Nighttime Is My Time: A Novel (26 page)

Alfred Downes looked at his student with near loathing. "I am preparing a statement, and you will have a copy of it by tomorrow morning, Jake."

"Oh, thank you, sir." Jake felt a measure of sympathy for the man sitting across the desk from him. He's worried about his job, he thought. The board of trustees might give him the gate. They know Jack Emerson started the reunion fiasco because he owns the land they'll have to buy for a new addition, and that Downes went along with it, "Sir, I was thinking—"

"Don't think, Jake. Just be on your way."

"In a moment, sir, but please listen to this suggestion. I happen to know that Dr. Sheridan, Dr. Fleischman, and Gordon Amory are still at the Glen-Ridge and that Carter Stewart is staying across town at the Hudson Valley. Perhaps if you invited them to dinner and had some photos taken with them, it would be a way of putting Stonecroft back in a good light. Nobody could question any of
their
achievements, and pointing them out would offset the negative effect of the misconduct of the other two honorees."

Alfred Downes stared at Jake Perkins, thinking that in his thirty-five years of teaching he had never come across a student as nervy or as street-smart as he was. He leaned back in his chair and waited a long minute before responding. "When do you graduate, Jake?"

"I'll have enough credits by the end of this year, sir. As you know, every semester I've loaded up with extra classes. But my folks don't think I'll be ready to go off to college next year, so I'm happy to stay here and graduate with my class."

Jake looked at Dr. Downes and noted that he did not seem to share his happiness. "I have another idea for an article that you might like," he said. "I've done a lot of research on Laura Wilcox. I mean, I've gone over back issues of the
Gazette
and the
Cornwall Times
for the years she was here, and, as the
Times
reported, she was always the belle of the ball. Her family had money; her parents doted on her. I'm going to do a feature article for the
Gazette
to show how, with all the advantages Laura Wilcox enjoyed, she's the one who's having a hard time now."

Jake sensed that he was about to be interrupted, so he rushed on. "I think an article like that will serve two purposes, sir. It will show the kids at Stonecroft that having all the advantages doesn't guarantee success, and it will also show how the other honorees who had to struggle were better off for it. I mean, Stonecroft has both scholarship students and kids who work after school to help pay their tuition. That might motivate them, and besides, it looks good in print. The big-time media is looking for follow-up stories; it's the kind of thing they might pick up."

Gazing at the picture of himself on the wall behind Jake's head, Alfred Downes considered Jake's reasoning. "It's possible," he admitted reluctantly.

"I'm going to take pictures of the houses where Laura lived while she was growing up in Cornwall. The first one is empty now, but it was renovated recently and looks really good. The second house her family moved to on Concord Avenue is what I would call a tract mansion."

"A tract mansion?" Downes asked, bewildered.

"You know, it's one of a bunch of houses on one block that are too big or too ostentatious for the neighborhood. They're sometimes called McMansions."

"I never heard either expression," Downes said, more to himself than to Jake.

Jake jumped to his feet. "Not important, sir. But I have to tell you, the more I think about it, the more I like the idea of doing a story on Laura with her homes in the background and pictures of her when she was here at Stonecroft and later ones when she became famous. Now I'll get out of your way, Dr. Downes. But maybe I should give you another piece of advice. If you can put that dinner together, I suggest you skip inviting Mr. Emerson. My impression is that none of the honorees can stand him."

65

At ten o'clock Craig Michaelson received the call he had been expecting. "General Buckley is on the line," his secretary announced.

Craig picked up the phone. "Charles, how are you?"

"I'm fine, Craig," a concerned voice answered. "But what about this matter of extreme urgency? What's wrong?"

Craig Michaelson drew in his breath. I should have known there was no way of beating around the bush with Charles, he thought. He didn't get to be a three-star general for no reason. "First of all, it may not be as worrisome as I thought," he said, "but I consider it a matter of genuine concern. As you probably suspected, it's about Meredith. Yesterday, Dr. Jean Sheridan came to see me. Have you ever heard of her?"

"The historian? Yes. Her first book was about West Point. I enjoyed it very much, and I believe I've read all her subsequent books. She's a good writer."

"She's more than that," Craig Michaelson said bluntly. "She's Meredith's natural mother, and I have called you because of something that she has brought to my attention."

"Jean Sheridan is Meredith's mother!"

General Charles Buckley listened intently as Michaelson told him what he knew of Jean Sheridan's history and of the Stonecroft reunion and the perceived threat to Meredith. He interrupted only occasionally, to clarify what he was hearing. Then he said, "Craig, as you know, Meredith is aware that she is adopted. Since she was a teenager, she has expressed interest in finding her natural mother. At the time you and Dr. Connors arranged the adoption, you told us that her father had been killed in an accident prior to his college graduation and her mother was an eighteen-year-old about to go to college on a scholarship. Meredith knows that much."

"Jean Sheridan is aware that I am revealing her identity to you. What I did not tell you twenty years ago is that Meredith's natural father was a cadet who died in a hit-and-run accident on the grounds of West Point. It would have made it too easy for you to determine who he was."

"A cadet! No, you didn't tell me that."

"His name was Carroll Reed Thornton, Jr."

"I know his father," Charles Buckley said quietly. "Carroll never got over his son's death. I can't believe that he is Meredith's grandfather."

"Trust me, he is, Charles. Now, Jean Sheridan is so relieved to believe that Laura Wilcox was the one contacting her about Lily, as she had called Meredith, that she's willing to accept this last fax with Laura's supposed apology as gospel. I don't."

"I can't imagine where Meredith would have met Laura Wilcox," Charles Buckley said slowly.

"Exactly my reaction. And there's something else. If Laura Wilcox is on the level about being behind these threats, I can tell you right now that the district attorney in this county is going to prosecute her."

"Is Jean Sheridan still in Cornwall?"

"Yes, she is. She's going to wait in the Glen-Ridge House until she hears from Laura again."

"I'm going to phone Meredith and ask her if she ever met Laura

Wilcox and if she remembers where she left that hairbrush. There are meetings here at the Pentagon that I can't get out of today, but Gano and I will fly up to Cornwall tomorrow morning. Will you contact Jean Sheridan and say that her daughter's adoptive parents would like to meet her for dinner tomorrow evening?"

"Of course."

"I don't want to alarm Meredith, but I can ask her to promise me that she won't go outside the West Point grounds until we see her on Friday."

"Can you count on her keeping that promise?'

For the first time since they had begun speaking, Craig Michaelson heard his good friend General Charles Buckley sound relaxed. "Of course I can. I may be her father, but I'm also way up there in the chain of command. Now we know that Meredith is an army brat in both her natural and adoptive families, but remember, she's also a West Point cadet. When she gives her word to a senior officer, she doesn't break it."

I hope you're right, Craig Michaelson thought. "Let me know what she tells you, Charles."

"Of course."

***

An hour later General Charles Buckley called back. "Craig," he said, his voice troubled, "I'm afraid you're right to be skeptical about that fax. Meredith is absolutely certain that she never met Laura Wilcox, and she doesn't have the vaguest idea where she lost that hairbrush. I would have pressed her more, but she has a big exam in the morning and is terribly worried about it, so it absolutely wasn't the time to upset her. She's delighted that her mother and I"—he hesitated, then continued firmly—"that her mother and I are coming up to see her.

Over the weekend, if all works out, we'll tell her about Jean Sheridan and give them a chance to meet each other. I asked Meredith to promise me to stay at the Academy until we saw her, and she laughed at me. She said she has another test on Friday and so much studying to do that she won't see the light of day until Saturday morning. But she did make the promise."

It sounds okay, Craig Michaelson thought as he replaced the receiver, but the cold hard fact is that Laura Wilcox did
not
send that fax, and Jean Sheridan has got to be made aware of that.

For easy access, he had placed Jean's card directly under the phone on his desk. He reached for it, picked up the phone, and started to dial Jean's number. Then he broke the connection. She wasn't the one to call, he decided. She had given him the number of that investigator from the district attorney's office. Where was it? What was his name? he wondered.

After a moment of rummaging around on the top of his desk, he saw the notation he had made: Sam Deegan, followed by a phone number. That's what I want, Michaelson thought, and he began to dial.

66

Last night—or was it this morning? she wondered—he had thrown a blanket over her. "You're cold, Laura," he said. "There's no need for that. I've been thoughtless."

He's being kind, Laura thought dully. He even brought jam with the roll and remembered that she liked skim milk in her coffee. He was so calm, she almost relaxed.

That was what she wanted to remember, not what he had told her as she sat in the chair, sipping the coffee, her legs still bound but her hands free.

"Laura, I wish you could understand the feeling I get when I'm driving along the quiet streets, watching for my prey. There is an art to it, Laura. Never drive too slowly. A patrol car watching for speeders is just as likely to pounce on the car that is not moving at an appropriate pace as one that's going too fast. You see people who know they've had too much to drink make the mistake of inching along the road, a sure sign that they don't trust their own judgment, and a sure sign to the police, too.

"Last night, Laura, I searched for prey. As a tribute to Jean, I decided to go to Highland Falls. That's where she had her little trysts with the cadet. Did you know about that, Laura?"

Laura shook her head in response. He became angry.

"Laura, speak up! Did you know that Jean was having an affair with that cadet?"

"I saw them together once when I went to a concert at West Point but didn't think much of it," Laura had told him. "Jeannie never said a word about him to any of us," she had explained. "We all knew she went up to the Point a lot because even then she was planning to write a book about it."

The Owl had nodded, satisfied with her answer. "I knew Jean often went up on Sundays with her notebook and sat on one of the benches overlooking the river," he had said. "I went looking for her one Sunday and saw him join her. I followed them when they went for a walk. When they thought they were alone, he kissed her. I kept track of them after that, Laura. Oh, they went to great pains not to be viewed as a couple. She didn't even go to the dances with him. That spring, I observed Jean carefully. I wish you could have seen the expression on her face when they were together and away from other people. It was
luminous
! Jean, quiet, kind Jean, whom I felt was my fellow sufferer, given her tumultuous home life, my soul mate—she was living a life from which she had
excluded
me."

I thought he had a crush on me, Laura reasoned, and that he hated me for making fun of him. But he really loved Jeannie. The horror of what he had told her was still seeping into her consciousness.

"Reed Thornton's death wasn't an accident, Laura," he said. "I was driving through the grounds that last Sunday in May, twenty years ago, just on the chance that I might see them. Handsome, golden-haired Reed was walking alone on the road that leads to the picnic grounds. Maybe they were meeting there. Did I mean to kill him? Of course I did. He had everything I didn't have—looks and background and a promising future. And he had Jeannie's love. It wasn't fair. Agree with me, Laura!
It wasn't fair
!"

She stammered a reply, anxious to agree with him and avoid his anger. Then he told her in detail about the woman he had killed the night before. He said he had apologized to her, but when it was Laura's time to die, and Jean's, there wouldn't be any apologies.

He said that Meredith would be the last of his prey. He said that she would complete his need—or at least it was his hope that she would complete his need.

I wonder who Meredith is, Laura thought drowsily. She slipped into a sleep that was filled with visions of owls gliding toward her from branches, rushing at her, hooting eerily, wings fluttering softly, as she tried to run from them on legs that would not, could not, move.