Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(27)

But not just on television.

I want to touch death again. I want to make it happen again.

Jamie’s hands itch with the urge to squeeze a knife handle, hard; fingers ache to dip into warm, sticky blood.

Jamie smeared it on the walls, the windows, even the ceiling. It was necessary to climb onto the bureau to accomplish that. From there, it was possible to see that tiny red droplets spattered all over the ceiling.

Her wounds had spurted blood that far. Impressive.

Even as a child, Jamie had wondered what it would be like to take a life. Practicing on Dumpster rats, and then stray cats—even a neighbor’s pet dog—that was satisfying, at the time. But it was nothing like this.

Even that first human kill a decade ago—that wasn’t nearly as satisfying as this had been. That happened so quickly; it wasn’t planned. And the second kill, a few weeks ago—it was planned, yes, but not like this.

Practice makes perfect.

Jamie smiles.

Making Kristina do things, and say things, and feel things . . . watching Kristina suffer . . . it was better, far better, than anything Jamie had ever imagined.

How long, with the city in chaos, will it be before anyone misses her?

That reminds me . . .

Jamie opens a drawer, pulls out a videotape, and puts it into the VCR.

It was pretty risky to backtrack to the scene of the crime last night to retrieve the surveillance camera footage, but it would have been even riskier not to. Thank goodness Jerry confessed what he’d done, or there would have been trouble. Huge trouble.

Now we’re safe.

Jamie begins fast-forwarding through the footage, zipping past hours’ worth of empty hallways, and then . . .

Movement.

Bingo. There’s Jerry, walking into the building, his key ring in hand . . .

There’s Jerry on the fifth floor, unlocking the door to Kristina’s apartment . . .

There’s Jerry, moments later, bolting from the apartment looking stricken. He races past the elevator to the stairwell . . .

There he is exiting on the first floor, and—

Wait a minute.

There’s something else.

Someone else.

Jamie’s eyes narrow on the figure waiting by the elevator. That’s Allison Taylor.

It’s obvious from the footage that Jerry doesn’t notice her.

But she definitely notices Jerry.

Back on her own floor, Allison glances at the MacKennas’ door.

Should she . . . ?

Yes. She should. It’s the right thing to do.

She forces herself to walk over to the door, hesitates again.

What if the news is bad?

But what if it’s not? At least she’ll have some peace of mind about something on this awful day.

And if it is bad news . . . she’ll have to hear it eventually. Might as well be now. Maybe there’s something she can do to help.

As she knocks, though, she finds herself hoping no one is home. That way, she’ll have done the right thing, but can avoid dealing with this right now.

She immediately hears a stirring of footsteps inside, though, and the door is thrown open.

Mack stands there, looking as though he’s aged a year since she saw him smoking on the stoop.

He’s wearing suit pants and a rumpled white dress shirt with the tie loosened around his neck—yesterday’s clothes, Allison guesses, and knows that’s not a good sign.

His face is drawn and pale. His green eyes are underscored with purple-black shadows, his cheeks and mouth with black stubble. His short dark hair is sticking up on top of his head in tufts. As if to demonstrate how it got that way, Mack shoves his splayed fingers into his hair and leaves them there for a moment, just standing there looking at her with his palm resting at the top of his forehead in a gesture of distracted dismay.

“I thought you might be . . . someone else,” he tells Allison.

Carrie. That’s what he thought. That’s what he hoped.

Okay. Now she knows. The news is not good.

She clears her throat, trying to figure out what to say.

All that comes to mind is I’m sorry, but that has a sense of finality that feels wrong—unless he’s heard for sure that his wife is among the casualties. If that were the case, he wouldn’t have opened the door with such expectancy, or looked so despondent when he saw who was—rather, who wasn’t—there.

“Do you want to come in?” he asks.

“Do you want . . . should I?”

He nods. “Sure. Please.”

The last word strikes a chord, and her heart goes out to him. She’d assumed he was just being polite when he asked her in, but maybe not. Maybe he doesn’t want to be here alone.

She crosses the threshold. He closes the door after her.

All this time living across the hall, and she’s never been inside this apartment. Mrs. Ogden kept to herself, and so far, so have the MacKennas.

The layout is the mirror image of Allison’s own place: a small entry area widens into a rectangular living room with a small kitchen alcove on one side and doors leading to a bedroom and bath on the other.

The furniture is IKEA bland—blond wood and beige upholstery, boxy lines. Allison’s eye goes right to the lone splash of color: a red belted trench coat draped over the back of one of the chairs at the small dining table. She’s seen Carrie wearing it on rainy days. She probably had it on Monday, the day before . . .