If the silver Mercedes doesn’t slow down, Paula’s going to lose sight of it. Her junky little blue Honda can’t negotiate the sharp curves of the Sawmill River Parkway at this speed. Any faster, and she’s going to lose control and wind up in a ditch or wrapped around a tree. Preferably alive, but on this road you never—
“Damn you!” she curses the driver as he swerves into the left lane to pass a slow-moving car.
Paula, too, goes into the left lane, careering at an unsafe speed alongside the concrete Jersey barriers that separate her from the oncoming traffic. She sees the Mercedes’s taillights go back into the right lane and then unexpectedly shoot off to the right even farther.
She realizes he’s taken an exit ramp.
Terrific.
Gunning the motor, she sharply moves to the right lane, cutting off a Jeep. The driver sits on his horn.
“Sorry,” Paula yells unapologetically as she takes the exit, her eyes peeled for the Mercedes, praying she hasn’t lost him.
No. He’s right up ahead, stopped at a light.
She watches the car intently through narrowed eyes as the driver’s head turns toward the passenger’s. They’re having a conversation. Then they kiss, their silhouettes clearly outlined in Paula’s headlights.
“Bet you think he’s all yours,” she murmurs to the unsuspecting woman in Gallagher’s arms.
No, Jane Kendall isn’t the only one in Townsend Heights who has a bad secret, Paula thinks, shaking her head and pushing in the cigarette lighter on the dashboard.
The traffic signal changes to green.
For a moment the Mercedes stays where it is, the driver otherwise occupied.
Paula doesn’t dare blast the horn.
Finally, Gallagher sees the light and pulls forward through the intersection.
So does Paula, placing a cigarette between her lips. She maneuvers the wheel with her left hand. With her right, she removes the lighter from its slot and holds the glowing red coil to the end of her cigarette until it catches.
She follows the Mercedes through an unfamiliar, winding residential neighborhood and then into a commercial district. McDonald’s and Burger King. Car dealers and supermarkets. Strip malls and restaurants. Gas stations, too.
Paula glances at her gauge. It’s dangerously low. The red “Check Fuel” light has been on for a few miles. If she stops now to fill the tank, she’ll lose the Mercedes. If she doesn’t, she’ll wind up stranded and out of gas.
It’s a no-win situation.
Damn, damn, damn . . .
Then she sees the car ahead put on its right turn signal.
“You dog, Fletch Gallagher,” she murmurs, realizing he’s pulling into a Holiday Inn parking lot.
And there’s a Mobil station right next door.
“This just might turn out to be your lucky day after all,” Paula tells herself, breaking into a broad grin as she flicks her right turn signal.
Bathed in the glow of the night-light, Karen puts the baby into her crib, covers her with a velvety pink blanket, and whispers, “Good night, sweetheart.”
She kisses her own fingertips, then touches them gently to her daughter’s downy head, not wanting to leave the room just yet. Not when Taylor’s been so sick, poor thing.
Well, she’s getting over it now. She drank a few ounces of formula just now, and she started taking the Pedialyte late this afternoon after rejecting it all morning. Karen had thought she was going to have to call Ben again and bring the baby to the office to be examined, but then, luckily, her condition improved.
Only when Taylor was past the worst of it did Tom decide to leave the house to meet with his client. The guy, a local business owner, had been calling all day, frantic about some tax crisis. Once Karen answered the phone and found herself tempted to tell the guy to leave her husband alone. That Tom had a sick baby and more on his mind than somebody else’s screwed-up taxes.
Luckily, she held her tongue.
Now that the crisis with Taylor is over, Karen realizes she was just high-strung and over-tired. All she wants now is to rest. She should probably be glad she has the house to herself for a while.
She takes a last look at the baby sleeping soundly in her crib.
“Don’t worry, angel,” she says softly. “Mommy’s watching over you.”
She turns on the baby monitor and leaves the room, cracking the door slightly.
Back downstairs, she plops on the couch and reaches for the remote control. She’s not very big on television, aside from The Learning Channel and PBS documentaries, but tonight she’s in the mood for something mindless. Something reassuring.
Like the Who Wants to be a Millionaire game show.
Finding it, she leaves it on and loses herself in it for a few minutes. If she were a contestant, she would have won $125,000.
She’s about to try and double the money when she hears a car door slamming outside.
Tom’s home, she thinks, relieved. She didn’t realize how uneasy she has felt about being alone until now.
She presses the “Mute” button on the television set and waits for the sound of his footsteps coming in the back door.
Only silence.
Getting up, Karen goes over to the window that looks out on the driveway. Only her Volvo station wagon is parked there. No sign of Tom’s little black Saab.
So he’s not home yet after all.
Disappointment mingles with anxiety in her gut.
She glances at the Gallaghers’ house next door. Their driveway is separated from Karen’s by a narrow strip of grass. Fletch’s car is missing, but Sharon’s Lexus SUV is there. Karen must have heard her coming home.
She returns to the couch and picks up the remote again.
But this time she can’t concentrate on the question Regis Philbin is asking.
She realizes that she wants Tom here with her. And it isn’t just because the baby’s been sick.
Karen pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, filled with inexplicable apprehension as she wonders again what happened to Jane Kendall.
Jeremiah slowly opens the door to the little boy’s room, praying that it won’t creak. It doesn’t.
He spots Noah in his crib. He can hear his gentle snoring from here. He’s sound asleep.
Mara is, too. He just checked.
Jeremiah pulls the door closed again, holding his breath until it makes a quiet click, then pausing with his hand on the knob in case the baby stirs on the other side.
He hears nothing.
Good.
Turning away from the door, he walks slowly back down the long hallway. Strange, being alone in somebody else’s house at night.
Of course, this is how he used to feel at Aunt Sharon and Uncle Fletch’s, too. Until he got used to it.
But they’re family.
Rachel Leiberman is different.
Jeremiah stands at the head of the stairs, his head cocked, listening for the slightest sound. Nothing. It’s as if the whole house is holding its breath, waiting to see what he’s going to do next.
Trembling slightly, he checks his watch. He’s got time. Plenty of time.
His heart pounding, he steps forward.
He pauses one more moment, uncertain whether he wants to go through with this.
Then, reaching a decision, he opens the master bedroom door, and slips over the threshold.
It’s past midnight when Rachel arrives home. Humming to herself, she steps into the silent house, tossing her keys into a basket on the low table by the door. She can hear the television in the family room.
Stepping out of her shoes, she carries them as she pads barefoot toward the back of the house. Jeremiah is there, sitting on the couch. Not dozing the way you might expect to find a teenager at this hour on a school night. Not even lounging.
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He’s perched on the very edge of the seat, hands at his sides, both feet neatly placed in front of him on the floor. There’s something odd about that, Rachel thinks uneasily. He seems almost guilty, sitting there in that tense, deliberate position.
“I guess I beat my husband home after all,” she says, trying to sound casual. “How were the kids?”
“P-perfect. They’re b-both asleep,” he says quickly, despite the stutter.
Too quickly?
“They’d better be, at this time of night,” she tells him, trying to sound more upbeat than she feels.
He looks at her—a fleeting, intense glance—before turning his gaze to the television. It’s tuned to MTV, yet something tells her he hasn’t been absorbed in the video. She senses that he turned it on to give the appearance of normalcy—just a regular babysitter, hanging out watching MTV.
She wants him out of here. Now.
She opens her purse. “I’ll just pay you and you can—”
“You already d-did,” he cuts in.
Right. She paid him earlier, before she left.
“Okay, then,” she says, and clears her throat. What if he doesn’t leave? Oh, God, what if he tries something?
But he takes her cue and stands.
He walks toward her.
Her breath catches in her throat.
He’s not looking at her, but down at his feet. There’s something about his behavior that tells her he’s up to something. What the hell can it be? Did he eat the carton of ice cream that’s in the freezer? Did one of the kids break something while she was gone?
“I’ll s-see you again s-sometime,” he says, walking toward the hall.
“Sure.”
Not on your life, she thinks, sighing in relief, locking the door after him and turning on the outside light for Ben.
When the front light goes on outside the Leibermans’ front door, it illuminates most of the front lawn and a good portion of the side yard. Thankfully, the clump of evergreen shrubs remains in the shadows. No neighbor glancing out a window will see the dark-clad figure hidden among the low-hanging boughs, and neither will Rachel, should trepidation steal over her, causing her to peer out into the night.
She’s left the light on for her husband.
That’s clear.
What if Ben Leiberman comes home before the goal is accomplished?
You’ll just have to slip out before anybody sees you, then wait for another chance.
But that could take days. This can’t go on forever. The longer it drags on, the greater the chance of being caught.
The key!
Relax. There it is, still in your pocket.
Getting it was surprisingly easy, thanks to Mrs. Tuccelli. It wasn’t hard to find out that Rachel’s former nanny goes to daily morning mass at Immaculate Conception. Nor was it hard to slip into the pew behind her . . . or sneak her keys out of her purse while she was kneeling after communion. Thankfully, the organ music had concealed the slight jangling noise, and by the time Mrs. Tuccelli finished her prayer and settled on the seat again, the pew behind her was empty.
When had the old lady realized her keys were missing? Would the police question her after they found Rachel tomorrow? What would she tell them about her missing keys? That she had lost them? Probably. She would never suspect that they had been stolen during mass.
Just as Rachel most likely doesn’t suspect, right now, that the curtain is about to come down on her charmed life.
Or does she?
If she does, there’s nothing she can do about it. No way for her to know for sure—or to stop it even if she suspects what’s about to happen.
The sense of power is intoxicating. It’s tempting to stay here a bit longer, basking in the sensation.
But that wouldn’t be wise.
A light has gone on in the master bedroom upstairs.
It’s time to move.
No need to risk detection under the glare of the front porch light. A trial run earlier indicated that the deadbolts on the front and rear doors can be opened with the same key.
The backyard is dark. Deserted. Gusting wind smothers the sound of footsteps crunching in fallen leaves. Ten seconds from the bushes to the door. Five seconds to insert the key and turn the lock, opening and closing the door in near silence.
There are footsteps above.
Rachel in her room.
Her faint humming is audible from the stairway.
You sound so content, Rachel. Like a woman who has just come from a rendezvous with her secret lover. Like a woman who doesn’t know she’s about to die.
The upstairs hallway is dark, but a pool of light spills from the master bedroom. The door is ajar.
Something is visible through the crack in the door.
It’s a barbell.
So that’s how you keep your figure, Rachel. You work out at home, too. Not just at your fancy gym. You lift weights in the privacy of your lovely bedroom.
The rage is building again. Just like the last time.
Let it in. Embrace it. It will help.
You’re going to wish you didn’t do that, Rachel.
You’ll wish you didn’t spend so much time making yourself perfect.
Familiar rage, white-hot, toxic.
Because I can lift weights, too, you know.
I can lift them up, and I can bring them down. Hard. Hard enough to destroy a beautiful face like yours forever.
“Tash?”
“Mmm?” She rolls over in bed, burrowing under the down comforter, slipping easily back toward sleep. . . .
“Tasha . . .”
Back toward the nightmare that had her in its grip.
And then, once again, she’s in a bombed-out town in the French countryside, battling the Nazis as air-raid sirens blast.
“Tasha!”
Her eyes snap open.
The room is dark, but she can see Joel standing over the bed, backlit by the light from the hall. He’s wearing a suit beneath his unbuttoned trenchcoat. Is he coming in or going out? What time is it?
She glances toward the clock. Two-thirty in the morning.
That shrill whining isn’t part of her dream, and it isn’t an air-raid siren. It’s a police car or a fire truck.
“What are you doing?” she asks Joel, confused, rubbing her eyes and propping herself on her elbows.
“I just got home.”
Then why is he waking her up? Why isn’t he taking off his coat, his suit? Why isn’t he using the bathroom and climbing into bed?
He sits beside her. Surprised, she looks at him. His face is cast in shadows. He reaches for her hand, takes it, squeezes it.
He’s going to say he’s sorry for the stupid argument, she realizes in relief.
Her next thought: He’s going to tell me he’s in love with another woman and he’s leaving me.
Oh, God. She’s not ready for this. For all her suspicions and insecurities, she never thought it was actually going to happen. Not really.
“Tasha . . .” He pauses. Is silent again. There’s not a sound but the siren in the distance, drawing closer.
“Just say it, Joel.”
“Say it?” he echoes, sounding incredulous. “Then . . . you know?”
It’s true. He’s leaving.
The knowledge slams into her like a commuter train and it’s all she can do to keep from hurling herself on him, pounding him with her fists.
She opens her mouth to ask him who it is—whether it’s his secretary or someone else—but before she can speak, he says, “When did you find out?”
Suddenly too weary for anger, she says only, “I just figured it out.”
Just silence.
And the siren.
Again.
Say something else, you bastar
d! a voice shrieks in her head. Tell me who it is! Tell me how you can justify throwing away everything we have!
“Tasha, I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing,” Joel says at last.
She stares numbly at his face. It’s still shrouded in darkness. But he’s still holding her hand. Still squeezing her hand. He wouldn’t be doing that if he were trying to tell her that he didn’t love her anymore.
“What’s going on, Joel?” she asks, suddenly more afraid than she was when she thought he was leaving.
Something is wrong. She can sense it, even as she realizes that the siren is coming much too close. It sounds like it’s right down the street. . . .
“There’s no easy way to tell you this, Tasha. It’s Rachel. She’s been killed.”
Sirens.
They’re shrill even through the closed window, shrill enough to jar the sleeping town into awareness. Are people waking in their beds, wondering whether there’s been some kind of accident or tragedy? Do they stir at all?
Or are they deep in slumber, oblivious, having trained themselves to ignore early-morning police emergencies, certain that whatever has gone wrong has nothing to do with them?
After all, Townsend Heights is the kind of town where nothing truly terrible ever happens. At least, it was.
Well, not anymore.
The people of Townsend Heights are going to wake up to reality. They’re going to realize that there’s a cold-blooded killer in their midst. And when they do . . .
Nobody will feel safe. Except, of course, for me.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 12
Chapter 8
“Margaret? Are you in here?”
Startled, Margaret looks up from the television screen to see her mother hovering behind her in the doorway of the Kendalls’ family room.
“Margaret, something awful has—oh. You know,” Mother says, her gaze shifting from Margaret’s face to the TV.
It’s tuned to Channel 12, the local Westchester station, where a grim-faced reporter is standing live at the scene outside a cordoned-off two-story white colonial home with black shutters. The blue-black sky in the background shows the first streaks of pink.
Absorbed in the television news coverage, Margaret hadn’t realized that it’s dawn already. She glances out the floor-to-ceiling window nearest the couch. Sure enough, the trees just beyond are bathed in a gauzy light. She checks the clock on the mantel. It’s already past six A.M.
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