Wait. Maybe it was one of the FBI agents on the roof. Yes, that could be it. He could be covering the bathroom window to make certain the madman didn’t try to escape. All the windows were probably being covered by the FBI now.

As desperate as she was to believe that was true, she wasn’t about to stand up to test her theory.

The beam was moving again, back to the mirror. Laurant seized the opportunity, thanking God there wasn’t a moon tonight. The darkness was a blessing. She scrambled to her knees to get the door open, then crawled into the bedroom, scraping her knee on the metal threshold.

She never took her eyes off the beam. She could see it closing in on her as she swung the door shut. Grimacing over the faint click the lock made, she leaned back against the wall and tried to catch her breath.

She would be able to hear the window opening. It was old and warped, and it would make a lot of noise if it were pried up. And so she sat there listening, waiting, every muscle in her body tense in anticipation, ready to spring.

Nick heard the faint rustle as she crawled out of the bathroom. What the hell was she doing? Why hadn’t she stayed inside?

He stood, pressed against the wall adjacent to the bedroom door and quietly pulled it open a crack. He could see out into the hallway that was faintly lit by the night-light on the chest at the far end of the wide landing. He waited for the intruder to either pass Laurant’s door or come inside.

He could hear him creeping up the steps. He knew when his foot struck the fifth stair. It creaked. If he’d been inside the house the number of times Nick thought he had, he would have remembered the noise the step made and avoided it. Was Nick giving him too much credit? No, he didn’t think so. This man was careful. He was a planner, every bit of information they had on him indicated as much. And he was organized. Methodical too. Yet, he hadn’t been quiet when he’d broken into the house, and his method had been crude, not sophisticated. A tiger doesn’t change his stripes. There were instances where an organized killer became disorganized, like Bundy and Donner, but it took time for them to disintegrate, get sloppy. This unsub was exhibiting a radical change.

The back door opened and then slammed shut. Whoever was coming up the stairs went running back down. Nick heard quick footsteps on the first floor, then harsh whispers. There were two of them in the house now. What the hell? That didn’t make any sense at all. Everything they knew about the unsub pointed to a loner.

Until now. No, this was all wrong. The two intruders were arguing, but their voices were muffled whispers, and Nick couldn’t catch any of what they were saying. They were by the front door, but only one of them rushed up the stairs. Nick could hear the other one moving around below. Then a crash, maybe a vase, Nick thought, followed by a shredding noise, like material being ripped apart. The son of a bitch was either looking for something or trashing Laurant’s house.

The adrenaline was pouring through his veins now, and he couldn’t wait to get his hands on both of them.

The other intruder was on the landing now. He had a penlight. First the beam, then the shadow crossed the threshold of Laurant’s bedroom. He continued on to the hall linen closet. He was going for the camera, Nick decided. He was either going to remove it or turn it back on.

Joe flipped on the hall light as Nick swiftly moved into the hall to block any retreat.

“Freeze,” Joe ordered, his gun trained on the suspect.

Steve Brenner yanked his hand back from the closet ceiling and shielded his eyes from the blinding light. “What the . . . ,” he shouted as he turned and tried to charge past Nick.

Nick clipped him on the side of his head with the butt of his gun. Stunned by the blow, Brenner reeled back, then attacked, his fists flailing like a drowning man. Nick easily dodged the assault, then threw an uppercut to his nose and heard the crunch of bone. Blood spurted as Brenner, screaming in pain, staggered back and went down on his knees. Both his hands cupped his nose as he began to shout obscenities.

“You got him?” Nick shouted as he turned and raced toward the stairs.

“I’m on him,” Joe yelled back. He shoved Brenner to the floor on his stomach, then held him there with his knees pressed into his spine. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

Nick took the flight of stairs in two leaps. He swung over the banister, dropped to the floor in the front hallway, and raced on. The caustic smell of gasoline was heavy in the air, and by the time he was halfway across the living room, his eyes were tearing. He saw the gallon can of gasoline on the floor near the dining room table and Laurant’s pink bridesmaid dress in a heap next to the overturned can. The gown had been shredded into a wad and was soaked. Nick muttered an expletive as he ran on.

He caught a fleeting glimpse of Lonnie’s profile as he turned the corner into the kitchen. He didn’t see the matches though.

Lonnie struck one match in the back hallway, then lit the rest and threw the flaming pack behind him into the kitchen. Frantic to get away before he was caught, he clawed at the doorknob, but his hands were sticky with gasoline. On the third try he got the door open. He ran outside, tripped on the back step, and went flying into the yard. Scrambling to his feet he ran into the back lot, hooting with laughter because he knew he’d trapped Nick inside, and he had gotten away scot-free.

The floor was slick with gasoline, and the fire was instantaneous as the match flames ignited the fuel with a loud, greedy swoosh. The breeze coming in through the open back door whipped the fiery wall into a frenzy, and within bare seconds, the kitchen was a raging inferno. Nick stumbled back into the dining room. He tried to shield his eyes with the back of his arm as he regained his balance, but the heat was so intense he couldn’t go forward. The fire was loud, almost deafening. Popping, crackling, hissing. The kitchen floor had turned into liquid fire, moving like a ferocious wave toward the dining room, drowning everything in its path.

“Laurant!” Nick shouted her name as he raced back through the living room. He thought he heard the squeal of tires out front and he stopped at the front door long enough to unlock the dead bolt, but he didn’t open the door because he knew the fresh air would only feed the fire.

Joe had handcuffed Brenner and was trying to get him to his feet, but his prisoner was fighting him every inch of the way.

“Get him out through the front door, but hurry. The fire’s out of control.”

“That son of a bitch,” Brenner screamed. “That miserable little piece of shit. I’m going to kill him.”