Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(41)
Hmm . . . maybe you’re right.
Sinking into the pillow on Ange’s side of the double bed—which is better than lying on his own, beside her vacated space—Rocky is somehow exhausted, yet not tired enough to go to sleep. His mind is numb, his body aches, his heart aches . . . but the adrenaline that began pumping through his veins in the basement a few hours ago has yet to ebb.
After banishing the stray cat that had found its way in through the broken window, he combed the house to see what the intruder might have stolen. As far as he could tell, nothing is missing. Ange’s jewelry, cash, electronic equipment, the extensive baseball memorabilia collection his sons have been vying for years to claim . . .
Everything is exactly where it should be.
That’s strange.
Rocky’s been around long enough to know that a person who breaks into a house usually wants to take something—or leave something: say, vandalized rooms, some kind of written threat meant to scare the occupant, even illegal substances. Rocky has seen plenty of empty homes in this city used as drug drops by neighborhood dealers.
His search didn’t uncover any evidence of a hidden stash—but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t one. And it doesn’t mean that whoever broke the window won’t be back.
That’s why he opted to wear his holster to bed. It wouldn’t be good to wake up in the middle of the night with his weapon beyond reach and a stranger prowling around the house.
Then again, it’s not the worst thing a man can wake up to in the middle of the night. Not by a long shot.
He closes his eyes and the stormy chill of this autumn night falls away. He sees Ange silhouetted in the moonlight filtering through the screened window on her side of the bed; hears the old box fan humming in another window; feels the warm, humid air blowing on him.
“Where are you going?” he asks her.
“To get some Advil. I have a terrible headache.”
She starts across the room, then collapses.
He doesn’t see it happen, but he hears it—a terrible crashing thud. For a moment, he thinks she’s tripped over something and fallen.
“Ange?” he calls, already swinging his legs over his side of the bed.
No answer.
He finds her on the floor, and he’s sure she must have fainted from the heat.
“Ange! Ange!”
She never woke up.
Lying alone in the dark, reliving his worst nightmare, Rocky Manzillo cries like a baby, the broken basement window all but forgotten.
Listening to Allison’s rhythmic breathing and the drumbeat of rain, Mack clenches every muscle in his body, counts to ten, and then releases, counting to ten again.
It’s a relaxation exercise Dr. Cuthbert taught him months ago, long before the Dormipram. It never worked.
The Dormipram did, dammit.
Now what am I supposed to do?
Go back to taking it, even though it does crazy things to me?
Mack realizes that his jaw is still clenched, so hard it aches.
Why does everything have to be so difficult for him?
All right, not everything. But his career, which used to be such fun, has become a dreaded daily challenge, day in and day out. His house, always a pleasant refuge, is a hodgepodge of tasks that need his attention. Even marriage and fatherhood sometimes feel like a chore lately—four more people who need time and attention he can’t always spare.
The one saving grace lately has been the newfound ability to fall asleep. The most basic, natural thing in the world, something every human being is capable of doing . . .
But not me.
Not on my own, anyway.
Frustrated, Mack sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and stands. Might as well get something constructive done, since sleep doesn’t seem to be an option tonight.
He starts to walk across the room, trips over something—one of his shoes, kicked off earlier and left in the center of the floor—and curses.
“Mack?” Allison’s voice, in the dark, is startled.
“Yeah. Sorry. I tripped.”
“Are you awake?”
He bites back a sarcastic Of course I’m awake! I’m standing here talking to you, aren’t I?
He knows, of course, why she asked.
“Yeah,” he tells her. “Wide awake. Not sleepwalking.”
“Good. What are you doing?”
“Going downstairs—don’t worry, not sleep-eating, either. I have some work to do.”
“At this hour? On a weekend?”
He sighs, wanting to remind her that he wanted to get something done earlier in the day, but she went out and left him with J.J. He could remind her, too, that he’s lucky he’s got a job in this economy.
But he says nothing at all, just leaves the room and closes the door quietly behind him.
Chapter Seven
Monday, October 31, 2011
Dusk has fallen over Orchard Terrace.
On any other Halloween night, it would bring a bustle of Halloween activity beyond the hedgerow: costumed kids scuffling excitedly through fallen leaves, working their way up and down the block from porch light to porch light. Parents would trail them in couples or groups, carrying flashlights and spare jackets and baby siblings, calling, “Remember to say thank you!” and “Stay where I can see you!”
Not this year.
This year, there are no porch lights; no flashlights bobbing along the sidewalks; no streetlights. Orchard Terrace is shrouded in darkness, blanketed in the foot of snow that fell on Saturday, a freak October storm that toppled foliage-heavy trees, knocking out power and shattering weather records—not to mention the children’s excited plans for trick or treat.