Nightwatcher (35 page)

“Who the hell knows? History of mental illness. But she doesn’t have a record. Never been arrested.”

“What about the kids’ father?”

“Name on the birth certificate is Samuel Shields. He was just a kid himself, grew up in the projects, a couple of years younger than Lenore. Samuel’s father was a paranoid schizophrenic who tried to kill the kid and wound up in a mental ward. Still there.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. Long story short, Samuel gets Lenore pregnant with twins when she’s sixteen—”

“Sixteen? And he was a couple of years younger?”

“Ah, May-December romance,” Vic says dourly. “Lenore drops out of school to have the kids, he drops out of the picture altogether, far as I can tell—he’s a convicted felon, violent character, has a nice, long rap sheet and spent years in and out of juvy before he graduated to jail, then the state pen here and, most recently, out in Ohio.”

“Nice,” Rocky says again. “Just another happily-ever-after tale of the inner city, huh? Okay, give me a 10–20 on that address. We’ve got reasonable cause to head over there to find our boy Jerry.”

“You’re not alone, are you?”

“Nah, I’ve got Detective Brandewyne here with me.” The lady cop Rocky wasn’t crazy about, Vic remembers. The smoker who isn’t seasoned—not exactly the best quality in a sidekick when you’re dealing with a serial killer.

“Want to come along for the ride?” Rocky offers.

Vic is only a couple of blocks away, but he’s supposed to be sleeping.

“I know, I know, you can’t,” Rocky says before he can reply. “Protocol, and all that. Forget I even—”

“I’ll meet you there.”

What the hell are you doing?
Vic wonders as he gives Rocky the address, then hangs up and straps on his gun.

He thinks of his dead friend John, and he thinks of Rocky.

Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures.

I’m just doing what I can—what I have to—do to help a friend in need.

S
itting in the backseat of a parked squad car with Mack beside her and a uniformed officer at the wheel, Allison shudders, looking up at the brick building.

She can’t stop thinking about what could have happened to her up there in her apartment; can’t stop wondering what’s going to happen to her now.

“What if I killed him?” she asks Mack in a low voice, not moving her gaze from the building, watching for the pair of cops who went in earlier, guns drawn, to emerge.

“I hate to say it, but I hope that you did.”

Taken aback, she turns to look at him.

“Sorry,” he says, “but if he’s the one who killed Kristina—and if he was planning to do the same thing to you—then I hope you got him good.”

“But would they charge me with murder, do you think? If he’s dead, I mean.”

“It was self-defense.”

“I know, but . . .” The thought of being responsible for the death of a human being, under any circumstances, is sickening.

“Don’t worry, Allison. It’ll be okay.”

She nods and looks away, feeling as though she’s lived a lifetime’s worth of trauma with this man in the space of a few days.

How, she wondered, can he have endured so much and still manage to hold it together, when she herself feels like she’s going to break down and cry?

Even knowing that his marriage was troubled, that he had his share of doubts . . .

Even now that she’s met his sister and gained more insight into who Mack is—and
was
, where he comes from . . .

Strength, quite clearly, is his strength.

Again, she turns to look up at the building. She should feel safe, sitting here in the police car with an armed driver at the wheel. She doesn’t.

She won’t until they come out with
him
in handcuffs—or on a stretcher.

Whoever
he
is.

When she closes her eyes and pictures the figure she saw in her bedroom, she’s frustrated by how little detail there is. She barely caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye before she reacted, and she never looked back after he went down.

It could have been Jerry, she told the police who questioned her quickly before going inside. But it could just easily have been someone else.

At the squawk of a radio in the front seat, her eyes snap open. The officer at the wheel is listening and responding to whatever is being said, but it’s a conversation made up largely of numeric code, and Allison hasn’t a clue what’s going on. She looks at Mack, who shrugs.

Finally concluding the conversation with a brisk “10–4,” the officer turns to Allison and Mack.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“They’re up there in your apartment, ma’am. But it’s empty—whoever was there is gone.”

S
tanding in front of the bathroom mirror, Jamie vigorously rubs in cold cream to remove the makeup, trying to ignore the excruciating pain brought by the slightest movement.

Stupid, stupid. You’re so damned stupid.

You should have known it was too easy, strolling right into Allison Taylor’s apartment with her spare key.

Jamie arrived on Hudson Street just in time to see her out on the sidewalk with a strange woman, walking toward the opposite corner. That was initially disappointing. But then, she’d have to come back sooner or later, right? And her absence provided the perfect opportunity to properly set the stage.

The first stop was the manager’s office to disable the surveillance cameras and remove the tapes that had just been recorded—including the one that showed Jamie unlocking the front door and walking down the hall to the building manager’s office. Then it was on to a couple of other apartments on the way upstairs, where Jamie rummaged through the vacant tenants’ belongings for just the right touches.

It’s always been thrilling to peek into strangers’ drawers and closets. But tonight, there was even greater pleasure in touching, and taking, and imagining the role those stolen items would play in what was to come.

Some silky lingerie for Allison, just in case she didn’t have any of her own . . . and some candles to set the mood . . .

Just like with the others. That was how it should be. Yes, that was the only way Jamie could recapture that feeling, the exquisite rush of power.

True, this was different in some ways. Allison hadn’t given Jerry the brush-off as Kristina and Marianne had . . . but she’d done something a lot worse. She’d seen him the night Kristina was killed. She was a witness. She had to apologize to Jerry, and then she had to die. Just like the others.

Too late, Jamie realized that there would be no music. That was a stupid mistake. It wouldn’t be the same without the music.

“Jamie? Please, Jamie. Please talk to me,” Jerry begs.

That’s
the stupidest thing you ever did. Trusting Jerry.

“Shut up!” Jamie barks at him.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking off makeup and trying to think.”

Jamie tosses another makeup-smudged cotton ball into the trash can, then runs the water until it’s steaming.

“Jamie,” Jerry says, “please . . . Talk to me.”

Jamie grabs a washcloth and starts scrubbing. The water is hot, painfully hot, but Jamie welcomes the pain. This pain.

Jamie did not welcome the pain inflicted by Allison when she threw that boulder of a bookend with all her might.

It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. She wasn’t supposed to be armed. She wasn’t supposed to hurt Jamie; Jamie was supposed to hurt her.

But it was Jamie who went down, hard, in an explosion of blinding agony, utterly immobilized.

By the time I realized what had hit me, she was gone.

Jamie’s first instinct was to chase her down. But she had too great a head start.

I never would have caught her in time. The only thing for me to do was get away from there as fast as I could.

Wincing in pain, Jamie went out the window, clambering down the fire escape and limping away through the back alleys to the adjacent block.

The route home was the same but this time there was no satisfaction in it; this mission was unaccomplished.

For now.

But I’ll be back. I don’t care how long it takes, or how far or fast Allison Taylor runs. Sooner or later, I’ll find her.

Jamie turns off the tap and reaches for a towel.

Finally, the makeup is gone, the face in the mirror wiped cleaner than it’s been in a long, long time.

“I’m sorry, Jamie,” Jerry is saying. “I didn’t mean . . .”

“I know, Jerry. I know. But I told you never to open Mama’s bedroom door.”

“I know you did. I’m sorry.”

Jamie sighs, staring into the mirror, hating what has to be done.

“It’s too late for sorry, Jerry.”

“But, Jamie—”

“Shut up!” Jamie reaches for the doorknob, opens the bathroom door.

There’s no way around it. Jerry is going to have to be punished. Jamie has no choice.

R
ocky and Brandewyne are a half block away from the address Vic provided when Rocky’s cell phone rings.

“It’s probably Dale Reiss,” Brandewyne comments as he reaches for it, “wondering where the hell we are.”

“We’re not even late yet.” Rocky picks up the phone. “Yeah, Manzillo here.”

“Rock, it’s Tommy.”

The station house desk sergeant. “What’s up?” Rocky asks him.

“You still on your way to Hudson Street? Because we had a 10–66 at that address.”

A 10–66—a prowler
.

“What’s going on, Tommy?”

“Female tenant walked in on someone in her apartment. She hit him and ran. I’ve got a couple of uniforms over there now, but by the time they got up there, the guy was gone. Looks like he went out a window. May have gotten in that way, too.”

Or with a key
, Rocky thinks grimly. “What’s the woman’s name?” he asks, anticipating the answer.

Sure enough, Tommy replies, “Allison Taylor.”

“Is she okay?”

“Just shaken up.”

Rocky asks a few more rapid-fire questions and learns that it all happened about forty-five minutes ago—long enough for Jerry, if it was Jerry, to have gotten back up here. Allison didn’t get a good look at the intruder, Tommy says. The officers on the scene called for backup and are in the process of canvassing the building and neighborhood for the suspect, but so far, there’s no sign of him.

Rocky looks at the unmarked cars parked in front of Jerry Thompson’s apartment building. He can see a tall figure lurking in the shadows near the door. Vic.

“We’ll be down there as soon as we can,” he tells Tommy. “Tell everyone to sit tight in the meantime. We’ve got a lead we’re checking out.”

“B
ut I’m sorry, Jamie,” Jerry says again, panic welling up inside him as he backs across the living room, shielding his face with his forearms. “I am. Please stop saying it’s too late.”

“You knew it was wrong to open that bedroom door, but you did it anyway. You’re just like the others. You have to be punished.”

“No!” Jerry cowers. “Please, Jamie! I’m—”

“Shut up! I said it’s too late!”

Jerry clamps his mouth shut. For a moment, the only sound is sirens wailing outside, in the distance. Jerry hates that sound. It never ends anymore. Sirens, always sirens.

Then Jamie says, “It’s
my
turn to say
I’m
sorry, Jerry, okay? And for me, it’s not too late. It’s too early.”

“Wh-what?”

“I’m sorry for what I’m going to do to you. I really am. And I want you to know that. I only wanted to protect you. If you had just listened to me . . .”

“I did listen, Jamie. I listened!”

“No! You didn’t! You never do! They never do! They never listen to me! Your mother didn’t, and your sister didn’t, and now you . . .”

Jerry’s blood goes cold.

That voice . . . it’s changed, become guttural, low, masculine-sounding . . . that doesn’t sound like Jamie’s voice.

“Who are you?” Jerry asks, terrified. “You’re not Jamie!”

“Yes, I am. You know I am.”

Jerry frowns, confused. He does know that, but . . .

He backs across the room, hugging himself, afraid of Jamie.

He’s been stuck here, in this apartment, for so long. Too long. He wants to leave. But Jamie won’t let him. Jamie said he has to be punished. That scares him.

He turns to look longingly out the window.

“You know,” Jamie says, “they say you’re a retard, but they’re wrong. You’re actually smarter than you look, aren’t you?”

“I’m smart,” Jerry tells him defiantly. “I am! Emily says so.”

“Does she? That’s nice. But I didn’t say you were smart. I said you were smarter than you look. If you were
smart
, you wouldn’t even be here, would you? You would have figured it all out a long time ago. But that’s why you needed me, Jerry. That’s why I came back here to find you, and help you. Because for all these years, I’ve been worried about you.”

Jerry shakes his head, again glancing out the window, remembering all those people who jumped out of the towers. He wonders what would happen to him if he jumped. Would he survive?

Probably not. The sidewalk is hard. He leans forward to look down at it, and notices something.

“Policemen are here,” he tells Jamie.

“What are you talking about?”

“There are policemen. Right there in front of the building. See?”

Jamie curses.

“You shouldn’t say that word,” Jerry admonishes. “Mama says it’s bad.”

“Your mother is dead, Jerry. Do you still not get it?”

“I forgot.” Jerry’s lip quivers.

“You forget everything! Come on! Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“We have to get out of here.”

A moment ago, that was all Jerry wanted—to get out of here.

But not with Jamie. Jamie is scaring him.

“Let’s go, Jerry! Move!”

“You said not to leave the apartment! See? I don’t forget everything. You said something bad would happen if I leave!”

“Well, now I’m telling you something bad will happen if you don’t, so come on!”

Jerry shakes his head. This is wrong. This is bad. Jamie is bad. Jamie lied. Jamie . . .