Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(50)

“I see a couple of lights on,” she tells Bob. “Maybe Phyllis went out and didn’t want to come home to a dark house.”

“Maybe. But she should be answering her cell. Listen, I need to get to bed—it’s getting late here and I have an early meeting—and I won’t be able to sleep unless I know she’s all right. Would you mind going over to check on her?”

“Not at all. I can’t leave the kids, but Mack should be home in about half an hour, so—”

“Is there any way you could just run over quickly now, Allison? I’m sorry. It’s just that the generator could be dangerous if she doesn’t remember to keep the garage door open while it’s running. I keep thinking maybe something happened . . .”

“You mean carbon monoxide?” Allison is alarmed.

“I—I don’t know. You have the keys to our place, right?”

“I do.” Something flashes through her brain—something she never lets herself think about if she can help it.

She had the keys to her neighbor Kristina Haines’s apartment, too, ten years ago. Worried after not hearing from Kristina in the wake of the World Trade Center collapse just blocks away, she let herself into the apartment to check on her . . . and found her murdered corpse.

But this, of course, is completely different. Another place, another time, another friend . . .

Phyllis could be in trouble, though—overcome by carbon monoxide fumes. Her life might be hanging in the balance, and every second counts. Allison can’t tell her worried husband, who is helpless and an ocean away, that she isn’t willing to go over there and check on her because of something horrible—and completely unrelated—that happened ten years ago.

No, and that’s not who I am. I’m not weak. I don’t shy away from my responsibilities, not like my mother did.

“If she doesn’t answer the door,” Bob is saying, “just let yourself in and make sure she’s not in there and . . . unconscious or something.”

“I’m on my way right now. I’ll call you right back in a few minutes . . . or actually, I’ll just have Phyllis call you.”

With those reassuring words ringing in her own head, she hangs up the phone and returns to the kitchen.

“Girls?” she calls, trying to un-pry J.J.’s fingers from around the handle of the wooden spoon. Naturally, he screams in protest.

“Shh, J.J. . . . Girls!” she calls again.

From the living room, she hears only the murmur of televised voices and jaunty kid-show music. With no school yet again today—on the heels of seventy-two hours without electronics—she’s allowed them to watch TV most of the afternoon.

“Girls! Come here right this minute!”

Now there are footsteps hurrying toward her the way they do whenever she sounds like she means business.

Maddy appears in the doorway, takes one look at her face, and immediately asks, “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

Beside her, Hudson, markedly less concerned, wrinkles her freckled nose. “I smell onions.”

“I need help,” she tells them above J.J.’s wailing as she wrestles him out of the high chair.

“Chopping onions? Because I don’t like—”

“Not chopping onions! I need you two to babysit your brother for a few minutes. Do you think you can do that?”

Hudson nods vigorously, but Maddy looks even more worried now. “Where are you going?”

“Just outside. I have to run next door, but I’ll be back right away. Like, in two seconds.”

“Two seconds? That’s impossible. No one can—”

“Two minutes,” she interrupts Hudson. “Not seconds. Minutes. Okay? You can time me. Come on.”

She leads the way back to the living room with the girls obediently at her heels. “I’m going to put your brother into his swing—no, his ExerSaucer.” Yes, that’s stationary and low to the ground, so he can’t fall out of it. “Stay right here with him while I’m gone, okay?”

The girls kneel on the floor beside the ExerSaucer as she straps their squirming brother into the molded yellow plastic seat. It’s completely encircled by a round red tray to which all sorts of gizmos are attached—bells, mirrors, rattles, the works.

J.J. immediately cheers up, reaching with a chubby, drool-and-tears-wet hand to spin a bright blue spindle.

“There. That’ll keep him busy while I’m gone.” She hurriedly opens the desk drawer where she keeps the Lewises’ keys, expecting to have to dig for them, but the manila envelope labeled “KEYS” is right on top. She sorts through several sets, all labeled with circular cardboard rings: “Our House (spares)” . . . “Beach House” . . . “Lewis House.” Okay, so far, so good.

“Two minutes,” she promises the girls again, and pats her pocket. “I have my cell phone if you need anything. The number is taped by the phone.”

“Or we can just scream out the front door,” Hudson points out.

“Or that,” she agrees with a faint smile, and then she turns her back and is on her way, the smile gone.

It’s too good to be true: Allison on her way over to check on her neighbor.

I couldn’t have planned it this way if I tried.

It just goes to show that things have a way of falling into place, if one has patience and truly believes that justice will prevail. The poetic brand of justice, anyway.