Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(106)
“I want to go home,” Madison said in such a small, sad voice that Allison wanted to cry.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and said, as gaily as she could manage, “Come on, girls, it’ll be fun. We’ll get settled and then we’ll all play a game together.”
Most of the old board games stacked in the living room had belonged to Mack and Lynn when they were children. Ordinarily, the girls overlook the damp-basement smell that wafts from the boxes, but today they complained about it. They complained about everything, and Allison couldn’t blame them.
It’s one thing to visit the beach house in the heat of a glorious summer, when fresh air and sunlight fill the house, and the boardwalk and beach are alive with activity. It’s quite another to be here off-season, especially during the week. Not only has Lynn’s house already been closed down for a couple of months, but the boardwalk attractions are shuttered and the beach itself is bleak and deserted.
Craving fresh air and some hint of normalcy, Allison jumped at Mack’s suggestion that she go out for a solo morning walk, just as she always does when they’re here in July. She never tires of catching the first hint of the sun coming up over the ocean, like melted rainbow sherbet pooled out on the horizon.
But there’s no sun today; not even a horizon—just a monochromatic mist that makes sea indistinguishable from sky.
Still, it’s so good to be outside after a week behind locked doors that she’s walked farther than she should have; stayed away longer than she intended.
Slowly, reluctantly, Allison turns back toward the house, knowing she should probably get back.
So many memories flash back to her as she walks; most—though not all—are wonderful.
She remembers shelling with the girls, and splashing with them in a bathtub-warm tidal pool, and wading into the icy surf holding hands with Mack just weeks before their wedding. She remembers missing him on the beach last summer, and she remembers the lifeguards clearing the water, years ago, when a distant dorsal fin proved to belong to a shark and not one of the dolphins that liked to frolic along the shore.
Funny how she’d forgotten that incident until just now. How many times has she swum in the ocean since without giving thought to the predator that might still be lurking in its depths?
She quickens her pace and leaves the sand for the boardwalk, her sneakers making hollow thumps along the weathered wood. Waves pound and seagulls screech, and Allison wonders about her daughters, who must be awake by now.
When she left about forty-five minutes ago, they were sound asleep and Mack was trying to spoon-feed J.J., who was sitting in his convertible car seat that was now attached to a stroller base. Strapped in but fussing, the baby tried to grab everything within reach, and Allison wished she’d thought to bring along the portable high chair they’d been using at Randi’s.
Maybe Mack will agree that she should run to the store back on the mainland and buy one, along with everything else that will make them more comfortable for the time being. There’s a big Target somewhere in Toms River. She and Lynn make an annual sojourn to stock up on snacks and sunscreen and paperbacks to read on the beach.
Those lazy summer days seem so distant now that Allison feels as though she’s momentarily regressed into a past life she isn’t sure really even existed.
Making her way back along the boardwalk, she passes a lone jogger and an elderly woman walking her dog. Both are bundled against the cold, and neither gives her a second glance.
It seems to be taking much longer to get back, maybe because she’s heading into the wind. She finds herself wishing she’d thought to bring her cell phone, then remembers—it wouldn’t matter. She can’t even call Mack—there’s no landline at the house, and he insisted they both turn off their phones right after she picked him up at the PATH station yesterday, saying someone could use the built-in GPS software to find them.
“Can’t we just turn off the location settings?” she protested.
“Why take chances?” It was becoming his mantra.
She picks up her pace, wishing she hadn’t wandered so far. What if Mack gets worried and comes out to look for her, leaving the kids alone in the house?
No, he’d never do that. Not with everything that’s gone on.
Would he?
What if he thought I was in danger?
Dammit. If only she had her phone.
But it wouldn’t matter, she reminds herself again, scurrying past shuttered arcade games and boarded-up food stands, spooked by the eeriness of the abandoned carnival atmosphere.
She’s almost running by the time the flat roof of the two-story house comes into view, a couple of blocks off the beach and surrounded by deserted summer rentals. She pulls the keys from her pocket, fumbling for the right one as she takes the steps two at a time.
She bursts inside, breathlessly calling, “Mack?”
Then it hits her; she looks back over her shoulder to make sure.
Yes. The driveway alongside the house, where the SUV should be sitting, is empty.
And so, a quick and desperate search tells her, is the house.
Rocky sits by Ange’s bed, holding her hand, singing “Angie Baby.”
Another oldie but goodie. Helen Reddy. 1974. Rocky and Ange were newlyweds, expecting their first child. Whenever he happens to catch the song on the radio—which isn’t often enough—he pictures his wife with long, straight hair parted in the middle, standing in the kitchen with a hand resting on the small of her back, belly huge and round in a maternity top.