Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [53]
The laughing, wide-eyed children scrambled to pick up the brightly wrapped coloring books and boxes of crayons Charlie was tossing from the back. Digital flashes blazed as the newspaper reporters snapped pictures. Charlie knew good old Nick Anastasios would be on the front page of the second section of the morning paper, and he hoped that he would be in the background, blurred.
He didn’t want to be mercilessly teased by the maintenance guys for trying to get noticed. He still hated them, though Angela’s presence in his life had made him forget all about his resentments for a time. Charlie frowned, puzzled by the way his mind seemed to split sometimes. It was as if there were two of him—a robot, more or less, who worked at the mall, and the human Charlie, hiding from life in his shabby house.
The strained faces of the police and security details were not lost on Charlie as he accompanied the sleigh and Santa through the mall. He felt the urge to tell them to relax and not to worry. After all, bomb threats were nothing new.
And everything had changed.
Before Angela, he’d felt more than angry enough to blow up the damn mall. The plan seemed irrational now. Two nights with her in his house and his grudges and hidden rage had dissolved. And it was all due to her—his first and only friend. Because of Angela he wasn’t lonely anymore, and he even had hope. Life could be good.
Not that he was going to confess or something like that. He hadn’t done anything.
He looked at the big clock above that was wreathed in fake holly with sparkly red berries. He’d overheard that the threat specified a time limit—exactly what had Joe said? Seventy-two hours.
Charlie did the mental calculations, more or less accurately—the hubbub and distractions made his mind wander. Okay, he had it. The time would be up in another hour or so, and the mall would still be standing. Meantime, everyone who knew of the threat would just have to sweat it out. He chuckled again. He was almost sorry for their agitation. Almost but not quite. It wouldn’t hurt them to be agitated for a while longer. He had been in a constant state of agitation all his life. Now it was their turn.
He dragged a hand over his brow, wiping away a few drops that threatened to trickle into his eyes. Weird—he was sweating, too, for no good reason. Had they turned up the temperature in the mall or what? Why did he feel burning hot all of a sudden? For a few moments the ranks and rows of brilliant Christmas trees with their winking lights and bright tinsel blinded him. The garlands of greenery swam before his cloudy gaze. He felt light-headed as the strains from “Frosty the Snowman” rang in his ears. And then he was all right. It was just tension and the relief, he told himself. The parade continued.
Eric Summers fixed his gaze on his watch and stared at the hands until they passed the seventy-two-hour mark. He waited another five minutes before he let the cuff of his shirt slide back down his wrist. Safe. For now, anyway. He released his breath in a long, drawn-out sigh.
Richards passed him on his way back to the office. His smirk left no doubt in Eric’s mind as to what the CEO was thinking. There was no need for the guy to say I told you so. Richards’s eyes said it all.
Heather wrapped her arms around Lex’s neck and waited for the clock to strike the hour. The seventy-second hour. Silent tears ran down her cheek. “Lex, if something does happen, I think you should know . . . I mean—I want you to know that I care for you. I meant to tell you sooner, but . . . well, you know how it is.”
“Yeah,” Lex said, pulling her close. “I do. For the record, I feel the same way about you. I just wish to hell we hadn’t waited so long to tell each other how we feel. I wish—” He stopped abruptly when he saw the hour hand