Perfect Nightmare (23 page)

“Is that you, honey?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t sound as artificially bright to him as it did to her. “How was your day?”

The man stopped in mid-stride and turned to her, his grotesque mask smiling at her even in the indirect illumination of his flashlight.

“Did you bring something I can make for dinner? I haven’t had a chance to get to the store, and the girls are hungry.”

The man reached into the darkness, and a moment later the dungeon was flooded with light from a naked bulb overhead. Now Ellen could see the madness in his eyes. “Be quiet,” he said, but she thought she heard a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“Don’t be like that, sweetheart. The children need to be fed. That’s why they haven’t been happy the last few days.”

Suddenly the man’s eyes were blazing. “Stop that. Stop that!
You’re ruining everything!
”

“Daddy?” Lindsay’s voice sounded so tiny, Ellen almost didn’t hear it at all.

The man wheeled around, but instead of unshackling Lindsay, he went to Shannon, undid her chains, then picked her up and walked through the door into the tunnel.

“He didn’t tape her mouth,” Lindsay whispered.

“Maybe he doesn’t think he has to,” Ellen whispered back. “And maybe he’s right—maybe she can’t speak anymore.”

A moment later he was back, leaning over Lindsay.

Ellen heard her whisper something to him, then he unlocked the shackles from her wrists and jerked her to her feet. As he guided her toward the mouth of the tunnel, she made no move to resist.

Was Lindsay going along with her plan, or had her will finally given out?

When he came back again, Ellen smiled up at him, but just as she started to say something, he slapped her hard, then muffled her yelp with a hand clamped over her mouth, pressing so hard that when she opened it to sink her teeth into his palm, they sank into her own lips instead. As the taste of blood filled her mouth, he pressed a length of duct tape across her lips. Doing her best not to react against the slap and the stinging of her cut lip, Ellen forced herself not to resist as he put a noose around her neck. Only after he’d tightened it did he loosen her chains. When she was free, though, he yanked on the rope, clearly irritated.

Giving no sign that anything extraordinary was happening, Ellen got to her feet, forced herself to ignore the agony in her leg, and walked alongside him through the tunnel.

The two girls sat at the little table, their hands and legs tied as usual, but for a change they did not have tape on their mouths.

Lindsay’s eyes met Ellen’s for an instant before fixing on their captor. “Don’t tie up Mommy,” she said, her voice perfectly even. “I need her to brush my hair.”

Ellen offered a silent prayer of thanks as Lindsay actually managed to smile while speaking the last words.

The man gazed first at Lindsay, then at her, and Ellen felt a tiny flicker of hope. But then he shook his head, and she knew she hadn’t managed to act as convincingly as Lindsay. “She’s not here for
you,
” he said, the softness of his voice somehow increasing its menace. “She’s here for me, like she always should have been!” He pushed her down hard in the same tiny chair she’d occupied earlier, taping her legs to those of the chair. Just as he was finishing, a barely audible voice drifted across the table, and Ellen’s pulse was suddenly racing.

“I love you, Daddy,” Shannon whispered.

The flame of hope that had all but died inside Ellen a moment ago suddenly brightened. Shannon wasn’t unconscious, and she’d heard, and understood, and was playing along!

But then the man cried, “Don’t call me that!” Crouching low so his face was almost touching Shannon's, his voice shook with fury. “I’m not your father! Don’t you dare call me ‘Daddy'!” He glowered at Ellen. “Why don’t you do what you’re supposed to do? Why don’t you ever do it?”

Ellen shrank back as he came around to her, pulled a red marking pen from his pocket, grabbed her hair and jerked her head back. She felt the pen moving over the tape that covered her mouth, and a moment later he roughly released her hair. “There! Mommy looks the way she always looks, no matter what might be happening. Keep smiling, Mommy! Just keep smiling, and act like everything’s just fine!”

Ellen nodded again, but now he seemed to have lost interest in her, moving around to Lindsay and gently stroking her hair. “You want me to brush your hair?” he whispered. He stroked Lindsay’s head one more time, then ran his fingers down Lindsay’s cheek, and Ellen could see the girl trying not to cringe as his whisper turned to a snarl. “Or is this what you want me to do?” His eyes fixed on Ellen once more. “You never saw, did you? But this time you’ll see! This time I’ll make you see!”

Ellen froze, certain that any reaction she might show would only make things worse.

“She’s so beautiful,” the man said, his fingers trailing down her neck and her shoulder. “At least on the outside.”

“Daddy?” Lindsay whispered.

“Don’t call me that!”

“I—I’m sorry,” Lindsay stammered. “I just want you to love me as much as I love you.”

The man’s eyes fairly glittered. “Love?” he asked, his voice dropping once more to that menacing whisper. “Is that what you thought? Is that why you always smiled?”

Lindsay nodded, apparently oblivious to the danger in his voice. “Don’t you want me to love you now?”

Ellen froze. What was Lindsay saying?

Then Shannon spoke. “Me, too,” she said.

Don’t,
Ellen silently commanded.
Figure out a way to make him untie me. But don’t do this! Don’t!

The man was gazing at the girls through glazed eyes.

“We love you,” Lindsay said, her voice taking on a seductive tone that utterly belied her age. “Won’t you let us show you how much?” Now her voice dropped to an enticing whisper. “Please?”

The man produced a knife from his pocket—the same rusty, bloodstained knife he’d used on Ellen’s leg earlier, and slit the tape on Shannon’s legs and arms. Then he helped her to her feet.

Though she was so weak she could barely hold her head up, Shannon reached out toward Lindsay. “Her, too,” she whispered. “We both love you . . . both of us. . . .”

The man’s eyes gleamed. “Yes,” he said. “It’s time you showed Mommy how much you love me, isn’t it?” He turned to Lindsay, but before he could cut the tape that bound her, Ellen saw Shannon’s body tense, and in that instant she knew what Shannon was going to do.

No,
she silently pleaded, again trying to reach out to Shannon with her mind, but knowing it was useless.
Wait until Lindsay is loose!
But it was already too late. Before even one of Lindsay’s limbs was free, Shannon mustered what little strength she still had and struck out at the man, her foot catching his groin.

He doubled over and fell to his knees, and now both Lindsay and Ellen were struggling against their bindings.

Shannon threw herself onto the man and started to pull his ski mask off, but the surgical mask tied over it held it just long enough. Enraged by the attack, he lurched to his feet and slammed his back into Shannon, crushing her to the wall. Ellen heard a gasp as air exploded from the girl’s lungs. Shannon’s grip loosened and their captor shook her off, letting her fall to the floor in a broken heap.

“Your fault,” the man rasped, wheeling to glower at Ellen once more. “See what they did? And they call it ‘love.’ But it’s not love! It’s not!” As Lindsay Marshall screamed, his foot lashed out at Shannon, smashing into her ribs. Then, as Lindsay screamed even louder, he drew his foot back and struck again, this time crashing his boot into Shannon’s head so hard her neck snapped.

As Shannon lay still on the floor, and Lindsay’s screams gave way to choking sobs, he loomed over Ellen again, breathing hard, his eyes glinting with fury. “Your fault,” he whispered. “All your fault.” He leaned closer, and terror gripped her.
Emily, Emily, Emily. I’m going to die, and I can’t even say good-bye to my baby.
“You failed! You!
You didn’t do the only thing you were supposed to do!
” He jerked furiously on the noose around her neck, and she felt her breath cut off and her eyes bulging.

The light in the room began to fade.

Then, from above her, there was a howl of anguish, and abruptly the tension on the rope was gone.

“I hate you,” the man whispered. “I hate you all, and I never want to play with you again!”

He vanished down the steps that led to the tunnel. Ellen coughed through her taped-up mouth, choking, trying desperately to fill her lungs with air. It took almost a full minute, breathing heavily through her nose, until the red globes cleared from her vision and her panic began to subside. She looked up then and met Lindsay’s eyes across the table.

Neither of them dared look down at Shannon.
What have I done?
Ellen thought
. Dear God, what have I done?

Chapter Forty-six

K
ara sat immobilized at her desk in the morning light, a mug of tea going cold next to her. Spread before her were all her lists of things to do, of people to call. There were stacks of flyers with Lindsay’s glowing face on them, a file folder full of life insurance papers, and a fat folder with unpaid bills.

All of it needed her attention. But instead of doing anything, she just sat there, staring dumbly at the mess, not even finding the will to pick up her mug of tea, let alone deal with everything that had to be dealt with.

But she had to deal with it.

All of it.

The checks had to be written, and the policies had to be gone through, and the flyers had to be distributed. She knew that. A thousand people had told her so.

Life had to go on.

She knew that, too.

She picked up a pen and looked at the desk, trying to decide where to start.

But all she could think of was the dream she’d had last night.

And it had been a dream. It had to have been a dream.

She dropped the pen in the middle of the desk and put her face in her hands.

It hadn’t been a dream. She’d heard Lindsay’s scream of terror as clearly as if Lindsay had been in the next room. In fact, she had shot out of bed, out the bedroom door, and into Lindsay’s room before she was awake enough to remember that Lindsay was no longer there.

But the scream had been so real. It reverberated in the walls of the bedroom, and as she listened to it, she’d
known.

Lindsay was alive and she was in trouble. Trouble so frightening that she was screaming in terror, screaming for her life, screaming for her mother.

And here she sat, at her desk, with her head in her hands.

She felt beyond despair—beyond desperation.

Almost—but not quite—beyond hope.

Nobody was going to believe that she’d heard Lindsay scream in the night. They’d call it a dream, and a mother’s dream was not going to motivate any law enforcement officer to ramp up the search.

But it hadn’t been a dream.

Her first impulse had been to call Patrick. He would understand. He would be able to help her. But it was the middle of the night, and Kara knew she had to learn to stand on her own. Patrick had been a wonderful help, but he couldn’t hold her hand every minute of every day.

She had to start getting through the days and nights by herself, starting with this one.

If she took the day one hour at a time, she could get through it.

She looked at the clock on the desk and set herself a goal: in the next sixty minutes, she would write checks for the most urgent bills, shower, get dressed, and have something to eat.

While she was eating, she would plan the next hour.

Only when those two hours were gone would she plan the next.

And if she made it successfully through the day, as a reward she’d call Patrick and report her progress. Just the thought of his understanding eyes and warm smile gave her strength.

She picked up the pen, desperately trying to ignore the echo of Lindsay’s scream still reverberating in her head, and opened her checkbook.

The doorbell rang even before she could look at the balance.

Her heart caught in her throat.

News! It had to be news!

With her bathrobe flapping about her legs, Kara ran down the stairs and threw open the door, certain it would be Sergeant Grant.

Instead, a somber-faced man in a dark suit stood on the porch with a package; in front of the house she saw a black Lincoln Town Car. A chill came over her as she realized what the package was. She signed the form the man offered her, took the box, and retreated back into the house.

The chill tightening its grip on her, Kara pulled off the brown paper wrapping, and the stabbing pain in her chest took her breath away as her suspicions about the package were confirmed.

Stamped in red all over the box were the words
HUMAN REMAINS
.

SUMMERS FUNERAL HOME
was printed at the top of the label.

Steve’s ashes.

Dear God.

Kara’s knees weakened and she sank to a dining room chair. In her head, she could hear herself screaming right along with Lindsay.

On the table in front of her, next to the box, was the cordless phone.

With a trembling hand, she picked it up and dialed Patrick.

Chapter Forty-seven

“
G
ood Lord,” Patrick Shields breathed as he gazed at the box that still sat on Kara’s dining room table. “They actually made you sign for it?”

She nodded as a sigh of both exhaustion and relief escaped her lips. Though it changed nothing, just having Patrick in the house was making her feel a little better.

“Unbelievable,” Patrick went on, his eyes—always so warm and comforting before—now darkening with anger. “I gave them strict instructions. I don’t see how I could have been any clearer. I told them—”

“It doesn’t matter what you told them,” Kara broke in. “And that’s not why I called you anyway. It’s just—it’s just everything, Patrick!” Hesitantly at first, but then speaking faster and faster, until her words were pouring out in a torrent that reflected every emotion she was feeling, Kara told him what had happened since he’d brought her back to the house yesterday. “I just don’t think I can do it,” she said when she finally ran out of steam, both verbally and emotionally. “I don’t think I can handle any of it. And the thought of tonight—” Her voice broke as she choked on the last word, and she shook her head in helplessness. Patrick gently placed his hands on her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.

“I know exactly how you’re feeling,” he told her, now without the tiniest vestige of anger in his voice or his eyes. “Oh, Lord, do I know. So the first thing we’re going to do is simple. I’m going to take you back to Claire's.”

Kara shook her head again, but this time there was nothing helpless in the gesture. “Not Claire's,” she replied, a little too quickly. “It’s not that she hasn’t been wonderful to me—she has. But—oh, I don’t know. It’s like she’s handling me with kid gloves or something. As if she's—”

“Afraid you’ll break,” Patrick finished for her, speaking exactly the words she’d been about to utter. “I know what that’s like. I got the same thing to the point where sometimes I just wanted to smack her!” His lips compressed into a grim smile. “And it’s not just her, either—it’s everyone. But what can you say? It’s not like they don’t mean well. It’s just that they don’t have any idea what you’re going through.”

“So what do I do?” Kara asked, barely aware that she’d spoken out loud.

“Come to my house,” Patrick decided, speaking before he even thought about it. Seeing Kara about to protest, he held up a hand. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it in the first place,” he said, then grinned. “But of course, I did. I just didn’t suggest it, and I know exactly why I didn’t do that, either. After all, what would people think? What would the neighbors say? What would Claire say? Worst of all, what would Neville Cavanaugh say?”

“Neville? But he’s like your butler or something, isn’t he? Why would you care what he says?”

“It’s not really so much what he’d say. It’s the way he’d look.” Patrick twisted his face into an exaggerated parody of the expression of an extremely disapproving servant. “Neville wouldn’t actually
say
anything. He’d
imply.
There would be a distinct chill in the air. You have no idea what it’s like—staff can be far worse than parents. They have ways of letting you know how much they disapprove without ever being anything less than perfectly respectful. Which I’m sure you’ll see in about fifteen minutes. Go get your bag.”

“Patrick, I can’t!”

“Of course you can. What you can’t do is stay here. Not yet. Not by yourself. Now stop arguing and go get your bag.”

L
ess than fifteen minutes later Patrick pulled his Mercedes to a stop in front of Cragmont. Leaving her bag in the trunk of the car, he led Kara up the steps, pushed the huge oaken door open, and ushered her the full length of the main hall and into the library.

“First, let’s fix you a drink,” he said. “Something hot, I think, with plenty of brandy in it.” But instead of going to the bar that was sunk into one wall, he pressed a button on the wall, then lowered himself into one of the wingback chairs opposite the sofa on which Kara was perched as her eyes darted around the large book-lined room. A small smile played around his lips. “Will you just relax?” he said. “This isn’t some kind of museum, despite the way it looks. It’s where I live. In fact,” he went on, his voice taking on a wry note, “I was sleeping on that very sofa until the last week or so.”

As Kara leaned back, Neville Cavanaugh appeared at the library door. His eyes fixed inquiringly on Patrick for a moment, but when he noticed that his employer was not alone, his demeanor instantly changed. The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees, and Kara pulled a cashmere throw onto her lap.

“A hot Grand Marnier toddy for Mrs. Marshall, please, Neville. And perhaps just a touch of brandy with some water for me.” As Neville silently began fixing the drinks, Patrick turned his attention back to Kara. “I still think I ought to have a word with Summers,” he began, but Kara was already shaking her head.

“It’s not that they did anything so terrible. The thing is, when the doorbell rang, I actually thought they’d found Lindsay.” Her eyes began to glisten. “Isn’t that stupid? I actually thought it was Sergeant Grant coming to tell me they’d found her.”

Patrick leaned forward and took her hand. “It isn’t funny—it’s perfectly natural. I don’t know how many nights I sat right here in this room, waiting. Just waiting for someone to come home. Listening for the door to open and Renee or one of the kids to call out in the hall.” He shifted his weight in the chair. “Have you been watching the news this afternoon?”

Something in his voice made Kara’s heart skip a beat. “The news?” she echoed. “No, I—”

“It appears there was a third girl. Taken a month ago from Mill Creek.”

Kara stared at him. “Open house?”

Patrick nodded as Neville turned away from the bar and a moment later set a tray with two glasses on the coffee table. Patrick picked up the steaming one and handed it to Kara, then took a sip from the other.

“H-Have they found her?” Kara asked, her tone making her meaning crystal clear.

Patrick shook his head. “But at least the police can’t keep pretending that Lindsay just ran away. Not with three people gone, and one of them having left a small child. And now there are two more places to look for clues. He must have left something behind.”

As Neville turned and left the room, Kara drained half her drink. “I feel like I ought to call Sergeant Grant.”

“There’s a phone on the desk,” Patrick said, his eyes on the closed door through which Neville Cavanaugh had just passed. “Go ahead and use it if you want. I’ll be right back.” He followed Neville into the foyer.

“Neville?” he called, but his servant had already disappeared into the kitchen wing of the house. When Patrick caught up with him, he was standing at the large island in the center of the room, upon which stood a half-frosted cake. As the kitchen door swung closed behind Patrick, Neville turned, his eyes widening as he saw his employer. Patrick frowned uncertainly as his own eyes shifted from his servant to the cake, then back to the man. “I hope that’s not a birthday cake,” he said. “Never liked that stuff.”

“For Mrs. McGinn’s grandson,” Neville said. “At Beech House,” he added as Patrick’s frown deepened. Then: “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

“Mrs. Marshall’s bag is in the trunk of the Mercedes. Put it in one of the guest rooms.”

Neville’s left eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. “Here?”

“Where else?” Patrick countered, his gaze fixing on the servant.

Neville hesitated. “If I may say, sir—” he began, but Patrick cut him off.

“You may not.”

Turning away from Neville’s cold disapproval, Patrick returned to the library and closed the doors.

K
ara stifled a yawn as Patrick reached for the Grand Marnier. As he lifted the bottle and held it toward her glass, she shook her head. “No, thanks—no more for me. I don’t usually drink anything except a glass of wine or two, and never this late.”

“One more will help you sleep,” Patrick replied, pouring a generous shot into the snifter that sat next to her empty dessert plate. It had been hours since he’d picked her up, hours during which they’d done little more than sit in front of the fire Patrick had lit on the hearth in the library, eating off TV trays when Kara said she didn’t want to leave the warmth of the mahogany paneled room even for supper. Now, as the last note of the clock striking ten faded away, he smiled at her. “You need a good rest. And believe me,” he added wryly, “I know how much this can help, even if it’s nothing more than blunting the pain during the darkest hours.”

“I don’t think anything will help,” she said. “And after last night, I’m not even sure I want to sleep.” Still, she sipped the liqueur, then gazed at the flames through the clear amber liquid. Despite her words, she felt the alcohol taking the edge off the most painful of her roiling emotions, and even thought it might be starting to warm that spot in her soul that had grown so cold these past two weeks. Or, if not thaw it, at least it felt as if the freeze were no longer spreading. “This
is
good,” she sighed, taking another sip and actually managing a smile. “I just hope you’re not giving me a brandy habit.”

A faintly sardonic smile passed over Patrick’s lips. “There are worse habits.”

“I suppose.” She set the snifter down and stretched. “I think it’s bedtime for me.”

“Neville’s set up one of the guest rooms. I’ll show you.”

She took his hand and let him help her to her feet, feeling woozy as she stood. Reading her dizziness, he steadied her with an arm around her waist. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, hoping she wasn’t too drunk to negotiate the stairs. But once steadied, she had no problem following him out of the library, through the foyer, and up the grand staircase.

Patrick paused at a closed door. “This was my daughter Chrissie’s room,” he said. “It’s still hard for me to look inside.” He fell silent, his eyes fixed on the door. “But ‘hard’ is no excuse for not facing things, is it?” He opened the door and switched on the light.

Kara gazed into a room that looked for all the world as if its occupant would be back at any moment; a pair of shoes were under the desk, obviously kicked off and forgotten, and a jacket lay on the bed as if waiting to be hung in its proper place. “How old was Chrissie?” she asked as the silence grew uncomfortable.

“Nineteen. Home from Oxford for the holidays.”

Kara bit her lip as she saw the suitcase on a luggage rack and the pile of textbooks on the desk.
This is how Lindsay’s room would look in two more years,
she thought.
Her toys behind her and her future in front of her.

The pain the thought brought must have been clear in her face, because Patrick took her elbow and drew her gently away. “You look absolutely exhausted. Come on.” He clicked off the light and closed the door behind them. “This was the girls’ bath,” he said as they passed another closed door, “and this was Jenna’s room.” He touched the door with his fingertips, but instead of opening it, opened the door across the hall. “I hope this will be all right for you.”

The room was at least twice as big as the master bedroom in her own house, with two overstuffed chairs upholstered in flowered chintz flanking a large fireplace. A fire had been lit, and a robe laid out on the end of the bed. “This is beautiful,” Kara said, moving to one of the four large windows. Moonlight illuminated the lawn that flowed down to the shore of the Sound, and sparkled on the water. “May I open a window?”

“Of course.”

She lifted the heavy casement and breathed in the fresh salt air. “Heaven,” she sighed as her head cleared and she began to feel a little better.

“I’m just down the hall if you need anything in the night,” Patrick said. “Don’t hesitate. Really.”

“I’ll be fine.”

His eyes fixed on her for a moment, as if he was assessing the truth of her words. “Then I’ll say good night,” he finally said.

A moment later the door softly closed behind him.

Alone, Kara turned back to the window for another breath of the sweet, fresh air flowing in from the Sound, and though the last of the brandy-induced haze lifted, exhaustion began to close in on her again.
Don’t think about it,
she told herself.
For tonight, just don’t think about any of it.
Leaving the window wide open, she started toward the door to the adjoining bathroom, but before she’d taken more than half a dozen steps there was a soft rapping at the bedroom door.

“Come in,” she called, certain it was Patrick coming back to tell her something. “I haven’t even started changing yet.” When the only response to her words was another discreet tapping, she went to the door, opened it, and found Neville Cavanaugh holding a small tray. It held a cup of what looked for all the world like the hot milk her grandmother used to make her when she was a child.

“To help you sleep,” he said, echoing the exact words her grandmother used to say.

Kara opened the door wide and he set the tray on her nightstand. “How thoughtful. Thank you.”

The servant straightened up and regarded her with a serious face. “I’m so very sorry about your husband and daughter.” His eyes seemed to bore into her for a moment, and then, abruptly, he turned away. “Sleep well,” he said. A moment later he had vanished from the room and closed the door.

Alone again, Kara took off her clothes, put on the robe that had been left on the bed, and went to the bathroom. Everything she could possibly need was laid out on the marble counter that surrounded the sink, right down to a fresh toothbrush, still in its box. But as she began to brush her teeth, Neville Cavanaugh’s words kept echoing in her mind.

I’m so very sorry about your husband and daughter.

Perfectly normal words that she must have heard a hundred times in the last week.

I’m so very sorry about your husband and daughter.

The same words almost everyone she’d seen had spoken in one form or another.

I’m so very sorry about your husband and daughter.