Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [101]
“Wh-what is it?” Her teeth chattered in her head.
“An IED—an improvised explosive device. Also known as a bomb.”
She swallowed hard and looked at it, making out a big propane tank leaning against a roof vent. There were tubes and wires going in and out of both. Another, thinner wire was pressed into a lump of something that seemed to be modeling clay. And was that a timer? He was gently brushing snow off a round glass face.
“Still operational.” He blew the last of the snow off it. “One, two, three, boom. And we all fall down.”
“Charlie, you can’t—you don’t want to—”
He straightened. “I can. And I do want to. But for a while I had second thoughts.”
“Why?” she asked desperately. Keep him talking. Someone had to come. Help must be on the way. Didn’t Heather Andrews and her staff monitor the whole mall on security cameras? Someone besides her poor father must have seen her and Charlie disappear into the stairwell.
Only if someone had been watching.
“Because of you,” he finally answered. “I fooled myself into believing you cared. But you didn’t.”
She made a move forward, as if she was going to pat his shoulder, but he brushed her hand away. “Don’t touch me. I don’t want to be touched ever again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re lying, Angela.”
She crossed her arms, hiding her hands underneath them to keep her fingers from freezing. He was right about that. Why was she apologizing to a psycho who was prepared to kill thousands of people? A little voice he couldn’t hear answered that question. To keep him from doing it. Say anything. Swallow your damned pride.
“No, I’m not lying,” she said firmly. “And I really do apologize for not leaving you a letter, or contacting you.”
“That’s over and done with,” he snarled. “It’s okay that you lied. Everyone does.”
“Charlie, that day I left—that was a misunder-standing. I never got a chance to explain to you.”
A mean gleam brightened his eyes. “And now you never will.”
Tears welled in her eyes and a few rolled down her cheeks, turning into ice. The wet trails stung with salt and coldness.
“Crybaby,” he taunted her. “Go ahead. Run away and tell daddy. Oh, I forgot. Your daddy isn’t feeling too good right now. I guess I don’t know my own strength.”
His childish cruelty was obliterated in her mind by the mention of her father. She strained to summon up a mental image of him, but nothing came through. Angela closed her eyes. Still nothing.
Silently she waited, hoping for a vision that would tell her what to do. Her mind was scoured blank by her fear. Then—there was something, moving indistinctly. Hands. Whose? Then there were words.
Hand over hand.
What on earth did that mean? Was she supposed to climb down the sheer side of the building? Her one gift was failing her when she needed it most. Angela’s eyes flew open when Charlie’s gloved fingers brushed her cheek.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked. His tone was bizarrely gentle.
“I was praying,” she said quickly. Of all things to lie about.
“For what?”
“Help. For you.”
His short laugh was fierce and devoid of humor. “Too late for that.” His gaze moved to a silver cell phone in the palm of his hand.
“Can’t you—call someone?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know anyone to call. There aren’t any numbers in this, anyway. It’s new. A prepaid. My Christmas present to myself.”
“I see.” The wind stole the reply and cast it away into the freezing air.
He fooled with the cheap little phone, pushing buttons and getting different screens. “Look at this. I can put my favorite people on speed dial. A is for Angela. That’s the first key. What’s your number again?”
She told him. Slowly. Every second counted.
“You can’t call me, Charlie. My cell battery’s dead. I don’t even know where the damn thing is.”
He shrugged. “The phone company software will record the outgoing call. That’s proof of a connection between us. I’ll hurl the phone way out over the edge before this baby blows.” He nudged his bomb with a toe. “Maybe they’ll find it, and blame you and not me.”
Her mouth went dry. If she didn’t get free,