Night Moves: Dream Man/After the Night by Linda Howard

he’d braced himself and done what had to be done. If the man who emerged from the wreckage was grimmer and more ruthless than he’d been when he’d gotten out of bed that morning—well, if that was the price of survival, he’d gladly pay it.
    More problems awaited him at home. Under these circumstances, most mothers would have had to be pried from their child’s bedside with a crowbar, but not Noelle. He hadn’t even been able to get her to the telephone. He’d talked instead to Oriane, who told him that Miss Noelle had locked herself in her bedroom and wouldn’t come out. At hisinstruction, Oriane had relayed the information that Monica would be all right, shouting it through the locked door.
    At least he had no fears that Noelle would try the same stunt Monica had pulled. He knew his mother too well; she was too self-centered to harm herself.
    Despite the coffee, he dozed on the way home, and woke only when Dr. Bogarde stopped the car at the rear of the clinic. He’d left the top down on the Corvette, having more important things on his mind, so dew had collected on the seats. He’d have a wet ass on the drive home, and he was almost grateful. Maybe it would keep him awake.
    “Will you be able to sleep tonight?” Dr. Bogarde asked. “I can give you something if you think you’ll need it.”
    Gray gave a short bark of laughter. “My problem will be staying awake until I get home.”
    “In that case, maybe you’d better sleep here at the clinic.”
    “Thanks, Doc, but if the hospital needs me, they’ll call me at home.”
    “All right. Be careful, then.”
    “I will.” Gray swung his leg over the door of the ’Vette and slid into the seat. Yep. A definite wet ass. The cool moisture made him shiver.
    He left the top down, letting the air slap him in the face. The night smells were clear and sweet, fresher than when heated by the sun. As he left Prescott behind, the rural darkness closed in around him, soothing and protective.
    One oasis of light disturbed the darkness, though. Jimmy Jo’s, the local roadhouse, was still booming. The gravel parking lot was crowded with cars and pickup trucks, the neon sign blinked in endless welcome, and the walls were thudding with the force of the music. As Gray neared, the black Corvette slicing through the night, a battered pickup shot out of the parking lot into his path, tires screeching as they grabbed for traction.
    Gray stomped the brake pedal, bringing the ’Vette to a sliding halt. The truck skidded sideways, almost overturned, then righted itself. His headlights caught the faces of the occupants, roaring with laughter as the one on the passenger side, waving a bottle of beer in his hand, leaned out and shouted something at Gray.
    Gray froze. He couldn’t understand what had been shouted, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that the occupants were Russ and Nicky Devlin, and that they were headed in the same direction he’d been going, toward Rouillard land.
    The bastards hadn’t left. They were still on his property.
    The rage built slowly. It was cold, but it was powerful. Oddly detached, he felt it come, starting at his feet and working up, as if transmuting the very cells of his body. It reached his abdomen and tightened the muscles, then filled his chest before spreading upward to explode in his brain. It was almost a relief, banishing the fatigue and mental fog, leaving his thought processes cool and precise even as all systems kicked into overdrive.
    He turned the Corvette around and headed back toward Prescott. Sheriff Deese wouldn’t like being woken up this time of night, but Gray was a Rouillard, and the sheriff would do as he asked. Hell, he’d even enjoy it. Getting rid of the Devlins would cut the crime rate of the parish in half.
    •  •  •
    Faith hadn’t been able to relax all day. She had been almost sick with a sense of disaster and loss, unable to eat. Scottie, sensing her mood, had been whiny and fearful, continually