Sleep No More (16 page)

The piercing wail of the alarm stabbed her ears.

She jumped up and hurried to the door, reached up, and flipped the switch that turned off the alarm.

Had she...?

No. She'd been on the sofa when it started; there was no delay on this alarm.

She looked out into the darkness.

Was that movement near the carriage house?

She slammed the door closed. As she reached to lock the deadbolt, she realized the key wasn't in it. Hurrying to the little china box on her coffee table, it was there, right where she'd left it.

I
could not
have opened that door.

She checked the frame and the lock. Everything appeared intact.

With trembling fingers, she slid the key in the deadbolt and locked the door.

She snatched up the cordless phone and dialed 911. As she did, she hurried from window to window, her heart racing.

Nothing. No movement. No lights from a vehicle in the lane.

She stood frozen near the front door, eyes never leaving the lane outside as she waited for the police.

T
he sun wasn't yet up as two officers from the sheriff's department--fortunately, neither of which were Deputy Trowbridge--searched outside Abby's house with flashlights. Then they combed the nearby woods. They didn't discover a prowler. She hadn't really held much hope that they would; not after that screaming alarm. Even if he hadn't made a clean getaway, it was way too easy to hide in the acres and acres of dark woods.

The officers went to check the carriage house while Abby waited inside her locked cottage. She watched them move across the yard in the blue and red strobes of their cruiser lights. She clutched the edge of the draperies when they separated and she saw their flashlights disappear around opposite corners of the carriage house.

Just days ago she'd thought she would never feel more vulnerable than she did when she'd discovered she'd been sleepwalking again. She'd been so wrong. This was a million times worse. Vulnerable, violated, and victimized.

What if I hadn't installed that alarm?

Images of rape and murder raced through her mind, hitching her breath in her chest.

She didn't breathe easily until the officers reappeared together at the nearest corner of the building. They moved back toward her cottage, flashlights sweeping in wide arcs around the perimeter of the yard.

She let them back in.

"The carriage house is locked," Jones, the deputy who'd arrived in the first car, said. "All of the windows are intact. I'd like you to come out and walk through with me to make certain nothing was taken from inside. Officer Bigelow is going to take a look around the rest of the property. Are there any other lanes that lead in from the road?"

"No. This is the only one."

Jones nodded and Bigelow left.

She asked Officer Jones, "If the carriage house door is locked and the windows aren't broken, why do we need to go through it?"

"You said the deadbolt on the house here was locked, is that right?"

"Yes. As I said before, I was a little spooked when I came in. I'm certain I locked it."

"There's no sign of forced entry on this door. Either the guy used a duplicate key, a bump key, or picked the lock. Could have done the same on the carriage house."

"No one has keys. I just changed the lock." Her stomach turned thinking of someone huddled out there in the dark picking her lock.

She got her keys and walked beside Officer Jones to the shop. That same skin-prickle feeling of being watched that had bothered her more than once recently settled on her. Her imagination, she knew. They'd searched the area already. There were no vehicles parked nearby. Still, she moved just a little closer to the officer.

A thorough search of the carriage house yielded nothing amiss. They returned to her cottage. Officer Jones took fingerprints from the door.

"I'll need to take yours for comparison," he said to her when he'd finished.

"Unfortunately, you already have them... from the accident Wednesday night."

"Ah, yes, the senator's son." He packed up his fingerprint kit as Abby fought to block out the image of Kyle Robard's broken body. "Ms. Whitman, do you have a boyfriend?"

"No."

"An ex-boyfriend?"

"Not unless you go back a very, very long time. What does that have to do with anything?"

"It's looking like this was personal. If they'd been after money or credit card numbers, they'd have broken into the shop. With the car outside, unbothered, they knew you were here--"

"It's not my car, it's my father's." She realized even as she said it, it was a ridiculous statement.

"Have you had any problems with an individual lately?"

"No."

"Nothing with the business? Creditors? Unhappy customers?"

"No." She was starting to feel like a character on
Law & Order
.

Unfortunately, this wasn't fiction. Whoever had broken into her house was as real as it got.

There was a soft knock at the door before it swung open and Officer Bigelow reappeared.

Both Abby and Officer Jones looked at him expectantly.

"Ms. Whitman, there are several broken headstones and a monument that has been tipped over in that old cemetery out near the road. A lot of the grass is mashed and there are relatively fresh tire marks in the pull-off from the road. Do you know if that damage is new?"

She thought of the six-foot-tall stone monument to her great-great-grandfather. It had stood undisturbed for a hundred and fifty years. "It has to have happened since last Sunday. I was in there cleaning up, getting ready for mowing season."

"Did that cemetery have any ironwork; urns and such?"

"Yes. I think there are four or five urns. And the fence and gates."

He nodded. "Fence is there. No gates. The high price of scrap metal has been spawning lots of this kind of theft. We'll check the cemetery more thoroughly when it gets light. Take some photos of the damage. If you'd make a list of what you think is missing and send it to the department, that'd be helpful."

"All right."

After the officers left, Abby locked the door and armed the alarm before she took a shower.

As she stood under the hot spray, one question kept resounding in her head:
Who would want to do this to me?

She didn't have anything worth stealing.

Personal. The police thought it was personal.

No matter how she looked at her life, she just couldn't see who would want to harm her.

She froze in mid-shampoo as a thought slammed into her mind:
You
did
kill a senator's son.

Right. And he hired a hit man to get even. Seriously, she had to get some real sleep; she was losing her grasp on reality.

She shut off the water. If she didn't stop thinking like this, she was going to lose her mind completely.

On Jason's way to pick up Brenna for their customary Saturday breakfast, he called Father Kevin. It rang long enough that he'd just about given up when the priest answered.

"Hello, Father, I'm going to take Bryce and Brenna out to the driving range this afternoon. Do you want me to touch base with the catering staff at the club, make certain everything is in order for the fundraiser while I'm there?"

A couple of months ago, Father Kevin had seemed overwhelmed with the task of organizing the golf fundraiser for Children of Conflict that had been held every May for the past ten years. It was easy to understand; his burden had more than doubled since the death of his sister and her husband two years ago. So Jason had stepped in this year, making phone calls and doing errands.

The exhausted sigh that came over the phone took Jason by surprise. Father Kevin loved this event and the ability it gave him to contribute to his sister's organization. He'd managed to recruit golfers from all over the United States to participate, even a few celebrities.

"Yes, I suppose that would be a good idea," Father Kevin said without his usual enthusiasm.

"Is something wrong?"

"No. Nothing. Thank you for helping." The line went dead.

Worried over this uncharacteristic behavior, Jason nearly called him back, but decided to wait until this afternoon, after he'd spoken to the caterers. Then he'd have a reason that wasn't pushing beyond the boundaries of the priest's privacy.

Jason was more than a little surprised to see Brenna and Bryce standing on the front porch when he pulled up. Bryce had already declined the breakfast invitation, but that wasn't unusual. What was unusual was that he was up this early.

Before Jason even got the engine shut off, Bryce was walking Brenna down to the curb. Jason studied his stepson carefully, wondering what had prompted this change of mind.

But Bryce didn't climb in the front seat. He opened the rear passenger door for his sister.

"Hello, Peanut," Jason said.

"Hi, Daddy. Bryce said he's not going to hit golf balls with us this afternoon. Can't you make him?"

Jason ducked to look at Bryce across the car. "You dumping us?"

He threw Brenna an annoyed look and gave an offhand shrug.

Brenna said, "Yes he is. He's not doing his part for the good of this family."

Jason cringed at her choice of words; it was a phrase Lucy used to get her way.

It seemed to hit a nerve in Bryce, too. He said, "All right! I'll go."

"Good," Jason said. "Sure you don't want to grab breakfast with us?"

"I'm sure." He straightened and Jason lost sight of Bryce's face.

Jason called, "We'll be back at one to pick you up."

Bryce closed Brenna's door.

Jason watched him as he walked back to the house. There was something different about him, something heavy and just a little dark. It was evident in the way he moved.

Jason was anxious to spend the afternoon with him, to see if he could get his son to open up.

At eight a.m. Abby parked the Explorer at the side door of St. Andrew's. Maggie came out, her face lit with excitement. Her chunky little legs moved more quickly than Abby had ever seen them. She met Abby at the rear hatch of the SUV and threw her arms around her.

"This is the best day ever!" she said, as she nearly squeezed the breath from Abby.

Abby hugged her back. The feel of Maggie's sturdy body lent a calm warmth that was very much needed.

"All right, Maggie, let's get ready for this wedding."

Maggie took a box with the pew arrangements and headed for the door. "We did a good job. Mrs. Ostrom
can't
be grouchy today."

"If she's grouchy, it certainly won't be our fault," Abby said, knowing the odds of Mrs. Ostrom, mother of the bride, acting like a woman with bees in her bloomers was pretty darn high.

When they entered the sanctuary, Father Kevin was placing fresh candles in the candelabras onto which Abby would add bows and flowers. His back was to her.

"Good morning, Father," she said.

When he turned to face her, he looked at her with haunted eyes sunk deep into their sockets. Abby sucked in a breath. It had only been three days since she'd seen him, but he looked so much worse.

She set down the flower arrangement she was carrying and stepped over to him.

"Abby," he said. There was a peculiar edge to his voice, as if he was expecting something, some reaction from her.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

He blinked; slowly, the way a person does when he's been pushed past the point of exhaustion. For a long moment, he just stood there.

Finally he cleared his throat and said, "That's what I should be asking you--after your accident." His sluggish gaze moved to the butterfly bandage on her forehead.

"I'm fine." Although she realized she hadn't looked much better than Father Kevin when she'd put on her makeup this morning. "But you're not looking well at all." She laid a gentle hand on his coat sleeve.

He studied her face, as if looking for something deep in her eyes. "Life gives us all trials." He paused. "We must accept them."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked.

For a moment his gaze sharpened, as if she'd surprised him. Then he reached out and took her hand. "You're already giving me a priceless gift. I thank you."

He turned away and walked into the hall that led to his office.

A priceless gift?
Her involvement with Maggie?

Abby watched him disappear into his office, more worried than she'd ever been for him.

* * *

Once the frantic preparations to the sanctuary and the hall where the reception would be held were complete, reality began to knock on the door of Abby's consciousness. Not only was she troubled by the break-in, but that dream she'd been having when it occurred kept buzzing around in her mind. The details of it had grown hazier as the daylight hours progressed, yet it chafed like a prickly clothing tag, nagging and prodding for attention.