Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(36)

“Which hospitals?” he asks.

“Saint Vincent’s, NYU Medical, Bellevue . . .”

“She’s not in any of them. I checked yesterday and I called earlier. I know they’ve identified most of the survivors who were admitted, and . . . the ones who didn’t pull through, too. None of the ones who haven’t been identified match Carrie’s description, so . . .”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“I know.” He closes his eyes. “I know.”

“At Saint Vincent’s, they told me that they just opened a crisis center for Cantor Fitzgerald employees.”

Mack nods. A company representative called his cell phone to tell him about it a few hours ago, right after Allison left. The woman said that Howard Lutnik, the head of the company, was expected to speak to the families there sometime this afternoon. He was out of the building yesterday morning, and so he survived.

How, Mack wonders, is he going to face all those people whose loved ones didn’t?

“It’s at the Pierre Hotel,” Allison says, and then pauses.

Sitting there with his eyes closed, he can feel her watching him. He can’t bring himself to meet her gaze.

“Maybe you should go,” she says.

“I will. Just not . . . yet.”

Feeling Allison’s movement, Mack opens his eyes and sees her across the room, opening a desk drawer. After a moment of hunting through the contents, she closes it and opens the next one down.

“Oh—there it is.” She pulls something out.

“What is it?”

“The key to Kristina’s apartment. I’m going to go up and check on her.”

When Marianne Apostolos asked the maintenance man to come into her apartment, she figured it would be a quick, straightforward process. He’d come in, he’d get the window unstuck, he’d fix the stove, he’d get out.

Nope. It took this guy forever to open the living room window, which had apparently been painted shut just before she moved in. He’s been tinkering in the kitchen for a couple of hours now, and she’s beginning to think either he’s stalling, or he has no idea what the hell he’s doing with the stove. He did seem a little slow—mentally slow, that is—when she spoke to him.

Or maybe he’s just upset. Earlier, when she asked him if everyone he knew was okay in the aftermath of the attacks, he said no. He’s probably distracted by his loss. Who wouldn’t be?

She’s got to give him credit for at least showing up for work on a day when most people—Marianne herself included—didn’t bother. As an administrative assistant for a market research firm, she’s not exactly essential personnel.

She’s spent the day in her new, unfamiliar surroundings, trying to keep busy unpacking moving boxes, keeping an anxious eye on the clock as the afternoon wore on. She promised her mother she’d come over for dinner, because of course Ma doesn’t want to be alone one minute longer than is necessary. She never does, but especially not tonight. She’s freaking out about what happened yesterday.

Yeah—who isn’t?

Marianne is doing her best to keep her mind off things, but it’s not easy. Especially when the fighter jets buzz overhead and the faint smell of smoke is drifting in through the open windows.

She can’t even close them, because the super had the hardwood floors refinished over the weekend before she moved in, and the place still reeks of varnish. It’s better to risk breathing in a hint of smoke from the burning ruins downtown than to asphyxiate on polyurethane fumes, right? Even if it is a constant reminder of what’s going on in this city.

At least she doesn’t have cable installed yet, so she isn’t tempted to park herself in front of the television news. Which is exactly what her mother is doing.

Ma keeps calling to cry about what happened, and to wonder what the world is coming to, and to tell Marianne to be careful.

“I’m always careful, Ma,” Marianne tells her. “I’ve been on my own since I was eighteen, and I know how to take care of myself.”

Funny—for years, she thought her mother did, too. After all, the woman had raised five kids, worked full-time as a seamstress at Bond’s, and always kept things running smoothly in the same three-bedroom Broome Street apartment where she’s lived for more than half a century now.

But after Pop died last year, Marianne discovered that her mother is virtually helpless on her own. That’s why she gave up her own apartment on the Upper West Side, to be closer—but not too close—to Ma, who expects her to come running for every little thing, as well as three check-in phone calls a day.

“Why do I have to call you so much, Ma?” Marianne asks—often.

The answer is always the same. “You need to make sure I didn’t fall and kill myself. If I ever don’t answer, you come right over here and let yourself in with your key.”

“What if you’re just in the bathroom?” Marianne couldn’t resist asking.

“Better safe than sorry. That’s why you have my key, and now I have yours.”

Why, Marianne wonders, did I let her talk me into giving her the spare to this new place?

All she needs is for her mother to come over and let herself in without warning.

Ma doesn’t know about Rae, of course. She’s always asking when Marianne is going to find a nice husband and settle down.