Shadowkiller (22 page)

Of course it isn't. How can it be? Someone else wearing a missing person's clothing, using her credit cards . . .

All signs point to foul play.

LaJuanda learned long ago that a lie—even one meant to be kind—can be cruel in the long run.

So she tells Nancy Temple, “All you can do is hope for the best. Let's take a look at this other footage.”

The Carousel's security cameras show Molly in the public areas of the ship over the course of her week on board: dining in restaurants, browsing in shops, coming and going at ports of call, and disembarking in Miami on the last day.

Nancy weeps openly through most of it as LaJuanda hands her tissues, keeping her own gaze trained on the video looking, once again, for signs that Molly attracted unwanted attention from a stranger.

Not a thing. For the most part, she moves about the ship alone, spending long hours on sea days lying in a chair with a book. At evening meals, she dines with several other women, all of whom were randomly assigned to her table.

No one in Molly's orbit seems to be paying unwarranted attention to her. As far as LaJuanda can tell, the fellow passengers and crew members she encountered had only polite, casual interaction with her.

It takes a couple of hours to work through the footage, even with LaJuanda fast-forwarding through several long stretches of Molly reading in the sun.

Nancy Temple has grown increasingly subdued, her elbow propped on the arm of her chair, chin in hand, fingers splayed across her cheek as she watches the last known evidence of her daughter's existence.

Then, all at once, she sits up straight. “There—see that? It's not her! Can you back it up? There . . . stop it!”

LaJuanda works the mouse, doing just as the woman asked—backing up the video and then freezing on a frame that shows Molly coming up the gangplank at the final port of call in Saint Antony.

“That's not her!” Nancy Temple rakes a hand through her short gray hair. “Look at the way she's walking! That's not her walk!”

Even LaJuanda can see, this time, that something about Molly has changed. She's wearing the same clothes she had on earlier, when she got off the ship, but . . .

Can it be? Is it true?

Incredulous, she realizes that Nancy Temple might be right. And if she is . . .

Something happened to Molly on that island. She got off the ship there, but she never got back on.

Who did?

T
he patio behind the deserted house next door to the MacKennas is pretty fancy, with a wet bar and an outdoor fireplace. It's easy to imagine it all lit up on a summer Saturday night, filled with furniture and people.

Tonight it's shrouded in darkness beneath a waning crescent moon. As always, the shadows serve Carrie's purpose well. She sits on the low brick wall that borders the patio, watching the house next door through the trees, waiting . . .

Allison and Mack, she knows, aren't home. Earlier, her heart pumping in excited anticipation, Carrie stole across the property line and crept up to the nearest ground floor window. But instead of seeing familiar faces, she saw a teenage girl. She was talking on her cell phone, and her voice floated out through the screen.

Within a few minutes, she'd revealed to an eavesdropping Carrie that she was the babysitter and that Mack and Allison had told her they'd be home by eleven.

Carrie took that cue to return to the house next door. It was shockingly easy to gain entrance through an unlocked basement window. She didn't dare turn on a light as she prowled through the house, scarcely able to believe her good fortune—particularly when she plugged in her laptop and saw the list of wifi networks in the vicinity.

One was called
mackandallie
, and you didn't have to be a genius to know whose it was. Nor did you have to be a genius—even a tech genius—to hack into the network. Thanks to the simple software Carrie had installed on her computer back in Florida, she was able to get right into the MacKennas' electronic world, allowing her access to everything they'd done on their computers next door.

Tempted as she was to browse through their online lives, she didn't want to miss their homecoming, so she headed outside to keep watch from the patio.

It's ten-forty-five. Any minute now . . .

Carrie hears a car coming down the street and sees the arc of headlights pulling into the driveway next door.

Her legs feel a bit wobbly when she stands, and it's not just from almost an hour sitting here on the low wall.

Jittery anticipation courses through her as she steals swiftly over to the hedgerow, bracing herself for her first sighting not just of the man to whom she was married for over a year of her life—but of the woman whose very existence was once Carrie's bitter cross to bear.

Once—and always.

Her mind flashes back to the last time she found Allison.

That was in the fall of 2000, not long after she and Mack had eloped. All through that spring and summer, her budding relationship with Mack had occupied Carrie's waking hours and her dreams, eclipsing any desire to continue searching for Allison Taylor.

But when Mack took up a death vigil at his mother's bedside, she found herself spending her evenings and weekends alone again. The familiar feeling of abandonment triggered memories of her father, and renewed her desire to pick up where she'd left off months ago in her search for Allison.

This time, her effort paid off. She found her through the Internet using the new Google search engine. Just months earlier, there had been nothing on Allison. But the world was leaping into the electronic age, and information availability was changing by the second. One day, Carrie typed in Allison's name and suddenly, there it was: listed on the Web site for
7th Avenue
magazine.

On a brisk fall evening, rather than taking the PATH train across the river to Mack's apartment, where they were then living, Carrie waited for Allison to come out of her midtown office building.

More than a decade had passed since she'd last set eyes on her, and Carrie had been worried she wouldn't recognize her. But there was no mistaking Allison. She was blond now, and all grown up, but Carrie spotted her right away when she stepped out onto the sidewalk. The sight took Carrie's breath away, and a barrage of emotions washed over her. Anger, yes—but also regret. Enough regret so that she didn't even follow Allison, just watched her walk away, thinking about how different things could have been, if only . . .

If only.

It was enough, then, for Carrie just to know where Allison was. No . . . it was almost too much.

She had a new life now, with Mack. She didn't want to live in the past anymore. She didn't want to risk upsetting the fragile balance between a life of normalcy and one of futile longing for what might have been—or violent impulse that could strike at any time.

The only way to keep it in check, she knew, was to focus on the present—and the future.

Mack's mother died soon after that, and he was back at home, where he belonged. He was vulnerable; he needed Carrie. She threw herself into being a wife to him, and when he started talking about having children, she actually believed she could become a mother as well.

Fool
.

Pushing the ugly memories from her mind, she watches the car doors open on the driveway across from the dense shrubbery where she's hiding.

Mack steps out first.

She drinks in the sight of him: still tall and handsome, his dark hair graying at the temples now. She was steeling herself to feel some kind of remorse for letting him believe she had died in such a horrific way. But all she feels is a vague sense of indifference tinged with incomprehension that she ever knew this stranger as intimately as she did.

Then the other car door opens.

All at once Allison is there, close enough to touch, if Carrie wanted to. Close enough to  . . .

No. She doesn't want to hurt Allison. That's not why she's here.

She just wants to . . .

What? What is it that you want with her, Carrie? What are you hoping to accomplish?

Allison starts to follow Mack up the driveway toward the back door. But suddenly she stops and turns her head, looking directly at the spot where Carrie is standing.

Panic screeches through her, and she stays absolutely still, holding her breath, wondering what she'll do if Allison calls out to her.

It doesn't happen, thank goodness. After what seems like a minute or two—but is really only a couple of seconds—Allison gives a little shrug and heads toward the house.

Carrie watches, her hands clenched into fists.

Allison looks as lovely as ever in a black sleeveless dress and heels.

You always were the pretty one
, Carrie thinks darkly.

Even now, even with her hair several shades darker than it was the last time Carrie saw her. It's almost the same color as it had been all those years ago, in childhood.

She hears Mack's voice saying something but she can't make out the words, and then a ripple of laughter reaches her ears. Allison's laughter.

At the sound, something hardens inside Carrie.

Allison is laughing; she's been laughing all these years, all her life. Happy, lucky Allison.

It isn't fair.

She has everything, just like she always did.

And I have nothing.

A
fter looking in on the children, all of whom are sound asleep, Allison changes out of her black dress and throws on a pair of pink summer pajamas. In the master bathroom, she scrubs off her makeup, brushes, flosses, then smiles into the mirror.

Good. No spinach in her teeth now.

Back at dinner, Randi had kicked her under the table and gestured at Allison's mouth. She'd discreetly pulled out the shiny silver compact the girls had given her for Mother's Day, glad she had tucked it into her bag.

“Is that new?” asked Randi, who didn't miss a trick.

“Yes. It's from the girls. When they gave it to me, Hudson told me I can use it when I put on makeup and that I should carry it with me wherever I go. I think that was a big hint that Mommy's been a little too frumpy lately.”

Randi didn't argue with that, just told her about a new shade of lipstick she'd seen that would be perfect with Allison's coloring. Message received, loud and clear.

Back in the bedroom, she climbs into bed, then right back out again. Too soon. She's still wired from the social evening.

She decides to stay up for a while and wait for Mack. He's out driving Sara, the teenage babysitter, home to the wealthy estate area where Randi and Ben live. Sara's family occupies one of the large mansions in their neighborhood, but there's a “For Sale” sign on their front lawn. Her unemployed father lost his Wall Street job two years ago and Sara is saving every penny of her babysitting money for college.

She's been here several times since Randi recommended her last winter. The girls love her because she plays Barbies with them, and she's adept enough at handling J.J. that Allison actually dares to leave the house before he's safely tucked in for the night.

Allison can find only one fault with Sara: every time she babysits, they come home to find that the house is blazing with light in every room.

“Why does she do that?” Mack asked tonight when they pulled into the driveway. “Do you think she's afraid of the dark or something?”

“I think she's afraid of what happened next door.”

“But it's not like there's still a killer out there on the loose.”

No, it wasn't. Still, as Allison stepped out of the car earlier in their driveway and glanced at the house next door, she couldn't help but notice that a sense of foreboding somehow seemed to hang in the air even now. Maybe Sara felt it, too.

Worried that Sara might become skittish about sitting here, Allison had paid her almost twice her hourly rate.

“This is too much,” Sara protested.

“You deserve it.” And God knew she needed it—and the MacKennas needed her. “We'll call you again soon—although probably not until after we get back from our vacation.”

“Oh, the girls told me you're driving out to your hometown. They're so excited. I didn't know you were from Nebraska, Mrs. MacKenna.”

“I am, but . . .” How to explain? “I haven't even been there since I was about your age.”

“You must be thrilled to be going back home after all these years.”

She agreed that she was, because it was easier than telling Sara the truth; easier than explaining that Nebraska wasn't “home” anymore—that it never had been.

Allison goes back downstairs, turning off lights as she makes her way to the living room. She turns off the television and all but one lamp, then settles on the couch with her laptop.

As Allison waits for the hard drive to boot up, a vague uneasiness steals over her. She finds herself darting repeated glances at the window, almost expecting a face to pop up there. A soft night breeze flutters the wine-colored drapes and tinkles the wind chimes beyond the screen, where crickets keep up a steady chatter. She hears a car down the street, but it can't be Mack's; it's too soon. She wishes he'd hurry.

Why is she so jittery tonight?

For all the healing she's helped the children do over the course of the last seven months, she never once experienced this residual sense of fear and foreboding. It was enough—until now, anyway—to know that the Nightwatcher was dead. He couldn't hurt anyone ever again.

It's the Nebraska trip, she realizes as her desktop icons begin to pop up onscreen. The prospect of going back there has set her nerves on edge, and the anxiety, in turn, has kicked her imagination into high gear.

Psych 101. Who needs Dr. Rogel?

A good night's sleep should help.

She decides to go to bed now after all. When Mack gets back he'll want to talk—or more, knowing him, once he sees her in this sheer baby doll pajama top. She has nothing against sex with her husband, but she's not the kind of person who can roll over and fall right to sleep afterward. It'll be midnight, at least, by the time she drifts off. Tomorrow is Father's Day. The girls will be up before the sun to execute their plan to make breakfast in bed for Mack.