Perfect Nightmare

  Kara’s heart skipped a beat. “Steve? What about him?” She felt Patrick’s hand on her forearm, and unconsciously covered it with her own. “What’s going on?”

  “There was an accident,” the policeman said. “On the Sunken Meadow Parkway.” Kara felt a terrible chill fall over her as she realized what the officer was going to say next, and when he spoke the words, it sounded like an echo of her own thought. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Marshall. A one-car accident. Your husband was killed instantly. He didn’t suffer.”

  She sat numbly for a minute—or ten?—or an hour, or only an instant?—then turned to Patrick. “I can actually feel the blood draining from my face,” she said, her voice sounding as surreal to her as the words themselves. “Did that happen to you, too?” But before Patrick could reply—even before the terrible reality of what had happened could close completely in on her—Kara sank into the blessed oblivion of unconsciousness.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Kara rose slowly through the levels of consciousness, feeling first dizzy, then nauseated, then reluctant. When she finally let herself wake up, she knew she had some terrible, unfinished business—something too terrible even to remember yet—that she would have to take care of.

  Go back to sleep, she told herself. Just don’t wake up.

  But something was holding her back, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  Then she knew.

  The scent of Sleepytime tea.

  Her favorite.

  Slowly, awareness came to her.

  She was on the sofa, covered with the quilt her mother had made. Had she and Steve fallen asleep watching television?

  No.

  Then it all began coming back.

  Lindsay—the vigil—Patrick Shields—and Steve . . .

  Steve, and the policeman.

  Steve.

  An ache came alive in her belly, an ache that threatened to devour her.

  Steve.

  Steve and Lindsay both.

  Oh, God. No! There was no way—no way at all—that she could survive this! Sleep! Just go back to sleep, and when you wake up again, everything will be different. Steve will be alive, and Lindsay will be home, and it will all turn out to be nothing but a nightmare!

  Kara took a long, deep, slow breath and tried to clear away the emotions that felt as if they were on the verge of destroying her mind entirely.

  And then she heard it.

  Lindsay’s voice, as clear as if her daughter was in the same room.

  “Come and find me, Mama. Come and rescue me. Please.”

  Kara’s eyes jerked open. She expected to see Lindsay standing in front of her, but there were just the remains of the reception.

  Lamps were still on in the dawning light and Patrick Shields was kneeling in front of her, a steaming cup of tea in his hand.

  “She’s alive, Patrick,” Kara whispered. He held the cup to her lips, steadying it as she managed a sip. She set the cup on the coffee table. “Lindsay’s alive.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Patrick said softly, reaching out to gently brush a stray wisp of hair from her brow. “I’m sure she is, and I’m sure we’ll find her.”

  In the silence that followed, both of them were acutely aware of what neither of them had said since Kara had awakened. Still, despite their silence, Steve’s death hung over both of them like a shroud.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  I'm very good at what I do. Better, probably, than anyone else. But then again, no one else knows what I do, and thus it shall remain, precisely because I’m so good at it.

  The open house went well, even though it was a Saturday. I was perfectly prepared, and slipped into the house with the same silence and invisibility as the air of poverty that permeates the neighborhood. The difference, of course, is that while I could sense the air of poverty, I’m quite sure no one sensed me at all.

  At least, not the danger inherent in my presence.

  The interior of the house was much as I imagined—a sweet little cottage that had once known love but had grown shabby and taken on the look that houses do when no one cares about them anymore. Someone had given up on the little house—I could feel it immediately.

  Perhaps someone had given up on love, something I know something of.

  After all, I have much love to give.

  Her bedroom was that of a sweet woman, exactly the sort I always dreamed of. A wonderfully feminine paper covered the walls, and the ceiling was painted a soft peach.

  A shade of peach I remember well.

  I could sense her—feel her—know her—despite the fact that most of her life was already packed away in the stacks of boxes that were piled against the walls.

  The kitchen cabinets were almost bare, and what little they held was the sort of boxed food that people who live in that kind of neighborhood invariably eat. A shame, really: nutrition is so important to healthy brain activity, and perhaps if they ate better, they would find themselves able to live better.

  Regardless.

  The poverty of the household did nothing to dampen my spirits; indeed, it confirmed for me that this woman will provide the perfect completion of my little tableau. Knowing that the days until I could make her mine would be incomplete without something to remember her by, I slipped a family photograph from the dresser into my pocket.

  And I began to make my plan.

  There is a fine line between adventure and recklessness. Parking in front of this house last week was pure recklessness, but after I examined the house more carefully today in the company of a dozen or so other people (each of the agents more ineffectual and each of their clients less observant than the ones who went before) I engaged the host agent in the sort of bland conversation that no one—no one except me—remembers five minutes after it has happened. I have no doubt that the agent will remember no more of what we said than of what I look like. Still, the encounter gave me an adrenaline rush, as toying with people who think they are manipulating me always does.

  Having taken his listing sheets, I consistently nodded as if I were interested in everything he had to say. When he finally ran out of platitudes and pitches, I eventually made my way to the basement, where I discovered a perfect hiding place behind an old armoire. Indeed, I tested the niche by hiding myself there for nearly two hours, and listened to the conversations of everyone else who came and went. After the house grew silent and the host agent had come down to check that everything was locked—never, of course, bothering even to glance behind the armoire—I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I stood quietly, my anticipation under control, and waited.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Ellen Fine pulled her sweater across her shoulders and looked at her watch for at least the millionth time. Finally, blessedly, it was four o’clock.

  The open house was over and at last she and Emily could go home. Rick Mancuso, whose appearance right after lunch to set up the open house had served only to remind Ellen of the strange feeling she had when he was watching Emily the day he’d taken the listing, would be long gone, which was fine with her. She’d almost changed her mind about even listing the house with him, but when he showed up with his signs precisely when he said he would, she decided she was just being paranoid.

  The man was a real-estate agent, not a child molester, and she had to stop seeing monsters lurking inside every man she ran into.

  Still, she’d been glad to escape to the park with Emily, and for the first half hour it wasn’t too bad. But then the sky began clouding over, and she started worrying about rain and the fact that she hadn’t brought raincoats.

  As it turned out, her worries proved groundless: it hadn’t rained and Emily had a perfectly good time wearing herself out. Meanwhile, she’d been so busy watching Emily that she hadn’t managed to read even a single page of the paperback book she brought along, though the afternoon seemed to stretch on forever. Now, as she put the bookmark back exactly where it was when they arrived, she realized this might well be the
last time she and Emily would be in this park.

  She put her book into her bag and started toward Emily, who was playing on the merry-go-round with several other kids, most of whom appeared to be in the park in the company only of their fathers. And most of the fathers seemed to have as little interest in their children as Emily’s father had in her.

  But at least they’re here, Ellen chided herself. At least they didn’t just take off and vanish like— She cut the thought off, not wanting to get bogged down yet again in her fury toward Danny Golden. Danny Golden, indeed! Danny Anything-But-Golden was more like it! “Emily!” she called, putting Danny out of her mind once more as she pulled her sweater tight against the chilly breeze that had suddenly sprung up. “Let’s go.”

  Emily leaped off the moving carousel, stumbled dizzily for a couple of steps, then ran toward her, flush-faced, excited and giggling. But not even Emily’s happy chatter could lift Ellen’s spirits as they walked home together.

  The For Sale sign still stood on the front lawn, but all the Open House signs were gone, and the house was as dark and quiet as Ellen had hoped it would be.

  Clearly, the agent who had given her the creeps was gone.

  “Go jump in the tub,” Ellen said as she unlocked the front door. “I’ll fix us some dinner.”

  Emily ran upstairs, and Ellen’s eyes roamed around the living room. Nowhere could she see any sign that anyone had been here at all. Did that mean nobody had showed up for the open house? The thought gave her a sinking feeling, for once she’d made up her mind to leave not only the house but the area as well, she wanted it to sell quickly.

  Still, she knew she was going to miss this little house. She and Emily had been happy here for a long time, and it was the only home Emily had ever known. Oh, get over it, she told herself. It’s too late. We can’t afford it, and there will be plenty of other little houses in the future. And they’ll be a lot more adorable than this one. Putting the moment of sentimentality firmly behind her, she went upstairs to change her clothes.

  As she took off her jeans and pulled on a pair of sweatpants, she noticed that the framed photo of herself with Emily at the top of the Empire State Building was no longer on her dresser. All the other photos had already been packed into boxes to be shipped to her parents’ house in Missouri, but she’d deliberately kept that one in its usual place, partly so the house wouldn’t look quite so ready to be abandoned, but mostly because it was her favorite and she liked looking at it every morning when she woke up and every night before she turned off the light.

  “Honey?” she called. Emily padded into the bedroom, ready for her bath, wearing only her Power Puff Girls underpants. “Did you borrow the photograph that was here on my dresser?”

  Emily shook her head.

  “Okay,” Ellen sighed, frowning and deciding the picture must have fallen behind the dresser. “You better go turn off the water in the tub. And don’t forget to wash your hair,” she added as Emily trotted off toward the bathroom.

  Ellen waited until she heard the water stop running into the tub before looking behind the dresser.

  No photo.

  Strange.

  She was sure it had been on the dresser this morning. She even remembered winking at Emily’s image as she rummaged in the top drawer for a clean bra.

  And she didn’t remember packing it in any of the boxes. But maybe she had—she must have, since the picture was no longer on the dresser.

  Not for the first time, Ellen found herself wishing the move were already over. But that wasn’t quite right—if she was going to be completely honest with herself, what she really wished was that it had never started in the first place.

  That Danny were still here, and that they were still a family.

  Then, from the depths of her memory, her mother’s words came to her. Not the kind who will ever make a good father.

  Thank you for sharing, Mother.

  But she’d been right. It wasn’t long after Emily was born that Danny took his leather jacket and his gym bag and moved in with a girlfriend of whose existence Ellen had been utterly clueless.

  Get over it, Ellen.

  Hearing splashing and the squeak of Emily’s rubber ducky, which told her all was well in the bathroom, she turned her attention to dinner. Putting the missing picture out of her mind, she headed downstairs to the kitchen, where almost everything had already been packed away. But she’d left two glasses, two plates, two knives, two forks, one small pan, and her paring knife.

  The barest of the bare essentials.

  Taking the last two potatoes from the refrigerator, along with an onion and the carton of eggs, she decided a meal was possible. Not totally desirable, perhaps, but possible.

  She clicked on the television in the living room for the news, started to peel the potatoes, and once more felt her spirits—and her energy—sag as everything in her life once more began to close in on her.

  Single mom.

  Moving back in with the parents.

  Packing.

  Leaving.

  Failing.

  And now cooking two potatoes, an onion, and some eggs for dinner. It was too much.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, resting her wrists on the sink. One day at a time, she told herself. One hour at a time, one minute at a time. This, too, shall pass.

  Suddenly, the words emanating from the television penetrated her thoughts.

  “The search continues for Camden Green High School student Lindsay Marshall,” the newscaster said. Ellen turned to look at the television, where a photo of a pretty blond teenager filled the screen. “Lindsay disappeared almost two weeks ago after an open house . . .”

  After an open house!

  Now that wasn’t even safe.

  And then the missing picture came back to her.

  The picture of Emily!

  Ellen rushed out of the kitchen, her heart in her throat. “Emily? Emily!”

  No answer.

  She ran through the little living room, dodging boxes, and started up the stairs. “Emily!”

  And still there was no answer.

  Chapter Forty

  The bathroom door slammed hard against the wall as Ellen burst in, but she was oblivious not only to the noise, but to the deep gash the doorknob dug into the plasterboard.

  The tub was still filled, the rubber ducky still floating.

  But her daughter was gone.

  A surge of panic rose in her, and for a moment she felt totally paralyzed. Then a scream began to form in her throat, a scream she formed into a word as it emerged from her lips. “Emily!”

  Nothing.

  As the image of the missing picture of her daughter recurred to her, Ellen wheeled away from the bathroom door and rushed to her daughter’s bedroom. “Emily, where are you?” she cried, and heard the tremble in her own voice. She’s hiding, she told herself. She’s got to be hiding! But a quick glance in Emily’s closet and under her bed only made her panic grow.

  No Emily.

  Now her mind was churning with all the things that could have happened to Emily, and the thought that Danny—the jerk Danny Golden—had come back to claim his daughter was the least terrifying. Instead her mind was consumed by the missing photograph of Emily and the report she’d seen only minutes ago of a girl disappearing from home after an open house.

  Could some kind of maniac have been hiding in the house?

  Or even that creepy agent? Once again she recalled Rick Mancuso watching Emily a few days ago.

  And she hadn’t even checked the house to make sure everything was all right when she brought Emily home. Instead she’d taken a quick glance at the living room, then let Emily take a bath while she blithely went downstairs to fix supper.

  Her fault! Whatever had happened to Emily was all her fault!

  Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Leaving Emily’s room, Ellen dashed into her own, hurling the door open with even more force than she’d applied to the one in the bathroom. “
Emily!” she yelled. “Please, God, please! Emily, where are you?”

  And then the closet door opened and Emily burst out, stark naked.

  Stark naked, and giggling. “Surprise!” she said, a huge grin spreading across her face.

  Her terror instantly dissolving into relief, Ellen dropped to her knees and gathered the little girl into her arms. “You scared me,” she said, barely managing to muster even the tiniest edge of anger into her voice.

  But then the two memories that had set off her panic came back once more. “Get dressed and put on your coat,” she said.

  Emily looked confused. “What?”

  “Just do it,” Ellen said, trying not to let her own fear infect her daughter.

  “Why?”

  “Just do what I say, all right?” Hustling Emily into her room, she grabbed the first clothes that came to hand, helped Emily into them, then stuffed her arms through the sleeves of her little pink parka. Her own raincoat was still hanging in the coat closet by the front door.

  Picking Emily up, Ellen lurched down the stairs, seized by the necessity to get out of the house.

  To get out right now, until someone could check the house and make sure it was secure.

  She pulled on her raincoat, grabbed her bag from the hook by the door, then remembered she’d left the stove on.

  With Emily heavy on her hip and her bag in the hand that wasn’t supporting her daughter, she made her way through the maze of boxes into the kitchen, fumbled a moment, then managed to turn off the stove. As she turned, her eyes scanned the room. . . .

  The knife she had used on the potatoes was no longer on the drainboard.

  Fresh panic surged through her.

  “Come on,” she said, whirling and running out of the house, pulling Emily after her.

  After glancing first one way, then the other, she headed toward Ralph Larson’s house next door. Too late, she noticed that his draperies were closed and remembered that he was going to visit his daughter upstate.