Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(75)

I just told Allison about that, he realizes.

Not only that . . . he’d told her how he’d been feeling about Carrie, too.

What must she think of him? What kind of man talks that way about his dead wife?

When he unburdened himself, he was nearly delirious with exhaustion—and yes, guilt. And now . . .

He’s nearly buckling beneath the added weight of regret.

He regrets telling Allison how he felt about Carrie, he regrets the way he felt about Carrie, regrets that their journey had to end the way it did.

We were never going to make it all the way together, he acknowledges sadly, but still . . .

If I had just waited . . .

Why the hell didn’t I wait?

His throat tightens.

“Mr. MacKenna?”

Dazed, he looks up and sees, through the blur of tears, that the female cop is holding out a clipboard.

“We need you to sign . . .”

“Oh. Okay.” He automatically scribbles his signature in the general area she indicates.

“Thank you. Is there anything—”

“I’m sorry, I just . . . need a minute.” Mack turns and blindly races for the bedroom.

In the end, it hadn’t been satisfying at all.

That’s the disturbing part.

Jamie can’t stop thinking about the young punk—the one who had called Mo a towel head, the one Jamie had followed for several blocks before the street was deserted enough to make a move.

Even though he deserved to be punished, deserved to die . . .

Even though his blood flowed red and warm and sticky, just like the others’ . . .

The whole thing had just felt wrong, from the moment Jamie jumped the kid from behind and dragged him into an alley.

He didn’t even realize he was being punished; thought it was a mugging.

Feeling the blade at his neck, he said, “Take what you want!” The belligerent tone Jamie had heard in the store had completely evaporated. Now his voice was high-pitched; he was pleading, like a terrified little boy.

Jamie didn’t like that at all. Terrified little boys . . .

They’re a reminder of Jerry.

“Please don’t hurt me. Take my wallet. Please. Just don’t hurt me . . .”

But Jamie had no choice. It was too late to back out by that time; the only thing to do was get it over with.

It was so rushed—just one quick slash across the kid’s throat, not even time to watch him die there on the concrete. It would have been much too risky to linger.

But it wasn’t even worth it.

I needed the connection. I needed to take my time. I needed to make someone suffer more. I needed someone else. I needed . . .

I need . . .

Allison.

Not just yet . . . but soon. And I know where to find her when I’m ready.

With Mack behind closed doors in the bedroom, presumably trying to pull himself together, Allison looks at the two police officers.

“Can I ask you something about the ring?”

“What about it?”

Allison hesitates, not sure how to phrase the question that’s on her mind without getting into gory detail.

“It was found by itself, right? Not with . . . anything . . . um, attached?”

In other words, Carrie’s disembodied finger wasn’t still in it.

The female officer glances at her partner, who shrugs as if to say, You’re doing fine, go ahead, keep talking.

In return, she gives him a look that says, Thanks a lot, before turning back to Allison. “It was just the ring.”

“Could it have slipped off her hand, maybe, while she was trying to escape the building or something?” Allison suggests. “I mean, otherwise, shouldn’t there be . . . more than just the ring?”

“The, uh . . . the nature of the scene is that . . .” The cop shakes her head. “They aren’t necessarily finding intact human remains.”

Intellectually, Allison had already been aware of that fact. But now, hearing it spoken aloud—and after seeing Carrie’s wedding ring— Why did I have to ask?

She glances toward the bedroom, making sure Mack hasn’t reappeared and overheard. This is hard enough for him.

“The thing is, there are a lot of people who just . . . vanished into the air.” The cop shakes her head. “I’m sorry to put it that way, but . . . that’s what we’re seeing. Or should I say not seeing.”

“I understand. I’m sorry I asked. I just thought there might be a way . . .”

Both cops shake their heads grimly, and the female gestures at the closed bedroom door. “He’s lucky to have something, even if it’s just one of his wife’s belongings. At least it’ll give him some kind of closure. A lot of families aren’t going to have anything at all.”

Anything, Allison suspects, but false hope.

“Do you want to knock and see if he’s coming out?” the male cop asks, looking at his watch. “We should probably get back over there.”

Allison wonders where there is. The Armory? The Pierre? Ground zero?

So many sites around the city wear the shroud of mourning tonight.

“Go ahead and ask him,” the female cop tells her partner, gesturing at the door.

With obvious reluctance, he walks over, knocks. “Mr. MacKenna?”

For a moment, there’s silence.