Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(110)

Pacing . . .

Waiting . . .

Thinking about the one possible reason a calculating killer might so drastically change his signature, adding rape to the ritual . . .

Supposedly.

At last, his phone vibrates in his hand.

“I’ve got it,” Mai tells him. “You were right. James MacKenna and his first wife did go through infertility treatments. They used the Riverview Clinic in Manhattan.”

Rocky holds his breath, waiting for the rest, hoping against hope . . .

“There was a break-in at the lab they use back in October,” Mai goes on, “and several sperm samples were stolen. Including James MacKenna’s.”

Before Rocky can react, his phone buzzes, indicating a call coming in. Frowning, he’s about to ignore it—then thinks better of it. What if it’s the nurse, calling from upstairs?

He checks the caller ID.

“I have to take this,” he tells Mai. “I’ll call you right back.”

Quickly, he disconnects that call and picks up the incoming one. “Manzillo here.”

“Detective Manzillo? It’s Randi Weber . . .”

Yeah. He knows.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Weber?”

“I know where Allison is, and . . . she’s on the move. Really fast. I feel like something might be wrong.”

Jamie clutches the wheel of the rented Jeep with gloved hands—warm knit winter gloves. They won’t leave prints.

As much as she loves to wear dresses, Jamie is bundled against the cold today, wearing jeans, a sweater, a parka, boots. She even left the wig behind in the last motel room, not wanting to risk shedding synthetic hairs this time and letting the cops think anyone but Mack is responsible for this.

I don’t look like myself, she thought, surveying herself in the mirror earlier. I look like Sam.

But that’s okay. When this is over . . .

What will I do when this is over?

Do I even want to go on?

It’s a question that has weighed heavily on Jamie’s mind. The answer, she figures, will come to her when the time is right. It always does.

Ah, there’s the jetty up ahead, jutting out into the churning gray-green waters of the Atlantic.

She’d scouted the location yesterday afternoon, driving up and down the bleak coastal island in search of the perfect spot to stage the grand finale, not sure exactly what she was looking for until she found it.

The jetty is well off the beaten path, located on a stretch of beach where there are just a few houses, all of them large summer rentals that have obviously been closed up for the winter.

“We’re almost there,” Jamie informs the three children in the backseat.

It would be much more interesting to talk to them if they could reply, but of course they can’t. All three children are unconscious, thanks to the needles Jamie stuck into their arms. The girls are on the floor, like limp rag dolls; the baby still strapped into his stroller, which Jamie simply turned on its side and shoved sideways across the backseat.

“Your mother thinks she’s so smart. But she told me exactly where to find you, did you know that? There I was on Sunday afternoon, minding my own business—”

At that, Jamie breaks off and giggles.

“All right, I was minding your parents’ business. They were plotting their big escape, thinking they were so clever, talking about a beach house somewhere . . .”

A beach house to which Jamie, of course, has the keys.

“Of course I copied all the keys I found in the desk drawer way back in the beginning,” she informs the sleeping children. “I figured they might come in handy at some point.”

Have they ever.

Although there was a fleeting moment of worry when it seemed Allison and Mack weren’t going to mention the exact location of the house. It would have been so bothersome to try and tail them to wherever they were going, and much too risky at this point to venture back into their house looking for clues.

But then, oh lucky day, Allison asked her husband, “How would you get to work from there?”

“I could commute if I had to—”

“From Salt Breeze Pointe?”

At that, Jamie broke into a delighted smile, assuming—correctly—that they were talking about the charming little town on the Jersey Shore.

There was no need to even follow them down here. Jamie meandered along later in the day, arriving just in time for darkness to settle in. Then it was just a matter of driving up and down the streets until Allison’s SUV materialized, parked in a carport alongside a rambling two-story house.

Well equipped for what lay ahead, Jamie broke into the house next door and kept an eye on things until the right opportunity presented itself.

“Your mother made things even easier for me when she took off this morning all by herself, you know?” Jamie tells the children. “I let myself in with the keys—walked right in through the front door, quiet as a mouse. I bet you didn’t hear a thing, did you? I know your father didn’t.”

Jamie spotted Mack in the kitchen with his son. He was making faces at him, and the baby was making a racket, laughing like crazy.

A nice little father and son moment, she thought, enraged. Jerry never had a moment like that, and now he never would, thanks to Allison.

“This is all your mother’s fault,” Jamie tells the children, wishing they could talk, sob, protest, beg, something.