Nightwatcher (30 page)

Again, he thinks of the killer returning to the scene of the crime.

He’s exhausted, and the last thing he feels like doing is settling in on a stakeout with Brandewyne instead of Murph for company.

But then, he’s pretty sure the last thing his fellow cops felt like doing on Tuesday was running into a burning skyscraper.

Yeah. His own problems are minuscule.

So get moving.

Jaw set, Rocky pushes back his chair.

W
here is Jamie?

Jerry doesn’t like being alone at night. It’s not something he’s had much experience with. He didn’t often find himself in this situation before Jamie came back into his life and Mama left.

She didn’t really go out much.

She didn’t have any friends that he knew of. She liked to keep to herself, because you can’t trust anyone in this world. That was what she always said, anyway.

She didn’t like Emily.

Well, she didn’t like anyone, but it really bothered Jerry that she didn’t like Emily, because Emily was never anything but kind to Mama.

That isn’t true of most people.

Mama is fat and unattractive. That isn’t Jerry being mean. That’s a fact.

But there are lots of fat and unattractive people who aren’t ugly on the inside.

Mama isn’t one of them.

On days when Mama used to go with Jerry to get something to eat at the soup kitchen, Emily would try to talk to her, and she would just grunt in return.

Emily didn’t seem to mind. She was always cheerful, with a big smile on her face. The opposite of Mama. Maybe that’s why Jerry likes her so much.

He misses Emily. After he started working for her husband and moved to Hell’s Kitchen, he stopped seeing her because he doesn’t go to the soup kitchen where she volunteers.

Sometimes, he asks Mr. Reiss to say hello to Emily for him, but he wishes he could say it in person. One time, he asked Mr. Reiss if he could visit Emily at their apartment, but Mr. Reiss said he didn’t think that would be a good idea.

Jerry wishes he knew how to get back to the old neighborhood so that he could go see her at the soup kitchen.

Maybe Jamie will be able to tell him. Jamie knows everything.

Sometimes that makes Jerry feel like he doesn’t know anything at all.

He wanders around the apartment, wishing he could leave or that Jamie would come back. It’s hard to stay here for so long with nothing to do.

Coming to a stop in front of Mama’s closed bedroom door, he looks at it. Then he leans toward it, sniffs, and makes a face.

It smells really bad in there.

What if there are bugs and rats?

Rats wouldn’t fit through the crack under the door, but bugs would. What if they get out of Mama’s room and crawl over Jerry while he’s sleeping?

He shudders at the thought of that and reaches for the doorknob.

Whatever you do, Jerry, don’t open that door.
Ever
. Got it?

Jerry pulls his hand back, remembering his promise to Jamie.

But Jamie would never have to know. Jamie isn’t here.

All Jerry has to do is open the door, clean up the garbage in Mama’s room—there has to be garbage, because Mr. Reiss said garbage makes things smell bad—and then close the door again.

What if Jamie comes back while he’s in there, though?

What if Jamie gets mad the way Mama used to?

What if Jamie goes away, too, and Jerry is left all alone forever?

He shakes his head and walks away from the door, away from temptation.

“I’ll be good, Jamie. See? See how good I am?”

But of course Jamie can’t see, because Jamie isn’t here. And Jamie can’t hear him, either, yet Jerry keeps talking.

“Come back, Jamie. I don’t like to be alone at night.”

Suddenly remembering the way he used to hear Mama in her room sometimes, talking to no one, Jerry shuts his mouth abruptly.

A lot of people said Mama was crazy because sometimes she talked to herself, or to people who weren’t really there.

Mean kids—kids from the old neighborhood who called Jerry a retard—called her crazy.

Maybe she
was
crazy.

But Jerry isn’t a retard. And he isn’t crazy, either.

“Okay, then stop talking to yours—” Breaking off with a gasp, he claps a hand over his mouth. He’s talking to himself about talking to himself.

But there’s a difference between the way he talks to himself and the way Mama talked to . . . well, whoever it was that she thought she was talking to.

He
knows
he’s the only one here right now.

“Jerry?”

Startled, he exclaims, “Jamie! When did you get back?”

“Just now. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s all right. I’m so glad you’re back, Jamie. I didn’t know where you were, and I don’t like to be alone.”

“I know you don’t. But sometimes I have to go. You know I always come back, right?”

“I know. And Jamie, I listened to you. I didn’t go out while you were gone, and I didn’t open that door.”

“Good, Jerry. That’s good.”

Jerry smiles.

Things are so much better whenever Jamie is here.

T
he buzzing of the intercom by the door startles Allison just as she’s slipping the chef’s knife back under her pillow.

Her nerves were already on edge; the unexpected blast of noise causes her to lose her grip on the knife, and it clatters to the hardwood floor.

For a moment she just stands frozen, staring at the blade that landed just inches from her bare feet.

See? This was a bad idea.

She’d initially taken the knife out to put it back into the kitchen drawer. But in a moment of weakness, paranoia had gotten the best of her, and she had decided to keep it there. At least until the locks are changed.

Now, she picks up the knife and tosses it onto the comforter. She’ll figure it out later.

Heading into the living room to answer the intercom, she wonders who it can possibly be. As she told herself earlier, over at Mack’s apartment, killers don’t ring doorbells, so she’s probably safe.

But it’s not like she’s prone to drop-in company.

She presses the button and leans warily toward the intercom, irrationally envisioning something jumping out at her through the speaker. “Yes?”

“Um, hi. I’m looking for James MacKenna,” a female voice says.

Allison relaxes just a bit. “This is the wrong apartment. He’s across the hall in—”

“No, I know, but he’s not answering, and . . . I’m sorry. I just thought maybe . . .”

“Are you . . . a friend?” Allison asks, not sure what to do.

“I’m his sister.”

That’s right—he did mention he had a sister. Does she know about Carrie? Is that why she’s here? Is Mack expecting her? If so, why isn’t he answering the door?

A new wave of worry washes over Allison.

“Do you think . . . could you let me in?” Mack’s sister asks. “He’s, um, been through a lot and I’m worried that he’s in his apartment but not answering the buzzer.”

That seems likely to Allison.

But is it wise to let a stranger into the building?

It’s a woman—and Mack does have a sister—but still . . .

“I’ll be right down,” she says into the intercom, deciding it might be wiser to talk to the visitor in a public place.

T
ossing and turning in the dark on the futon in her sister’s guest room, Emily welcomes the sound of jangling keys and footsteps in the living room.

She sits up and swings her legs over the side of the bed.

“Where are you going?” Dale’s voice doesn’t sound the least bit groggy; he, too, has been restlessly awake.

They’ve both been silent, though. They did all their talking before they turned out the lights about an hour ago with just a perfunctory peck good night.

Dale finally grudgingly agreed that they can’t stay here much longer. If they’re unable to immediately find a “suitable” furnished place to rent in the city, they’ll stay in a hotel until something turns up.

“I hear Jacky,” Emily tells him. “I’m going to go let her know we’ll be out of here after the weekend.”

“Do you have to tell her tonight? Can’t it wait until morning?”

“I can’t sleep anyway. I might as well get up and go talk to her now.”

She pads barefoot across the room, pulling on a robe her sister lent her. Jacky is about five inches taller; Emily has to hold it up to keep the hem from dragging. The borrowed pajamas she’s wearing are rolled up at the ankles and wrists, making her feel like she did when she and Jacky were little girls playing dress-up with their mother’s castoffs.

She closes the guest bedroom door behind her and finds her sister in the kitchen, reading the note Emily left for her earlier.

“Hi,” Emily says, and Jacky turns around.

“Hey. You left me a hot dinner? That’s so sweet.”

“Well, you know, that’s me—so sweet.”

Her sister grins. “What are you doing still awake, sweetness? It’s late.”

“Can’t sleep. How was work?”

“Long, hard day, but it just got better. You have no idea how nice it is to come home to a house that smells like home cooking. That hasn’t happened around here in . . . um,
ever
.” Jacky grabs a potholder, opens the oven, and removes a foil-wrapped plate.

“Have you and Frank ever even used that stove?”

“What, are you kidding? Nope.”

“You never did like to cook.”

“And you always did. Mom’s dream daughter.”

“Well, you were Dad’s dream son-he-never-had. Good at sports, and you even grew up to be a doctor . . .”

“With the boy name and everything. I always wished you and I could trade places.”

“Why? Girls with boy names were always a lot cooler than girls with dead spinster poet names,” Emily says dryly.

Accidentally conceived when her parents were students at Amherst College, she had, of course, been named after Emily Dickinson. Jacky came along five years later, in the height of the political Camelot era, and was named for the Kennedys—the president
and
the first lady.

Raised in a decidedly functional family despite the shotgun wedding beginning, Emily always assumed she’d grow up to have children of her own one day. Dale—whose family was decidedly dysfunctional—had no such plans.

Twenty years ago, forced to choose, Emily decided she loved Dale more than she loved the idea of motherhood. She rarely regrets the choice to remain childless, having channeled her need to nurture into her marriage, her church, and her charity work.

“I’m really glad you’re here, Em. You’d think we lived hundreds of miles apart for as often as we see each other.” Jacky lifts the foil from the dish. “Wow—what is this?”

“Mom’s stroganoff.”

“Seriously? I haven’t had this in years.” Jacky grabs some silverware, sits at the table, and digs in. “This is great. Thanks, Em. I bet Frank loved it.”

“I think he thought it was too rich.” Emily sits across from her. “But he did like the salad I made, with pears and candied pecans.”

“Where did you get all this food?”

“Dale and I went out to look for cell phone chargers and stopped at the supermarket on the way back.”

“Did you find the chargers?”

“No, we’re going to check back again tomorrow. There’s a call I really need to make.”

“You can use my phone, Em,” Jacky says around a mouthful. “You know that’s no big deal. Even if it’s long distance . . .”

“No, I know—and thank you—but the number is stored in my cell.”

“Call directory assistance and get it.”

“I can’t . . . I don’t even know the guy’s last name.”

Jacky lifts an eyebrow. “Really? Do I smell a scandal?”

“No, you definitely do not. He’s just . . . he works for Dale.”

“So why isn’t Dale calling him?”

“Because I’m the one who worries about him.”

“Why are you worried?”

“He’s . . . you know, not all there.”

“What’s wrong with him? Is he mentally ill?”

“Brain damaged, from a head injury when he was about twelve or thirteen, I think. He and his mother used to visit the soup kitchen down in Brooklyn.”

“You’re still volunteering down there?” At Emily’s nod, her sister says, “Someday you’re going to go straight to heaven, you know that?”

“Well, let’s hope that someday is a long way off, because I’m not in any hurry,” she says with a wry smile.

“So tell me about your latest charity case.”

“His name is Jerry. I haven’t seen him since he moved to Manhattan after he started working for Dale.”

“What does he do for him?”

“He’s a handyman. You’d think that would be a problem, with his disability—when I asked Dale to hire him, I wasn’t thinking he’d actually be able to do much, but . . .”

“A mercy hiring. I’m sure Dale loved that idea.”

Emily shrugs. “He was humoring me. But it turns out Jerry works really hard, and he’s surprisingly good with his hands.”

“Not so surprising, really—his capabilities and limitations would just depend on which part of his brain was injured. What happened to him? Was it an accident?”

“Nothing like that. It was a really sad story. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a blessing he lost a chunk of his memory, because he has no idea what happened to him and I hope he never will. It’s funny—he would talk about things that happened a long time ago, when he was young, but not anything that happened leading up to the injury. Do you think that’ll ever come back?”

“His short-term memory? A lot of times it does, but it would depend on whether or not the loss was due to the physical brain trauma. Amnesia is a tricky thing. Anyway, if he doesn’t know how he got hurt, Em, how did
you
find out?”

“Diana, the director at the soup kitchen, told me about it and it broke my heart. Jerry was just a kid when it happened, poor thing . . .”

“When
what
happened?”

“His twin sister attacked him, smashed his head in with a cast-iron skillet.”

Chapter Thirteen

L
ooking up at the dark building looming over Hudson Street, Brandewyne exhales a puff of smoke and comments, “This place still looks deserted.”