Sleepwalker (31 page)

“What do you have for me?” he asks, eyeing the manila folder, thick with paper, in her hand.

“First of all, that photo in the file?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s Samuel Shields. I matched it to one of his mug shots—and believe me, there were plenty to choose from.”

Rocky leans back and steeples his fingers. “Really.”

“Really. He was in and out of prison for years—but it looks like he finally reformed, because it’s been a while now. He’s been a functioning member of society—up in Albany—for the past six years.”

“Do you have an address?”

“Right here.” She indicates the folder in her hand. Mimicking an infomercial host, she says, “But wait, there’s more.”

“Good. Keep it coming.”

“Okay, so Sam Shields? He was between sentences when Jerry Thompson was attacked by his sister in December 1991, so he could have been there—although there’s nothing in the police report about anyone other than the mother present at the scene. The sister, Jamie, ran away after she attacked her brother, and she was found dead a few days later—almost exactly at the same time that Sam Shields was arrested again.”

“For what?”

“He was hitchhiking in Ohio, attacked a lady trucker who picked him up. He did almost ten years in the state pen for that.”

His thoughts racing as he does the math in his head, Rocky asks when Shields was released.

Mai consults her papers. “Late July 2001.”

Just a few weeks before the Nightwatcher murders began.

“He managed to stay out of trouble for almost a year,” Mai goes on, turning pages. “He was arrested again . . . the following summer.”

“When, exactly?”

Mai runs a fingertip along the page, searching. “August 22.”

Rocky turns quickly to his computer and opens a search engine. Within moments, he has what he was looking for.

The guilty verdict in Jerry Thompson’s trial was handed down on August 20.

“Where is Shields now, did you say?”

“Albany. I have the address. But listen, while he was serving his last sentence, he was treated by a prison psychiatrist named Dr. Patricia Brady.”

“For . . . ?” he asks. “Or does the code of ethics mean we can’t find out?”

“When it comes to prisoners, there are limits to confidentiality,” Mai tells him, and he nods, well aware that these are muddy waters. “But I managed to find out—and I can’t tell you how I did, or someone’s going to lose his job—that Shields was taking antipsychotic medication.”

“Good work,” he says, impressed. “Shields’s father was a paranoid schizophrenic. Voices telling him to kill people—including his own kid—the whole nine yards.”

Back when he arrested Jerry, Rocky figured it must run in the family and assumed that Jamie was part of the alternate reality caused by the disease, having mistakenly concluded that multiple personality disorder goes hand in hand with schizophrenia.

Vic set him straight on that, explaining that it’s a common misconception.

“First of all, true MPD is extremely rare—and an entirely different disorder,” he said. He added that delusional behavior and hallucinations—like hearing voices—is extremely common with schizophrenia.

“But you and I both know that it’s a common misconception that schizophrenia is often accompanied by violent criminal behavior,” he reminded Rocky.

“I know that. But it’s not unheard of, either.”

In the end, though, to Rocky’s surprise, Jerry wasn’t diagnosed with schizophrenia; nor, from a legal standpoint, was he insane.

Yet violent mental illness might very well run in the family after all—in the sense that Jerry’s grandfather had passed it on to his son, Samuel.

“So, after Samuel was released from prison that last time?” Mai poses another question-that’s-not-a-question, and Rocky nods, waiting for her to continue.

“He took the medication for a few years,” she says, “and he had a job in a factory, paid his rent, basically seemed to have his life together. And then . . .”

“What?”

“It looks like he hasn’t filled his prescriptions since mid-August, and he hasn’t reported to work since . . .” She consults her notes. “About two months ago: September 12.”

W
alking up the front steps at home less than ten minutes after he was finally cleared to leave the police station, Mack reaches automatically into his pocket for the house keys—then remembers.

He no longer needs them, thanks to the alarm system.

But someone got past it last night; got into the house to place a call to Nate Jennings.

How?

They had to have the code. But the only two people who know it are Allison . . .

And me.

Again, the strange little prickle of trepidation.

Is there any way in the world that I drove over here in my sleep and made that call to Nate?

Is there any way in the world that I—

No!

There is no way.

“Did you tell anyone the code?” he asks Allison, who is a step or two behind him.

“No. I don’t even remember what it is.”

“Did you write it down when I gave it to you, and maybe lose track of it?”

“I don’t think so . . . I mean, I did write it down, but . . .” She shakes her head, as though she’s having a hard time remembering the details. “Maybe I did lose it. So much was going on . . .”

“We need to change the code right away.”

She doesn’t reply, and he’s pretty sure he knows what she’s thinking.

Why bother? We’re not going to be staying here anyway.

She’s right—for now.

Back at the police station, they quietly agreed that it’s time to take the kids and get out of town for a few days.

“What about your job?” Allison asked.

“At this point, I really don’t give a crap,” he told her. “We’re not safe around here, not even at Randi and Ben’s.”

“But where can we go?”

He told her that he had an idea, but it would have to wait until they got home, where they could discuss it in private.

Mack wastes no time in punching the alarm code into the keypad mounted beside the door, feeling as though he’s being watched—by someone other than his wife, that is.

It’s probably true. After all, he’s a person of interest in the biggest murder case to hit Westchester County in years; he has no doubt that the police will be keeping him under surveillance—as will the neighbors, and probably the media, too, once they figure it out.

All the more reason to get out of town as soon as possible.

Safely inside the house, he arms the alarm again and Allison lets out an audible sigh of relief. She moves toward the stairway, and for a minute he wonders if she’s going to climb it, but instead she sinks onto a step at the foot of the flight.

“You look exhausted, Allie.”

“So do you.”

“Maybe we’ll sleep tonight.”

“Where?” she asks, looking up at him. “A hotel?”

He shakes his head. “That would be hard with the kids—the five of us in one room. I had something else in mind.”

The idea had actually come to him before Zoe’s murder, but he’d back-burnered it at the time, caught up in getting through the work week and Phyllis’s wake first. He just knew they couldn’t stay indefinitely at Ben and Randi’s, and he found himself dwelling on better times, happier places.

The longing he experienced was similar to his urge to flee New York every September, when even his Happy House couldn’t shelter him from the pain.

But of course, jetting off to Disney World is impractical, if not impossible, right now. He’ll have to settle on the next best place.

“Where were you thinking we should go?” Allison asks.

“Lynn’s beach house. There’s room for all of us, there’s a crib for the baby, and a kitchen. The girls love it there, we have the keys, and it’ll be empty at this time of year.”

“But . . . the keys. What if he copied those like he did the Lewises’?”

That gives him momentary pause.

“We can’t go down there and change the locks on her house without her permission,” Allison points out, and gets up to follow Mack as he strides into the living room and opens the desk drawer.

He pulls out the envelope containing the keys, and sees her shudder at the sight of it, probably remembering the last time she used the keys to the Lewis house.

Mack pulls out the set for Lynn’s house and examines the circular cardboard label. “It only says ‘Beach House,’ ” he says with relief. “Even if someone had a copy, they couldn’t possibly know where it is.”

“We have pictures of the house all over the place,” she points out, indicating a framed snapshot on a nearby table—the girls and their cousins, with a weathered, gray-shingled corner of the house in the background.

“Come on, Allie, it looks like any other beach house in the world,” Mack tells her. “Without the address—or even the town—no one could possibly guess where it is.”

Obviously skittish, but trying to warm to the idea, she asks, “How would you get to work from there?”

“I could commute if I had to—”

“From Salt Breeze Pointe?”

“If I had to,” he repeats. “But I’m not going anywhere until we figure out what’s going on.”

“Did you ask Lynn if we could stay there?”

He shakes his head.

His sister called last week when she saw on the news that there had been a murder in Glenhaven Park, horrified when she learned that the victim lived right next door. But she doesn’t know about the latest developments—yet—and Mack isn’t interested in telling her.

“The fewer people who know where we are, the better,” he tells Allison. “It’s not that I don’t trust Lynn, or even Daryl—but his kids and Lynn’s ex are all involved in their lives too, and you just never know.”

“You’re right. We can’t tell anyone.”

“No one will think to look for us down there.”

“But can we really just leave town in the middle of all this?”

What Allison means, Mack knows, is can
he
just leave town. He’s the one who’s under suspicion.

But he’s not under arrest yet.

The police will be watching him, of course, and he’s tried to find comfort in the thought of their constant presence. But really, it only means that they’re keeping an eye on him; it’s not protective surveillance. It doesn’t mean they’ll make sure his family is safe. That’s up to Mack himself.

It won’t be easy to slip away, but not impossible, either. He already has a plan in place, one that can be put into motion first thing tomorrow morning, and now he outlines it for Allison.

He’d been expecting an argument from her, but he doesn’t get one.

“Right now, it looks like our only option,” she agrees, “as long as . . .”

“As long as what?”

“Nothing,” she says after a pause, and Mack wonders what she isn’t telling him. “I guess I’ll go pack some things to take with us.”

“It’s probably better if you don’t,” Mack tells her quickly. “We don’t want anyone who’s watching to get the idea that we’re going away.”

“You mean . . . the police?”

“Right. The police.”

“And him, right? You think he’s watching us, too.”

“Not with all these cops around. Listen, I’m going to run upstairs and . . . change my clothes,” he tells her. “And then we’ll go.”

“Okay. I’ll change, too.” She starts toward the stairs, then looks back at him. “Aren’t you coming?”

“In a minute. I just want to . . . grab a book to read. It’ll help pass the time.”

She gives him a funny look, but continues up the stairs.

Mack goes into the living room and pretends to be searching the bookshelves for the perfect beach read.

Yeah, right.

All he wants is to stall until Allison is finished in the bedroom so that he can go up there and slip the gun from the dresser drawer. He left it behind while they were staying at the Webers’, in part because he wasn’t sure there was a safe place to lock it away from the kids, and in part because their house is well protected. But at the beach house, there’s no electric fence, no security gate, no alarm system . . .

Those things aren’t necessary, though, because no one will know we’re there.

And I’ll have the gun, just in case . . .

Anyway, it’s only for another day or two, and then the DNA will prove him innocent, and it will all be over.

D
riving the SUV back across town to the Webers’, with Mack trailing behind her in his car, Allison frets.

Maybe she should have warned him that she isn’t sure they’ll be welcome to spend one more night at Ben and Randi’s.

He’d taken that part of the plan for granted, as though it hadn’t occurred to him that even their closest friends—friends who are family—might not be as convinced of his innocence as she is.

And she is. Right?

Of course she is.

She’ll just have to convince Ben and Randi. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out her cell phone, and quickly dials the Webers’ number.

Randi answers on the first ring. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Are the kids okay?” she asks breathlessly, worried about J.J. on top of everything else, her chest tight with the stress of it all.

“Yes. Where are you?”

“On my way back to your house. Mack is coming, too. Is that . . . all right?”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Randi, listen to me, please. We’ll be out of there first thing tomorrow, all of us. I promise.”

“Where are you going?”

She hesitates. “I can’t tell you.” Mack was explicit about the need to keep their destination a secret from everyone, including the girls.

“Is it Nebraska?”

“
Nebraska?
” she echoes, incredulous. “Why would we go
there
?”

“Last night, you said you wanted to move back.”

“What? I never said that.”

“When we were talking, before bed. You don’t remember?”

“Not really.” She’s as uneasy with the idea of having a conversation she was too drunk to recall as she is with the notion that somewhere deep down inside, she might actually have entertained the idea of returning to the Midwest.

You hated it there. All those years in a small town . . .