Mary hoped she’d have the opportunity to ask her father about what really happened. For now, someone wanted this manuscript badly enough to kill for it. But who? Richards didn’t name the squad leader, preferring to make him impersonal in the position he played on the squad. A leader who’d gone wrong. The information could be traced through military records if someone wanted to dig hard enough. Maybe that was it. His squad leader wanted the manuscript kept quiet. Of the men in the picture she’d found in her father’s footlocker, which one was the squad leader? Now wasn’t the time to check. She hadn’t risked going back to the B and B in case Nick lay in wait to stop her from doing what she had to.
She illuminated the digital display on her watch. Midnight.
Showtime.
Clutching the envelope to her chest, Mary straightened, cast another glance around the snow-covered clearing and hurried toward the rear entrance. Her heart hammered and her shallow breaths puffed steam into the air.
She entered the kitchen through the unlocked back door. A single light shone over the sink. Fear pinched her lungs as she crept across the tiled floor, forcing herself to concentrate on all the good memories of this very room, when she was surrounded by her mother and father and all the love they’d shared.
Her father couldn’t have been one of the soldiers who killed the women and children of that village. He didn’t have it in him.
The door to the basement stood ajar, a light shining up from the depths.
“Hello?” Under her breath she cursed, angry that her voice shook.
“Down here. Now!”
Mary jumped and stifled a scream.
“And close the door behind you.” The disembodied voice rapped out the words.
She hesitated at the top of the steps. If she descended into the basement and closed the door, no one would hear what happened down there. No one would know if she and her father were being threatened or killed until too late.
Her gut told her to stall. “How do I know you’ll live up to your end of the bargain?”
“You don’t. But if you want to see your father alive, you’ll get down here.”
How long would it take Nick to get from the B and B to Christmas Towne? Would he come storming through the front door of the house or sneak in through the basement? Stall, Mary, stall. “How do I know he’s even down there?”
The sound of something ripping echoed up the staircase. “Say something to your daughter,” the voice demanded.
When there was no response forthcoming, a thump was followed by a moaning grunt.
“Don’t, Mary! Run for the police! Now!”
Mary pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. She knew her father’s voice. He was in the basement and he needed her.
“Run, Mary!” her father shouted. “Get the hell out of here. Do you hear me? Go!”
Another sickening thump and her father’s words died.
“Daddy?” She’d been concentrating so hard on sounds emitted from the basement, she didn’t know someone else was in the kitchen with her until a hand touched her back.
Relief welled in her chest. Nick had come early. When she turned, she stopped short of flinging herself in his arms. Standing before her was not the tall, broad-shouldered man she’d expected to ride to her rescue.
Her stepmother stood in front of her, a finger pressed to her lips. “Don’t scream.”
What the hell? “Jasmine?” Mary whispered, teetering on the edge of the step.
“On the count of three I shoot Santa and then I’m coming after you,” the man in the basement shouted.
“Give me the manuscript and I’ll take it down.” Jasmine held out her hand for the envelope.
Mary frowned at the woman. “I can’t. I have to trade it for my father’s life.”
Jasmine nodded. “I know but let me. Your father would want you to be safe.”
“Thanks, but I can’t let you do it. That’s my father down there.”
