Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(63)

Phyllis was slaughtered because of that.

Because of me.

He struck as close to home—Allison’s home—as he could.

There’s no doubt in her mind that he’ll return.

Not tonight. There are detectives everywhere, keeping surveillance. But they can’t stay here forever.

Neither can we.

He was here, in this house. How did he get in? Through a screened window, back when the weather was warmer? It would have been so easy . . .

Easy, too, to temporarily steal a set of house keys and duplicate them, along with the keys to the Lewis home. It sickens Allison to think that they were sitting right on top in the desk drawer, in a clearly labeled envelope.

“It’s never going to happen again, because we’re not going to rely on keys and locks anymore,” Mack informed her. “We’re getting an alarm system, one with a code and a monitoring service.”

The thought brings little comfort.

Things can never be the same here now.

We’re going to have to—

The thought is curtailed by the distinct sound of footsteps; a sound that knocks the breath out of Allison like a sucker punch. It takes a moment for her to realize that it’s coming from the second floor, where Mack and J.J. are.

Wild thoughts run through her head.

What if the Nightwatcher managed to evade the police surveillance team and climb in a second floor window?

What if he was hiding up there all along?

What if—

The stairs creak and she turns her head slowly to look through the archway into the hall, holding her breath as the footsteps descend.

Is it Mack?

Or is it him?

He moves steadily, not necessarily stealthily; he’s not trying to sneak up on her. But that means little; he’s proven himself to be a brazen son of a bitch, and—

A pair of legs come into view between the spindles on the stairway, and she exhales audibly, recognizing Mack’s gray sweatpants.

“You just scared me to death,” she calls to him.

He doesn’t reply, just continues his methodical journey down the stairs.

“Mack?” Getting off the couch, moving toward the hall, she gets a better look at her husband and realizes that something is off. He’s looking straight ahead, eyes wide open, and it’s as if . . .

The lights are on, but nobody’s home.

It’s the same long-ago thought she had about Jerry Thompson, and her stomach gives a sickening little lurch.

“Mack!”

He turns toward her, looks at her—but no, not at her. Through her, with an unnerving stare.

Her first instinct is to go over and shake him, but then she remembers what Lynn told her. Their childhood pediatrician had said a sleepwalker who’s forcibly awakened might become violent.

Allison steps back out of the way as he passes her, moving toward the kitchen. After a moment, she follows him, shaken.

He doesn’t seem to know she’s there, and she watches him wander around the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator, stands for a moment in front of it, and closes the door. He picks up a green apple from the full basket on the counter, puts it back. Picks up a red one, puts it back. He opens the shallow spice cupboard, closes it, turns and moves to a new row of cabinets, opens one, and stares at the stacks of plates and bowls.

“The lion is bleeding,” he announces, or maybe it’s “The line is reading”—as if that makes any more sense.

He closes the cupboard, stands for a moment, and then—with sudden, frenzied purpose—opens a drawer and begins to hunt through it, muttering to himself.

Chills skitter down Allison’s spine as she watches. It’s as though her husband—familiar, comfortable, solid Mack—has had his very soul vacuumed out of his body, replaced by this . . . this . . . robotic alien being.

All at once, he seizes something and removes it from the drawer with a flourish.

His back is to Allison; she can’t see what it is.

He closes the drawer, turns, and her racing pulse skids to a halt.

Her husband is holding the new chef’s knife, the one she bought to replace the red-handled one that vanished.

For a moment, Allison stands frozen.

Then she hears herself shout out, “Mack!” and finds herself moving forward, toward him, toward the knife.

As she goes, she knows that she’s doing precisely the wrong thing, but she can’t help it. If she doesn’t stop him, he’s going to hurt himself, or—

“Mack, wake up!” She grabs him by the shoulder and shakes him. “Put that down! Mack!”

Dazed, he looks at her—through her—wrenches himself away, and strides across the kitchen, still holding the knife.

“Mack, no!”

Abruptly, he drops it, or maybe tosses it, and it slides across the tile, the blade’s point facing her like an arrow. That part is happenstance—Mack would never hurt her, ever, and it’s too far away and lacks the velocity to reach her . . .

And yet, seeing it coming, she gasps in horror.

A sound reaches her ears—J.J. crying, upstairs. Her scream must have woken him, she thinks, and then she remembers that it’s five-thirty in the morning and this is what time he usually gets up.

Mack keeps walking, already in the hall, going for the stairs—not, however, with any sense of purpose. His feet are shuffling along and he doesn’t seem to hear Allison behind him or the baby’s wails above.