Sleepwalker (26 page)

There’s not a moment to waste right now on sleep, or anything else.

“Don’t worry, Rock.”

He looks up and makes eye contact with Murph before his partner turns his gaze back to the road, adding, “You know our guys will keep an eye on Ange. They won’t let anyone get near her.”

“How is it that you can always read my mind, Murph?”

He expects the usual quip in return.

Not this time.

“You and I have been together a long time, Rock. You’re like a brother to me, and Ange . . . nothing’s going to happen to Ange.”

Hearing the hoarse note in Murph’s voice, Rocky turns to look out the passenger’s side window, blinking away tears as they race on through the night.

Chapter Fourteen

S
eated on the couch in his own living room, Mack holds his BlackBerry in his jittery hand, tapping it rhythmically against his knee as he waits.

Waits . . .

Waits . . .

It’s been at least an hour, maybe more, since a uniformed officer drove him from the Jenningses’ home back to his own. He was informed that one or more detectives would arrive shortly to question him.

Allison is in the house, too, somewhere—driven back separately, though. It’s standard procedure, he knows, to keep witnesses apart after a crime.

Witnesses?

Come on, Mack. You’re suspects—at least,
you
are—and you know it.

That was obvious almost from the first moment he, Ben, and Allison arrived at the house on Abernathy Place.

They were greeted by a familiar scene: squad cars, rescue vehicles, cops, reporters, curious bystanders. Just like here on Orchard Terrace the night Phyllis Lewis’s body was discovered . . .

By none other than Allison.

That alone would have made the local cops suspicious—he’s known it all along, though his protective instinct wouldn’t allow him to say that to his wife. But tonight—surely Allison didn’t miss the way the officers at the scene warily zeroed in on them both when they stepped out of Ben’s car.

Jack Cleary, the police captain they’d met after Phyllis’s murder, materialized immediately to take charge. One of his detectives asked a few quick questions, and the next thing Mack knew, he was in the back of a squad car being driven home.

All he wants now is a chance to clear up any misconception the police might have about his own involvement here. Whoever did this—whoever stole Allison’s nightgown and the Lewises’ keys, whoever lured both Nathan Jennings and Mack out into the night with those phone calls, whoever killed Phyllis and Zoe—that person knows exactly what he’s doing.

But
why
is he doing it?

And who the hell is he?

Mack wishes he’d paid more attention to the voice on the other end of the phone line, claiming to be an alarm company representative.

It was a man, and the connection was brief and to the point, along the lines of, “Mr. MacKenna, I’m calling from your home alarm monitoring service. There’s been a breach in the system. We’re sending a police officer to the house. Can you please meet him there?”

Meet him there . . .

Wouldn’t the alarm company, calling someone in the middle of the night, have assumed that the person could be found
at home
? Presumably in bed?

Whoever made that call knew that I wasn’t
.
He couldn’t possibly have known that unless he’s been watching.

And if he’s been watching . . . then he knows exactly where the MacKennas have been staying.

All this time, Mack has assured Allison that she and the kids are safe where they are . . . but he no longer believes it.

Yes, the Webers have a good security system. No one can get past their front gate without punching in a code, the property’s perimeter is guarded by an electric fence, and the house has an alarm, also accessible only by code.

Still . . .

Police protection. That’s what we need.

The sooner the cops find out that the phone calls were a setup, the sooner they can focus on keeping Mack’s family safe.

And the sooner they can track down the real monster behind all this.

Mack’s head is throbbing; his shoulders and neck are on fire. Is it any wonder? Stress, exhaustion, shock, fear. . . .

He thinks about Zoe.

Stabbed to death in her bed, Ben had told him. Just like the others.

His gut churns. He closes his eyes, and he can see her lying in a pool of blood, with candles lit around the room and her middle finger missing, just like the others.

The image is so vivid that he can almost convince himself that he was really there . . .

But of course, he wasn’t.

No, he didn’t get that far . . . did he?

Momentarily confused, he runs back through the scene that had unfolded after he learned of Zoe’s murder.

It had taken only a minute or two to get over to the Jenningses’ house. Ben was at the wheel, Mack beside him, Allison in the backseat. He’s pretty sure none of them said a word.

The cops met them out front.

Right. Talked to them, separated them, drove Mack back here.

So he was never in the Jenningses’ house.

He’s just so exhausted he’s losing track of the series of events.

But he’d better get them straight, because the last thing he needs is to contradict himself in front of the cops.

He yawns, going back further, trying to recall exactly what had happened earlier, back at the Webers’ house.

After Zoe and Nate departed, he left Allison and Randi in the kitchen and Ben watching TV, and he went up to bed alone. He didn’t take a Dormipram because he’d had a couple of beers and anyway, he felt exhausted. But that didn’t matter. Without the medication, for the first time in ages, it took a long time for him to fall asleep.

He remembers lying restlessly awake contemplating taking the medication after all—what was the worst that could happen?

But he didn’t take it . . .

Wait, did I?

He can picture himself getting up and going into the small bathroom to find the orange prescription bottle . . .

But that doesn’t mean it happened.

He can envision Zoe’s murdered body, too, but that doesn’t mean he saw it.

He yawns deeply and rubs the burning spot between his shoulders, again replaying the earlier events in his head.

Okay, so he must have finally drifted off, and then the ringing telephone woke him, and—

“Mr. MacKenna?”

Mack looks up to see Captain Cleary.

The other night, the man’s expression was neutral. Right now, however, it’s ice-cold.

“I’m Captain Cleary.” He flashes a badge. “We met a few days ago.”

A police officer flashing a badge—Mack is catapulted back in time to his apartment on Hudson Street, the one he shared with Carrie. Two cops at the door hand him a packet that contains all that’s left of his wife: a gold band engraved with her initials and their wedding date  . . .

“This”—Cleary gestures at the man accompanying him, and Mack forces his attention back to the matter at hand—“is Detective Patterson.”

Under any other circumstances, Patterson would be just an ordinary-looking middle-aged man—short and round, almost bald, with thick glasses and a bulbous nose. Next to Jack Cleary, however, he appears downright homely.

Almost feeling sorry for the guy, Mack starts to rise to greet him, but Cleary jerks a vertical palm at him, gesturing for him to stay seated.

Settling back onto the couch, Mack notes with incredulity that there’s a uniformed—and armed—officer stationed in the archway, eyes trained directly on Mack himself.

They actually think he’s a dangerous criminal.

He opens his mouth to start clearing up this gross misunderstanding before they waste any more time on him while the real killer is still out there. But before he can speak, Patterson motions abruptly for him to be quiet.

Mack’s pity for him flies out the window, but he obediently clamps his mouth shut. The cops are hell-bent on calling the shots here—as they should be, in all fairness—and the last thing he needs is to start off on the wrong foot.

He nods when Cleary asks if he’s willing to answer a few questions, wondering whether he actually has a choice. Not that it matters. He has nothing to hide. Of course he’s going to cooperate.

“Would you mind turning off your phone, Mr. MacKenna?” Detective Patterson asks. “We don’t want any distractions.”

He obliges, grudgingly, and puts the BlackBerry into his pocket.

His thoughts race as he answers the first few questions—basic ones about where he and Allison have been staying since the Lewis murder, and how he knows Nathan and Zoe Jennings.

He knows damned well where this is leading. Maybe he should have a lawyer present.

Is it too late to ask?

He nervously bounces his right leg, heel hitting the carpet in a rapid-fire staccato—then stops when he sees Cleary and Patterson glance from his bouncing foot to each other.

“So you were out of touch with them until recently?” Patterson asks.

“The Jenningses, you mean? Until a few weeks ago. I first saw them again—well, Zoe—at a party. Nathan was there, too, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to him.”

“And where was this party?”

“At Ben Weber’s house.” He wonders about Ben, whom he hasn’t seen since they arrived at the Jenningses’ house. Was he also questioned?

Mack hopes so. Ben is articulate and well-qualified to vouch for Mack’s character; he’ll be willing to help the cops straighten out this mess.

Mack just hopes he doesn’t mention the gun. He’s pretty sure Ben won’t—after all, he doesn’t have a permit for it.

It’s not as though Zoe was shot, but still . . .

It doesn’t look good for him to have a gun in the house—even though it’s still safely locked in his dresser drawer—and Allison will flip if she finds out.

“Tell us about your relationship with Zoe Jennings.”

Caught off guard by Cleary’s command, Mack echoes, “My
relationship
? I don’t have a relationship with her. I mean, I barely know her—barely knew her—anymore.”

“And you’d say the same thing about her husband?”

Mack nods vigorously. “The only time I’ve talked to him in fifteen years was the other night when I ran into him on the train—”

“Which night?” Patterson cuts in impatiently.

He’s holding a pen between his forefinger and middle finger as if it were a cigarette. He’s a smoker, Mack realizes, probably on edge and wanting a smoke.

His fingers . . .

Fingers . . .

Was Zoe, like the other victims, missing a finger?

He swallows hard, not wanting to imagine a disembodied finger, not just for its sheer ghastliness, but for the memory it triggers.

All that was left of Carrie was her wedding ring; how many times has he fought back the horror of imagining what might have happened to the finger it was on? To the rest of her?

“Mr. MacKenna! Which night did you run into Nathan Jennings on the train?”

“I’m sorry . . .” He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head. “It was . . . it was the night I came home and found out about Phyllis Lewis. I guess that was . . . Tuesday.”

Tuesday. Yes.

It’s always a Tuesday, isn’t it?

“That was the only time in fifteen years that you spoke to him?”

“Yes. I mean, until they came over to the Webers’ tonight—Saturday night, last night,” he clarifies, noting the chalky daylight falling through the window.

“And this morning . . . ?”

“What?” Confused, he says, “I’m sorry, I just . . . I didn’t get any sleep and I guess I’m having a hard time following.”

“You talked to Nathan Jennings this morning . . . ?”

“No.” Maybe Detective Patterson is the one who’s confused, here. Nicotine withdrawal makes your brain fuzzy, right? “As I said, Nate and Zoe came over to the Webers’ last night. They left at around ten, I guess, maybe ten-thirty.”

“So you didn’t speak to them or call them at all after that?” Cleary asks, and clarifies, “I’m talking about earlier this morning—after midnight?”

“Do you mean did I call to ask Nate for a ride?” Seeing the man’s blue eyes narrow, Mack adds, “I know that’s what Nate said happened, because Ben and Allison told me. But I didn’t call him.”

“You’re sure about that.”

Mack wants to scream. “Positive.”

“And there’s no way you might have, say, made the call and then forgotten about it?”

“Who forgets making a phone call?”

Who, indeed?

He tries to ignore a flicker of misgiving as he admits—to himself only—that he doesn’t have a great recent track record for remembering other things he’s done in the wee hours. Walking, talking, eating . . .

Captain Cleary doesn’t know about that, though . . . does he?

What if he’s already talked to Allison, and she told him?

Why would she?

Then again . . . why
wouldn’t
she? She’s not trying to hide anything . . .

And neither are you.

Mack shifts his weight uncomfortably, wishing he could fidget with his phone, or pace, or . . .

Or light a cigarette
, he thinks, watching Detective Patterson roll the pen back and forth between his twitchy fingers.

Once upon a time, Mack, too, was a smoker. It seemed everyone was, during that era in New York, when he was in his twenties and you could light up anywhere you pleased, in bars and restaurants, at the office . . .

He and Carrie quit together when they decided to start a family. But around the time that his marriage started to crumble, he went back to it. The old habit took the edge off the stress, and he kept it up for a while after Carrie died.

Then you had to quit all over again, and wasn’t that fun?

Whatever. All he knows is that right now, he’d kill for a cigarette.

Kill?

Not kill. He could never—would never—kill.

Never
.

This is surreal.

“A call was placed to Nate Jennings, Mr. MacKenna, at”—Cleary consults his notes—“two-forty-eight
A.M.
It came from your home number.”

Startled, he shakes his head. “I didn’t make it. I wasn’t even here. Someone else must have been, and made the call. Actually—” He leans forward. “I had a call myself, right around that time, from my alarm monitoring company saying that the system had been breached.”

A call the alarm company denied making—something Cleary may already know.

And now he’ll either think I’m lying, or realize someone is screwing with me. With all of us.

Mack takes his BlackBerry out of his pocket, pressing the on button.

“Mr. MacKenna—”

“Wait, I just want to show you something.” The device powers up, and he presses the recall button, then holds the BlackBerry outstretched toward the captain. “See? I got that call at  . . .” He turns the screen toward himself and checks the time. “Two forty-nine.”