Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(67)

Saturday, November 5, 2011

“Was that brutal,” Randi asks Allison, “or was that brutal?” Resting a hand on her marble kitchen countertop, she pulls off her black, pointy-toed high-heeled designer pumps, balancing on first one foot and then the other.

Brutal—she’s referring to the wake for Phyllis Lewis, which the four of them just attended: Randi and Ben, Allison and Mack.

Brutal doesn’t even begin to describe the experience, Allison thinks as she sinks into a kitchen chair.

Standing beside the open casket, Bob Lewis and his two children were alternately catatonic and hysterical, depending on who was stepping to the front of the long line of mourners to offer condolences to the family.

When Allison’s turn came, Bob fell on her sobbing, thanking her over and over. For what, she doesn’t know, and she didn’t ask.

“He’s just grateful that you went over there to check on Phyllis for him that night,” Mack murmured to her as they stepped away to kneel at the casket and say a quick prayer.

That night . . .

Phyllis . . .

Try as she might, she can’t get the horrific images out of her head.

Seeing her friend’s dead body a second time didn’t help. Allison hadn’t expected an open casket and was disturbed when she spotted the corpse from the doorway. She had to force herself to make her way over, clinging tightly to Mack’s arm, reminding herself that if Phyllis’s family could face this, so, certainly, could she.

She overheard several people commenting on how beautiful Phyllis looked, as people have a peculiar way of doing at funerals. But it wasn’t the truth. It never is.

A high-necked, long-sleeved black dress covered the horrific wounds to her torso, her mutilated hands were discreetly hidden, and her lovely face had been unscathed. But the mortician couldn’t erase the unmistakable death mask pallor Allison has seen before: on Kristina Haines, and on her own mother.

“I need a drink,” Randi announces, opening a cabinet above the wet bar on the far end of her vast kitchen. “So do you.”

Allison automatically opens her mouth to protest, but Randi has already taken out two martini glasses, cutting her off with a stern “No arguments.”

“I’ll just have iced tea.” Randi thoughtfully stocked the fridge with Allison’s favorite beverage when they came to stay.

“That’s not going to help you. You need something stronger.”

“I don’t like to drink when the kids are around.” She’s not much of a drinker ever—and certainly not the strong stuff. Alcohol is a drug, and Randi knows how she feels about drugs, thanks to her mother.

But Randi repeats, “No arguments,” and pulls a bottle of Grey Goose from beneath the bar. “The kids are sound asleep.”

That’s true. The first thing Allison did when they got back from the wake a few minutes ago was head up the stairs to the spacious guest quarters where she, Mack, and the children have spent the last few nights.

J.J. was peacefully snoozing in the portable crib set up beside the queen-sized bed in the larger of the two guest rooms. The girls were in twin beds in the other room, snuggled beneath their new quilts—a Madeline theme for Madison, multicolored polka dots for Hudson. Randi had taken them shopping to pick out the bedding on Wednesday while Allison and Mack were being interviewed—yet again—this time by Captain Cleary down at the Glenhaven Park police station.

When Allison later saw the quilts, she was touched—and a little dismayed. “You shouldn’t have!” she told Randi. “It’s not like they’re going to move in forever.”

“I know that, but the girls should be comfortable while they’re here,” Randi said. “And so should you. I had a crib delivered this morning, and you and Mack and J.J. are coming tonight—no arguments.”

Allison didn’t argue.

She had no desire to spend another sleepless, nerve-wracking night at home.

At least Mack’s little sleepwalking episode in the wee hours of Wednesday morning doesn’t seem nearly as ominous, in retrospect, as it did at the time.

She was just so rattled from the murder scene that when she saw him holding a knife, her mind immediately went to a dark, terrifying place.

Phyllis had died on a Tuesday.

Things happen on Tuesdays.

Mack hates Tuesdays.

But that doesn’t mean . . .

No. Of course it doesn’t.

When she told Mack about the knife that morning, he laughed and said he had skipped both lunch and dinner that day, and that he was probably planning to slice up an apple and eat it with cinnamon and sugar.

“Why,” he asked with a grin, “what did you think I was going to do?”

The grin faded quickly, though—either because he caught sight of the look in her eyes, or because, after a momentary lapse to normalcy, he’d suddenly remembered what had happened next door.

She never did answer his question; she doesn’t ever want to reconsider, even for an instant, what she might have thought, as that bizarre moment was unfolding, he was going to do—or had already done.

She’s given it very little thought since, and the past few nights in the Webers’ guestroom have been blessedly uneventful—or at least, if they haven’t, she’s been blessedly oblivious. It’s surprising how soundly she’s slept here . . . but as she told Randi, it’s not as if they’re staying forever.