Nightwatcher (37 page)

Vic pushes the thought from his head.
Compartmentalize
.

There’s a Bible on the nightstand.

Seeing that a page is marked, Vic holds the handkerchief over his nose with his left hand and reaches out with his latex-gloved right to open the Bible.

Before he can read through the passages on that page, he notices that something is written on the piece of paper Lenore Thompson was using as a bookmark.

It isn’t a piece of paper at all, he realizes, flipping it over.

It’s a photograph, showing a sullen-looking adolescent girl and a grinning boy Vic recognizes as Jerry, posing in front of a bedraggled-looking sofa with a smiling man who looks to be about thirty and bears a strong resemblance to Jerry.

Is he the twins’ father?

As he turns to alert Rocky, Vic’s phone rings. He answers it immediately.

After listening for a moment, he says, “I’ll be right there.” He hangs up and turns to Rocky. “I have to go.”

“I sure as hell hope that’s a break in your case now that I’ve got my Nightwatcher, Vic. I’d offer to help, but I think you guys are probably fine on your own.”

“Take a look at this, Rock.” Vic hurriedly hands him the photograph. “Just make sure, okay? Be absolutely certain Jerry is your guy, because—”

“What, am I an idiot? He’s my guy. Or gal. We have his sick trophies to prove it, and I guarantee you that when they check that strand of hair down at the lab, it’s going to come back synthetic, and a perfect match for that wig, just like I said to our pal Jerry before. Or Jamie. Or whatever the hell he/she/it calls itself.”

Vic doesn’t have time to linger, and he doesn’t bother to respond.

This is, after all, Rocky’s case, not his. Maybe under other circumstances—less extraordinary circumstances—

But not now.

Rocky has his job to do, and I have mine.

By the time Vic leaves the room a second later, he’s got terrorists on his mind again.

T
he night drags on into the wee hours.

Both Allison and Emily have dozed off sitting up on the couch, and even Officer Green is starting to look drowsy, but not Mack. He’s wide awake, as he always seems to be, regardless of the hour or his level of physical and emotional exhaustion.

Watching his sister, sitting in the armchair across from his, cover a deep yawn, he says quietly, “I bet they’d let you go home if you want. There’s really no reason for you to stay. You should be there when the kids wake up.”

She’s shaking her head before he finishes speaking. “I’m not leaving you tonight.”

He checks his watch. “It’s morning.”

“I’m not leaving you this morning,” she returns smoothly.

“Well, you should.”

“What, are you kidding? With everything that’s going on here?” She waves a hand around the room.

He looks from the two sleeping women to the lone cop who’s standing in the window, staring out into the darkness as if waiting for something to happen.

“You’re right,” he tells Lynn dryly, “there’s a hell of a lot going on here.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. And I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine if you go. Really.”

“I know you’ll be fine, but . . . you shouldn’t be alone. You need family right now, whether you realize it or not. You lost your wife, Mack.”

“I feel like I lost Carrie a long time ago. Maybe I never had her in the first place. Maybe I just married her because I was terrified of losing Mom, and I needed someone . . . Maybe I never even loved her. Jesus, I hate myself for saying that, for sounding that way, but it’s true.”

“Don’t hate yourself. I’ve said the same kinds of things about Dan, and I’ve probably actually meant them, but even now, if something happened to him, I’d be devastated.”

Devastated.

Is Mack devastated?

He threads his fingers into his hair. “I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now. It’s complicated.”

He glances at the other two women, ensuring that they’re both asleep. Not that Allison hasn’t already been privy to his deep, dark secrets, but still . . .

This is a private conversation he needs to have with his sister alone. She’s the only family he has left. The only family he hasn’t entirely cut off, anyway, besides his father, who is so far gone most of the time he doesn’t even know his own name, let alone his son’s.

Mack takes a deep breath. It’s time to get the truth out there. The whole truth. Even though the truth makes him look and feel like a coldhearted bastard.

Where to begin?

At the end, he decides. That’s the part that’s bothering him more than anything. The way it ended.

“On Tuesday morning, before Carrie left for work, I told her I wanted a divorce.”

His sister’s eyes widen. She says nothing.

“We were trying to start a family,” Mack goes on. “At least, I thought we were. But Carrie changed her mind about that. And I changed my mind about her.”

“Did you mean it?” Lynn asks. “About wanting a divorce? Or were you just saying it in a moment of anger?”

Mack swallows hard.
Nothing but the truth.

“I meant it,” he confesses.

Lynn gets up and walks over to him.

Officer Green turns as if snapping out of a reverie, glances at them both, and goes back to staring out the window.

Kneeling beside Mack’s chair, Lynn takes his hands. The gesture unleashes a torrent of emotion that rushes into Mack’s throat, rendering him mute.

“I can’t imagine how you must feel,” she whispers sadly. “I’m so sorry. But don’t blame yourself for anything. You were being honest with her. She didn’t deserve anything less.”

Mack tries to speak, but can’t.

“You didn’t kill her, Mack. You didn’t do anything wrong. The two of you weren’t supposed to be together. Anyone could see that. But even when you were a little boy, you were drawn to stray dogs, and underdogs, and wounded souls. You always wanted to save animals, people.”

“I couldn’t save her,” he says hoarsely.

“No one could. Thousands of people died on Tuesday morning, and no one could save any of them.”

Mack nods. Intellectually, he knows that.

Emotionally—that’s another story.

“In time, you’ll forgive yourself,” Lynn says. “I promise.”

“I hope you’re right.”

She smiles and pats his arm. “I am. And this is the wrong time to be telling you this, I know, but someday, you’re going to find the right woman, Mack, and you’re going to have that family you deserve.”

For some reason, he finds himself glancing at Allison—and then, quickly, guiltily, away.

J
erry’s back aches and his head aches and his legs ache, and he can’t take it. Can’t take sitting on this hard chair in this small room at the police station, can’t take these two people, Detective Manzillo and Detective Brandewyne, talking to him, yelling at him, in his face.

“Please,” he begs yet again, “please stop!”

“Just tell us the truth, and we’ll stop!” the woman shouts back at him.

“Easy, Brandewyne.” Detective Manzillo leans in close to Jerry. “I know you’re tired, kid, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I know you just want this to be over with, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And I know you never meant to hurt anyone, did you?”

“No.”

“Your mother—she was terrible to you, wasn’t she? She hurt you. That’s what Jamie says, right?”

Jerry nods. So they do finally believe him about Jamie. All this time, they’ve been telling Jerry that Jamie is dead, and Jerry keeps telling them they’re wrong.

“And those two girls—Kristina and Marianne—they weren’t nice to you, either, were they?”

“No.” Jerry shakes his head fast.

“I bet that made you feel bad, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And mad.”

“Yes.”

“I understand, Jerry. We both understand, don’t we, Detective Brandewyne?” He looks at her, and she nods.

“It’s okay, Jerry,” she says. “They were mean to you, weren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t deserve that, did you? You’ve never been mean to anyone, have you?”

“No,” Jerry sobs. “No. I’m never mean.”

“When you hurt those women and your mother, you weren’t trying to be mean, were you?” Detective Manzillo asks. “I bet you didn’t even realize what you were doing—what you had done. Maybe you forgot all about it, because you wanted to block it out, because it was terrible, wasn’t it, Jerry?”

He nods. It was. It was terrible, what happened to them. But . . .

He remembers the phone calls.

“They said they were sorry,” Jerry tells the detectives. “They said they loved me.”

“Who did?”

“Kristina, and Marianne. They told me.”

He thinks about how surprised he was when Jamie said that Kristina wanted to talk to him that night. Surprised, and happy. And then sad when he had to say good-bye. “Jamie said Kristina had to die anyway. She had to be punished.”

“Because she hurt you, Jerry. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“She hurt you, and so Jamie hurt her.”

“Yes. Jamie did. But I didn’t.”

“Jerry, you did,” the lady, Detective Brandewyne, says. “Jamie is a part of you, isn’t she? You don’t want to let her go, and she’s a part of you. Isn’t she? You love her, no matter what she’s done, don’t you?”

“Yes. I love Jamie. Please—can we stop talking? Please . . . I need to go.”

“We’re going to sit here all night,” Detective Brandewyne says, “and then we’re going to sit here all day, and we’re going to sit here for a week or a month if we have to.”

“No, please . . . I have to get up. I can’t sit here anymore.”

“You can get up, Jerry—we can get you out of this room—just as soon as you tell us what we need to know. But this isn’t going to be over until you do that. Do you understand?”

Jerry nods miserably.

“Okay. Good.” Detective Manzillo reaches out and holds Jerry’s hand. It feels good, having someone hold his hand. Jerry’s fingers are so cold, and the detective’s fingers are big and warm.

“So tell me, Jerry,” he says softly. “You’ll feel better. You need to get it out. That’s the hardest part. After you say it, this will all be over, and we’ll get you some help, and some food.”

Food. Jerry’s hungry. Really hungry, he realizes.

“What kind of food will you get me?”

“What do you want? We’ll get you anything you want.”

“I want cake.”

Detective Manzillo nods. “We can do that. We can get you some cake. But not until you tell us what we need to know.”

“What do I have to say?”

“Just say the truth. Say that you killed your mother, and you killed Kristina Haines, and you killed Marianne Apostolos.”

“But—”

“Say it, Jerry. Tell us what you did.”

“I—”

“We’re not going anywhere, and we’re not having any cake, until you tell us that you killed your mother, and you killed Kristina Haines, and you killed Marianne Apostolos,” Detective Brandewyne says.

“You can do it now, or you can do it tomorrow, or the next day,” Detective Manzillo says, “but sooner or later, you’re going to tell us. Why don’t you make it easier on everyone and do it now?”

“What did you do, Jerry? Just say it!” Detective Brandewyne’s face is so close to his that he can smell her cigarette breath. “Tell us. Say that you killed your mother, and Kristina Haines, and Marianne Apostolos. Say it!”

“What did you do to your mother, Jerry?” Detective Manzillo asks. “What did you do? It’s okay. It’s okay. Just tell us.”

“I killed her,” Jerry says wearily, tears running down his face. “I killed my mother.”

“And Kristina Haines, and Marianne Apostolos? What did you do to them? Say it. You’ll feel better. This will be over.”

“I killed Kristina Haines, and I killed Marianne Apostolos. Please,” he begs. “Please . . . Can I have cake now?”

S
tanding in the corridor outside the interrogation room, Rocky pulls out his phone and dials a familiar number.

The line goes right into voice mail.

“Vic,” he says triumphantly, “thanks for everything. He confessed. It’s over.”

He hangs up and goes back inside to tell Brandewyne they’re going out for a drink when the paperwork is finished.

Johnnie Walker Blue. And he’s buying.

H
e walks west, and then north. Eventually, he’ll get on the subway and head up to the Bronx. It’s the safest way off the island of Manhattan right now. There must be police checkpoints at all the bridges and tunnels.

Not because of him, of course. Because of all that’s going on. He doubts anyone will be looking for him, under the circumstances—but just in case.

Anyway, he’s always liked to walk.

Even when he was a boy, when things got bad at home, he would take off walking, sometimes all the way across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan.

Walking gives you time to think.

Not like running. Running is different.

He’s never really liked to run. But sometimes, you have to.

Sometimes, he feels like he’s been running all his life.

Running from his crazy father, running from the law, running from his own stupid mistakes . . .

Face it. You’ve made a lot of mistakes. That’s why you always have to run away.

Or simply turn your back and walk away, like you did when Lenore got pregnant.

He tried to make it right, once, when he got out of prison ten years ago after spending the better part of his twenties behind bars for a violent felony. It was Christmastime and he was lonely and nostalgic, wishing for something he’d never had. He started to wonder if maybe Lenore had been telling the truth when she said he was the father. He’d never believed her at the time, and God knew she was as crazy as everyone else in his life, but what if . . . ?

He found Lenore and called her and asked if he could see her and the kids for Christmas.

She let him.

“I’m not telling the kids who you are, though,” Lenore said on the phone, before he went over there. “They don’t know anything about you. You’ll just be my friend Sam.”

Fine, he said. He’d just be her friend Sam. That was all he and Lenore had ever been anyway—friends. Oh hell, not even that.