Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(73)

He’s greeted by a barely audible whisper. “Nate?”

“Yes . . . ?”

“Mack.”

“Mack? What’s wrong?”

“My car died. I need a ride. Can you come get me?”

Nate sits up, surprised.

It’s not that he minds helping out, but . . .

It’s just strange, that’s all, that Mack would call Nate of all people, and at this hour. But an old friend is an old friend.

And after all, Nate did say to Mack and Allison, when he and Zoe left the Webers’ earlier, to call if there was anything they could do.

“Seriously, we’d be happy to help if you need us,” Zoe chimed in. “I can watch your kids while you go to the funeral Monday if you want, or just to give you a little break.”

Nate could see by the slightly stiff expression on Allison’s face as she thanked them that she wouldn’t be calling the Jenningses for a favor anytime soon. She’d just been through hell, he knew, and he didn’t blame her for not chitchatting with the rest of them as they shared drinks in the Webers’ family room.

Zoe, however, had deemed her standoffish. “I pictured her differently,” she said in the car on the way home. “I mean, I’m sure it was hard for her to live up to his first wife, but—”

“Give her a break, Zoe,” Nate had cut in. “She looked traumatized. You would be, too, if you’d just come from the wake of your murdered friend—whose dead body you happened to discover, no less.”

“Maybe,” she allowed. “But she just doesn’t seem like Mack’s type.”

Nate didn’t ask who she thought Mack’s type might be, afraid he already knew the answer. That Zoe had harbored a serious crush on Mack back in their agency days was no secret to anyone—except maybe to Mack himself.

Now that they’re all grown up married couples, there’s no reason to bring it up again. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of discomfort, seeing the way his wife watched Mack.

As for Allison, he just wishes they could have met for the first time under more pleasant circumstances. He felt sorry for her and found himself second-guessing the wisdom of the drop-in condolence call, which had been Zoe’s idea, not his.

“It’s what you do when a friend loses someone, Nate.”

“Yes, maybe we should wait a bit.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know—to give them some time.”

“Time for what? You don’t have to come with me, Nate, but I’m doing it.”

When Zoe made up her mind like that, there was no stopping her.

Nate is sure the visit wasn’t just an excuse to cross paths with Mack. Of course not. That would be a ridiculous assumption.

Zoe is just feeling adrift up here in suburbia, and she’s eager to make new friends among the local moms. Allison and Randi are the logical place to start, right?

Of course.

“Where are you?” Nate asks Mack now, whispering as well—though he knows an air horn blast in her ear probably wouldn’t wake his sleeping wife.

“Off the Saw Mill. Exit 37. You’ll see me.”

“How about if I just—”

There’s a click, and Mack is off the line.

Nate is tempted to call him back and finish his sentence—which was going to be an offer to send over a tow truck instead. He presses the recall button on the phone, which brings up the number from which the call came.

James MacKenna, the caller ID panel reads, above the date and time stamp. About to press the button that will automatically dial the number, Nate thinks better of it.

I did tell him to call me if he needed anything. I guess I should be glad he did.

With a weary sigh, Nate gets out of bed and hurriedly starts to dress.





Chapter Twelve

In the dead of a rainy November night, Sullivan Correctional Facility strikes Rocky as an infinitely dreary place. Possibly no less cheerful, he surmises, than it might be at high noon on a sun-splashed day. But now, bathed in the greenish light of low-watt LED bulbs, the small administrative room is terribly depressing. He can only imagine what it’s like over on the cell block, where Charles Nowak was on duty when Rocky and Murph arrived a short time ago.

Now, as they sit waiting for someone to bring him in, a weathered-looking, heavyset female administrative assistant pours coffee from a filmy carafe into two foam cups.

“Want cream and sugar?” she asks.

“Cream,” Murph says.

She grabs a tall canister, dumps a generous heap of white powder into one cup, adds a plastic stirrer, and looks at Rocky. “You?”

“Just black, thanks.”

“You sure?” Looking dubious, she offers a largely unnecessary “The coffee’s not that great here.”

“I’m sure I’ve had much worse,” Rocky assures her, but after a sip, decides that might not be true.

The woman lingers in the doorway. “Can I ask you a question?”

Murph nods. “What’s that?”

“My cousin’s kid has been missing for over six weeks now, and the cops won’t help her. They think he ran away.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I don’t know. Robbie ain’t the best kid you ever met—he’s a dropout and he’s had some trouble with the cops and my cousin found drugs in his room—but she still don’t think he’d just take off and not call her for all this time.”