Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(52)

Maybe it was carbon monoxide, or a stroke, or a heart attack . . .

But it isn’t good. She only hopes there’s still time . . .

Please, God. Please . . .

But it’s too late for prayers.

Too late.

There, on the king-sized bed, is Phyllis Lewis.

Dead.

Allison knows that as surely as she knows that it wasn’t carbon monoxide, a stroke, a heart attack . . .

It was the Nightwatcher.

Mack hears the sirens in the distance as he steps off the train at the Glenhaven Park Station, accompanied by Nathan Jennings and a few dozen other commuters.

He’d recognized his former colleague when he boarded back at Grand Central Terminal. Like his wife, Zoe, Nate’s experienced a physical metamorphosis since the old agency days, having grown leaner, better-looking, and—if possible—taller. Or maybe weight loss and an expensive suit can just make it seem that way. His hair is still blond, still parted in a swoop across his forehead that, should his hair grow any thinner, will officially become a comb-over.

Mack quickly took a seat several rows away, though there were plenty of empty ones around Nate. He had far too much work to do on the train to risk getting caught up in small talk. He shouldn’t have left the office as early as he did, but he still felt guilty about leaving Allison and the kids alone in a cold, dark house yesterday and then missing Halloween—rather, non-Halloween—last night. He’d worked straight through lunch today, not that skipping a meal is a bad thing, since he could stand to lose a few pounds, and anyway, Allison is making his favorite dinner.

Now, as Nate talks about the freak snowstorm and power outage, Mack makes all the right comments, but the sirens have carried him back in time.

Every time he hears that familiar wail, he still thinks of September 11 and Carrie. When he inhales, he swears he can smell the acrid industrial stench of burning jet fuel, and if he were to close his eyes, he knows he’d see a fireball exploding out of the south tower, just below his wife’s office.

Of course, he didn’t see it happen in person that day. He was in his own office uptown, going through the motions of his job and thinking that the worst had already happened that morning, when he told Carrie he was leaving.

“I’d love to meet your wife,” Nathan is saying, and for a split second, Mack thinks he’s talking about Carrie. His immediate instinct is to make up an excuse for her, because Carrie never wanted to meet anyone.

But then he remembers. It’s not Carrie. Carrie is dead.

Nate is talking about Allison.

“Ben says she’s a great girl.”

Definitely Allison. No one ever said Carrie was a great girl.

Mack forces a nod and a smile. “She is great. I’m sure she and Zoe would like each other.”

Yes, Allison likes just about everyone, and vice versa.

How can one man in one lifetime have loved two women who were so very different?

But then, it doesn’t even feel like one lifetime. It’s as though the old Mack died on September 11, and a new Mack was born.

No . . . it’s not like that, either. It’s more that the old Mack died when he married Carrie—and was reborn on September 11.

He feels guilty whenever he thinks of it that way—that he’d only come alive again after Carrie died. But she’d robbed him of so many things—so many people—he’d once held dear. She’d isolated him from his old life . . .

Come on. You were a grown man. You isolated yourself. For her sake, yes—but that was a choice. You can’t blame her for everything.

Maybe you can’t blame her for anything.

Again, he remembers Ben and Randi’s doubt about Carrie’s extraordinary past. Again, he wonders if there’s a way to find out the truth.

Again, he wonders why it matters now.

“We should get together,” Nathan is telling him. “How about Friday night?”

“Friday . . . uh, Fridays, I’m usually pretty useless after the work week.”

“Saturday, then. Hey, this snow is supposed to be gone by the end of the week. Do you golf?”

“ ‘Do you golf’ isn’t exactly the right way to phrase that question,” he says wryly. “ ‘Can you golf’ would be better.”

Nathan grins a familiar grin. “Got it. Can you golf?”

“Yes, I can. Do I? No. Who has time with three kids, a house, a job . . .”

“I hear you, bro.”

Mack isn’t big on middle-aged men who call each other bro. It’s like they’re trying too hard to be young, hip, casual . . .

Having known Nathan when he was—when they were both—all of those things, and more, Mack is only reminded that the good old days are long over. It’s depressing—and his low blood sugar and those sirens aren’t helping matters.

“Listen, how about Saturday night, then?”

You just aren’t going to let it die, are you.

“Come on over to the house. You and Allison. And I’ll invite Ben and Randi, too. Are you free?”

“I think so, but I’d have to check about trying to get a sitter. It’s usually hard for us to—”

“Bring the kids! They can play with ours. Caitlin is five and Harris is two. They’ll love it.”

Apparently, it’s all settled.