Sleepwalker (12 page)

Because I’m tired of feeling like I’m overreacting every time a doctor prescribes medicine.

I’m tired of this endless paranoia about drugs—justifiable, or not.

Aloud, she says only, “Because the vast majority of people who take it never have any problems.”

“Great. So I’m one-in-a-million. Next thing you know, I’ll be going next door in the dead of night and crawling into bed with Phyllis Lewis.”

Phyllis, who happens to be a striking brunette, can be quite the flirt, and the image is a little unsettling.

But Allison merely rolls her eyes. “Trust me, if that happens, you’re off Dormipram forever.”

“Are you kidding me? I’m off it forever now.”

“You don’t have to stop taking it.” Allison wets a couple of paper towels at the sink. “You’re doing great on it.”

“Yeah, if I keep doing this great, I’ll be able to fit into a Santa suit without padding by the time Christmas rolls around.”

“At least you’ll be well-rested,” she quips, wiping the soggy cereal off J.J.’s hands as he wails and wriggles against the straps of his chair.

“Nope. I’m done. That’s it. I’m going to flush that stuff down the toilet.”

“Don’t do that. Maybe now that you’re aware of what you’re doing, it won’t happen anymore. Give it another chance. Okay?”

Mack frowns, but says nothing.

Lifting her fussy son out of his high chair, Allison says, “I’ve got to get moving. I’ll change him and then the girls and I have to go.”

“You’re not taking J.J. with you?”

She stops and looks back at him. “I wasn’t going to. Why?”

Why?
Mack echoes silently, as their son flails his arms and legs, trying to launch himself from his mother’s arms.

“You’re going to be home, right?” Allison isn’t about to bend on this. It’s been a long week trapped indoors with the human octopus, and she needs a break.

“I am, but I have work to do, and you know how he is when you’re not around.”

“He’s like that even when I am around. Anyway, he’ll go down for a nap.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

Poised to tell her husband he’ll just have to deal, then, Allison bites back the words when she sees the dark look in Mack’s eye.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

Things were going so well, and she had to go and ruin everything. Now he’s going to stop taking his medicine, stop sleeping, and it’ll be back to grumpy, overtired, overworked Mack.

For all she knows, he’s not even sleep-eating. After all, it’s really just a guess.

But then, if he didn’t eat the missing food, who did?

Maybe she was mistaken about it . . .

No. You found the empty wrappings and cartons and a bowl in the garbage, and crumbs and sticky smears on the counter . . .

The only other explanation would be that some intruder had crept into the house in the night and helped himself to their food.

The idea is so much more benign than the late night intruder—the Nightwatcher—who’s haunted her for all these years that it almost seems laughable.

Almost
.

To Allison, there’s really no humor in the thought of a stranger creeping around the house while everyone is sleeping. None at all.

T
he experience a few weeks ago with Chuck and Cora Nowak was exhilarating, but over much too quickly. Still convinced that the most fitting punishment for the others responsible for killing Jerry will be to lose the people they love most, Jamie now understands that the task isn’t meant to merely be accomplished. It must also be savored.

That means getting to know both Rocky Manzillo and Allison MacKenna very well. Getting to know their household routines, their habits, their families. Getting to know what matters most in their world—and then taking it all away.

The only way to do that is to watch them, listen to them. And that, of course, requires the proper surveillance equipment—not at all hard for Jamie to acquire or install, thanks to all those years in prison with gloating inmates willing to teach the tricks of the trade.

And so, on a rainy September afternoon, correctly guessing there was nobody home in Rocky Manzillo’s Bronx row house, Jamie had broken a basement window and stolen from room to silent, deserted room installing tiny cameras and microphones. The job was done in a matter of minutes.

It was all for nothing, though. Since that day, Jamie has occasionally caught Rocky coming home alone in the wee hours to sleep until dawn, shower, and leave again. But for the most part, the house has remained empty and still.

Things have been much more interesting at the large suburban house where Allison lives with her husband and their three little children—happily ever after, Jamie realized in disgust, watching her push her daughters on their fancy wooden swing set one breezy afternoon about a week ago.

The house was unlocked, of course, and why wouldn’t it be? The area couldn’t be safer, a far cry from Jamie’s neighborhood back in Albany, and Rocky’s in the Bronx. Allison would have no reason to imagine that anyone would ever want to sneak into her house while she was right there in her own backyard.

Once inside, Jamie was tempted to linger, but didn’t dare. Not any longer than it took to set up the tiny cameras and voice recorders, keeping an eye on the family out the window the whole time.

Allison had a baby balanced on her hip and took turns pushing the swings, first one and then the other, with the hand that wasn’t clasping the baby. The little girls were giggling, kicking their legs as they arced through the air. It was obvious, watching them, that they hadn’t a care in the world.

But just you wait
, Jamie thought, giving them one last glance from the second story window of the master bathroom.

On the way back through the bedroom, there was just one last little detail to tend to. For old times’ sake, because Jamie couldn’t resist.

Before even opening a drawer, it was easy to tell at a glance which of the two bureaus belonged to Allison. One held on its polished top some loose change, a pocket knife, and an electronics charging station. The other, a carved jewelry box, framed family photos, and some kind of three-dimensional contraption consisting of Popsicle sticks bound together with too much colored yarn and tape.

A child’s clumsy artwork, Jamie guessed. Exactly the kind of thing a mother would proudly display. Not a father.

At least, not the kind of father Jamie has known . . .

And been.

It doesn’t mean Allison’s husband isn’t the most doting daddy—and husband—in the world, though. In fact, Jamie fervently hopes that’s exactly the case.

It would mean that, unlike Jerry, Allison has everything to live for—and everything to lose.

It’s only been a few days, but already, that’s proven to be true.

Even better, watching and listening to the MacKenna family quickly yielded a couple of very interesting—and useful—facts. A new phase of the plan took shape almost immediately.

Now it’s just a matter of waiting for the right opportunity to present itself.

“M
ack! Wow, look at you!”

He turns to see a female stranger who’s come up beside him at the edge of the makeshift dance floor. She’s standing a little too close—but then, who isn’t?

Undeterred by the cold, rainy weather, the Webers had gone ahead with their outdoor party plan, instructing the catering team to cover the huge brick patio where the party is traditionally held. Lit by hundreds of votives and filled with tables, chairs, a band, and people, the heated tent—while almost circus-huge—has had Mack feeling claustrophobic all evening.

Now, he attempts to take a small step away from the woman beside him, but his back is already up against a tent pole.

Carefully balancing the nearly full martini glass in her hand, she tiptoes up to kiss him on the cheek with lips so red he’s sure there will be a mark.

Instinctively, his eyes search for Allison. Not that she’s the jealous type at all. Nothing like Carrie. Nothing like most women, really. He’s a lucky guy.

He finds her, in a group with a couple of her friends who are doing all the talking, probably filling her head with information about building a home greenhouse to grow her own organic produce from seed or getting on waiting lists now for college admissions coaches who will help Hudson get into Harvard a decade from now, or some such nonsense.

He wishes Allison wouldn’t buy into it, but she’s trying so hard to do everything right with their children, and who can blame her?

Gone are the days when kids walk or ride their bikes off to school and come home to eat store-bought, preservative-laced cookies and play freeze tag with neighborhood kids till dark. That’s how Mack grew up.

His mother was health conscious, yes—and look where that got her. But she didn’t obsess about the ingredients of every morsel he and Lynn put into their own mouths, or whether they’d get into an Ivy League school—Mack didn’t; didn’t attempt to, didn’t
want
to. He worked his way through a state college, had a blast, and turned out just fine.

Relatively speaking.

“I’d know you anywhere,” the woman at his side informs him, and he turns back to her.

His first instinct is to politely say the same thing, but he actually has no clue who this person might be. She’s a beautiful brunette, svelte in her little black dress and heels, reeks of class—but in these circles, who doesn’t fit that bill?

Maybe she’s one of Ben or Randi’s many cousins, he decides, or a neighbor he met at a party in years past.

She grins. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“Of course I . . .
don’t
.” Compelled, as always, to admit the truth, he’s rewarded by a throaty laugh.

“Zoe Jennings.”

The name should probably ring a bell, but it doesn’t.

“I used to be Zoe Edelman . . . ?” she prompts.

“Zoe?” Oh! Zoe! This lovely creature bears no resemblance to the pudgy young woman who wore glasses, had quite a knack for telling dirty jokes, and could hold her own with the boys when they all went out to guzzle beers after work. “My God . . . how long has it been?”

“At least ten, twelve years, right?”

“At least,” he agrees, remembering back to the good old days when they shared a bullpen at the booming advertising agency where he began his career. “Guess we’re getting old, aren’t we?”

“Hey, speak for yourself.”

“I am. You look great.” Mack notes that she’s had a nose job, and maybe some other work as well. Well below the nose—not that he’s looking. But given that low-cut dress, he can’t help but notice.

“You look great, too.”

Yeah, right. He’d had to suck in his gut just so that he could fasten the top button of his khakis.

Sleep-eating. The very thought of it has been bothering him all day. It’s unsettling to think that he’s been walking around the house at night like some kind of zombie . . . though it wouldn’t be the first time.

When he was a little boy, he was known to occasionally wander downstairs in his pajamas, wide-eyed but obviously asleep. According to his parents and sister, he carried on conversations, but there was a vacant look in his eyes that scared Lynn.

“It was like someone else—someone creepy—had taken over your body,” she used to say. “It scared me.”

It scared him, too. He hadn’t thought about it in years, until this morning.

Sleepwalking, sleep-eating . . .

No, thanks.

He promised Allison that he’d give the Dormipram another try, but he has no intention of doing that.

Certainly not tonight, with the bourbon he’s had.

Contrary to his wife’s optimistic belief, the party hasn’t turned out to be much fun—and it’s deteriorating quickly.

“So I hear you’re a big shot in ad sales these days,” Zoe tells him.

“
Big shot?
I don’t know about that . . .”

“Don’t be modest, Mack. I know the industry, remember? You’re a big shot. Admit it.”

“Where are you now, Zoe?”

“Do you mean, work-wise?” At his nod, she says, “I’m not. Working, I mean. I’m a stay-at-home mom. Two kids, you know the drill. I married Nate—you remember him, right?”

“Nate . . .”

“Nathan Jennings,” she supplies with a smile.

“Oh, right. I remember Nathan.” He does, vaguely. Nathan, Zoe . . .

Names and faces from another lifetime.

“Nate ran into Ben on a sales call not too long ago, and they caught up, and when Ben found out we just bought a house here, he invited us to come tonight.”

“You bought a house
here
? In Glenhaven Park?”

“It’s the place to be, isn’t it?”

“I guess so. Where’s your house?”

“On Abernathy Place.”

“That’s right around the corner from where we live—we’re on Orchard Terrace.”

“I know, Ben told me. Small world, isn’t it? Can you believe we all wound up in the same town?”

Mack can. He and Allison may have played follow-the-leader after Ben and Randi moved up to Glenhaven Park, but ever since the recession hit, the area has exploded with their upwardly mobile colleagues snapping up McMansions—and mansions—on the market at rock-bottom prices, some even in foreclosure.

“Like you said,” he tells Zoe, “it’s the place to be.”

She touches his sleeve with fingernails that are as red and shiny as her lips. “I heard about your wife.”

“Allison. I’ll introduce you. She’s right over—”

“No.” Now Zoe is squeezing his arm. “I meant your first wife. Carolyn, was it?”

“Carrie.” He drains the watered-down remains of the bourbon in his glass and wishes a bartender would materialize with an instant refill. Straight up.

“I’m so sorry, Mack.”

He never knows what to say in response to that.

I’m sorry, too . . .

It’s all right . . .

Don’t be—our marriage was over anyway . . .

He just nods.

“I remember you were dating her when we were working together,” Zoe goes on. “She was very sweet.”

You never met her
, Mack wants to tell her. He’s certain of that, because Carrie never wanted to socialize with people he worked with. She never wanted to socialize with anyone. And she certainly wasn’t sweet.