Sleepwalker (Nightwatcher #2)(84)

He rubs his eyes, exhausted, and wishes there were some way he could just take a break to think things through. Wracked by the familiar notion that he’s missing something, some key piece of the puzzle, he knows that the best thing to do is take a step back and find some downtime to clear his head. That way, he can come at it from another angle and see things he overlooked when he was in the thick of it.

But there’s no such luxury on this case, on this day, with the clock ticking the way it is.

Three women have already been savagely killed. The timing between the last two murders is only a matter of days, not weeks. That means the cooling-off period before the unsub strikes again is likely to be even shorter.

There’s not a moment to waste right now on sleep, or anything else.

“Don’t worry, Rock.”

He looks up and makes eye contact with Murph before his partner turns his gaze back to the road, adding, “You know our guys will keep an eye on Ange. They won’t let anyone get near her.”

“How is it that you can always read my mind, Murph?”

He expects the usual quip in return.

Not this time.

“You and I have been together a long time, Rock. You’re like a brother to me, and Ange . . . nothing’s going to happen to Ange.”

Hearing the hoarse note in Murph’s voice, Rocky turns to look out the passenger’s side window, blinking away tears as they race on through the night.





Chapter Fourteen

Seated on the couch in his own living room, Mack holds his BlackBerry in his jittery hand, tapping it rhythmically against his knee as he waits.

Waits . . .

Waits . . .

It’s been at least an hour, maybe more, since a uniformed officer drove him from the Jenningses’ home back to his own. He was informed that one or more detectives would arrive shortly to question him.

Allison is in the house, too, somewhere—driven back separately, though. It’s standard procedure, he knows, to keep witnesses apart after a crime.

Witnesses?

Come on, Mack. You’re suspects—at least, you are—and you know it.

That was obvious almost from the first moment he, Ben, and Allison arrived at the house on Abernathy Place.

They were greeted by a familiar scene: squad cars, rescue vehicles, cops, reporters, curious bystanders. Just like here on Orchard Terrace the night Phyllis Lewis’s body was discovered . . .

By none other than Allison.

That alone would have made the local cops suspicious—he’s known it all along, though his protective instinct wouldn’t allow him to say that to his wife. But tonight—surely Allison didn’t miss the way the officers at the scene warily zeroed in on them both when they stepped out of Ben’s car.

Jack Cleary, the police captain they’d met after Phyllis’s murder, materialized immediately to take charge. One of his detectives asked a few quick questions, and the next thing Mack knew, he was in the back of a squad car being driven home.

All he wants now is a chance to clear up any misconception the police might have about his own involvement here. Whoever did this—whoever stole Allison’s nightgown and the Lewises’ keys, whoever lured both Nathan Jennings and Mack out into the night with those phone calls, whoever killed Phyllis and Zoe—that person knows exactly what he’s doing.

But why is he doing it?

And who the hell is he?

Mack wishes he’d paid more attention to the voice on the other end of the phone line, claiming to be an alarm company representative.

It was a man, and the connection was brief and to the point, along the lines of, “Mr. MacKenna, I’m calling from your home alarm monitoring service. There’s been a breach in the system. We’re sending a police officer to the house. Can you please meet him there?”

Meet him there . . .

Wouldn’t the alarm company, calling someone in the middle of the night, have assumed that the person could be found at home? Presumably in bed?

Whoever made that call knew that I wasn’t. He couldn’t possibly have known that unless he’s been watching.

And if he’s been watching . . . then he knows exactly where the MacKennas have been staying.

All this time, Mack has assured Allison that she and the kids are safe where they are . . . but he no longer believes it.

Yes, the Webers have a good security system. No one can get past their front gate without punching in a code, the property’s perimeter is guarded by an electric fence, and the house has an alarm, also accessible only by code.

Still . . .

Police protection. That’s what we need.

The sooner the cops find out that the phone calls were a setup, the sooner they can focus on keeping Mack’s family safe.

And the sooner they can track down the real monster behind all this.

Mack’s head is throbbing; his shoulders and neck are on fire. Is it any wonder? Stress, exhaustion, shock, fear. . . .

He thinks about Zoe.

Stabbed to death in her bed, Ben had told him. Just like the others.

His gut churns. He closes his eyes, and he can see her lying in a pool of blood, with candles lit around the room and her middle finger missing, just like the others.

The image is so vivid that he can almost convince himself that he was really there . . .

But of course, he wasn’t.

No, he didn’t get that far . . . did he?