Sleepwalker

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Forgive me, Mack.

  “I’ll tell you. But first, please, can I speak to my husband?”

  “I’m sorry. Not now.”

  She nods. She’d expected as much.

  “Mack!” she calls. “I love you! No matter what. I love you, and I believe you. I do.”

  “Thank God.” His voice is ragged. “I love you, too, Allison.”

  She swallows hard and turns back to Detective Looney. “Let’s go. I need to get to my children.”

  “Mrs. MacKenna—”

  “I know. The proof. I’ll tell you on the way to the hospital.”

  No longer able to stand waiting outside for his cell phone to ring with news of the MacKenna family, Rocky finally called Murph and made him promise to ring the nurses’ station if he hears anything at all.

  Now, stepping off the elevator, eager to get back to Ange, he sees one of the nurses come flying at him, and his heart stops.

  “Mr. Manzillo! There you are! Dr. Abrams is looking for you!”

  Rocky immediately breaks into a run, down the hall toward Ange’s room. He bursts through the door to see the neurologist bending over his wife, with several nurses gathered around the bed.

  “What’s going on?” he asks breathlessly—but he sees for himself, before anyone can reply.

  Ange’s eyes—those beautiful brown eyes he was terrified he might never see again—are open.

  Even lying in a big white hospital bed with her scraped head bandaged, Hudson has an invincible air that fills Allison with a tremendous sense of relief the moment she catches sight of her.

  “Shh, Mom, Maddy’s sleeping!” her daughter cautions as Allison gingerly gathers her into a hug, and she points to her sister in the adjoining bed.

  Allison smiles and leans over Madison, kissing her forehead and stroking her hair for a moment before turning back to her firstborn. “How do you feel, Huddy?”

  “Great. But I don’t know what time it is. Do you know where my watch is?”

  “I don’t, but I’m sure we’ll find it.”

  “Okay. What happened?” She sounds more curious than upset. “How did I get here? The nurse said you would tell me.”

  “You were in an accident in the car. Do you remember?”

  “No. I thought . . .” Hudson frowns. “All I remember is going to bed last night.”

  As helpful as it might be if Hudson could shed some light on the chain of events, Allison knows it’s better this way—better that whatever was in those discarded syringes spared her children the horror of the truth . . .

  But, thank God, not the worst truth imaginable.

  Hudson looks over at her sister. “Was Maddy in the accident, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she going to be all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Daddy and J.J.?”

  “They’re going to be all right, too,” Allison promises her. “I’m going to go see J.J. again now.” She’s been with him for the last half hour, ever since she arrived at the hospital. He’s still in serious condition, but stable now. It wasn’t easy to leave him, but of course she wanted to see the girls, who had both been sleeping when she arrived at the hospital. She had asked one of the nurses to summon her if either of them woke up.

  “Will you tell Maddy I was here,” she asks Hudson, “and send the nurse back to get me when she wakes up?”

  “I’ll tell her. Take your time, Mom. Maybe you can look for my watch out there.”

  Allison smiles and kisses Hudson’s bandaged head, then Madison’s again, before slipping out the door to get back to J.J.

  Unlike his big sister, he looks tiny and vulnerable, with tubes and wires connecting him to machines that monitor his vital signs. The doctors are fairly certain there’s no permanent damage—although there’s no way of knowing just yet.

  A young blond nurse with a round face smiles at Allison as she settles back into the chair she vacated at her son’s bedside. “He’s a tough little guy, isn’t he?”

  “He is.” Allison nods, smiling, remembering.

  “Your girls look a lot like you,” the nurse tells her. “But not him. He must look like his dad.”

  “Yes. He does.”

  The nurse doesn’t know.

  Hopefully, she never will. Hopefully, Mack will be cleared any second now.

  The nurse slips away, and Allison leans back to wait.

  Holding Ange’s hand, looking into her eyes, Rocky can’t seem to stop smiling—or chattering, filling her in on everything she’s missed in the past few months.

  “Mr. Manzillo?”

  His one-sided conversation interrupted by a nurse, Rocky reluctantly breaks eye contact with Ange and turns around. “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry—I have a message for you from a T.J. Murphy.”

  His heart skips a beat. “What is it?”

  “I wrote it down. Here, I’ll read it to you. Allison and kids are safe. 10–22. P.S. You were right about Shields. He’s 10–84.” She looks up from the paper in her hand. “Does that make sense to you?”

  “It does. Definitely. Thank you.”

  Rocky breathes a sigh of relief.

  Ten–84: the police code for DOA.

  And 10–22: take no further action.

  Smiling to himself, he turns back to see Ange’s eyes tracking the nurse leaving the room, then making contact again with Rocky’s gaze.

  Such a simple thing—but it means she’s in there, paying attention.

  “That was about a case I’ve been working,” he tells her. “Anyway . . . where was I? Oh, that’s right—so, listen, I told you about this when you were asleep, but just in case you missed it—you were right.”

  If she could, he knows, she’d say, What’d you expect? I’m always right. And then, after waiting a beat, she’d ask, About what?

  Someday—but not soon enough—she should be talking again. Maybe walking, too. Dr. Abrams was cautious in his prognosis, but even he wore a jubilant expression when he shook Rocky’s hand and told him he’ll be back later.

  Rocky thanked him.

  After all these torturous weeks, months, of praying, hoping, waiting . . .

  Ange talking.

  Walking.

  Laughing.

  Living.

  For now, though, it’s enough to see the flicker of pleasure—yes, and triumph—in his wife’s eyes when he tells her, “Donny and Kellie—they’re expecting a baby. Just like you said. You’re going to be a grandma again.”

  For now, it’s enough to feel the warmth of her hand in his.

  And, most importantly, it’s enough to know that he won’t have to learn how to live without her after all.

  “Allie? Allie . . . wake up.”

  Morning . . .

  Already?

  She groans in protest, but Mack is shaking her gently. “Allie . . .”

  “Not yet.”

  It was so nice back there in the dream she was having . . .

  I want to go back . . .

  Back . . .

  Home . . .

  “Allie!”

  Her eyes snap open. It’s not morning. She’s not home in bed . . .

  She’s in a chair in a strange room.

  A hospital room . . . ?

  J.J.!

  She turns to see that his little chest is rising and falling rhythmically, reassuringly, then swivels back to see her husband standing over her.

  “Mack?”

  “They let me go. They said . . .” He takes a deep breath. “His name was Samuel Shields.”

  His name was Samuel Shields.

  His name was Samuel Shields.

  It doesn’t make sense. What—who—is Mack talking about?

  “He’s the one who did this, Allison. He killed those women, and he set me up, and he took the kids.”

  “But who—why—”

  “He’s—he was—Jerry Thompson’s father.”

  Allison gasps.

  “They have video evidence
of him in the beach house,” he goes on, “and they said . . . it was because of you. You set up cameras . . . ?”

  She swallows hard. “Randi’s nanny cams. She gave them to me when I left . . .” Was it only yesterday? “I told her I didn’t want them, I didn’t need them, but . . . you know, ‘no arguments.’ She was worried, because . . .”

  She takes a deep breath. This is the part that’s hardest to admit.

  “That night I had too much to drink, I guess I told Randi about you sleepwalking with the knife. I wasn’t going to use the cameras, but she made me promise, and I did, because . . .”

  “Because you didn’t trust me,” Mack says quietly.

  “I’m so sorry. There was just a part of me that—”

  She hesitates.

  There’s no other way to say it. He’s right. You might as well own it.

  “No, Mack, I didn’t trust you. I knew it was just the medication, but I couldn’t take a chance with the kids that—”

  “You weren’t the only one, Allie.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t trust myself. For all I knew . . .” He shakes his head. “I felt like I was losing my mind. Between the stress at work, and not sleeping when I didn’t take the Dormipram, and then, when I did take it, I couldn’t remember for sure what I had done, where I had been . . . That’s why I threw it away.

  “Threw what away?”

  “The Dormipram.”

  “You stopped taking it?”

  “A few nights ago. I don’t care if I never sleep another wink for the rest of my life. I was afraid it might have made me . . .” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, as though he can’t bear to imagine it. “But it wasn’t me. And if you hadn’t set up those cameras . . . I might have believed the evidence myself.”

  “They said—back home—there was DNA.”

  “There was.”

  “The test was wrong?”

  “No. It was my DNA—stolen from the Riverview Clinic. He found out, somehow, about that. About a lot of things.”

  “You killed him—that was him, down on the jetty?”

  Mack nods grimly. “The last thing that son of a bitch did was turn around so I could shoot him in the back. He knew that it would look like—” He shrugs. “I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

  “You had a gun.” She still can’t believe it.

  “Yes. To protect you and the kids. I got it—”

  “You can tell me later.” Allison stands up. “Or—you know what? I don’t even want to know. All that matters is . . .” She chokes up, unable to finish, but looking into Mack’s eyes, she can see straight into his soul at last.

  He gets it. He knows.

  “I love you, too, Allie,” he whispers, opening his arms, welcoming her in.

  Alone in her living room the next morning, a middle-aged woman stares at the television with more than passing interest in a morning news program.

  “A bizarre twist in a case that was thought to be solved a decade ago,” the reporter announces, standing on a sidewalk in front of a two-story Colonial-style home, white with dark green shutters, set back beyond ivy-covered trees and a tall hedgerow. “In 2002, handyman Jerry Thompson was convicted for a series of murders that took place in New York City in the immediate aftermath of the September 11 attacks. Sentenced to life in prison, Thompson committed suicide on the tenth anniversary of the murders. Now, it appears he may have been an innocent man, convicted of crimes that were, in fact, committed by his own father.”

  The scene shifts from the news desk to a mug shot superimposed with the name Samuel Shields.

  The reporter goes on to talk about how Shields killed several women in “leafy, tony Glenhaven Park,” a New York City suburb.

  Glenhaven Park.

  That’s where Mack lives now, with his children and his new wife, Allison.

  Now the television is showing a montage of small-town scenes: diagonally parked cars along a bucolic main street, briefcase-toting commuters boarding a train, children laughing on a playground . . .

  “James MacKenna had moved to this idyllic town to escape the horrific memories of September 11, having lost his first wife in the World Trade Center . . .”

  The reporter goes on talking, describing how Samuel Shields framed James MacKenna in the latest series of murders.

  The woman on the couch has stopped following the story.

  All she can do is stare at the photograph now on the screen, the one labeled Carrie Robinson MacKenna.

  A familiar name to go with a familiar face.

  The same face, though now weathered with the lines wrought by sorrow and age, that the woman glimpsed in the own bathroom mirror just ten minutes ago.

  “ . . . and the good news this morning is that all five members of the MacKenna family are safe and sound and looking forward to getting back home, where they will finally be able to put this nightmare behind them. I’m Mary Lindsey reporting live from Glenhaven Park, New York.”

  With a trembling hand, the woman who once called herself Carrie Robinson MacKenna aims the remote at the television, turns off the program, and closes her eyes, lost in memories, deciding it might be time to go home at last.

  The terror continues in

  SHADOWKILLER,

  the next page-turning thriller from

  New York Times bestselling author

  Wendy Corsi Staub

  Available from Harper February 2013

  May 10, 2012

  Saint Antony Island

  It’s been a while since Carrie’s spotted someone with enough potential, but . . . here she is.

  The woman in the orange and pink paisley sundress is about Carrie’s age—forty, give or take—and has the right features, the right build. She’s a few inches taller than Carrie; her hair is much darker, and she’s wearing glasses. But really, those things don’t matter. Those things can be easily faked: a wig, some heels . . .

  What matters far more is that the woman is alone. Not just alone in this particular moment, but alone as in socially isolated, giving off an indefinable vibe that any opportunistic predator would easily recognize.

  Carrie’s natural instincts tell her that this is it; this woman is her ticket off this Caribbean island at last.

  Always listen to your gut, Daddy used to tell her. If you tune in to your intuition, you’ll find that you know much more than you think you do.

  A part of her wanted to mock that advice later, when he’d failed her.

  The words didn’t even make sense. How can you know more than you think you do? Whatever you think is what you know. Knowing . . . thinking . . . it was all the same thing.

  Anyway, if she really did know more than she thought, she wouldn’t have been so shocked by his betrayal.

  That was what she told herself afterward. Even then, though, she heard his voice inside her head, chiding her, telling her that she’d ignored the signs, ignored her gut.

  Well, she’d done her best never to make that mistake again.

  Right now, her gut is telling her that this woman is the one.

  Unaware that she’s being watched closely from behind the bar, she’s been sitting on a stool at the far corner for almost an hour now, nursing a rum runner and looking as though she’d like some company.

  Male company, judging by the wistful glances she’s darted at other patrons. But that’s obviously not going to happen.

  It isn’t that the woman is unattractive; she’s somewhat pretty in an overweight, unsophisticated, patchy-pink-sunburn kind of way.

  There’s someone for everyone, right? Some men are drawn to this type.

  Not these men, though.

  Not here at the Jimmy’s Big Iguana, an open-air beach bar filled with tanned and toned scantily clad twentysomethings. Island rum is flowing; the sporadic whirring of bar blenders and raucous bursts of laughter punctuate the reggae beat of Bob Marley’s “One Love” playing in the background. Lazy overhead paddle fans do little to stir heavy s
alt air scented with coconut sunscreen, deep-fried seafood, and stale beer.

  Beyond the open-air perimeter of the bar, against a backdrop of palm trees and turquoise sea, tourists browse at vendors’ tables set up on the sand. Fresh from shore excursions, those with local currency to burn are pawing through T-shirts and island-made trinkets, snatching up cheap souvenirs before their ships set sail for the next port of call.

  The woman at the bar darts a look at her watch as she slurps the last inch of her rum runner, and Carrie realizes it’s now or never.

  “Ready for your second drink?” She reaches across the bar to remove the empty glass, with its gummy pink film coating the inside.

  “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t want another—”

  “It’s a freebie. Two-for-one happy hour for cruise ship passengers.”

  “Really?”

  No, not really.

  Carrie nods, already reaching for the bottle of Tortuga Rum. “All you have to do is show me your ship ID. What’s your name?”

  “Molly.”

  Carrie nods, smiles, points to her own plastic name tag. “I’m Jane.”

  As in Doe.

  Well, not quite. Jane Doe had translated, in her clever mind, to Jane Deere—Doe, a deer—and that’s the name she’s been using for years now. Jane Deere. Before that, she was Carrie Robinson MacKenna, and before that . . .

  Before that doesn’t matter.

  “Nice to meet you.” Molly’s face glistens with island humidity, and moist strands of her dark hair are plastered to her forehead. She glances again at the Timex strapped around her thick wrist.

  “Don’t worry. You have time.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve been working here a long time. I know the sailing schedules.” That is most definitely not a lie.

  Such is life in this harbor town: the-same-but-different routine every day, set to the rhythm of the cruise lines’ itineraries.

  Carrie has always appreciated the precision with which she can see the gargantuan vessels begin to appear every morning out on the turquoise sea, an hour or two after sunrise. From the window of her rented apartment above the bar, she watches the same ships glide in and out of Saint Antony harbor at the same time on the same days of the week, spitting thousands of passengers onto the wide pier.

  The same passengers, it sometimes seems: waddling Americans in shorts and fanny packs; hand-holding honeymooners; chain-smoking Europeans in open-collar suits and dresses with high heels; multigenerational families of harried parents, tantrum-throwing toddlers, sullen teens, silver-haired, scooter-riding grannies . . .