Nighttime Is My Time: A Novel (21 page)

At eleven-fifteen on Tuesday morning, Sam was in the district attorney's office giving him an update. "It's not the same phone Wilcox used Sunday night," he told Rich Stevens. "This one was purchased in Orange County. It has a 845 exchange. Eddie Zarro is out checking the places in the Cornwall area that sell them. Of course, it's been turned off, just like the one Wilcox used to phone the Glen-Ridge desk clerk Sunday evening."

The district attorney spun a pen in his fingers. "Jean Sheridan can't be one hundred percent certain she was talking to Laura Wilcox."

"No, sir, she can't."

"And the nurse—what's her name, Peggy Kimball?—told Sheridan that Dr. Connors may have arranged an illegal private adoption for her baby?"

"That's what Mrs. Kimball thinks."

"Have you heard anything from the priest at St. Thomas about baptismal records?"

"So far they're drawing a blank. They've been pretty successful reaching people who had baby girls baptized within that three-month period, but they haven't come up with one single instance of anyone admitting that their child had been adopted. The pastor, Monsignor Dillon, is smart. He called in some of the long-timers on the parish council who were around twenty years ago. They knew of families who had adopted children, but not one of them has a girl who's nineteen and a half now."

"Is Monsignor Dillon still working on it?"

Sam rubbed his hand over his head and thought again of how Kate used to tell him that he was weakening the roots of his hair. He decided it was a sign of his fatigue that from thoughts of Kate his mind jumped to Alice Sommers. It seemed more like two weeks than two days since he had seen her. But then, since early Saturday morning when Helen Whelan was reported missing, everything had been spinning out of control.

"Is Monsignor Dillon still searching through the files, Sam?" Rich Stevens asked again.

"Sorry, Rich. I guess I was woolgathering there for a minute. The answer is yes, and he's also called some of the neighboring parishes and asked them to do a discreet check on their own. If they think they have anything, Monsignor Dillon will let us know, and we can subpoena their records."

"And is Jean Sheridan following up on Craig Michaelson, the lawyer who handled some of Dr. Connors' adoptions?"

"She's seeing him at two o'clock."

"What's your next step, Sam?"

They were interrupted by the ringing of Sam's cell phone. He grabbed it from his pocket, glanced at the ID, and the fatigue suddenly dropped from his expression. "It's Eddie Zarro," he said as he pushed the talk button. "What have you got, Eddie?" he snapped.

As the district attorney watched, Sam's mouth dropped. "You've got to be kidding me. God, I feel so dumb. Why didn't I think of that, and what is that little weasel up to? Okay. I'll meet you at the Glen-Ridge. Let's hope he didn't decide to take off today."

Sam closed the phone and looked at his boss. "A cell phone with one hundred minutes on it was bought at the drugstore on Main Street in Cornwall a few minutes after seven last night. The clerk remembers distinctly the man who made the purchase because he's seen him on television. It was Robby Brent."

"The comedian? Do you think he and Laura Wilcox are together?"

"No, sir, I don't. The clerk in the drugstore watched Brent after he left. Brent stood on the sidewalk and made a phone call. According to him, it was at exactly the same time that Jean Sheridan received the call supposedly from Laura Wilcox."

"You mean that you think—

Sam interrupted. "Robby Brent is a comedian by some standards, but by everyone's standard he's a first-class mimic. My guess is the guy was imitating Laura's voice on that call to Jean Sheridan. I'm on my way to the Glen-Ridge. I'm going to find that jerk and make him explain to me what he was up to."

"Do that," Rich Stevens snapped. "He'd better have a damn good story, or else let's slap him with a charge for hindering a police investigation."

53

How long had it been? Laura had the sense that she was lapsing in and out of something that was more than sleep. How long had it been since The Owl was here? She wasn't sure. Last night, around the time she had sensed he would be coming back, something had happened. She'd heard sounds on the stairs, then a voice—a voice she knew.

"
Donti"
Then he had shouted the name she had been forbidden to even whisper.

It was Robby Brent who had shouted, and he sounded terrified.

Did The Owl hurt Robby Brent last night?

I think so, Laura decided, as she willed herself to slip once more into a world where she didn't have to remember that The Owl might come back and that one of the times he returned he would pick up the pillow, hold it over her face, press it down, and…

What had happened to Robby? Some time after she heard his voice last night, The Owl had come to her and given her something to eat. He had been angry, so angry that his voice had trembled as he told her that Robby Brent had imitated her voice.

"I had to sit through dinner wondering if somehow you had gotten to the phone, but then my common sense told me that, of course, if you had been able to reach the phone, you would have called the police, not Jean, to say that you were fine. I was suspicious of Brent,

Laura, but then that nosey kid reporter was there, and I thought maybe he was up to some trick. Robby was so stupid, Laura, so stupid. He followed me here. I left the door open, and he came in. Oh, Laura, he was so stupid."

Did I dream that? Laura wondered hazily. Did I make that up?

She heard a click. Was it the door? She squeezed her eyes shut as raw panic raced through her body.

"Wake up, Laura. Raise your head to show that you're glad I'm back. I must talk to you, and I want to feel that you care about everything I tell you." The Owl's voice became hurried, high-pitched. "Robby suspected me and tried to set a trap for me. I don't know where I let my guard down, but I took care of him. I told you that. Now Jean is getting too close to the truth, Laura, but I know what I can do to lead her astray and then ensnare her. You do want to help me, don't you?

"
Don't you
?" he repeated loudly.

"Yes," Laura whispered as she tried to make her voice audible through the gag.

The Owl seemed appeased. "Laura, I know you're hungry. I've brought you something to eat. But first I have to tell you about Jean's daughter, Lily, and explain to you why you have been sending Jean threatening notes about her. You do remember sending those notes, don't you, Laura?"

Jean? A daughter? Laura stared up at him.

The Owl had turned on the small flashlight and laid it on the bedside table facing her. The light was shining across her neck and penetrating the darkness immediately around her. Looking up, she could see that he was staring back down at her, motionless now. Then he raised his arms.

"I remember." She mouthed the words, trying to make them audible to him.

Slowly his arms lowered to his sides. Laura closed her eyes, weak with relief. It had almost been the end. She had not responded quickly enough.

"Laura," he whispered. "You still don't understand. I am a bird of prey. When I have been disturbed, there is only one way I know to make myself whole. Don't tempt me with your obstinacy. Now tell me what we are going to do."

Laura's throat was parched. The gag was pressing against her tongue. Beneath the numbness in her hands and feet, the throbbing was intensifying as every muscle tightened with fear. She closed her eyes, struggling to concentrate. "Jean… her daughter… I sent notes."

After she opened her eyes, the flashlight was turned off. He was no longer hovering over her. She heard the click of the door. He was gone.

From somewhere nearby she could catch the faint aroma of the coffee he had forgotten to give her.

54

The office of Craig Michaelson, Attorney at Law, was located on Old State Road, only two blocks past the motel where Jean and Cadet Carroll Reed Thornton had spent their few nights together. As Jean approached the motel, she slowed down and blinked back tears.

Her mental image of Reed was so strong, her memory of their time together so intense. She felt that if she slipped into room 108, he would be there, waiting for her. Reed with his blond hair and blue eyes, his strong arms that wrapped around her, making her feel a kind of happiness that in all her eighteen years of life she had never imagined possible.

"I dream of Jeannie…"

For a long time after Reed died, she would wake up with the music of that song drifting through her mind. We were so in love, Jean thought. He was Prince Charming to my Cinderella. He was kind and smart, and he had a maturity far beyond his twenty-two years. He loved the military life. He encouraged me as a writer. He teased me that someday when he was a general, I'd be writing his biography. When I told him I was pregnant, he was worried because he knew what his father's reaction would be to an early marriage. But then he said, "We'll just move up our plans, Jeannie, that's all. Early marriages are not exactly unheard of in my family. My grandfather got married the day he graduated from West Point, and my grandmother was only nineteen."

"But you told me your grandparents knew each other from the time they were babies/' she had pointed out. "That's a lot different. They'll see me as a townie who got pregnant so that I could get you to marry me."

Reed had covered her mouth with his hand. "I won't listen to that kind of talk," he'd said firmly. "Once they know you, my parents will love you. But on the same subject, you'd better introduce me to your mother and father pretty soon."

I had wanted to be a student at Bryn Mawr when I met Reed's parents, Jean thought. By then my mother and father would have split. If his parents had met them separately, they probably would have liked them well enough. They wouldn't necessarily have learned about their problems.

If Reed had lived.

Or even if he had to die young, if it had happened after we were married, I still could have kept Lily. Reed was an only child. His parents might have been angry about our marriage, but they surely would have been thrilled to have a grandchild.

We all lost big-time, Jean thought achingly as she put her foot down on the accelerator and sped past the motel.

***

Craig Michaelson's office occupied an entire floor of a building that Jean knew had not been there when she and Reed were dating. His reception area was attractive with paneled walls and wide chairs that had been upholstered in an antique tapestry pattern. Jean decided that at least on the surface it would seem that the Michaelson firm was prosperous.

She had not been sure what to expect. On the drive to Highland Falls from Cornwall she had decided that if Michaelson had been part of Dr. Connors' system of improperly registering births, he would be something of a charlatan and surely very much on the defensive.

After she had waited ten minutes, Craig Michaelson came out to the reception area himself and personally escorted her into his private office. He was a tall man in his early sixties, with a big frame and slightly sloping shoulders. His full head of hair, more dark gray than silver, looked as though he might have just left the barber. His dark gray suit was well cut, and his tie was a subdued gray-and-blue print. Everything about his appearance as well as the tasteful furnishings and paintings in his office suggested a reserved and conservative man.

Jean realized that she was not sure if that wasn't the worst possible scenario. If Craig Michaelson was
not
involved in Lily's adoption, then this was going to be another dead end in her search to find her.

She looked directly at the lawyer as she told him about Lily and showed him the copies of the faxes and the DNA report. She sketched out her own background, reluctantly emphasizing her academic standing, the honors and awards she had received, and the fact that because of her best-selling book her financial success was a matter of public record.

Michaelson never took his eyes off her face except when he examined the faxes. She knew he was sizing her up, trying to decide if what she was telling him was the truth or just an elaborate hoax.

"Because of Dr. Connors' nurse, Peggy Kimball, I know that some of the adoptions the doctor arranged were illegal," she said. "What I need to know, what I beg you to tell me, is this: Did you handle my child's adoption yourself, or do you know who adopted her?"

"Dr. Sheridan, let me start by telling you that I never had any part in an adoption that was not handled to the strictest letter of the law. If at any time Dr. Connors was bypassing the law, he did so without my knowledge or involvement."

"Then if you did handle my baby's adoption, are you telling me that it was registered with my name as the mother and the name of Carroll Reed Thornton as the father?"

"I am saying that any adoption I handled was legal."

Years of teaching students, a small percentage of whom had been adept at dissembling and half-truths, had made Jean feel capable of spotting that practice whenever she encountered it. She knew she was encountering it now.

"Mr. Michaelson, a nineteen-and-a-half-year-old girl may be in danger. If you handled the adoption, you know who adopted her. You could try to protect her now. In fact, in my opinion, you have a moral obligation to try to protect her."