Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub
Sleepwalker (32 page)
And yet, the thought of living a simple life—no rush hour or commuter trains to separate her and the kids from Mack five days a week; no pressure to be beautiful and brilliant and wealthy; no sky-high taxes and cost of living . . .
“Allison,” Randi is saying, “wherever you’re going, I don’t think you and the kids should be—”
“It’s not me and the kids. It’s the five of us. Mack is innocent. If he weren’t, the cops wouldn’t have let him go.” The floodgate in her throat gives way at last, and a sob escapes her.
“Oh, Allie . . .”
“Randi, I’m begging you as a friend, you and Ben, to be there for us. Mack would be devastated if he thought you didn’t . . . I can’t tell him . . . We need you.”
For a few moments, she can’t hear a thing but her own sobs; it’s all she can do to see the road, her eyes awash in bitter, helpless tears.
Stop it! Just stop!
Getting a grip on her emotions at last, she wipes her eyes on her sleeves, glad Mack is following her and not the other way around. She wouldn’t want him glancing into the rearview mirror to glimpse her falling apart.
She has to stay strong, for his sake, for the kids—and for her own. She’s been through worse than this in her life—not much worse, but still . . .
I can handle it. I can handle anything. I’ve never allowed myself to shrivel in the face of trouble, and now isn’t the time to start.
Banishing the quaver from her voice, she says, “Randi?”
“Just let me talk to Ben for a second. He’s right here. Hang on, okay?”
“Okay, but . . . we’re only a few minutes away.”
There’s a clatter: Randi setting down the phone. She strains to hear the voices in the background, but they’re muffled.
Please . . .
Please . . .
Allison prays as she drives on, keeping an eye on Mack in the rearview mirror.
She can see only his silhouette behind the wheel, not his expression, but even if she could see his face . . .
Chances are, it would be a mask of composure.
Back at the police station and again at home, she’d caught fleeting evidence here and there of what he might be feeling: apprehension, worry, frustration . . .
But for the most part, he was stoic, as always.
That’s Mack. That’s my husband, the man I vowed to love and honor, for better for worse, in good times and in bad . . .
She didn’t take those promises lightly then, and she won’t now.
She slows to stop for a light, one that has always seemed notoriously slow to turn. Today, however, it seems to go green almost immediately, and she drives on reluctantly, a good ten miles an hour below the speed limit.
Does Mack realize she’s trying to stall?
Come on, Randi . . . get back on the line . . .
Come on . . .
At last, she hears her friend’s voice.
“Allison?”
“Yes?” She holds her breath.
“Ben and I aren’t comfortable having Mack here with . . . not with our kids in the house.”
Her heart sinks and she swallows back a wail of protest.
She can’t blame them. Really, she can’t. If the tables were turned . . .
I’d do the same thing. I’d never take a chance with my children’s lives, not for a friend, not for anything.
“We’re going to send Lexi and Josh to a hotel overnight with Greta. Just for this one night. Ben and I will stay for . . . for you, and the kids, if you need us.”
Weak with relief and gratitude, Allison says hoarsely, “Thank you, Randi. Thank you so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I promise it’s going to be okay, and I promise we’ll be gone in the morning . . .”
She hears the rumble of Ben’s voice in the background.
“You don’t have to do that, Allison. That’s not what we want. We’re . . . worried. About you and the kids.”
And there it is. Nothing Allison says—nothing Mack does—will convince Randi and Ben of his innocence.
“Don’t be,” she says in a clipped tone. “The kids and I are going to be just fine. Mack is going to keep us safe.”
She tells Randi that they’ll be arriving momentarily and hangs up.
Again, she glances into the rearview mirror.
Again, she wishes she could catch a reassuring glance of her husband’s face.
But all she sees is the shadow of a man behind the wheel. If she didn’t know who was driving . . .
He could be anyone
, she finds herself thinking, unsettled.
Anyone at all . . .
I
n the wee hours of Tuesday morning, Rocky Manzillo is at home in bed, trying to catch a short rest, when his ringing cell phone blasts him back to consciousness.
He fumbles for it, answers it. “Manzillo here.”
“Yeah, where are you? Still up in Albany?”
He immediately recognizes Jack Cleary’s voice, and he sounds rushed.
“No,” he says groggily, “I drove back a little while ago and I’m on my way to the hospital in about”—he glances at the glowing digital alarm clock, which he set before sinking his head into Ange’s pillow—“forty-five minutes.”
On Monday, his wife continued to show little signs that she might slowly be regaining consciousness. Carm has kept a steady vigil, and Rocky was in and out of the room a few times yesterday, in the midst of investigating Sam Shields, who seems to have fallen off the face of the earth on September 12.
So, for that matter, has the entire MacKenna family. No one has seen them in about twenty-four hours, which has led Rocky to believe that Shields might have gotten to them somehow. When he thinks about those two little blond girls . . .
“Listen to me, Manzillo,” Cleary says brusquely, “you can forget all about Albany. Forget all about waiting on that search warrant for Stan Shields’s house because—”
“Sam Shields,” Rocky corrects him, wondering why he’s bothering. Cleary hasn’t exactly supported his investigative efforts into Jerry Thompson’s father, convinced he’s looking in the wrong direction.
He may very well be, but he owes it to himself—hell, he owes it to Thompson—to check it out.
“I know which way you’ve been leaning in this investigation,” Cleary goes on, “and I know you’re not expecting this at all, but you can’t argue with science.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We just heard from the lab. We got the preliminary results on the semen that came from both Phyllis Lewis and Zoe Jennings.”
“And . . . ?”
“And we’ve got a match.”
“You mean the same person raped them both.”
“I mean the same person raped them both, yes . . . and I mean that we know who it was. We had an exact match. It was James MacKenna.”
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
W
alking on the beach on this cold, gray morning, Allison wishes she’d thought to pack something warmer than the fleece pullover she’s wearing. With the bracing wind off the water and the air damp with sea spray and drizzle, this is down parka weather.
Back inside the drafty beach house, which was never properly winterized, it’s most definitely sweater weather.
“I’ll need to go to the store tomorrow and pick up some coats for the girls and sweaters and warmer pajamas for everyone,” she told Mack last night as, shivering, they made up beds with slightly musty-smelling sheets and layers of blankets they found in the linen closet.
“I’d rather you didn’t go anywhere for the time being,” Mack told her. “That’s why we stopped for groceries on the way here. We need to lie low now. We can’t take any chances.”
He was probably right. They certainly haven’t taken any so far, and his plan worked perfectly.
Yesterday morning, Mack left in his car to catch the early train into the city—trailed from the Webers’ gate, he later reported, by an unmarked police car. He left the BMW in the parking lot and was pretty sure a plainclothes officer boarded the commuter train with him.
Luckily, Glenhaven Park is one of the first stops on the line. The car was almost empty, and Mack was able to get an aisle seat right next to the door. The man he suspected was following him sat down several rows back, and was soon enveloped by the crowd of commuters who boarded at every subsequent stop. The early trains are jammed every morning, but particularly on Mondays, and Mack was counting on standing room only. He wasn’t disappointed.
125th Street in Harlem is the last stop before Grand Central Terminal—which, of course, is the daily final destination of just about everyone on the commuter train.
When the doors opened at 125th, Mack stood and darted off the train.
Even if the plainclothes cop had spotted him, there was no way he could have made it out of his seat and up the crowded aisle before the doors closed again and the train moved on.
Mack told Allison that he’d looked over his shoulder a few times as he raced through the station, and he was positive no one was following him. He made it down the block and into a coffee shop, where he quickly changed his clothes in the bathroom, pulling on the jeans and jacket he’d stashed in his briefcase and discarding his suit in the trash.
“Your beautiful suit.” Allison shook her head, remembering what it had cost.
“I’ll get a new one when this is over,” Mack promised, and she found herself trying—and failing—to see into a future when it would be life as usual for them.
How can we go back now?
Even if they find the real killer and Mack’s name is cleared. . .
She just can’t imagine being able to pick up where they left off.
“We will,” Mack promised in a low voice as they drove south along the shore, tracing the route they’d taken so often in happier times. “You’ll see. Everything will go back to the way it was.”
Is she even sure that’s what she wants? For everything to be the same?
Are you happy, Mack?
she’d asked him that night—Halloween night—almost exactly a week ago.
Now she can’t remember what had prompted her to ask, or what he’d said in return.
As the movement of the car lulled the kids to sleep in the backseat, Mack sat beside her in the front, recounting how he made his way across town to Broadway and boarded the subway, taking a southbound Number One train down to Penn Station.
Rush hour was in full swing and the area was wall-to-wall people, of course. Even if anyone had been dogging Mack—and he told Allison he was positive he’d shaken the tail—it would have been nearly impossible for anyone to stick with him at that point.
He walked to the PATH station, teeming with Jersey commuters, and hopped the first available westbound train. He didn’t care where it was going, as long as it carried him out of the city.
It was then that he called to tell Allison where to pick him up. She, of course, was on the road already in the SUV, with the kids drowsy in the backseat.
She’d left the house shortly after Mack, and predictably, no one had followed her. Obviously, the police were only interested in keeping Mack under surveillance, no one else.
She hadn’t planned to say good-bye to Ben and Randi before she left. In fact, she’d barely seen them since she and Mack returned to the house on Sunday afternoon. The kids were in the room when they crossed paths with Ben and Randi, and of course, for their sake, no one brought up the situation at hand.
After some strained small talk, Mack and Allison settled into the guest quarters to watch a Disney movie with the girls. From an upstairs window, she glimpsed Ben and Randi leaving the house with Greta, Lexi, and Josh, who were all carrying overnight bags.
She thought she saw Mack glance out as well, but if he spotted them, he didn’t ask where they were going, and Allison didn’t volunteer the information.
Ben and Randi returned early in the evening with a couple of pizzas for their houseguests, but went straight up to bed themselves, claiming to have already eaten. Again, the presence of the girls was the buffer that kept anyone from bringing up what was really going on.
Allison was in the hall when the Webers retreated into the master bedroom suite, and she distinctly heard the lock turn on their bedroom door.
She fought back a twinge of resentment.
They don’t know Mack as well as I do. They’re afraid. How can I blame them for fear?
But I’m not afraid of Mack . . . I’m afraid
for
him . . .
That was the last thing she said to Randi yesterday morning before she left for Salt Breeze Pointe.
With J.J. balanced on her hip, Allison was more or less tiptoeing down the stairs with one last bag before waking the girls, when she heard footsteps in the hall below. There was Randi, wearing a robe and also carrying a bag.
“I packed up some things I thought you could use,” she said, “wherever you’re going. Some cereal for the kids—Cap’n Crunch”—she flashed a brief smile—“and . . . there’s something for you, too.”
Allison thanked her with a lump in her throat, and they talked for a few hurried minutes before one last embrace.
“Remember what I said, Allison. Promise me . . .”
Promise me . . .
How well Randi knows she’d never break a promise.
How well she knows Allison would never take a chance with her children’s lives.
She meant well, Allison knew, but she just didn’t understand.
I’m not afraid of Mack.
And yet . . .
Watching a lone seagull arcing against the gunmetal sky, Allison hugs herself against the cold and wonders what’s going to happen now. They can’t stay at the beach house indefinitely. Not like this.
It’s dim and depressing inside, with plywood covering all the windows, and they didn’t dare take it off for fear that someone would notice. The rooms bear the faint odor of mildew and insecticide, and the kitchen, despite the box of baking soda sitting on a shelf in the unplugged and empty refrigerator, smells faintly of soured dairy and old citrus fruit.
The girls had been so excited yesterday when she told them where they were headed—which she didn’t do until they were well on their way. She wanted it to seem like a fun adventure, and her daughters were wholeheartedly on board . . . until they stepped over the threshold.
Hudson sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose. “It’s yucky in here. Where’s Aunt Lynn?”
“She couldn’t come this time.” Mack didn’t miss a beat. “That means you get to choose any bed you want.”
“I don’t want any. When can we ride the rides and get cotton candy?”
Allison and Mack looked at each other, and he broke the news. “The boardwalk is closed at this time of year.”
“What?” the girls exclaimed in unison.
That did it.
Folding her arms, Hudson announced, “I want to go back to Aunt Randi’s.”
“I want to go
home
,” Madison said in such a small, sad voice that Allison wanted to cry.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and said, as gaily as she could manage, “Come on, girls, it’ll be fun. We’ll get settled and then we’ll all play a game together.”
Most of the old board games stacked in the living room had belonged to Mack and Lynn when they were children. Ordinarily, the girls overlook the damp-basement smell that wafts from the boxes, but today they complained about it. They complained about everything, and Allison couldn’t blame them.
It’s one thing to visit the beach house in the heat of a glorious summer, when fresh air and sunlight fill the house, and the boardwalk and beach are alive with activity. It’s quite another to be here off-season, especially during the week. Not only has Lynn’s house already been closed down for a couple of months, but the boardwalk attractions are shuttered and the beach itself is bleak and deserted.
Craving fresh air and some hint of normalcy, Allison jumped at Mack’s suggestion that she go out for a solo morning walk, just as she always does when they’re here in July. She never tires of catching the first hint of the sun coming up over the ocean, like melted rainbow sherbet pooled out on the horizon.
But there’s no sun today; not even a horizon—just a monochromatic mist that makes sea indistinguishable from sky.
Still, it’s so good to be outside after a week behind locked doors that she’s walked farther than she should have; stayed away longer than she intended.
Slowly, reluctantly, Allison turns back toward the house, knowing she should probably get back.
So many memories flash back to her as she walks; most—though not all—are wonderful.
She remembers shelling with the girls, and splashing with them in a bathtub-warm tidal pool, and wading into the icy surf holding hands with Mack just weeks before their wedding. She remembers missing him on the beach last summer, and she remembers the lifeguards clearing the water, years ago, when a distant dorsal fin proved to belong to a shark and not one of the dolphins that liked to frolic along the shore.
Funny how she’d forgotten that incident until just now. How many times has she swum in the ocean since without giving thought to the predator that might still be lurking in its depths?
She quickens her pace and leaves the sand for the boardwalk, her sneakers making hollow thumps along the weathered wood. Waves pound and seagulls screech, and Allison wonders about her daughters, who must be awake by now.
When she left about forty-five minutes ago, they were sound asleep and Mack was trying to spoon-feed J.J., who was sitting in his convertible car seat that was now attached to a stroller base. Strapped in but fussing, the baby tried to grab everything within reach, and Allison wished she’d thought to bring along the portable high chair they’d been using at Randi’s.
Maybe Mack will agree that she should run to the store back on the mainland and buy one, along with everything else that will make them more comfortable for the time being. There’s a big Target somewhere in Toms River. She and Lynn make an annual sojourn to stock up on snacks and sunscreen and paperbacks to read on the beach.
Those lazy summer days seem so distant now that Allison feels as though she’s momentarily regressed into a past life she isn’t sure really even existed.
Making her way back along the boardwalk, she passes a lone jogger and an elderly woman walking her dog. Both are bundled against the cold, and neither gives her a second glance.
It seems to be taking much longer to get back, maybe because she’s heading into the wind. She finds herself wishing she’d thought to bring her cell phone, then remembers—it wouldn’t matter. She can’t even call Mack—there’s no landline at the house, and he insisted they both turn off their phones right after she picked him up at the PATH station yesterday, saying someone could use the built-in GPS software to find them.
“Can’t we just turn off the location settings?” she protested.
“Why take chances?” It was becoming his mantra.
She picks up her pace, wishing she hadn’t wandered so far. What if Mack gets worried and comes out to look for her, leaving the kids alone in the house?
No, he’d never do that. Not with everything that’s gone on.
Would he?
What if he thought I was in danger?
Dammit. If only she had her phone.
But it wouldn’t matter
, she reminds herself again, scurrying past shuttered arcade games and boarded-up food stands, spooked by the eeriness of the abandoned carnival atmosphere.
She’s almost running by the time the flat roof of the two-story house comes into view, a couple of blocks off the beach and surrounded by deserted summer rentals. She pulls the keys from her pocket, fumbling for the right one as she takes the steps two at a time.
She bursts inside, breathlessly calling, “Mack?”
Then it hits her; she looks back over her shoulder to make sure.
Yes. The driveway alongside the house, where the SUV should be sitting, is empty.
And so, a quick and desperate search tells her, is the house.
R
ocky sits by Ange’s bed, holding her hand, singing “Angie Baby.”
Another oldie but goodie. Helen Reddy. 1974. Rocky and Ange were newlyweds, expecting their first child. Whenever he happens to catch the song on the radio—which isn’t often enough—he pictures his wife with long, straight hair parted in the middle, standing in the kitchen with a hand resting on the small of her back, belly huge and round in a maternity top.
As usual, he makes up the lyrics he doesn’t know, but he remembers the part about her being a special lady . . . and how nice it is to be insane, because no one asks you to explain . . .
As he sings, his thoughts are on James MacKenna and Jerry Thompson and Sam Shields.
Rocky and Murph had spent all day Monday in Albany, tracking Shields’s last movements. The shift supervisor at his factory job confirmed that he hadn’t reported to work since September 12, and that he hadn’t bothered to call in or quit or return phone calls.