Shadowkiller (13 page)

That's a stupid thing for a smart girl to say. Now go ahead, pick out a story . . .

Carrie sat up, reached over, and turned on the bedside lamp. She was surprised, momentarily, to see that she wasn't in her girlhood bedroom. But when she saw the stack of books on the nightstand, their familiar titles stamped on well-creased bindings, she nodded.

Hurry up. Pick out a good one.

They're all too hard.

Not if you can read, and I'm going to teach you how. Then no matter what happens, on nights when I'm not here with you, you'll read yourself to sleep.

Carrie perused the stack.
Charlotte's Web . . .

No! Not spiders! Nothing about spiders!

Tikki Tikki Tembo . . .

No! Not that one, either! It was about a well!

Wells and spiders reminded her . . .

She shuddered and grabbed the book off the top of the pile, Mercer Mayer's
I Was So Mad
.

She had been thirteen when the book was published—too old for a picture book, really. That was why she was so surprised when she found it in a Barnes & Noble shopping bag pushed way back under the passenger's seat in his car.

“What is this, Daddy?”

“That? Oh . . . that—that's for you. I forgot to give it to you. I bought it a long time ago.”

Thinking maybe he meant years ago, she pulled the receipt from the bottom of the bag and saw that it had been purchased just a few weeks earlier, in Omaha. Why would he buy a children's book for a teenager?

“You have a terrible temper,” he told her, not for the first time—and not without reason. Everyone said that: her mother, her teachers, her friends, even Arthur, the kindly old farmhand who looked after the place while her father was away.

Arthur looked after Carrie, too. He wasn't as smart as Daddy—not book smart, anyway—but he taught her things, too. Like how to fish and how to shoot and even how to drive, even though that was something she'd always expected her father to do. By the time she was old enough, Daddy was gone more and more often, for longer stretches of time.

When he was around, he was more critical than ever.

“You fly off the handle much too easily,” Daddy said the day she found the Mercer Mayer book, “and that's what this story is about. Learning to control your anger. Wouldn't it be nice if you could do that?”

She agreed that it would be nice. A lot of things would be nice. That didn't mean they were going to happen. But she didn't say that to her father, because what would be the use?

Now, Carrie opened the book with hands that had been scrubbed clean of blood. Sure enough, as she began to read aloud, she felt the last bit of anger melt away.

“See? I told you. I was right, wasn't I?”

“Yes, Daddy. You were right.”

Chapter Eight

Friday, March 17, 2000

W
hen Justin the biologist had called her midweek to reschedule their blind date for tonight, Allison said yes, hoping an evening out would take her mind off things.

Well, one thing in particular: her father.

All these years, she'd thought that if she really wanted to find him, she'd be able to. Now that she knew she couldn't, she felt as though she'd lost him all over again. Grief—not, this time, for what had been, but for what could never be—snaked its way into her days and nights, even into her dreams. Whenever she finally managed to drift to sleep, she saw her father's face. But it wasn't as she remembered it. There were wrinkles around his eyes now, and his dark hair had gone gray.

“I'm so sorry,” he said in every dream, holding his arms out to hug her. “I never meant to hurt you. Please, Allison, please . . .”

But she refused to accept his apology. She saw her dream self backing away from him, heard herself shouting, “No! I'll never forgive you for what you did!”

Then she'd wake up, shaken, with tears streaming down her face. Depending on what time it was, she'd either lie there making a futile effort to get back to sleep for another hour or two, or she'd drag herself out of bed and numbly go through the motions of another exhausting day.

Now, at last, the workweek was over. If she'd had her way tonight, she'd have taken the subway home, crawled into bed, and slept until Monday morning's alarm clock. In fact, first thing this morning, she'd promised herself she'd do exactly that.

But she hadn't gotten around to canceling on Justin, and she couldn't just stand him up. So here she was, sitting across from him at a small Mexican restaurant in the Village. Between them was a big bowl of guacamole—half price, the waitress had told them, and the margaritas they were sipping were two for one. Everything green was on special tonight, in honor of Saint Patrick's Day.

“I forgot that was today,” Justin said as they perused their menus. “I guess I could have taken you to an Irish restaurant. I'm sure there must be some in New York.”

“There are definitely plenty of Irish pubs.”

“You don't take a girl to a pub on a first date.”

She smiled. “I wouldn't have minded. Especially on Saint Patrick's Day.
Especially
if you're Irish.”

“But I'm not. Are you?”

“No.”

“Really? A blue-eyed blond—you look like you could be.”

She wasn't about to tell him that her blond hair wasn't natural—or that for all she knew, she might very well have some Irish blood somewhere in her lineage. Her mother had always referred to herself as a WASP, but her father—well, who knew? By the time she was old enough to wonder, he was gone. And his branch of the family tree wasn't something her mother would have been willing to discuss.

Right now, on a blind date, she wasn't interested in getting into any of it: her cultural background, her parents, her past.

She changed the subject, asking, “What do you think? Are you going with the chicken and salsa verde or the stuffed jalapeños? A big salad? Or perhaps just some broccoli?”

“I know it seems like I'm not in the spirit of the holiday—maybe if they were playing something from Riverdance instead of mariachi music—but I was thinking I might order something that isn't even green.”

“Party pooper.”

“I don't know if my cousin told you, but I'm a lab scientist, and I'm kind of shy, and for fun, I like to read. I'm not usually the life of the party.”

She returned his grin across the table, noticing that he was actually more handsome than she'd initially thought. Catching sight of him waiting by the hostess stand when she walked in, her first impression had been that he looked like a nerdy scientist: ears that stuck out a little, glasses, earnest expression, tall and a little gawky.

But he had a cute smile, his brown eyes were kind, and he was wearing a distressed leather jacket that she could see, close up, was vintage, with an impressive designer label. When she complimented him on it, he said, “I knew you worked in fashion, so I didn't want to show up dressed like some schlub.”

“Is that what you'd usually do on a date?” she asked, and he grinned.

“Probably.”

“You're not supposed to admit that, you know.”

“Really? Then forget I said it. I'm always a snazzy dresser. Ask anyone. Except my cousin. Or her friend who set us up.”

“It was actually a friend of your cousin's friend.”

“Don't ask her, either,” he said without missing a beat, she laughed, and the ice was broken.

Now, as she asked him about his work, she realized she was actually glad she'd come. Maybe he wouldn't turn out to be the love of her life, but at least she wasn't sitting at home, staring into space, thinking about her father.

Besides, who knew? Maybe Justin
would
turn out to be the love of her life. Maybe they'd fall head over heels and get married and have babies and live happily ever after.

That's all that really matters in this world, isn't it?
she thought, sipping her second margarita, feeling as though the first one had already gone to her head.
A husband, children. Loving, and being loved. Knowing where you belong—and to whom.

As for the career—sure, she still wanted that, too. A nicely furnished apartment and a closet full of gorgeous clothes wouldn't hurt, either. But tonight, thanks to tequila and the emotionally grueling week she'd just endured, those things didn't seem to matter as much as they usually would.

Tonight, she was convinced that if she just had someone to count on, a family of her own, she'd be perfectly content. She'd never again look back, wishing things had been different, longing for something—someone—she'd never had, and never would.

T
his was a big mistake.

Mack had known it from the moment he met Carrie in the PATH station after work. He saw her before she caught sight of him. She was standing stiffly at the entrance to the Hoboken track, wearing a dark wool coat and sensible pumps, looking preoccupied. He wondered if, by chance, she might have on a green skirt and sweater beneath her coat, but somehow, he doubted it.

He found out when they reached his parents' house that he was right about that; she had on a businesslike brown suit. He was pretty sure, by that time, that she wouldn't be tossing the jacket aside, hiking up the skirt, kicking off her shoes, and dancing a jig with his aunt Fiona, either.

When she spotted him at the station, she'd pasted a smile on her face, greeted him with a hug, and told him she'd been looking forward to tonight. But then she asked, as they boarded the train, “How long do you think we'll be there?”

That was not a good sign.

“It goes pretty late,” he told her. “Are you sure you want to go?”

“Of course,” she said, not very convincingly. “I want to meet your parents. And your sister will be there, too, you said?”

“Everyone will be there. Remember? I told you the other night on the phone—it gets kind of crazy.”

She frowned, as though she were hearing that for the first time. “Crazy in what way?”

“Don't worry—just in a party kind of way. You know—drinking, singing, dancing . . . that sort of thing.”

“Dancing?” she echoed, as if that were the worst kind of crazy imaginable.

“ 'Fraid so,” he said with a wry smile, and gave her another out. “Look, if you want to skip it, I'll completely understand.”

“I thought you said you were obligated to go.”

“I am—but
you're
not.”

“Oh. So you would still go, alone . . . ?”

“I have to. My mom—well, you know. It's a big deal, like I said the other night. If you'd rather not come with me, we can get together another time.”

But that wasn't really an option. He knew, and he could see by her expression that she knew, too, that if she backed out now, they wouldn't be seeing each other again.

“No, I'll come. I'm sure it'll be fun.” The resolute set of her jaw conveyed that she thought exactly the opposite.

So they took the PATH train to Hoboken and walked the few blocks to his parents' house. A felt leprechaun banner he'd made in Cub Scouts twenty-odd years ago hung on the front door; beyond it, the foyer was so jammed with friends and relatives that they could barely get past the threshold. Seeing Carrie shrink back, wide-eyed, Mack grabbed her hand and began shouldering his way through, pulling her into the fray with Champ and Bruiser barking underfoot.

The overheated air was heavily scented with beer and cigarette smoke, corned beef and cabbage, and Aunt Fiona's Jean Naté perfume. His cousin Mary Beth was futilely trying to shush raucous conversations so that everyone could hear her seven-year-old banging out a halting, discordant version of “Danny Boy” on the old upright piano, which only made people raise their voices; all of that competed with a vintage vinyl version of the Chieftains' “The Rocky Road to Dublin” blasting from the stereo.

Mack's father had crossed paths with the band back in the sixties, when they were up and coming and he was a record industry executive. Once in a while, hearing familiar music seemed to jar Brian MacKenna from his twilight world. Mack fervently hoped that would be the case tonight.

“Hey, Mack's here!” someone shouted, and somehow, he lost his grip on Carrie's hand as he was swept into one warm embrace after another. Everyone, particularly his aunts and older female cousins, seemed eager to give him a loving squeeze, as if to reassure him that everything was going to be okay somehow, despite his mother's illness. But they weren't fooling him or themselves.

They were all so somber, he noticed. Gone were the usual teasing questions and quips; gone, even, was the innate black humor that had seen this clan through some pretty tough times from nineteenth-century Galway to twenty-first-century New Jersey.

He was grateful when his brother-in-law, Dan—married, albeit shakily at the moment, to Mack's sister, Lynn—put a beer into his hand and asked about the upcoming Knicks-Lakers game.

“I heard you have courtside seats. How'd you score those?”

“Client.”

“I'm in the wrong business or on the wrong side of the Hudson River,” said Dan, a dentist down in Middletown.

“You mean your patients don't reward you with courtside seats?”

“I'm lucky if they pay their bills. You're a lucky SOB, Mack.”

“Want to come?”

“Oh, yeah, sure, I'd love to come.”

“I'm serious, Dan. I've got an extra ticket.”

“And you want to waste it on your sister's husband? Don't you have some hot babe to impress?”

Uh-oh. Suddenly remembering Carrie, he looked around and realized he'd not only lost his grip on her, he'd lost sight of her, too.

Rather than explain to Dan that she wasn't exactly a hot babe, nor was she impressed by courtside Knicks-Lakers seats, he said hurriedly, “Listen, the extra ticket is yours if you want it, and I actually am seeing someone and she's here with me, and I'd better find her before Uncle Paddy does.”

“Good idea. Count me in for the game, Mack.”

He nodded and turned away, looking around for Carrie but instead finding his aunt Nita making a beeline for him with a red-lipstick-stained coffee mug in one hand and a bouquet of green carnations in the other.

“How are you, honey?” she asked, giving him another one of those long, hard hugs and sad, searching looks. “Hanging in there?”

“I am, but I have to go find—”

“Wait, wait, your corsage.” Aunt Nita set down her cup, pulled a pair of nail scissors from her pocket, snipped the stem off one of her carnations, and deftly pinned the flower to his lapel.

Back when he was a perpetually mortified adolescent, Mack would have protested that boys didn't wear corsages—even though his mother told him they did, but they were called boutonnières—then discarded it the first chance he got.

But he had long since learned to deal with Aunt Nita—with his entire crazy family, in fact. So he just thanked her and smiled when she admired the way it matched his shamrock-printed tie
and
his eyes—“And your sister's, too,” she added before stepping away to add another shot of whiskey to her coffee. “You got them from our side of the family, you know.”

Aunt Nita was a fair-haired, green-eyed O'Hara, like Mack's mother, in sharp contrast to the blue-eyed MacKennas—some of whom were heavily freckled redheads, while the rest were “Black Irish” like Mack.

“What was that about me?”

He turned to see that Lynn had come up beside him.

“You have green eyes.”

“Oh. I thought maybe you were badmouthing me or something.”

“Me? Never.”

“That's why I love you.” She clinked her own beer bottle against his. “Hey, I thought you were bringing your new girlfriend.”

“I did, but she's . . . she's not . . .”

Never one to wait patiently for a reply, Lynn tossed out her next question. “Have you seen Mom yet?”

“No, I just got here. Why?”

Lynn shrugged and said nothing, which was rare for her. Not a good sign.

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” Mack's heart sank. “What is she doing upstairs?”

“Lying down. She said she wasn't feeling up to a big party. Go see her.”

“I will.” Mack turned away abruptly and started pushing his way toward the stairs, then remembered again—Carrie.

He looked around, afraid he was going to find her cornered by his uncle Paddy, but it was worse than that. Still wearing her coat, now with a green carnation pinned to it, she was utterly disengaged from the festivities—not an easy accomplishment in this boisterous, welcoming crowd. She stood completely alone by the front door, looking as though she was preparing to open it and slip out into the night.