Authors: John Saul
Half an hour later, it was over. The bed had been changed, the soiled linens and nightgown were in the washing machine, and Laurie was back in bed.
“No longer my little baby girl, I guess,” Caroline said almost ruefully as she leaned over to kiss Laurie goodnight. “You going to be okay?”
Laurie nodded. “I’m sorry I acted like such a baby.”
“You didn’t. You had a perfectly natural reaction to something that’s perfectly natural, but can also be perfectly terrifying because no matter how many times you talk about it with your mother, it still takes you completely by surprise. I thought I’d hurt myself diving into the swimming pool, and even though Emily Peterson was there when I had my first period, she thought she was bleeding to death three months later when she had hers. So stop worrying about it and start worrying about this: you’ll be going through this every month for the next thirty or forty years, and believe me, it can get really tiresome. But it’s not the end of the world, and we all get used to it. All it means is that you’re growing up, and your body is changing. Nothing to worry about. Okay?”
Laurie nodded. But a few minutes later, when she was once more alone in the darkness of her room, memories of the nightmare began to creep once more around the fringes of her consciousness, and she could almost hear the voices whispering once again.
Hear the voices, and feel the terrible touch of fingers pressed against her body, prodding her, exploring her.
But it had only been a nightmare.
Hadn’t it?
“Everything all right?” Tony asked when Caroline finally slid back into their bed.
“Everything’s fine,” Caroline replied. “She just—” She hesitated, the memory of Tony coming into the bedroom just as she was awakening looming in her mind once again. “What were you doing?” she suddenly asked. Tony looked at her without comprehension. “When you got up tonight?” For just the tiniest fraction of a second she thought she saw a flicker in Tony’s eyes, a strange hint of something that was gone so quickly she wasn’t certain she’d seen it at all. And there was something about the way he looked—the healthy tan he’d developed in Mustique was all but faded away, and the skin beneath his chin seemed to be starting to sag.
But then he smiled at her, and laid a gentle finger on the tip of her nose. “Hungry,” he said. “I guess the fish wasn’t enough, so I sneaked into the macaroni and cheese.” He slipped an arm around her. “So the kids are all right?”
Caroline nodded, and a moment later Tony switched the light off, plunging them into darkness. A few minutes later she heard his breathing fall into the steady rhythm of sleep, but she herself lay wide-awake. Of course Tony had told her the truth—he’d simply gotten hungry and gone to get something to eat. If anything else had happened, Laurie would have told her.
But if Laurie had screamed, why hadn’t Tony heard her?
He was downstairs in the kitchen, and in this building, the soundproofing must be nearly perfect. He’d heard nothing, and certainly he’d done nothing.
But even as she told herself there was nothing more to it than her own paranoia, she kept seeing that strange look in Tony’s eyes—that look that was gone almost before it was even there—that somehow belied his words.
And the unhealthy look to his skin.
There was something, she was certain, that he hadn’t told her.
But what?
CHAPTER 19
Nate Rosenberg glanced worriedly at the clock in the lower right-hand corner of his computer screen. 8:32, which was precisely two minutes since the last time he’d looked. Then he stood up and peered over the partition separating his cubicle from Andrea Costanza’s.
Her chair was still empty.
Which is not a problem, he told himself. There were any number of reasons why Andrea might have been late. She could have overslept, she could be sick, she could have had a doctor’s appointment, or a hairdresser’s appointment. She could be out in the field, checking on one of her cases. The problem was that in the six years in which he’d occupied the cubicle next to Andrea’s, neither of them had ever been late. Not because of sickness, appointments, oversleeping, or any of the other reasons he’d thought of. It had actually become a competition, but only the kind of competition two hopeless bureaucrats would indulge in. “Bet I end up with a better record than you,” Andrea had said over lunch a couple of years ago when they’d realized that they were the only two people they knew of that had never missed a day of work. “Bet you don’t,” Nate had shot back. “My record is spotless since kindergarten, right through grad school.” Which hadn’t bothered Andrea, who’d retorted that she still had measles and chickenpox on her side, since she’d had them and he could still get them. And now, this Monday morning, she was late.
Nate had already ruled out oversleeping and illness—he’d called her apartment, and the answering machine had picked up on the eighth ring, just like it always did. A recorded voice answering her cellphone number had informed him that “the customer’s phone is either off or out of the service area.” He’d also ruled out appointments by checking her calendar, which was even more meticulously kept than his own. The last appointment was her visit to Dr. Humphries yesterday afternoon; the next was a case-management meeting at two o’clock this afternoon. No doctors, no hairdressers, no nothing.
Which left the things Nate hadn’t wanted to think about, and still didn’t want to think about. Things like mugging and rape.
Not Andrea, he told himself. She’s smart, and she can take care of herself. And after what had happened to her friend’s husband almost a year ago, she’d gotten even more careful. “I’m done running in the park, I can tell you that,” she’d told him, still shuddering at the thought of what had happened to—
The name was gone, if she’d ever even told him what it was, but it didn’t matter. The point was that Andrea was determined to be even more careful than she’d always been. And nothing had ever happened to her.
And nothing’s happened to her now, Nate insisted to himself. She’s just late, that’s all. And what was he going to do? Call the police because one of his co-workers was half an hour late for the first time in history? They’d probably lock
him
up!
At noon, when there was still no sign of Andrea, he took his bag lunch, eating his sandwich on the subway while he rode up to 72nd Street, then walked the three blocks to her building. He leaned on the buzzer to her apartment, and when he got no answer, rang the bell for the super. A surly voice demanded to know what he wanted, but when he explained who he was and that he just wanted to make sure Andrea Costanza was okay, the super only snorted a humorless laugh.
“You think I’m crazy? I open it up and she’s there, she can sue me. I open it up and she’s not, and she finds out, she can sue me. I got orders from the management—I don’t open no apartments without no court orders. So get’cha self a court order, okay?”
When Nate pressed the bell again, the super’s voice turned ugly. “I don’t wanna have to come out there an’ kick your ass, buddy.”
Back at the office, he told himself it wasn’t his problem, and that there could be any number of places she could have gone, and that she’d probably be at the two o’clock case-management meeting and he’d feel like an idiot.
She wasn’t at the case-management meeting, but everyone who showed up agreed that something must have happened to Andrea, and grilled Nate on what he’d done so far. “But I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” he said after he’d repeated everything he’d done.
“If it were anyone else, there probably would be,” Corrine Bradshaw agreed, putting aside the agenda she’d drawn up only half an hour earlier. “But not for Andrea. She’s like you, Nate; everyone always knows where she is and what she’s doing.”
“So what do we do?” Nate asked. “We can’t even file a missing person report this soon. Hell, we hardly pay any attention if a kid’s gone all day.”
“We split up her Rolodex,” Corrine decided. “Don’t get anyone upset—just ask people to have her call the office if they hear from her. Tell them she has a sick relative or something.” Her gaze shifted back to Nate. “Have you called her last appointment from Friday?”
Nate reddened. “I’ll do that right now.”
Two minutes later Nate was on the phone with Dr. Theodore Humphries. “Oh, yes, she was here,” Humphries told him after he’d identified himself. “Asking questions about the little Mayhew girl.”
The doctor’s annoyed tone made Nate frown. “She’s the child’s case manager—it’s her job to ask questions about her.”
“And I answered them, as far as I thought was proper,” Humphries replied, his tone sounding somewhat more temperate. “But I’m afraid when she began impugning my reputation and demanding to see the Mayhew child’s medical records, I responded in kind.”
Oh, God,
Nate thought.
Don’t let Andrea have called him a quack.
“Impugned your reputation?” he said aloud. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
For a moment he thought Humphries was going to hang up on him, but then the doctor seemed to have a change of heart. “May I ask exactly why you are calling me, mister . . .”
“Rosenberg,” Nate repeated, then told Humphries exactly why he was calling. When he was finished, Humphries sighed heavily.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I refused to show her Rebecca Mayhew’s medical records without a court order, which I believe I am within my rights to do. Then she questioned my credentials, and left.”
Corrine Bradshaw listened silently as Nate recounted his conversation with Andrea’s last appointment, then began checking with the rest of the caseworkers. Not one of them had found anyone who had seen or talked to Andrea Costanza since Friday. “All right,” she said, picking up the phone on her desk. “Let’s see if I have any clout at all. That’s the twentieth Police Precinct up there, isn’t it?” As Nate Rosenberg nodded, she dialed the Precinct House’s number from memory. She wasn’t sure whether knowing the numbers of every Precinct House in Manhattan was a benefit or a curse, but it was certainly part of her job. Usually, though, she was calling about a missing child, rather than a missing caseworker.
CHAPTER 20
The first day back at the Elliott Academy was over, and Laurie was already wishing she’d stayed at Columbus Middle School, where she and Ryan had gone the second half of last year. And it was all because of Amber Blaisdell and the rest of her old friends. Everything had changed while she was at public school. She’d known it that day at the park. A girl she hardly knew—Caitlin Murphy—had already replaced her in Amber’s group, and even though Laurie had eaten lunch with the same girls as before, Caitlin had taken the seat next to Amber.
The seat that had always, ever since first grade, belonged to Laurie.
The strange thing was that no one—not even Amber—told Caitlin that she was sitting in Laurie’s seat. In fact, it was as if they didn’t even notice. Laurie certainly hadn’t been about to say anything herself, and when she pulled a chair over from the next table, the girls across from Amber and Caitlin squeezed together enough to make room for her. But it wasn’t just that she was no longer sitting next to Amber. Everything else seemed to have changed, too. She hardly even knew the names of the boys they were talking about, and when they were talking about how they’d spent the summer, all they talked about was Southampton. When she’d tried to tell them about the two weeks she’d spent on Mustique, Caitlin Murphy had rolled her eyes.
“Nobody goes to Mustique anymore,” she’d said. “My mother says it’s nothing but Eurotrash and washed-up rock stars.” Laurie felt her face begin to burn and said nothing. But Caitlin hadn’t stopped there. “Why would anybody go there in the summer anyway?”
“My mom got married,” Laurie explained. “It was their honeymoon.”
“And they took
you
?” Caitlin asked. “That’s weird.”
That time, at least, Amber Blaisdell came to her rescue. “I think it’s nice,” she said. “I wish I could have gone along when my stepfather took my mother to Europe on their honeymoon.”
“Honeymoons are only for the bride and groom,” Caitlin pronounced, but she didn’t seem quite as sure of herself as she had a moment ago.
“Maybe the first time,” Amber said. “But if I had kids and got married again, I’d want to take my kids with me. And I wouldn’t marry a man who didn’t want them around.” She turned from Caitlin to Laurie. “What’s your stepfather like? What’s his name?”
“Tony Fleming.”
“So did he move in with you and your mom?”
Laurie shook her head. “We live on Central Park West now.” She hesitated a moment, then added three more words: “In The Rockwell.”
A silence fell over the group, and Laurie could see them all glancing at one another. It was Caitlin Murphy who finally spoke. “The Rockwell? You actually live there? How can you stand it?”
Laurie felt herself redden. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” she said.
Caitlin shuddered. “Yeah, right. Except that it’s supposed to be haunted, and there’s supposed to be all kinds of dead bodies buried in the basement, and everyone who lives in it is crazy.”
Laurie opened her mouth to argue with Caitlin, but before even a single word came out, the nightmare came flooding back, along with the memory of the voices she’d heard through the walls. But so what? She’d had bad dreams before, and in the old apartment they’d always been able to hear the people upstairs walking around. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” she finally said, but even as she spoke the words, she could hear the uncertainty in her own voice. “And nobody believes all those stories. Or do you really believe Rodney’s a troll who lives under a bridge in the park?”
Caitlin Murphy didn’t even look fazed. “Who’s Rodney?”
“The doorman,” Laurie told her. “Or didn’t anyone ever tell you that story?”
Caitlin Murphy’s eyes fixed coldly on Laurie. “You can say anything you want, but everybody knows it’s a weird building. My mom says it’s nothing but old people.”
“Old people aren’t ghosts,” Laurie shot back. “And anyway, Tony’s not old.”
“How old is he?” Caitlin demanded.
Suddenly Laurie wished she hadn’t sat down at this table. “Who even cares?” she asked.
“We all do,” Caitlin replied. “So what did your mother do? Marry a rich old man for his money? Is that how you got back in here?”
Laurie had had enough. Picking up her tray, she moved to another table—a table where no one else at all was sitting—and finished her lunch as quickly as she could. Then she went to the library for the rest of the hour, and made sure she didn’t sit close to any of her old friends in the afternoon. But as she was going down the steps after school, Amber was suddenly next to her. Laurie glanced at her, but didn’t say anything. Nor did she stop moving down the steps to the sidewalk, where she turned left toward the park.
Amber fell in beside her, even though she lived in the other direction, over on Riverside Drive.
They walked along in silence for a few minutes, and it was finally Amber who spoke. “I’m sorry about what happened in the cafeteria.”
“Who
is
that girl, anyway?” Laurie countered, not quite accepting the apology, but not rejecting it, either.
Amber shrugged. “She’s okay. I think she’s just jealous.”
Now Laurie stopped and looked at Amber. “Jealous? She didn’t act jealous—she just acted like she hated me. And she doesn’t even know me!”
“She knows we were best friends,” Amber replied. “And her mom got married for the fourth time last year, and they’re never home.”
“I thought they were all in
South
ampton all summer,” Laurie said, clenching her teeth the way snobby girls on television always did.
“Her mom was, but Caitlin only got to go for a couple of weekends.”
Laurie turned to stare at Amber. “You mean they leave her by herself?”
“There’s a maid and a cook. And a butler and a driver. It’s not like no one’s there at all.” She hesitated, then: “And her stepfather’s about eight hundred years old.”
Laurie stopped short. “You mean
her
mother got married for the money?”
“
I
didn’t say that,” Amber replied with exaggerated innocence.
“So how come you didn’t say anything at lunchtime?” Laurie demanded.
Suddenly Amber looked nervous, and glanced around as if she might be afraid someone was listening. “My dad wants me to be nice to her.” Now her voice dropped, and her face flushed slightly. “I think there’s some kind of deal or something. So I have to act like she’s my best friend.”
Laurie stared at her. “You’re kidding—he really told you to do that?” Amber nodded. “And your mom let him?” Amber nodded again. “My mom wouldn’t ever let Tony do that. But Tony wouldn’t do that anyway.” She hesitated. “You want to come over?”
Now it was Amber who hesitated. “I don’t know . . .”
“Why not? We’re friends, aren’t we?” There was a slight hesitation before Amber nodded, and as the two girls turned down Central Park West, Amber’s pace began to slow until finally she came to a complete stop at the corner where The Rockwell stood. “What’s wrong?” Laurie asked. “You’re not scared are you?”
Though she shook her head, all the stories she and Laurie and everyone else had heard when they were younger rose up in her mind as she gazed at the building’s darkly looming façade. But they were just stories—just stories they’d made up themselves! Why should she be feeling nervous? Then, from a window on the seventh floor, she saw someone waving. “Who’s that?” she asked.
“Rebecca Mayhew,” Laurie replied. “Want to meet her?”
Amber frowned. “How come she’s already home? Doesn’t she go to school?”
Laurie shook her head. “She’s sick. It’s not catching or anything. I think it’s like anemia, or something like that. She’s really nice. Come on—let’s go up and see her.” She started across the intersection, but then looked back when she realized Amber was no longer beside her. “Are you coming?”
Amber’s eyes were still fixed on the building.
They were just stories,
she told herself once again.
They weren’t true.
But even as she silently spoke the words to herself, a strange chill of apprehension ran through her and she turned away.
“Amber?” Laurie called out. “What’s wrong?”
Amber glanced back at Laurie but her eyes went involuntarily back to the building that rose behind her friend. Rebecca had vanished, but now there was another face, peering down at her out of another window, this one on the fifth floor.
It was a man, and even though Rebecca could hardly see him, there was something in the way he was looking at her that made the slight chill she’d felt a moment ago turn into a terrible cold dread.
I’ll die,
she thought.
If I go in there, I’ll die.
Without speaking another word to Laurie, she turned and fled back up Central Park West.
Detective Frank Oberholzer was leaning on the same buzzer at Andrea Costanza’s building that Nate Rosenberg had rung only a few hours earlier. But when Oberholzer identified himself, the super’s surly tone instantly changed. “Hey, I don’t want no trouble. I take good care of the building, and management’s got no problems with me,” he insisted in a voice that Oberholzer’s years of experience told him was that of someone who would start squealing the instant he was squeezed.
“So you got no problem with me talking to the management about your background check, right?”
The super’s pasty face lost a little of what color it had. “Jeez, what’d I ever do to you?”
“Not a thing,” Oberholzer assured him. “And all I’m asking is one tiny little favor. I just want a quick look inside Andrea Costanza’s apartment. What is it—one bedroom?”
“Studio,” the super said, and just the fact that he answered Oberholzer’s question told the detective he was ready to cave.
“So I can see it all from the door, right?”
“I guess.”
“So you open the door, I take a quick look, we don’t see nothing, you close the door, and that’s that, right?”
“What about the dog?” the super said. “If the dog gets out—”
“The dog won’t get out,” Oberholzer cut in. “So why don’t we get this over with, hunh? Sooner it’s done, sooner you get to forget I was ever here.”
Shrugging, the super led him to the elevator and punched the button for the fifth floor. “You ain’t gonna find nothin’,” he insisted. “I run a quiet building, and we ain’t got no problem. No rapes, no robberies, nothin’. Good people just tryin’ to mind their own business.”
The door slid open at the fifth floor, and the two men got out. A moment later the super was pressing the doorbell next to Andrea Costanza’s door, then knocking loudly. “See? What’d I tell you? Nobody home.”
Oberholzer ignored the super, listening carefully to a faint sound coming from the other side of the door.
A sound like a dog whimpering.
“So how come the dog’s crying instead of barking?”
Sighing heavily, the super put his master key in the lock, twisted it, and pushed open the door. Both men peered into the apartment.
“Oh, Jeez,” the super whispered. “Oh, Holy Jesus.”