Sleepwalker

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Thirty-eight years. The aneurysm struck just a few weeks after they celebrated their thirty-eighth anniversary. At the time, they talked about taking a Caribbean cruise two summers from now, for their fortieth.

  “Maybe we’ll bring the kids along,” Ange said.

  “On our second honeymoon?” Rocky wondered how the heck they were going to afford a trip like that for the two of them, let alone their three sons, two daughters-in-law, and two grandchildren. “That’s one, two, three . . . six extra people!”

  “Eight,” Ange corrected.

  “Including you and me. Right. Eight.”

  “Ten including you and me.”

  “How do you get that?”

  Ange smiled her slightly smug secret smile. “You forgot to count Kellie and the baby.”

  “Who?”

  “Kellie—Donny’s new girlfriend.”

  Their youngest, Donny, a musician down in Austin, always has a new girlfriend. Unlike Rocky, Ange keeps track. Kellie was the one who’d visited them in New York with Donny earlier in the summer.

  “Okay, so Kel— Wait, baby? What baby?”

  “I’ve got a feeling she’s pregnant.” Ange nodded like she does whenever she thinks she’s right about something far-fetched.

  Of course, she usually is, especially when it comes to her grandchildren-to-be. She had known somehow that their daughter-in-law Laura was pregnant—despite having given up hope after years of unsuccessful infertility treatments.

  “She’s going to get pregnant the old-fashioned way,” Ange said, long before it happened. “You wait and see.”

  Rocky waited, and he saw.

  “A cruise for ten? What am I, made of money?” Rocky grumbled when Ange made the Kellie prediction.

  “It can be a cruise for nine,” Ange said with a gleam in her eye, “if you don’t want to go. Just think, you can have the bed to yourself, eat whatever you want, no one around to nag you . . .”

  He laughed and pulled her close. “I don’t mind the nagging.”

  “I’m going to remind you that you said that someday.”

  “Probably later today.”

  “Probably.”

  Dammit. If Ange comes out of this, Rocky will take the whole family on the cruise—including Kellie and the baby that she is, indeed, expecting early next year. And they won’t wait until their fortieth anniversary, either.

  But Ange isn’t aware that her suspicion about the new grandchild was well-founded. Or maybe she is. Who the hell knows? The doctors believe she can hear Rocky talking, so he talks. He tells her everything he can think of, about the kids, the grandkids, his job . . .

  Not that he’s been focused on any of that lately. He goes through the motions, but all he cares about is Ange getting better. When he’s not working, he’s at the hospital, sitting by her bedside, holding her hand, telling her how much he loves her and wants her to come back home.

  He keeps waiting for some kind of sign that she’s in there somewhere, listening. A hint of her voice, or even the slightest tightening of her fingers, a fluttering of her eyelids . . .

  Nothing. There’s been nothing.

  But there will be. Please, God.

  “I’m not giving up on her,” he told her neurologist, Dr. Abrams, that first day, after being given the grim prognosis. “And you’re not telling me to, right?”

  “Anything is possible, Mr. Manzillo, but—”

  “That’s all I want to know,” Rocky cut him off.

  It’s since become his mantra.

  Anything is possible.

  In the kitchen, Ange’s kitchen, Rocky turns on a light.

  Between the hospital and the murder case he’s working on, he hasn’t been home in a few days, and he can’t remember the last meal he ate. His waistband is so baggy he’s had to tighten his belt another notch this week. Ange would love that—she’s always after him to lose weight. Funny, because she’s also always after him to eat.

  The stereotypical Italian wife and mother, Rocky thinks with a faint smile that fades quickly.

  He has no appetite, but out of habit, he opens the refrigerator, closes it, opens it again, and stares absently at the sparse contents until an unexpected sound startles him. It’s an eerie, faint wail that sounds like a baby crying, or . . .

  There it is again. It’s coming from somewhere beneath his feet.

  Rocky closes the fridge and walks over to the tiny mudroom off the back of the house. From there, one door leads to a tiny patch of chain-link-fenced backyard; another to the basement. Opening that one, he’s greeted by the scent of earthy mildew and a rustling movement below.

  Man or beast? Should he go back for his gun?

  Again, he hears the sound. That wasn’t made by a human.

  Brilliant deduction, Detective. What else do you know?

  Poised at the top of the step, he listens to whatever it is skittering around down there. Hmm. Too big to be a mouse; not big enough to be a threat to an unarmed man.

  He flips a light switch, illuminating a bare bulb in the dank depths, and descends the creaky basement stairs. The floor is wet. Rain seepage has been a problem throughout all the years in this house, but they’ve never had to deal with squirrels or chipmunks tunneling their way into the basement.

  Tonight, though, Rocky hears a large rodent scrambling in the distant, cobwebby corner behind the boys’ old changing table and wicker bassinet that neither of the daughters-in-law wanted for the grandchildren, much to Ange’s disappointment.

  Maybe Kellie will take it for the new one, Rocky finds himself thinking. Ange will like that.

  Then he remembers—Ange, in a coma. If the doctors are wrong about her being able to hear him, she’s going to be in for a great surprise when she wakes up.

  Then again, she probably knew about the baby even before Kellie and Donny did.

  How, Rocky wonders, does Ange do it? Woman’s intuition?

  On the heels of that thought, he wonders whether she had any inkling that she was a ticking time bomb.

  Thinking back to the hot August night she got up in the wee hours complaining of a massive headache—and keeled over on her way to the bathroom—he’s overcome by a fresh wave of grief and horror.

  She took such good care of him, and the boys, everyone . . .

  Why didn’t she take better care of herself?

  Rocky realizes his vision has blurred and uses a fist to wipe away the tears trickling down his cheeks.

  He turns away from the nursery furniture that reminds him of when his sons were babies and Ange was young and healthy.

  Who cares about the animal lurking in the shadows? Let it make a den down here and spend the winter. Rocky isn’t in the mood to—

  He sees the broken window.

  Frowning, he walks over to it. The glass is completely gone, every shard pushed out of the frame and lying on the damp concrete.

  No animal did that.

  Perplexed, Allison goes through the top middle drawer of her bureau one more time.

  No. It’s nowhere to be found.

  The water stops running in the bathroom and a moment later, Mack appears in the bedroom wearing only boxer shorts, teeth brushed, ready for bed.

  “Your turn,” he tells Allison, then takes a closer look at her, standing befuddled in front of the open drawer. “What are you doing?”

  “I just . . .” She shakes her head and closes the drawer, then opens the next one over. “I’m looking for something.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She moves around the socks in the drawer, then closes it and opens another. Maybe she put it away in the wrong place after she last wore it, which was . . . when?

  At least a month ago. Maybe two.

  “Al?”

  She looks up to see Mack still watching her.

  “What are you looking for? Maybe I ate it while I was wandering around feasting in my sleep.”

  She can’t help but laugh at that, and so does he.

  “What is
it, your cell phone again?”

  That went missing earlier in the week. She found it in a bin filled with toddler toys. Still obsessed with electronics, J.J. must have pickpocketed her phone when she wasn’t looking.

  “Not my cell this time,” she tells Mack. “You know that champagne-colored silk baby doll nightgown you gave me on our anniversary last year?”

  “I thought it was beige, but champagne-colored sounds better.”

  “I was going to put it on and wear it to bed to surprise you . . .” She jerks closed another drawer after rifling through the contents.

  “You have no idea how much I love that surprise.”

  “Don’t love it too much, because it’s not going to happen. I can’t find it. It’s not in my lingerie drawer and it’s not in any of these, either.”

  “Maybe it’s in the laundry.”

  “Can’t be.” She opens a drawer filled with jeans. “I haven’t worn it in ages.”

  “Yeah, don’t remind me. But I guess we both agree that I deserve to get lucky after tonight.”

  “Oh yeah? What do you mean by that?”

  “I went to that party for you.”

  “Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

  “It wasn’t that good.”

  “Who was that woman you were talking to at the end of the night?” she asks, remembering. “The one who hugged you?”

  “That was Zoe Edelman. I guess Zoe Jennings now—she married Nate Jennings. I almost didn’t recognize her, though. She looks totally different.”

  “You means she wasn’t always drop-dead gorgeous?”

  “You think she’s drop-dead gorgeous?”

  Allison glances up from the drawer. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t think so, too, Mack.”

  “She was all right.”

  Allison rolls her eyes. “If she was ‘all right,’ then I’m barely adequate.”

  “Come on, you’re the one who’s drop-dead gorgeous, Allie.”

  “You’re just trying to butter me up so that you can have your way with me,” she accuses with a laugh.

  “That is . . . absolutely true. But you are looking hot.”

  “How did she wind up at the Webers’ party?”

  “Zoe? Ben and I knew her years ago, Nathan, too, when we all worked together. I guess they just moved to town, so he invited them to the party.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Nothing but jeans in the drawer she just searched. Where the heck . . . ?

  “Whatever.” Mack comes over and puts his arms around her. “Listen, who needs the nightie? Just come to bed.”

  She can smell the bourbon mingling with minty toothpaste on his breath and is glad she insisted on driving home from the party, and then running Greta back through the rain-slicked streets to the Webers’. The bash was still in full swing and the band was playing again, but Allison was glad they’d left early this time.

  It seemed everyone she’d talked to over the course of the evening wanted to discuss the local scandal of the week: how a fellow elementary school mom had written the obligatory note for her daughter to get off the school bus at a different stop to have a playdate at a friend’s house—without realizing the friend had stayed home sick that morning. Her daughter dutifully handed in the note, the driver dutifully left the child off at the different stop, and the little girl wandered the streets, lost, for a solid hour before a neighbor noticed.

  The moms at the party had plenty to say about the situation: the girl’s mom should have called to confirm that her daughter had safely arrived at the playdate; the sick girl’s mom should have called the mom to say that her daughter would be absent and canceled the playdate; the bus driver shouldn’t have let a first-grader off the bus alone, regardless of what the note said . . .

  Should have, shouldn’t have . . .

  Lately, Allison is starting to feel like all these women ever want to do is criticize other people’s children and parenting skills, the school district policies, the teachers . . .

  That, and offer unsolicited advice: about the kids, the house and landscaping, holiday plans, even Allison’s hair, which she’s decided to let gradually go back to its natural brunette shade. The only person who hadn’t offered advice at the party was her friend Sheila, who’d asked for some.

  “Do you think Dean and I should start looking into adoption before we run out of money? These treatments are costing us a fortune, and there are no guarantees. At least with adoption . . .”

  “Still no guarantees,” Allison pointed out.

  “No, I know, but the odds of bringing home a child are a lot higher. I just don’t know how much more of this I can take. The hormones are making me so crazy and miserable that at this point I’m starting to think that I’ll be lucky if Dean doesn’t leave me.”

  Allison couldn’t help but think about Mack and Carrie. About what Mack had said about Carrie’s mood swings and volatile behavior in the months leading up to her decision to give up on trying to get pregnant . . .

  At which point Mack did leave her.

  Allison has never really found fault with him for that.

  After all, as far as Mack was concerned, Carrie’s giving up on motherhood was a deal breaker. Mack was meant to be a father.

  But the father of my children. Not Carrie’s.

  A sudden gust rattles the window glass beside the bureau.

  “Come on, Al,” Mack coaxes, still wrapped around her, his body warm and aroused.

  “I just want to make sure I’m not going crazy. I could swear I saw the nightgown in my lingerie drawer yesterday, because it made me think of our anniversary coming up . . .”

  “You’re not going crazy. But I might if you don’t come to bed with me. It’s been a long time.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not my fault, Sleeping Beauty,” she points out as he nuzzles her neck. “You’re the one who’s out like a light every time your head hits the pillow. That reminds me—you didn’t take the Dormipram tonight, did you?”

  “Nope. I had a couple of drinks at the party. Anyway, I told you, I’m finished with that stuff.”

  “You promised to give it a little more time now that you know the problem, Mack. I think you should go back to see Dr. Cuthbert. Maybe he can—”

  “Can we please stop talking and start doing?”

  “Hey, that’s my line,” she protests, laughing as he pulls her toward the bed.

  It isn’t until much later—after Mack has rolled over to his side and is, if not asleep, at least lost in his own thoughts—that she thinks again about the missing silk nightgown.

  Only then, listening to a steady rain pattering on the roof, watching the eerie shadow play of storm-swayed branches beyond the window, does she allow herself to consider the one thing she’s been trying to keep at bay.

  Ten years ago, right before Kristina’s murder, there was a series of petty burglaries in the apartment building. Nothing much was stolen—other than women’s clothing and lingerie.

  During the trial, the prosecution alleged that Jerry was behind the break-ins and that he’d stolen lingerie, then forced his victims to wear it while he murdered them.

  What if—?

  No. Jerry’s gone forever, Allison reminds herself for the hundredth time. He’s not slipping into women’s bedrooms—into my bedroom—and stealing lingerie.

  She must have been mistaken about seeing the nightie in the drawer. It’ll probably turn up someplace tomorrow.

  And if it doesn’t . . .

  Maybe Jerry’s come back from the dead to steal your underwear.

  Stroking the lace-trimmed silk in the darkened motel room illuminated only by the bluish light of the computer screen, Jamie smiles contentedly.

  What a night.

  Onscreen, a grainy video image shows Rocky Manzillo standing at his kitchen counter, stirring a cup of instant coffee. He just spent the last half hour on a search mission, after presumably finding the broken basement window.

  Jamie couldn’t see
what happened down there, because there were no cameras. But they’re planted throughout the rest of the house, so it was possible to watch Rocky going from room to room, apparently looking for signs of an intruder or theft. His body language revealed that he was more pissed off than frightened. That made it tempting for Jamie to go over there right now, tonight, and find out what it would take to bring that tough cop to his knees.

  But that, of course, isn’t part of the plan.

  Anyway, things are heating up nicely over at the MacKenna house. The other image on Jamie’s split screen shows their bedroom, so dimly lit that it’s impossible to see what’s going on. But their voices came through loud and clear.

  Jamie listened with interest to the bit about the woman Mack used to know. He was trying so hard—too hard—to deny that he was, apparently, attracted to her.

  Zoe Edelman Jennings.

  Jamie jotted down her name, and her husband’s—Nathan—just in case.

  In case?

  Ha. A new phase of the plan has already begun to take shape.

  Jamie was especially titillated when the conversation turned to the missing nightie.

  Is this what you were looking for, Allison?

  Smirking, Jamie waves the champagne-colored garment in front of the screen.

  You’re not buying that it got lost in the laundry room or put into the wrong drawer, are you?

  Oh, how I wish I could see your face right now. I know you’re still wide awake, aren’t you? I can feel it.

  You know something’s not quite right.

  Maybe you even remember what happened ten years ago—the lingerie that was stolen from the drawers of female tenants . . . and then turned up on the bodies of those dead women.

  Maybe you’re worried that your precious nightgown will turn up covered with another woman’s blood.

  Hmm . . . maybe you’re right.

  Sinking into the pillow on Ange’s side of the double bed—which is better than lying on his own, beside her vacated space—Rocky is somehow exhausted, yet not tired enough to go to sleep. His mind is numb, his body aches, his heart aches . . . but the adrenaline that began pumping through his veins in the basement a few hours ago has yet to ebb.

  After banishing the stray cat that had found its way in through the broken window, he combed the house to see what the intruder might have stolen. As far as he could tell, nothing is missing. Ange’s jewelry, cash, electronic equipment, the extensive baseball memorabilia collection his sons have been vying for years to claim . . .