Midnight Voices

CHAPTER 24

Caroline knew instinctively that she’d overslept — the only question was by how much. But even knowing she should have been up long before whatever time it was now, she still resisted rolling over to look at the clock, let alone leaving the safe harbor of her bed. She felt as if she hadn’t slept at all, or, if indeed she had slept, she’d exhausted herself trying to escape some terrible nightmare. Except that she could remember no dreams at all, and there was no escape from the nightmare she’d been plunged into last night when she’d seen Andrea Costanza’s body being borne out of the building on West 76th.

Andrea.

Who would want to kill Andrea? Of all the people Caroline knew, Andrea was the one who was least likely to have any enemies at all. Except that in this city, it wasn’t usually your enemies who killed you — it was some total stranger, someone who not only didn’t care about you, but didn’t even know you; someone who only wanted the things you had, and only then to sell them. But what had Andrea had? Nothing.

Nothing worth stealing anyway. Her watch was a Timex that couldn’t have cost more than thirty dollars, and the most expensive piece of jewelry she owned was a string of amber beads that had belonged to her great-grandmother, and which she never even wore. Nor had there been anything in her apartment worth stealing: her television was the same fifteen-inch Sharp she’d had in college, and her hi-fi system was one of those fake ‘stacks’ you could buy in any discount store for less than a hundred dollars.

Nor were there any jilted boyfriends who might have been jealous; there hadn’t even been a boyfriend in the last five years.

Yet Andrea was dead.

It wasn’t a dream.

It wasn’t a nightmare.

It was real.

Sitting up, Caroline swung her feet off the bed, finally glancing at the clock. After ten! It couldn’t be after ten! She hadn’t slept that late since Laurie was born.

The kids! If she’d overslept, what about them? Laurie might have gotten herself up, but Ryan hadn’t left his bed on a school morning without at least fifteen minutes of nagging in the last two years. Pulling on her bathrobe, she left the bedroom and hurried down the hall to Ryan’s room. The door was closed, and when she rapped on it there was no answer. “Ryan?” she called as she twisted the knob and pushed the door open. The curtains were open, and the bed was made.

Ryan’s book bag, which had been on his chest of drawers last night, was gone.

Leaving Ryan’s door standing open, she glanced at Laurie’s room, the door of which was also closed. She almost turned back toward the stairs, but then heard a muffled bark, followed by a scratching sound, and a faint whimpering.

Chloe? But what would the dog be doing in Laurie’s room? Last night it had seemed as if the dog was already adopting Ryan, and certainly Ryan had been the one most insistent on keeping it, taking Chloe into his room to sleep on his bed. How had Chloe gotten into Laurie’s room? Not that it mattered, unless neither of the kids had taken her out this morning. Turning away from the stairs, Caroline hurried down the hall and opened Laurie’s door, expecting the dog to burst through as soon as the crack was wide enough. But instead of darting through the doorway to greet Caroline, her stubby tail madly wagging, Chloe only barked once, then turned and scuttled further into the dimness of the room. But Laurie had never left her curtains closed — ever since she was a little girl, she’d always jumped out of bed right away to see what kind of morning it was.

Her fingers finding the switch, Caroline turned on the chandelier.

Laurie lay in bed, propped up against a bank of pillows, her eyes closed. “Laurie?” Caroline moved closer to the bed, and Chloe jumped up onto the mattress, licking at Laurie’s face.

Laurie opened her eyes, squinting in the bright glare of the chandelier. “Mom?”

“Honey? Are you all—” Caroline didn’t have to finish the question to know the answer, for aside from the tremble she’d heard in the single word Laurie had spoken, she could see in the light of the chandelier that her daughter was not all right. Her face seemed to have lost its color and there were dark circles under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept in days. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” she asked, dropping onto the edge of the bed and taking Laurie’s hands in her own.

The child’s fingers were ice cold.

Laurie shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel very good.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” Caroline asked. “Or come and get me?”

“I’m not that sick, Mom,” Laurie began. “I just feel really tired and—”

Before she could finish, Chloe suddenly growled, then stood up and barked. A moment later Tony appeared at Laurie’s door, carrying a bed tray on which were a glass of orange juice, a cup and saucer, a steaming teapot, and a plate covered with the kind of aluminum top that restaurants use. “Both my girls are awake,” he said, brushing Caroline’s cheek with his lips as he carefully set the tray over Laurie’s legs, displacing Chloe who promptly jumped off the bed and scurried out of the room. “Need another pillow?” Tony asked as he lifted the cover off the plate. The smell of bacon and eggs filled the room.

Laurie shook her head, gazing at the plate her stepfather had just uncovered. Beside the bacon and eggs was the kind of scone Virginia Estherbrook had brought the morning after they’d come back from their honeymoon, and half a grapefruit, with a maraschino cherry decorating its center.

“Tony, she’s sick,” Caroline protested. “All she should have is some orange juice, and a little tea.”

“Hey, don’t blame me,” Tony said, raising his hands defensively. “I only take the orders and do the cooking around here.”

“It’s not like I have the flu or anything,” Laurie said. “I just had a bunch of bad dreams that kept me awake and—”

“But you look terrible,” Caroline broke in. “And your hands are freezing cold. I’m going to call Dr. Hunicutt.”

“I already called Dr. Humphries,” Tony said.

“Dr. Humphries?” Caroline echoed, suddenly confused. “Why did you call him? Dr. Hunicutt’s been taking care of Laurie and Ryan since they were—”

“I tried calling him,” Tony broke in. “He was with a patient, and the receptionist said he was already late getting to the hospital, and it just seemed to me like I should give Ted Humphries a call. At least he’s a friend, and he still makes house calls.”

The doorbell rang almost as if on cue, and Tony went to answer it. A couple of minutes later he was back, followed by Dr. Humphries, who was carrying the kind of small black medical bag that Caroline had until now assumed only existed in old movies. Dr. Humphries bag, though, looked to be fairly new, if well used.

Cocking his head and laying a wrist on Laurie’s forehead, Humphries gazed down at her, his eyes twinkling. “I’m assuming you’re not the sort of girl who’d fake being sick just to get out of school,” he said.

Laurie shook her head. “I wanted to go to school, but Tony wouldn’t let me.”

“Good for him,” Humphries pronounced. He dug into his bag, produced a digital thermometer whose earpiece he cleaned with alcohol before inserting it into Laurie’s ear, pressing the button, then reading the small LCD screen on the thermometer’s side. He repeated the process twice more before deciding he was satisfied. “One hundred and one,” he said. “Not bad. Do you feel sick to your stomach?” When Laurie shook her head, he nodded toward the scone. “If Virgie Estherbrook made that, you soon will be. Never ate anything heavier in my life.”

“I like it,” Laurie said.

Humphries gave a shrug. “Suit yourself. If it appeals to you, you should eat it.”

“But if she’s sick—” Caroline began.

“If she’s sick, that still won’t hurt her,” Humphries broke in. “Generally speaking, the body knows what’s good for it, and people should generally eat what they’re hungry for. Within reason, of course.” He winked at Laurie. “I trust you weren’t planning to stuff half a dozen of those into your mouth, were you?”

Laurie shook her head.

“Does anything hurt?” he asked.

Laurie hesitated. “N-not now,” she finally said.

Dr. Humphries’ heavy eyebrows moved closer together. “But something hurt earlier?” he asked. Laurie hesitated only a second before she nodded. Humphries’ frown deepened. “Can you tell me where?”

“My throat,” she said. “When I first woke up. And my nose, too. Up here.” She put a finger on her sinuses.

“Okay, let’s take a look.” Pulling a light from his bag, Humphries peered into Laurie’s throat then checked her ears as well. “Did you hurt anywhere else?” he asked when he was done. Though Laurie shook her head, Caroline was almost certain she saw a faint blush come over her daughter’s face. “You’re sure?” Laurie nodded.

“All right,” Humphries said, straightening up and then burrowing once more into his bag. “I’m going to give you a couple of remedies, and I’m sure you’ll be fine by tomorrow morning.”

Now it was Caroline who frowned. “What kind of remedies?”

“Homeopathic,” Humphries replied. Seeing the doubt in Caroline’s eyes, he tried to reassure her. “I can guarantee they won’t hurt Laurie,” he said. “And I’m not going to promise you they’ll cure her, either. But I don’t think anything is seriously wrong with her, and I believe these will help. I’ll look in on her again tomorrow, and if she isn’t any better, we can decide what to do next. And do you mind if I talk to Dr. Hunicutt about her?”

Caroline gazed at him in surprise. “You know Dr. Hunicutt?”

“I wouldn’t say I know him, but medicine’s a smaller community than you might think. I’ve heard of him. And if you don’t mind, I’ll just give him a call, let him know what’s going on, and see what he thinks.” Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “And if I’m not out of line, I have to say you’re looking a bit worn out, too.”

“I–I guess I overslept this morning. Something happened yesterday, and… ” Her voice trailed off as Tony slid an arm around her.

“Something happened yesterday,” he said, not wanting to say too much in front of Laurie. “It was pretty upsetting. I’m sure she’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

Once again Ted Humphries dug into his bag, this time producing a rectangle of cardboard with four pills neatly bubble sealed to its surface. “If I were you, I’d take a couple of days and just try to relax.”

“I wish I could,” Caroline sighed. “But I have two children and a job and they won’t take care of themselves.”

“And you have a husband who can look after the children. As for the job, I’ve never heard of one yet where everything collapsed if someone took a day or two off.” He handed the card containing the four pills to Caroline. “It’s up to you, of course, but if you have trouble sleeping, these should help. And they won’t hurt. That, I can guarantee you.”

Ten minutes later, as she stared at herself in the mirror over the bathroom sink, Caroline suddenly wondered if maybe Dr. Humphries was right: the circles under her own eyes were every bit as dark as the ones she’d seen under Laurie’s, and as she once again thought of Andrea Costanza, her eyes brimmed with tears.

Sleep, she thought. He’s right — I just need to sleep, and stop worrying about everything. Punching one of the pills through the foil on the back of the card, she stared at it for a moment, then put it in her mouth.

With a swallow of water, it went down her throat.

Going back to her bedroom, she picked up the phone and dialed the shop. “Claire?” she said. “It’s Caroline. I’m afraid I won’t be in today.”

Without the least hesitation, Claire’s voice came back over the wire. “Take whatever time you need, darling. You know how much you mean to me.”

Dropping the phone back on the hook, Caroline slid into bed and pulled the covers up to her neck. Amazing, she thought as the pill began to do its work. Six months ago, she would have fired me. But not anymore. And all because of Tony.

Giving herself over to the comfort of the pill, Caroline drifted back into sleep.

“How long is this gonna take?” Victor Balicki asked as Frank Oberholzer broke the police seal on the door to Andrea Costanza’s apartment.

“It’s going to take as long as it takes,” the detective growled. “What’s it to you, anyway? Suddenly you own the building?”

Balicki unlocked the door, pushed it open, then stood back, his hands rising defensively. “Hey, for all I care, you can move in here. But the owners want to know how long before we can clean it out.”

“Tell the owners to call me,” Oberholzer replied. “We’re in the book.” Closing the door before Balicki could say anything else, he gazed at the few hundred square feet that until a few days ago had been home to Andrea Costanza. Except for the window having been closed after it was dusted for prints — unsuccessfully — everything was still as it had been when they’d found Costanza’s body yesterday; nothing had been moved or taken away since she had died. Yet there was an emptiness to the apartment, a feeling of vacancy much deeper than that of rooms whose occupants may be gone, but will soon be returning. It was almost as if every object in the apartment — the pieces of furniture, the pictures, the knickknacks and tchotchkes — was somehow aware that the single person to whom it had value was forever gone, and that collectively they had suddenly become nothing more than detritus, just so much junk to be cleared out before someone else moved their own things in. It was ridiculous, of course; Frank Oberholzer was not one to ascribe feelings to inanimate objects. Still, in the twenty-odd years he’d been working homicide he’d never yet come into an apartment whose sole occupant had died without feeling the peculiarly hollow emptiness than now imbued Andrea Costanza’s tiny studio, and he felt a slight shiver come over him even though the apartment was not only stuffy, but overheated as well.

Lowering himself onto one of the two straight-backed chairs that flanked Andrea’s tiny dining table, he opened the copy of the Medical Examiner’s report and studied it once more, even though he could have recited the details from memory if need be. Her attacker had apparently come through the window, probably getting his arm around her even before she was aware he was even there. Assuming, of course, that it was a “he” who attacked her, which was an assumption Oberholzer had long since learned to guard against. Still, in this case he was leaning toward a man’s having committed the crime simply because of the strength necessary to break the neck of a human being. As he went over the report, Oberholzer kept glancing at the sofa, and the window behind it, trying to visualize the crime. This one wasn’t hard: she’d probably been sitting on the sofa, her back to the window. Maybe she’d even fallen asleep, which would have made the killer’s work easy — one arm around the neck, the other hand shoving hard on the side of the head.

Just a second or two, and not much of a struggle. No struggle at all, in fact, except possibly a futile attempt to escape that resulted in a few strands of fiber being found under Costanza’s fingernails. Though the labs hadn’t yet come up with an ID on the fibers, Oberholzer would have bet a year’s worth of retirement money that they came from some kind of man’s coat. Maybe an overcoat.

It didn’t look like anything had been stolen, but it didn’t look like there had been anything worth stealing, either. But that was why Oberholzer was here — to try to find something that might give a hint as to the motivation for the killing. It hadn’t been rape, and given that the killer hadn’t even taken her purse, it didn’t look like robbery, either. Ex-husbands and former boyfriends usually slapped their victims around before killing them, which hadn’t happened in this case.

But something was nagging at Frank Oberholzer’s mind, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

His eyes drifted to the notebook computer that was still sitting on the table where Costanza had left it, and which no one had touched since he’d entered the apartment yesterday. A Dial-Up Network program was on the screen, along with a box that had popped up indicating that the Internet connection had been broken, and offering a button to reestablish it. Frowning, Oberholzer searched for some kind of log, and finally found one, indicating that the last web connection had been established at 8:32 p.m. last Friday night, and lapsed an hour later.

So Costanza had been alive at 8:32, and though there was not yet any way to prove it, Oberholzer’s gut was telling him that the reason the connection had lapsed was that the person who’d made it was no longer alive.

Saving the log, he stared at the familiar clouds of the Windows Desktop, then double clicked on the Outlook icon.

The Contacts directory on Costanza’s computer was as empty as the one on his own, and he found himself smiling as he realized that there had been at least one person other than himself in New York who hadn’t jumped on the computer bandwagon. The smile faded as he realized he might now be alone.

He checked the calendar folder of Outlook, and found it as empty as the Contacts.

Sighing heavily, he heaved himself to his feet and moved over to the telephone table by the door. Propped against it was the big tote bag that had served as Andrea Costanza’s purse. Taking the purse back to the dining table, he carefully began removing its contents: a comb and brush, a compact and a lipstick, a half-empty packet of Kleenex along with a crumpled handkerchief, a wallet bulging with pictures of children but containing only a couple of credit cards, a cellular phone whose battery had died, and a worn Day-Timer that had not yet been replaced by Outlook’s calendar. Buried at the bottom of the bag was a thick address book, its cover as worn as the Day-Timer’s, but not yet replaced by some kind of handheld computer. Good for you, Oberholzer thought to himself. My kind of gal.

Setting the address book to one side, he opened the Day-Timer and began going though its pages, starting from today and working backward. It didn’t take long before a picture of Andrea Costanza’s life began to emerge.

Days spent working, with a lot of appointments outside the office, the last of which was with a doctor named Humphries.

Evenings and weekends mostly blank.

In short, a woman who worked hard, and didn’t have much of a social life.

Another argument against a boyfriend, either former or current. In fact, about the only things he found that looked like they might have been social engagements were an entry for Caroline’s wedding — Plaza Hotel from a few weeks ago, and Lunch — Cipriani — B/R/C from several months earlier.

He shifted his attention over to the address book, which was filled with entries executed in a variety of colors of ink and pencil. Though it was obvious that at some point many years ago the book had been laid out with care, over the years numbers had changed, some names had been scratched out entirely, while others went through various permutations of marriage and divorce. After thumbing through it quickly, Frank Oberholzer went back to the beginning and began again, this time page by page, not sure what he was looking for, but hoping that something would jump out at him.

Nothing did, at least not strongly enough to make him start dialing numbers.

He opened the briefcase he’d brought with him and put the Day-Timer and address book inside. Then he slowly went through the apartment, opening every closet and cupboard, searching every drawer, looking for something — anything — that might have a bearing on what had happened to Andrea Costanza.

Nothing.

Shutting down the notebook computer and adding it to the briefcase, he left the rest of the apartment for the evidence squad to go through, packing anything that might be relevant. He himself would go through the calendar and address book, calling everyone Andrea had known, seeing everyone she’d seen.

Somewhere, he hoped, there would be a clue as to why Andrea Costanza had been killed.

Assuming, of course, that there had been a reason, and it was Frank Oberholzer’s experience that in New York City, too many murders happened with no real motivation at all.

Just a case of someone being at the wrong place at the wrong time, like that poor bastard who’d been killed in Central Park last year. What was his name?

Evans. That was it. Brad Evans. Left a nice young wife and two kids, and there’d never been a hint of a reason as to why he’d died.

Oberholzer could only hope it wouldn’t turn out the same way with Andrea Costanza.

Caroline wasn’t quite asleep when the phone rang, but she wasn’t quite awake, either, and as she groped for the receiver she suddenly felt disoriented. Then, as her hand closed on the hard plastic of the phone, she remembered: she’d gone back to bed after calling in sick at the shop. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Fleming?” a female voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Please hold for the headmaster.”

The headmaster? What was going on? Sitting up, Caroline glanced at the clock: not quite three. Had she really slept all day? She’d only intended to sleep another half hour — an hour at the most. Then the voice of Ralph Winthrop came over the line. “I’m sorry to have—” he began, but Caroline cut him off, her heart suddenly pounding.

“What is it?” she demanded. “Has something happened to Ryan?”

There was just a moment of hesitation before Winthrop spoke again, and in that split second Caroline felt a cold sweat of terror turn her skin clammy. “No, he’s all right, but I’m afraid — well, I’m afraid he’s been in a fight.”

“A fight,” Caroline heard herself repeat as if the word had no meaning. “I–I’m afraid I don’t understand. You’re sure he’s all right?”

Again there was a hesitation. “He’s not injured, no. But as to his being all right—” He hesitated again, as if searching for the right words, then went on. “I wonder if you could come over to the school.”

Caroline was sitting up now, her feet planted on the floor, but somehow she couldn’t quite get her bearings. “I’m sorry,” she began. “My daughter has some kind of a bug, and I didn’t go to work and—”

Suddenly Tony’s voice came on the line. “Stay in bed, darling,” he said. “Whatever’s going on, I can take care of it.” The timber of his voice shifted slightly as he directed his next words to the headmaster. “This is Ryan’s stepfather. I…”

But Caroline wasn’t listening any longer. What was she doing, still lying in bed at three in the afternoon? It wasn’t as if she was sick — she’d just felt tired that morning. “It’s all right, Tony,” she broke in. I’ll take care of it.” Now it was her voice that changed. “I’ll be there in half an hour.” Hanging up the phone, she went into the bathroom, stripped off her nightgown, and took a shower, finishing with a blast of ice-cold water that made her skin tingle and knocked the last vestiges of sleep out of her brain. Ten minutes later she emerged from her room and started for the stairs, then remembered Laurie. She opened her daughter’s door a crack, peeked in, then opened it wider when she didn’t see Laurie in the bed.

Though the bed was unmade, the room was empty.

“Laurie?” she called out. When there was no answer, she felt another sudden surge of fear, even worse than the one she’d felt when she’d heard the headmaster’s worried voice on the phone. But it was ridiculous — it wasn’t as if anything could have happened to Laurie. Still, she found herself hurrying down the stairs and calling her daughter’s name even before her foot hit the last step.

“Back here,” Tony called. “We’re in the kitchen.”

And sure enough, there was Laurie, wearing her bathrobe and sitting at the kitchen table eating an open-faced grilled cheese sandwich. “May I assume you’re feeling better?” Caroline asked.

Her daughter’s head bobbed. “I bet I can go back to school tomorrow.” She held out the half-eaten sandwich. “Want a bite? Tony makes the best ones I’ve ever tasted. The cheese goes all the way out to the edge so there’s no yucky hard crust, and he knows how to cook it so it gets all brown but not burnt.”

Caroline shook her head. “I have to get over to the Academy.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me to go?” Tony asked. “If you’re not feeling up to it—”

“I’m feeling fine. Or at least I will be until I see what’s going on with Ryan. Be back as soon as I can.”

Kissing her daughter and her husband, Caroline hurried out of the apartment, and it wasn’t until she was already on the street that she suddenly remembered the worry she’d had the night Laurie’s first period had begun, when Laurie had dreamed there were people in her room.

When Tony hadn’t been in bed.

When Laurie had dreamed someone had been touching her.

When she had thought—

But no — she’d been wrong — nothing had happened! Laurie wasn’t the least bit afraid of Tony.

No, it wasn’t Tony she had to worry about — it was Ryan.

“Can I go up and see Rebecca?” Laurie asked as she put the dishes from the snack her stepfather had made for her into the dishwasher. Tony looked down at her uncertainly.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. If you’re sick—”

“But I’m not sick,” Laurie protested. “I just felt tired this morning. But I’m fine now.” She gazed up at him, her eyes wide. “Please?”

“If your mother finds out I let you start running around—”

“But I won’t run around. I’m just going upstairs.” She could see him wavering. “And I won’t be gone more than half an hour. I’ll be back before Mom even gets home.”

Still he hesitated, but finally he nodded. “Half an hour, and no longer. Deal?”

“Deal,” Laurie said. Hurrying to her room, she pulled on her clothes, shoved her feet into her slippers, then ran back downstairs and out into the hall. Ignoring the elevator, she took the stairs two at a time, came to the seventh floor, and knocked at the Albions’ door. A few seconds passed, but just as she was about to knock again, Alicia Albion opened the door.

For just a second, Alicia looked almost startled to see her, but then she smiled at Laurie, though it wasn’t the same as the welcoming smile she usually offered her. This one seemed almost sad to Laurie. “Oh, dear,” Alicia said. “You’ve come to see Rebecca, haven’t you?”

Laurie nodded uncertainly. Just from the way Mrs. Albion had asked the question, she knew that something was wrong. “Is she all right?”

A strange look passed over Alicia Albion’s face, but then she smiled and nodded her head. “Oh, yes. But I’m afraid she’s not here. Didn’t she tell you?”

Laurie frowned. “Tell me what?”

Again there was just the tiniest hesitation before Mrs. Albion spoke. “She’s gone out west,” she said. “To New Mexico.”

“New Mexico?” Laurie echoed. “What’s in New Mexico?”

“Her uncle,” Alicia replied. Now her hands were twisting nervously at her apron. “Well, I mean, not her real uncle, but Max’s brother. With fall and winter coming, we thought it would be good for her.”

Laurie gazed up at Mrs. Albion. Why hadn’t Rebecca told her she was going away? When she’d seen her yesterday, Rebecca hadn’t said anything about going anywhere. In fact, she’d just been hoping she wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. And if she was so sick she might have to go to the hospital, how could she have gone all the way to New Mexico? But if she’d had to go to the hospital, why wouldn’t Mrs. Albion tell her? “Is she coming back?” she finally asked.

Alicia Albion’s eyes seemed to widen slightly, as if she weren’t certain what to say, but then she nodded. “Well, of course she is.”

“When?”

Now Alicia’s eyes narrowed and Laurie thought she saw a flash of anger in them. But then Alicia was smiling at her again. “Well, I’m not sure,” she said. “If she likes it, she might stay a long time.” She hesitated, then spoke again. “Maybe all winter.”

Suddenly, from somewhere inside the apartment, Laurie heard Max Albion’s voice. “Alicia, who is it?”

“It’s Laurie,” Alicia called back. “She came to see Rebecca.”

There was a moment’s silence, then: “Why don’t you invite her in?”

The door opened wider, and suddenly Alicia Albion was smiling at her again. “Would you like to come in? I’m sure we could find something for you to eat. Why don’t you just—”

But Laurie was already backing away. “No,” she said. “I have to go home. I have to go home right now.” Backing away a few more paces, she finally turned and walked as quickly as she could back to the stairs. Only when she’d made the first turn on the way down, and was certain Alicia Albion could no longer see her did she break into a run, taking the rest of the stairs two at a time. Back in the apartment, she ran upstairs to her own room, and began changing back into her pajamas and bathrobe so her mother wouldn’t know she’d gone anywhere at all.

But even as she was changing clothes, her mind was racing. Where was Rebecca? She was almost sure Mrs. Albion wasn’t telling the truth; if Rebecca had really been going to New Mexico, she would have told Laurie. So she must have gone somewhere else.

The hospital?

But if she’d gone to the hospital, why wouldn’t Mrs. Albion have told her?

Then, even as the question echoed in her head, an answer came to her.

What if Rebecca hadn’t gone to the hospital at all, or New Mexico either?

What if she’d died?

Though it was almost fall, summer still held the city in its grip that afternoon, and as Caroline walked north three blocks then turned west toward Eliot Academy the dank heat of the afternoon closed around her, making her clothes stick to her skin, and her hair feel limp and straggly. But it wasn’t only her body the heat was affecting, but her mind as well, for with every step she took, the more her nerves began to tingle and strange thoughts flit through her head.

She was within a block or two of the last streets Brad had trod when he went out for his last run.

The streets where he’d thought people were watching him, following him.

The streets Andrea had wandered the last days of her life, going to and from work, running errands, doing all the little things that other people were doing right now.

Things like she was doing.

Was the killer here somewhere, watching someone else?

Watching her?

She looked around, scanning the people on both sides of the street. Was anyone watching? Or making a show of not watching? What about the man across the street, his back to her as he gazed into a shop window. Was he really looking at something in the window, or was he only pretending?

He moved on, without so much as a glance in her direction. But he wouldn’t look directly at her, would he? He could have seen her reflection in the shop window; known that she was watching him. She tracked him all the way to the corner, where he turned left and disappeared down Amsterdam Avenue.

Stupid! Caroline said to herself. Stupid and paranoid, just like Brad! Except that Brad was dead, and so was Andrea, so why shouldn’t she be paranoid? And with two people dead — her husband and her best friend — was it really paranoia? Of course not!

Or was it? Where was the connection? It was a year since Brad had been killed. And Andrea hadn’t been out running in the park, making herself an easy target. She’d been at home in her apartment.

So it was paranoia.

But even so, she couldn’t keep her eyes from searching the faces of the people around her, looking for something — anything — that might hint at danger. Now, with the Academy only a block away, she could feel eyes watching her — sense someone behind her. Now it was she who stopped to peer into a shop window, surreptitiously glancing at the sidewalk behind her.

Empty.

Whoever it was had slipped into a doorway, or maybe even one of the shops. She lingered at the window, facing a display of cutlery, the knives laid out in sprays. Like flowers, she thought, and immediately wondered where such a strange idea might have come from. Then another thought came into her mind: I’m going to be late. She glanced at her watch, and saw that she was right — the ten-minute walk had already taken her nearly twenty minutes. But still she stood rooted to the spot, certain that at any moment whoever had been following behind her would reveal himself.

Unless he wasn’t on the street at all.

A building? Could he be watching from above, looking down at her, watching her, laughing at her nervousness?

She spun away from the shop window, and scanned the windows of the buildings across the street. Above the shops were apartments, most of them with curtains drawn; someone could be peering at her from any one of them.

Now she felt panic rising inside her — an unreasoning, overwhelming terror that made her want to turn and run back to the shelter of home, to lock the heavy door of the apartment, shut out all the dangers that suddenly seemed to fill the streets.

Suddenly she couldn’t breathe! It was as if steel bands were wrapped around her chest, bands that were getting tighter with every second that passed. Instinctively, she reached out and braced herself against the window, then jumped as she felt a hand on her shoulder. Spinning around, she found herself looking into the eyes of a middle-aged woman, who looked vaguely familiar.

“Are you all right?” the woman asked.

Somehow the words broke the grip of the panic that had seized Caroline, and she nodded as the terrible constriction in her chest eased and she was able to catch her breath. “I–I’m not sure what happened. I just…” But then her voice trailed off as she realized exactly what had happened: she’d let her paranoia get control of her, and had a panic attack. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “Thank you.”

The woman nodded, smiled at her, then continued on her way toward the park. Caroline watched her go, suddenly certain she’d seen the woman somewhere before, but still unable to place her. Had the woman been fol— Then, as her mind once again began responding to the seductive advances of the paranoia that had held her in its grip only a moment ago, she forced the thought aside, and turned back toward the Academy. She could have seen the woman a thousand times before — she’d lived in the neighborhood for more than ten years, and the other woman had probably been here for twice that long. Why shouldn’t she look familiar? By the time she stepped into Ralph Winthrop’s office — blessedly cool after the heavy warmth outside — she had her roiling emotions firmly in check.

Then she saw Ryan sitting on a wooden chair in the corner of the headmaster’s office, his face stormy, his eyes glittering with anger, a swollen bruise on his forehead. I can’t deal with this, she thought, knowing even as she silently spoke the words to herself that she had no choice. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to get in any more fights,” she said.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Ryan said. “Justin Fraser called me an idiot.”

“So you hit him,” Ralph Winthrop said softly. When Ryan started to say something, he held up his hand as if to physically block whatever words the boy might utter. “Don’t try to deny it — Mr. Williams and Mrs. Wennerberg both saw it. You hit him, and he hit you back. The fact you got the worst of it doesn’t mitigate the fact that you hit first.” He turned to Caroline. “I know that the policy about fighting is less stringent in the public schools than here, but I believe I made a special point of reminding Ryan of it when we agreed to take him back, given his record after he left us last year.”

Caroline’s heart sank. They’re kicking him out. After just one day, they’re kicking him out. “But—”

But Ralph Winthrop was already on his feet. “I’ve never before seen any reason to bend the policy. In fact, the policy has worked so well that I’ve only had to enforce it once.” Caroline felt a flicker of hope. “I’ve gone over Ryan’s records, and I’ve had talks with all his teachers. We all agree that given the—” he hesitated, searching for the right word, then found it: “—given the difficulties your family has experienced over the last year, we should make every accommodation we can for the boy.” The flicker of hope in Caroline glowed brighter. “But I’m afraid we can’t simply ignore it.” As Caroline waited, she saw Ralph Winthrop’s gaze fix appraisingly on Ryan, and his fingers drummed on the desktop. Finally, apparently coming to a decision that Caroline knew would be final, he stopped drumming his fingers on the desk and turned his eyes back to Caroline. “Two weeks’ suspension,” he said. “Beginning now. If there is another infraction of the fighting policy, I won’t even call you in — I shall simply send him home. And I’m sure I needn’t remind you that tuition is not refundable in the event of expulsion.” He stood up, came around the desk, and moved toward the door, leaving no doubt in Caroline’s mind that the meeting was over. But as they were leaving, he suddenly spoke one more time. “You might want to get him some counseling, Mrs. Fleming. He seems to think the building you live in is haunted, and that his stepfather hates him.”

Her face burning, Caroline led Ryan out of the building onto the street.

“I didn’t do anything, Mom—” Ryan began as they crossed Amsterdam and started toward the park. But Caroline didn’t let him finish.

“Not one word,” she said, her hand tightening on her son’s arm hard enough so that he winced. “Do you understand? Not one single word! What are you trying to do? How dare you tell anyone that Tony hates you? Since the moment he’s met you he’s done everything he can to be your friend! He’s taken your side, letting you do things I never would have. He hasn’t tried to take your father’s place, but he’s let you know he’ll be there for you, any time you need him, even though you’re barely even polite to him. Who do you think paid so you could go back to the Academy? And this is the thanks you give him? Getting yourself suspended on the second day of school?”

“But—”

“But nothing!” Caroline interrupted. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you. Not one single word!”