Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(74)
Throughout twenty years of marriage, Dale’s affinity for the finer things in life has meshed fairly well with Emily’s decidedly charitable outlook. They’ve always had enough money, and both have been free to spend it—or give it away—as they’ve seen fit.
But in the weeks ahead, she realizes, they might not agree on their priorities. They need a roof over their heads, and a luxury doorman building might not be an immediate option.
About to leave the room to make dinner—the least she can do for Frank, with Jacky working late—she remembers something and turns back to Dale.
“You should call Jerry.”
“Jerry? Why?”
“You call him every day to tell him where he’s supposed to be working. When was the last time you touched base with him?”
“Tuesday morning. But I’m sure he doesn’t expect me to be calling him in to work when all this is going on.”
Emily stares at him and shakes her head.
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll call him,” she says. “I should have before now, just to make sure he and his mother are okay.”
“I’m sure they are.”
“I hope so. Do you remember the number?”
He shakes his head. “It’s in my cell. My cell is dead.”
Right. So is hers. They both had their phones with them on Tuesday, but not chargers. Earlier, Dale tried to get new ones at an electronics store a few blocks away, but it was closed. The sign on the window said it will reopen tomorrow.
Looks like that checkin call to Jerry will have to wait.
Whatever Mack was expecting, this wasn’t it.
Numb, he stares at the two uniformed NYPD officers in his living room, trying to absorb what they’re telling him.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. MacKenna,” the older female cop, who’s done all the talking, tells him. “But can you please take a look?”
The other cop, probably a rookie, really just a kid, stands there looking shell-shocked. Mack imagines that he’s thinking he didn’t sign up for this: thousands of dead New Yorkers, families to notify . . .
He looks down at the little plastic-wrapped packet in his hand.
In it, supposedly, is Carrie’s wedding band.
He described it just hours ago at the registry, when he was asked to write down what she might have been wearing. Black suit, size ten. Black shoes, also size ten. He guessed those sizes by checking similar clothes and shoes in her closet. White blouse. Gold watch, gold wedding band, inscribed with her initials—along with his. It also contains their wedding date—the date they eloped because she didn’t want a big family wedding, because she didn’t like families.
Ah, the irony.
A family is what we were trying to have!
How many times did he scream those words at her? Silently . . . or maybe not. Not on that last morning, for sure.
“Mr. MacKenna,” the female cop says gently, “if you want to see if that is your wife’s ring . . .”
“Sorry.”
“No, no, take your time.”
He doesn’t want to take his time. He wants to get this over with. His hands shake as he fumbles with the packaging, but no one moves to help him. It’s as if this is a sacred relic, or perhaps just a sacred moment, a moment—a burden—that belongs to him alone.
The packaging falls away.
The gold band is in surprisingly good condition.
He clears his throat. “I was expecting . . .”
No. He doesn’t want to voice what he’d been expecting.
He checks the inscription inside the ring, nods.
“It’s hers, then?” the cop asks.
“Yes.” His voice sounds hoarse to his own ears.
“I’m sorry.” That comes from the younger cop, who shifts his weight and stares at the floor.
“Mack . . .”
Allison.
He’d forgotten she was here.
He looks over to see her standing a few feet away, giving him space—or maybe giving herself space.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “Do you need to sit down? Do you want a glass of water?”
Water . . . no. He doesn’t want water. He wants . . .
What does he want?
He turns to the female cop. “Can I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know where . . . how . . . it was found? I mean, my wife wasn’t . . . she wasn’t . . .”
Attached to it.
The female cop shifts her weight. “The ring was one of the first things found down at the scene—picked up on the street Tuesday afternoon by a bystander. Earlier today, we matched the engraved initials against your wife’s name on the list of missing Cantor Fitzgerald employees over at the Pierre.”
“That was fast.”
“We know how hard it is for the families, waiting . . . not knowing.”
He nods. “It is hard. But now I know.”
“I didn’t mean—” She looks flustered. “I’m sorry, I know that this is hard, too—harder, I’m sure—than not knowing.”
Is it?
Mack looks down again at Carrie’s ring.
What is he supposed to do with this? Bury it in the family plot in New Jersey, next to his mother who hated Carrie?