Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(112)

As if he’s waiting for me.

How the hell did he find them here at the shore anyway? They weren’t followed, they told no one, and the only time he and Allison even mentioned their destination was in the privacy of their own . . .

Home.

Mack’s heart sinks, remembering something Ben said to him not long ago, when they were talking about the nanny cam.

There’s no privacy anymore, anywhere—even in your own house. You never know who’s watching and listening.

That’s it, Mack realizes. That’s how this bastard knew where to find us, and it’s how he knew the alarm code. He heard me tell Allison, or he watched me punch it in. Electronic surveillance.

As Mack races toward the Jeep, he feels in his pocket for the gun he’s kept close at hand since they fled home. When they reached the Webers’ on Sunday, he was afraid Ben was going to corner him and ask for it back, or that he’d bring it up in front of Allison, but he didn’t.

Thank God he didn’t.

Thank God I have it. And I swear I won’t hesitate to use it.

As Mack hurtles himself along the jetty, the driver’s side door of the Jeep opens.

A figure steps out.

Mack’s hand closes around the gun and he draws it out as he runs, shouting, “Stop!”

The figure seems to ignore him, leaning into the car.

Mack raises the gun and slows his pace to take aim, not daring to take a wild shot while running and risk hitting the Jeep with his children inside.

The Jeep—it’s moving again, he realizes, stunned.

The vehicle is rolling forward . . .

Toward the end of the jetty . . .

Toward the water.

Mack hurtles himself forward with a scream as the Jeep goes over the edge.

Huddled in the backseat of the police cruiser, Allison numbly watches the old man in the cardigan painstakingly adding his signature to a report attached to a clipboard. At last, he hands it back to Lieutenant Sparks, who nods and says something, then glances back at the car.

Allison quickly looks away, not wanting to meet the young cop’s eyes again. Every time he looks at her, she can see what he’s thinking, and she wants to scream at him that he’s wrong; that it isn’t like that.

Mack is a good man, an honorable man. He loves his children—and her—more than anything on this earth. He’s not some horrible violent deadbeat who would ever . . .

No, never.

Not if he were in his right mind.

It’s the medication—that’s what she tried to explain to the police officer, but he heard “drugs” and he got the wrong idea.

Or did he?

What’s the difference what kind of drug it is?

What’s the difference if a doctor prescribed it?

Allison’s mother took prescription medication and killed herself.

Mack is taking prescription medication, too—what’s to stop him from killing himself, or—

She moans; she can’t bear to think about it.

My babies.

No. Our babies.

Mack loves them as much as I do; he was there when they took their first breaths, their first steps . . .

She thinks of him giving the girls piggyback rides, reading bedtime stories, watching princess movies on rainy days . . .

But not lately.

That was the old Mack, the loving daddy and husband who was home more often, and wasn’t always checking his BlackBerry, or looking as though he were a million miles away . . .

The new Mack is different.

But that doesn’t mean he’s capable of . . .

No. It just means he accepted a big promotion with a tremendous amount of responsibility, and that he’s worried, in this lousy economy, about job stability and rising taxes and cost of living and dropping stocks and retirement accounts . . .

And he’s stressed.

Who isn’t?

But he’s not a monster.

If the kids are with Mack, he’ll protect them.

Longing to believe that, Allison buries her face in her hands, wiping the tears from her eyes. When she looks up again, Lieutenant Sparks is on the phone, listening and nodding and hurriedly scribbling something on the paper attached to the clipboard. He hangs up, says something to the old man, and then strides over to the car.

“Mrs. MacKenna,” he gets behind the wheel and slams the door, “did you say your husband took your cell phone with him?”

She nods numbly.

“Looks like they’ve picked up the GPS signal in your phone.”

“They? Who’s they?” she asks breathlessly.

“I think the information came from the NYPD.”

“The NYPD? But how would—”

“I don’t know, I thought that was what they—” Interrupting himself, he quickly jerks the car into reverse. “In any case, he’s not far from here, but he’s on the move, heading south. We’ve got a couple of cars on the way.”

“Can you . . . do you know if . . .”

“That’s all I know, ma’am.” Throwing an arm along the seatback, Lieutenant Sparks looks over his shoulder. The car skids backward in the sandy dirt, and then they’re on their way to the scene, sirens wailing.

Clutching her cell phone, Randi sits on the edge of the queen-sized bed in the guest room, thinking about Allison and Mack and the kids and waiting for the phone to ring. Detective Manzillo promised to call as soon as he hears anything at all.