Perfect Nightmare

by John Saul

  If he was lucky. If he was unlucky, the chief himself would have come down to watch.

  Shit.

  He took a last gulp of the mud in his coffee cup, grabbed his legal pad, and stood up to go deal with the press, which until today had never been more than old Marguerite Gould, who delighted in making public every minor disturbance Smithton and Camden Green and every other town on the north shore ever experienced, even if it was only a dog running loose in the park. Tonight, Marguerite probably wouldn’t even be able to get a question in edgewise.

  Billy Ferguson poked his head around the corner.

  “Sarge?”

  “I’ve got a briefing.”

  “I know,” the patrolman said, “but look at this here.” He held out the guest book from the Butler open house. “Mark Acton—you know, the agent who held the Marshall open house?”

  Grant’s attention was instantly riveted on the kid. “Yeah?”

  “He was at the Butler open house.”

  Goose bumps rose on Grant’s arms. Acton was a real weasel. “Was he at the Fine open house?”

  The patrolman shrugged. “I don’t know. If he was, he didn’t sign the book.”

  Grant’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened into a hard smile. “Go get him.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young man’s face disappeared.

  Feeling better now, Grant shrugged into his jacket, smoothed his hair, and picked up his yellow pad. Now, at least, he had a real suspect.

  Mark Acton—a guy who had given him a bad feeling the moment he met him. And if there was one thing he’d learned over all the years he’d been a cop, it was this:

  Always trust your feelings.

  The light woke Ellen. That and a moan from Shannon, the first sounds she’d heard from the girl.

  He was back.

  Ellen’s heart began to hammer in her chest again. How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? Not days, but how could she know, really? Not that it mattered. The only thing that mattered now was to keep her mind clear and stick to the plan.

  Whatever happened, she had to stick to the plan and pray that Lindsay had not only understood, but had the strength and the will to go along with it, too.

  Banishing the last tendrils of sleep that clung to her mind, and ignoring the knot of fear forming in her belly, she sat up on her mattress, tucked her legs beneath her and leaned on one arm, trying to make herself look as relaxed as if she were lounging on a picnic blanket. The wound in her leg shot a stab of pain through her as she dragged it across the coarse mattress, but she stifled the scream that rose in her throat as the light from the trapdoor opening illuminated the man in silhouette. Then it went dark again for a moment, until he turned on a beam of light. She squinted into it as he came down the stairs and moved toward the dark chamber. As he approached, she spoke.

  “Is that you, honey?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t sound as artificially bright to him as it did to her. “How was your day?”

  The man stopped in mid-stride and turned to her, his grotesque mask smiling at her even in the indirect illumination of his flashlight.

  “Did you bring something I can make for dinner? I haven’t had a chance to get to the store, and the girls are hungry.”

  The man reached into the darkness, and a moment later the dungeon was flooded with light from a naked bulb overhead. Now Ellen could see the madness in his eyes. “Be quiet,” he said, but she thought she heard a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

  “Don’t be like that, sweetheart. The children need to be fed. That’s why they haven’t been happy the last few days.”

  Suddenly the man’s eyes were blazing. “Stop that. Stop that! You’re ruining everything!”

  “Daddy?” Lindsay’s voice sounded so tiny, Ellen almost didn’t hear it at all.

  The man wheeled around, but instead of unshackling Lindsay, he went to Shannon, undid her chains, then picked her up and walked through the door into the tunnel.

  “He didn’t tape her mouth,” Lindsay whispered.

  “Maybe he doesn’t think he has to,” Ellen whispered back. “And maybe he’s right—maybe she can’t speak anymore.”

  A moment later he was back, leaning over Lindsay.

  Ellen heard her whisper something to him, then he unlocked the shackles from her wrists and jerked her to her feet. As he guided her toward the mouth of the tunnel, she made no move to resist.

  Was Lindsay going along with her plan, or had her will finally given out?

  When he came back again, Ellen smiled up at him, but just as she started to say something, he slapped her hard, then muffled her yelp with a hand clamped over her mouth, pressing so hard that when she opened it to sink her teeth into his palm, they sank into her own lips instead. As the taste of blood filled her mouth, he pressed a length of duct tape across her lips. Doing her best not to react against the slap and the stinging of her cut lip, Ellen forced herself not to resist as he put a noose around her neck. Only after he’d tightened it did he loosen her chains. When she was free, though, he yanked on the rope, clearly irritated.

  Giving no sign that anything extraordinary was happening, Ellen got to her feet, forced herself to ignore the agony in her leg, and walked alongside him through the tunnel.

  The two girls sat at the little table, their hands and legs tied as usual, but for a change they did not have tape on their mouths.

  Lindsay’s eyes met Ellen’s for an instant before fixing on their captor. “Don’t tie up Mommy,” she said, her voice perfectly even. “I need her to brush my hair.”

  Ellen offered a silent prayer of thanks as Lindsay actually managed to smile while speaking the last words.

  The man gazed first at Lindsay, then at her, and Ellen felt a tiny flicker of hope. But then he shook his head, and she knew she hadn’t managed to act as convincingly as Lindsay. “She’s not here for you,” he said, the softness of his voice somehow increasing its menace. “She’s here for me, like she always should have been!” He pushed her down hard in the same tiny chair she’d occupied earlier, taping her legs to those of the chair. Just as he was finishing, a barely audible voice drifted across the table, and Ellen’s pulse was suddenly racing.

  “I love you, Daddy,” Shannon whispered.

  The flame of hope that had all but died inside Ellen a moment ago suddenly brightened. Shannon wasn’t unconscious, and she’d heard, and understood, and was playing along!

  But then the man cried, “Don’t call me that!” Crouching low so his face was almost touching Shannon's, his voice shook with fury. “I’m not your father! Don’t you dare call me ‘Daddy'!” He glowered at Ellen. “Why don’t you do what you’re supposed to do? Why don’t you ever do it?”

  Ellen shrank back as he came around to her, pulled a red marking pen from his pocket, grabbed her hair and jerked her head back. She felt the pen moving over the tape that covered her mouth, and a moment later he roughly released her hair. “There! Mommy looks the way she always looks, no matter what might be happening. Keep smiling, Mommy! Just keep smiling, and act like everything’s just fine!”

  Ellen nodded again, but now he seemed to have lost interest in her, moving around to Lindsay and gently stroking her hair. “You want me to brush your hair?” he whispered. He stroked Lindsay’s head one more time, then ran his fingers down Lindsay’s cheek, and Ellen could see the girl trying not to cringe as his whisper turned to a snarl. “Or is this what you want me to do?” His eyes fixed on Ellen once more. “You never saw, did you? But this time you’ll see! This time I’ll make you see!”

  Ellen froze, certain that any reaction she might show would only make things worse.

  “She’s so beautiful,” the man said, his fingers trailing down her neck and her shoulder. “At least on the outside.”

  “Daddy?” Lindsay whispered.

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “I—I’m sorry,” Lindsay stammered. “I just want you to love me as much as I love you.”

  The man’s eyes fairly
glittered. “Love?” he asked, his voice dropping once more to that menacing whisper. “Is that what you thought? Is that why you always smiled?”

  Lindsay nodded, apparently oblivious to the danger in his voice. “Don’t you want me to love you now?”

  Ellen froze. What was Lindsay saying?

  Then Shannon spoke. “Me, too,” she said.

  Don’t, Ellen silently commanded. Figure out a way to make him untie me. But don’t do this! Don’t!

  The man was gazing at the girls through glazed eyes.

  “We love you,” Lindsay said, her voice taking on a seductive tone that utterly belied her age. “Won’t you let us show you how much?” Now her voice dropped to an enticing whisper. “Please?”

  The man produced a knife from his pocket—the same rusty, bloodstained knife he’d used on Ellen’s leg earlier, and slit the tape on Shannon’s legs and arms. Then he helped her to her feet.

  Though she was so weak she could barely hold her head up, Shannon reached out toward Lindsay. “Her, too,” she whispered. “We both love you . . . both of us. . . .”

  The man’s eyes gleamed. “Yes,” he said. “It’s time you showed Mommy how much you love me, isn’t it?” He turned to Lindsay, but before he could cut the tape that bound her, Ellen saw Shannon’s body tense, and in that instant she knew what Shannon was going to do.

  No, she silently pleaded, again trying to reach out to Shannon with her mind, but knowing it was useless. Wait until Lindsay is loose! But it was already too late. Before even one of Lindsay’s limbs was free, Shannon mustered what little strength she still had and struck out at the man, her foot catching his groin.

  He doubled over and fell to his knees, and now both Lindsay and Ellen were struggling against their bindings.

  Shannon threw herself onto the man and started to pull his ski mask off, but the surgical mask tied over it held it just long enough. Enraged by the attack, he lurched to his feet and slammed his back into Shannon, crushing her to the wall. Ellen heard a gasp as air exploded from the girl’s lungs. Shannon’s grip loosened and their captor shook her off, letting her fall to the floor in a broken heap.

  “Your fault,” the man rasped, wheeling to glower at Ellen once more. “See what they did? And they call it ‘love.’ But it’s not love! It’s not!” As Lindsay Marshall screamed, his foot lashed out at Shannon, smashing into her ribs. Then, as Lindsay screamed even louder, he drew his foot back and struck again, this time crashing his boot into Shannon’s head so hard her neck snapped.

  As Shannon lay still on the floor, and Lindsay’s screams gave way to choking sobs, he loomed over Ellen again, breathing hard, his eyes glinting with fury. “Your fault,” he whispered. “All your fault.” He leaned closer, and terror gripped her. Emily, Emily, Emily. I’m going to die, and I can’t even say good-bye to my baby. “You failed! You! You didn’t do the only thing you were supposed to do!” He jerked furiously on the noose around her neck, and she felt her breath cut off and her eyes bulging.

  The light in the room began to fade.

  Then, from above her, there was a howl of anguish, and abruptly the tension on the rope was gone.

  “I hate you,” the man whispered. “I hate you all, and I never want to play with you again!”

  He vanished down the steps that led to the tunnel. Ellen coughed through her taped-up mouth, choking, trying desperately to fill her lungs with air. It took almost a full minute, breathing heavily through her nose, until the red globes cleared from her vision and her panic began to subside. She looked up then and met Lindsay’s eyes across the table.

  Neither of them dared look down at Shannon. What have I done? Ellen thought. Dear God, what have I done?

  Chapter Forty-six

  Kara sat immobilized at her desk in the morning light, a mug of tea going cold next to her. Spread before her were all her lists of things to do, of people to call. There were stacks of flyers with Lindsay’s glowing face on them, a file folder full of life insurance papers, and a fat folder with unpaid bills.

  All of it needed her attention. But instead of doing anything, she just sat there, staring dumbly at the mess, not even finding the will to pick up her mug of tea, let alone deal with everything that had to be dealt with.

  But she had to deal with it.

  All of it.

  The checks had to be written, and the policies had to be gone through, and the flyers had to be distributed. She knew that. A thousand people had told her so.

  Life had to go on.

  She knew that, too.

  She picked up a pen and looked at the desk, trying to decide where to start.

  But all she could think of was the dream she’d had last night.

  And it had been a dream. It had to have been a dream.

  She dropped the pen in the middle of the desk and put her face in her hands.

  It hadn’t been a dream. She’d heard Lindsay’s scream of terror as clearly as if Lindsay had been in the next room. In fact, she had shot out of bed, out the bedroom door, and into Lindsay’s room before she was awake enough to remember that Lindsay was no longer there.

  But the scream had been so real. It reverberated in the walls of the bedroom, and as she listened to it, she’d known.

  Lindsay was alive and she was in trouble. Trouble so frightening that she was screaming in terror, screaming for her life, screaming for her mother.

  And here she sat, at her desk, with her head in her hands.

  She felt beyond despair—beyond desperation.

  Almost—but not quite—beyond hope.

  Nobody was going to believe that she’d heard Lindsay scream in the night. They’d call it a dream, and a mother’s dream was not going to motivate any law enforcement officer to ramp up the search.

  But it hadn’t been a dream.

  Her first impulse had been to call Patrick. He would understand. He would be able to help her. But it was the middle of the night, and Kara knew she had to learn to stand on her own. Patrick had been a wonderful help, but he couldn’t hold her hand every minute of every day.

  She had to start getting through the days and nights by herself, starting with this one.

  If she took the day one hour at a time, she could get through it.

  She looked at the clock on the desk and set herself a goal: in the next sixty minutes, she would write checks for the most urgent bills, shower, get dressed, and have something to eat.

  While she was eating, she would plan the next hour.

  Only when those two hours were gone would she plan the next.

  And if she made it successfully through the day, as a reward she’d call Patrick and report her progress. Just the thought of his understanding eyes and warm smile gave her strength.

  She picked up the pen, desperately trying to ignore the echo of Lindsay’s scream still reverberating in her head, and opened her checkbook.

  The doorbell rang even before she could look at the balance.

  Her heart caught in her throat.

  News! It had to be news!

  With her bathrobe flapping about her legs, Kara ran down the stairs and threw open the door, certain it would be Sergeant Grant.

  Instead, a somber-faced man in a dark suit stood on the porch with a package; in front of the house she saw a black Lincoln Town Car. A chill came over her as she realized what the package was. She signed the form the man offered her, took the box, and retreated back into the house.

  The chill tightening its grip on her, Kara pulled off the brown paper wrapping, and the stabbing pain in her chest took her breath away as her suspicions about the package were confirmed.

  Stamped in red all over the box were the words HUMAN REMAINS.

  SUMMERS FUNERAL HOME was printed at the top of the label.

  Steve’s ashes.

  Dear God.

  Kara’s knees weakened and she sank to a dining room chair. In her head, she could hear herself screaming right along with Lindsay.

  On the table in front of her, next to
the box, was the cordless phone.

  With a trembling hand, she picked it up and dialed Patrick.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  “Good Lord,” Patrick Shields breathed as he gazed at the box that still sat on Kara’s dining room table. “They actually made you sign for it?”

  She nodded as a sigh of both exhaustion and relief escaped her lips. Though it changed nothing, just having Patrick in the house was making her feel a little better.

  “Unbelievable,” Patrick went on, his eyes—always so warm and comforting before—now darkening with anger. “I gave them strict instructions. I don’t see how I could have been any clearer. I told them—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you told them,” Kara broke in. “And that’s not why I called you anyway. It’s just—it’s just everything, Patrick!” Hesitantly at first, but then speaking faster and faster, until her words were pouring out in a torrent that reflected every emotion she was feeling, Kara told him what had happened since he’d brought her back to the house yesterday. “I just don’t think I can do it,” she said when she finally ran out of steam, both verbally and emotionally. “I don’t think I can handle any of it. And the thought of tonight—” Her voice broke as she choked on the last word, and she shook her head in helplessness. Patrick gently placed his hands on her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.

  “I know exactly how you’re feeling,” he told her, now without the tiniest vestige of anger in his voice or his eyes. “Oh, Lord, do I know. So the first thing we’re going to do is simple. I’m going to take you back to Claire's.”

  Kara shook her head again, but this time there was nothing helpless in the gesture. “Not Claire's,” she replied, a little too quickly. “It’s not that she hasn’t been wonderful to me—she has. But—oh, I don’t know. It’s like she’s handling me with kid gloves or something. As if she's—”

  “Afraid you’ll break,” Patrick finished for her, speaking exactly the words she’d been about to utter. “I know what that’s like. I got the same thing to the point where sometimes I just wanted to smack her!” His lips compressed into a grim smile. “And it’s not just her, either—it’s everyone. But what can you say? It’s not like they don’t mean well. It’s just that they don’t have any idea what you’re going through.”