Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(100)

He figured there was no way Lenore was going to let him have even just one kid. He thought about taking him—taking both of them, even, because they were twins. They should probably be together.

But if he got caught, he’d go back to prison, and he’d had enough of that. Had enough of running, too.

He remembered what the counselor back at the prison had told him when she was coaching him on how to live an honest life on the outside. So after they’d taken a few pictures, and finished eating the chicken and rice Lenore had fixed for them in a big cast-iron skillet, while the kids were washing the dishes, he asked Lenore if he could speak to her privately, in the bedroom.

She lit up. Yeah, she was thinking she was going to get some, he realized. Not a chance of that.

He closed the door behind them, turned to her, and saw that she was starting to undress.

“Wait, no,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“The kids. I want to be a part of their lives.”

She appeared to think about it. Then she shrugged. “Sure. I’ll take you back. We’ll give it a shot. I always loved you—you know that, don’t you?”

“No. You don’t get it. Not you. Them. I want to be a part of their lives. Not yours.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t want you, Lenore. Okay? I never did.”

“You son of a bitch! Get the hell out of here and don’t you dare ever come back!”

“Those are my kids. I have a right to—”

“Don’t talk to me about rights. You’re a convicted felon. You abandoned me when I was pregnant and you denied they were yours.”

“Because you were a whore who slept with every—”

She cut him off with a slap across the face.

Enraged, he grabbed her. “You don’t ever do that to me, you bitch!” he screamed. “You show me respect, do you hear me?”

Jerry came running and pounced on him, beating at him with his fists.

And then Jamie came, too, screeching “Nooooo!”

She had the cast-iron skillet in her hand.

He thought she was coming after him, but she went straight for her brother.

It happened so quickly. She swung at Jerry with the skillet and he went down, his head split open.

“What the hell did you do?” Lenore screamed.

“He’s our father! Jerry was trying to hurt him and he’s our father!” Jamie shrieked back.

“No, he isn’t. He’s a dirt bag and I want him out of here!” Crying hysterically, Lenore was already dialing 911.

Torn, he looked at Jerry, bleeding and unconscious on the floor. He knew he had to go before the cops showed up. He was on probation. He’d just served ten years. No one would ever believe that he wasn’t the one who’d bashed in the kid’s head. Like father, like son, they would say.

“No, Daddy, don’t go!” Jamie clutched at his arm. “Please!”

He shook her off and ran. Ran, as always.

He didn’t realize she’d chased him until he was out on the street, tearing off down the block. He heard someone screaming his name, turned back, and there she was.

“Wait! I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Please!”

“No! You stay here and help your brother!”

“I hate him.” The look in her eyes—it was lethal. It scared the hell out of him.

She’d been wanting to do that, Sam realized, for a long time. She’d been wanting to hurt Jerry. Or maybe just hurt someone, anyone—just for the hell of it.

He knew, because he recognized the look. He’d seen it in his father’s eyes, and he’d seen it in the mirror. The same dark urge had festered inside him for as long as he could remember. But he fought it, because he didn’t want to be like his father.

Hearing sirens, he abruptly turned his back on Jamie and started running again. He never looked back.

Maybe he knew she was following him. Maybe he didn’t.

Whenever he remembers that night, he’s never really sure.

What he does know is that later—much later, maybe the next night—he walked out of a bar, and there she was. Waiting for him. She got in his face, telling him that she needed him, that she wanted to come with him, that she wanted him to take care of her—on and on like that.

She looked and sounded like her mother. In his inebriated confusion, he thought she was her mother.

She just wouldn’t let up. Kept talking to him, making accusations and demands, louder and more shrill until he couldn’t take it anymore.

He had a blade in his pocket for protection, as always. He’d never used it, though. Never used anything but his fists. Not until that night.

The next thing he knew, she was dead at his feet with her throat slit, those cold eyes of hers seemingly fixed on his face.

She wasn’t Lenore.

She was Jamie. His own daughter.

He’d killed her—killed a part of himself, really—and the strange thing was, his first thought was that it had felt good. For so long, he’d been wondering what it felt like to take a life. Now he knew.

And he wanted to do it again.

He left her there, on the street.

He started running, and he didn’t look back. He ran away from his dead daughter, and his injured son. He ran away from New York. Hitchhiked out through Jersey, through Pennsylvania. On the Ohio turnpike, a lady trucker picked him up. They drove for a while, until the trucker said something that pissed him off, and he swore he could hear Jamie’s voice in his head, telling him to do something about it.