Nighttime Is My Time: A Novel (16 page)

That hope was the only chance she had, but it gave her the faintest trickle of relief. Jean, she thought. He intends to kill her, too. They say people can project thoughts. I'm going to try to send mine to Jean. She closed her eyes and imagined Jean as she had looked at the dinner, dressed in her royal blue evening gown. Moving her lips under the tape, she began to say his name aloud. "J
^ean
, I'm with him. He killed the other girls. He's going to kill us. Help me, Jean. I'm in my old house. Find me, Jean!" Over and over she whispered his name.

"I forbade you to use my name."

She had not heard him come back. Even with the gag over her mouth, Laura's scream broke the silence of the room that had been hers for the first sixteen years of her life.

41

Monday morning, around dawn, Jean finally drifted off into a heavy but fitful sleep in which vague, undefined dreams of urgency and helplessness pulled her to momentary consciousness. But when she became fully awake, she was shocked to see that it was almost nine-thirty.

She considered ordering room service, then vetoed the idea of having even a continental breakfast in this room. It felt cramped and depressing, and the gloomy colors of the walls, bedspread, and window drapery made her long for her comfortable home in Alexandria. Ten years ago, in an estate sale, she had bought a seventy-year-old Federal-style, two-story house that had been owned by the same recluse for forty years. It had been dirty and neglected and cluttered, but she had fallen in love with it. Her friends had tried to dissuade her, saying such an undertaking was a bottomless pit of financial woes, but now they confessed that they'd been wrong.

Beyond mouse droppings, peeling wallpaper, the soiled carpet, dripping sinks, and the filthy stove and refrigerator, she had seen the high ceilings, oversized windows, and generous rooms, and the spectacular view of the Potomac that was then obscured by overgrown trees.

She'd gone for broke, buying the house and having the roof replaced. After that she had done the minor repairs herself, scrubbing and painting and wallpapering. She'd even sanded the parquet floors that had been an unexpected bonus, discovered when she pulled up the ragged carpet.

Working on the house was therapeutic for me, Jean thought as she showered, washed her hair, and toweled it dry. It was the place I dreamed of living in when I was growing up. Her mother had been allergic to flowers and plants. With an unconscious smile, she thought of the conservatory off her kitchen where every day fresh flowers bloomed.

The colors she had used throughout the house were those that to her meant cheer and warmth: yellows and blues and greens and reds. Not a single beige wall, her friends joked. The advance on her last contract had made it possible for her to panel her library and office as well as remodel the kitchen and bathrooms. Her home was her haven, her retreat, her sense of accomplishment. Because it was not far from Mount Vernon, she had jokingly named it Mount Vernon, Jr.

Being here in this hotel, even totally aside from her need to find Lily, had brought back the painful memory of all the years she had lived in Cornwall. It had made her feel once again like the girl whose father and mother were the joke of the town.

It made her remember how it felt to be desperately in love with Reed and then have to hide the grief of his death from everyone. All these years I've wondered if I made a mistake in giving up Lily, she thought. Coming back here, I'm beginning to understand that without my parents helping me, it would have been just about impossible to keep her and care for her properly.

As she dried and brushed her hair, she realized that she believed Sam Deegan's premise that the threat to Lily was all about money. "Jean," he had said, "think about this. Is there one single person who has a reason to want to hurt you? Have you ever gotten a job someone else wanted? Have you ever 'skunked' anyone, as the kids would say?"

"Never" had been her honest reply.

Sam had somehow managed to convince her that whoever was contacting her would soon demand money. But if it is about money, I believe that someone from around here learned I was pregnant, Jean thought, and that person was able to find out who adopted my baby. And maybe because there was a lot of talk about the reunion and publicity noting that I was one of the honorees, that person decided it was the right time to contact me.

As she looked in the bathroom mirror, she realized that she was startlingly pale. She ordinarily wore little makeup in the daytime, but now she touched her cheeks with blush and deliberately selected a lip color a little deeper than usual.

The realization that she was probably going to be staying in Cornwall for at least a few days meant that she had brought several changes of clothing. She decided today to wear a favorite cranberry turtleneck sweater over dark gray slacks.

Her determination to take action to find Lily had removed some of her terrible sense of helplessness. She clipped on earrings and gave a final brush to her hair. She put the brush down on the dresser, realizing it was the same size and shape as the one she had received in the mail with the strands of Lily's hair.

At that moment the name of the nurse who had been in Dr. Connors' office passed through her mind: Peggy Kimball.

Jean yanked open the drawer of the night table and pulled out the phone book. A quick look disclosed several Kimballs, but she decided that the one she would try first was the listing "Kimball, Stephen and Margaret." It wasn't too early to call. A woman's voice was on the answering machine: "Hi. Steve and Peggy aren't here now. At the tone please leave a message with your phone number, and we'll get back to you."

Can you remember a voice after twenty years, or am I just hoping I remember that voice? Jean asked herself as she carefully chose her words. "Peggy, I'm Jean Sheridan. If you were a nurse in Dr. Connors' office twenty years ago, it's terribly important that I speak with you. Will you please call me at this number as soon as possible."

While the phone book was open, she turned to the "C" listings. Dr. Edward Connors would have been at least seventy-five by now if he had lived. The odds were his wife was somewhere around that age as well. Sam Deegan was going to ask the pastor of St. Thomas about her, but maybe she was still listed. The doctor had lived on Winding Way; there was a Mrs. Dorothy Connors listed on Winding Way. Feeling hopeful, Jean dialed the number. The silvery voice of an older woman answered. When she hung up the phone a few minutes later, Jean had an appointment to visit Mrs. Dorothy Connors at eleven-thirty that morning.

42

On Monday morning at ten-thirty, Sam Deegan was in the office of Rich Stevens, the district attorney of Orange County, filling him in on the missing Laura Wilcox and the threat to Lily.

"I served the order for the telephone records of the Glen-Ridge House at one this morning," he said. "Both the clerk and that kid from Stonecroft are positive that it was Laura Wilcox who made the call, but they also agree that she sounded distressed. The hotel records showed that it was a 917 number on the ID, so we know she called from a cell phone. The judge was very unhappy at having his sleep interrupted last night.

"I served the subpoena for the subscriber's name and address, but I had to wait until 9:00 A.M. when the telephone business office was open."

"What did you find out from the records?" Stevens asked.

"The kind of information that makes me sure Wilcox is in trouble. The phone was one of those that are bought with one hundred minutes of available calling time and then discarded."

"The kind used by drug dealers and terrorists," Stevens snapped.

"Or, in this case, maybe a kidnapper. The cell site is Beacon in Dutchess County, and you know how wide an area that covers. I've already talked to our tech guys, and they tell me there are two more power stations in Woodbury and New Windsor. If a new call comes in, we can triangulate it and pinpoint the location it's being made from. We could also do that if the power was left on, but unfortunately it's been turned off."

"I never turn off the power on my cell phone," Stevens commented.

"Neither do I. Most people don't. That's another reason to believe that Laura Wilcox was forced to make that phone call. She has her own phone registered to her name. Why wouldn't she use that, and why isn't it on now?"

He then laid out his suggested course of action. "I want to get rap sheets on all the graduates who attended the reunion," he said, "both men and women. A lot of them haven't been back here in twenty years. Maybe we'll come up with something from someone's past, find someone who has a history of violence or has been institutionalized. I want the relatives of the five dead women from the lunch table to be contacted to see if there was anything suspicious about their deaths. We're also trying to contact Laura's parents. They're on a cruise."

"Five from one lunch table and a sixth one missing," Stevens said incredulously. "If there isn't something suspicious, it's because it wasn't noticed. If I were you, I'd start with the last one. It's so recent that if the cops in L.A. know about the other women, they may take a hard look at labeling Alison Kendall's death a drowning accident. We'll send for all of the police reports in all of those cases."

"The office at Stonecroft is sending over a list of the graduates who attended the reunion, as well as a list of the other people who were at the dinner," Sam said. "They have addresses and phone numbers of all the graduates and at least some of the townspeople who attended. Of course, some people bought a table and didn't provide names of guests, so it will take extra time to find out who they are." Exhausted, Sam could not conceal a yawn.

It was an acknowledgment of the sense of urgency he had communicated to the district attorney that Rich Stevens did not suggest his veteran investigator catch some sleep. Instead he said, "Get some of the other guys started on doing the follow-up, Sam. Where are you going now?"

Sam's smile was rueful. "I have an appointment with a priest," he said, "and I'm hoping he'll be the one to do the confessing."

43

The discovery of the body of Helen Whelan became a major story for the media. The disappearance of the popular teacher forty-eight hours earlier had already been given heavy coverage, but now the confirmation of her murder was a prime interest story because it had also triggered alarm throughout the small towns of the Hudson Valley.

The fact that her dog had been savagely attacked and his leash was still wrapped around the victim's wrist when her body was found gave added spice to the possibility that a random or serial killer was on the loose in this area that was normally drenched in history and tradition.

The Owl had dozed intermittently throughout Sunday night. After his first visit to Laura at ten-thirty, he'd managed to catch a few hours of rest. Then his dawn visit had given him the satisfaction of reducing her to trembling pleas for mercy—mercy she had denied him in their school years together, he had reminded her. After that second visit he had showered for a long time, hoping that the hot water would help relieve the terrible throbbing in his arm. The wound from the dog bite was festering. He had stopped at the old drugstore in town, where he used to shop as a kid, but then he'd walked out immediately. He had been about to pick up peroxide and antibiotic salves and bandages. Then it had occurred to him that the cops weren't necessarily stupid. They might have put a notice out to local pharmacies to watch for someone buying those kinds of medical supplies.

Instead he went to one of the big chains and bought shaving supplies, toothpaste, vitamins, crackers and pretzels and sodas, and then, in a moment of inspiration, he'd added cosmetics, cold cream, moisturizing lotion, and deodorant. Only then had he thrown into the mix the supplies he needed, the peroxide, bandages, salves.

He hoped he wasn't getting a fever. His body felt warm, and he knew his face was flushed. With all the useless camouflage items he had tossed into the basket at the drugstore, he had managed to forget to include aspirin. But that he could safely buy anywhere. Most of the time, most of the world has a headache, he thought, smiling to himself at the mental image conjured up by that reasoning.

He turned up the volume on the television. They were showing pictures of the crime scene. He observed intently how muddy it seemed. He hadn't remembered the area as being that swampy. That meant the tires of his rental car were probably embedded with dirt from that area. It would be wise to leave the car in the garage of the house where so far he was allowing Laura to continue to live. He'd rent another mid-priced, mid-sized, unobtrusive black sedan. That way, if for any reason anyone started to nose around and check the cars of the reunion group, his would be passed over.

As The Owl was selecting a jacket from the closet, a breaking story came across the screen: "Young reporter from Stonecroft Academy in Cornwall-on-Hudson reveals the disappearance of actress Laura Wilcox may be linked to a fiend he calls 'The Lunch Table Serial Killer.' "

44

"Monsignor, I cannot emphasize sufficiently the urgency of our request," Sam Deegan told Monsignor Robert Dillon, pastor of the Church of St. Thomas of Canterbury. They were in the rectory office. The monsignor, a thin man with prematurely white hair and rimless glasses that illuminated intelligent gray eyes, was behind his desk. The faxes Jean had received were spread out in front of him. In a chair directly across from the desk, Sam was putting Lily's hairbrush back in a plastic bag.