Shadowkiller

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  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.

  After 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.

  They did the same thing for Allison on Mother’s Day, and she spent a good part of that afternoon scrubbing sticky maple syrup from every surface in the kitchen, including the narrow space between the stove and cabinets, and trying to figure out why the garbage disposal was clogged. (Tea bags—with strings attached—and banana peels.)

  Tomorrow morning, she’d better be up bright and early to help the girls prepare their planned menu for Mack, which is top secret but probably involves the broiler, since Hudson wrote “bakin” on the grocery list a few days ago, trying to disguise her kindergarten handwriting for Allison’s.

  About to log off the computer after all, she notices that the mailbox icon on her desktop indicates new mail. Clicking on the box, she sees that it’s from brettandcindylou@gmail.com. Her brother and sister-in-law share an account, so it could be from either of them.

  She clicks on the message.

  Dear Allison, it begins, below a typed dateline, and she smiles. Cindy-Lou always composes her e-mails like formal letters.

  How is your weekend going? Fine, I hope. Ours is fine, too.

  Brett and I are so excited that you will be coming here in July! Which day are you planning to arrive? It’s such a long drive from New York and I don’t know if you’ll feel like getting back into the car after you get here, but we are trying to plan some things to do while you are around. I know you haven’t been back to Nebraska since you left, but not all that much has changed—for better or for worse! Since there’s nothing much to do close by, check out these links to some of the sights that are within a couple of hours’ drive from here and tell me what you think.

  There are several links—to a farm equipment museum, a local arts festival, and of course, the county fair. Beneath them, Cindy has signed off with:

  Sincerely,

  Cindy-Lou Downing

  Downing is Brett’s last name—the one their mother grew up with. Allison wonders, not for the first time, whether her own father ever considered adopting him. Maybe she’ll ask Brett about it when she sees him.

  Or maybe she won’t ask him about anything tied to the past. Maybe she doesn’t want to know, even now.

  Then why are you wondering about it at all?

  Who are you kidding?

  You’re not just going back to Nebraska to see Brett, and you might as well admit it, if only to yourself.

  One of the Web site links Cindy-Lou sent is to a doll museum not far from Centerfield. If it had been there when Allison was growing up, no one ever mentioned it or thought to take her there.

  She types a quick response to Cindy-Lou.

  If the drive goes as planned, we’ll be getting to the farm on July 3. Thanks for the info. The girls would love the doll museum.

  She hesitates, then deletes the last line.

  After a moment, she retypes it.

  Then she deletes it again, replacing it with, How about if we just take it day by day when we get there?

  She hits send before she can change her mind, then closes her laptop and goes up to bed.

  Nebraska.

  Carrie stares at the intercepted e-mail, stunned.

  Of all the cosmic signs that have come her way, this is the greatest of all. Greater, even, than Mack’s name being Mack.

  It can’t be pure coincidence that Allison is going back to Nebraska, where it all began—and that Carrie got here in time to follow her out there.

  Well, perhaps not literally follow her.

  Remembering how complicated it was—and how long it took—to make her way north from Florida, Carrie realizes she doesn’t have time to do the same thing all the way to the Great Plains. A road trip is out of the question.

  But if Allison is going to be in Nebraska by July 3, then . . .

  So am I.

  She’ll have to fly.

  That means she’ll need a new identity right away. Luckily, she’s done her homework—again. She knows just where to go for a fake driver’s license and credit card—advertised, on an illicit Web site, as being guaranteed to get her a plane ticket on any airline, and past the TSA at any airport.

  Chances are that there are no direct flights to Omaha. That’s okay. She’d be better off flying between major cities with crowded airports. Any of the three in metropolitan New York will do, and she’ll fly into Denver, maybe, or Minneapolis, Kansas City . . . Anyplace that will land her close, but not too close, to Nebraska.

  Yes. It’s a good plan.

  Of course, there’s always a chance that the fake identity won’t work with all the new regulations. But this is one time Carrie’s willing to take a risk. If she gets caught, they’ll find out everything she’s done and she’ll probably spend the rest of her life in prison.

  But if she doesn’t . . .

  She’ll be free at last. Free of the nightmares and the memories; free of the burden of guilt she’s been carrying around for years.

  Out there by the driveway earlier, seeing Allison again, hearing her easy laughter—
that, for Carrie, was the turning point.

  Yes, meeting Allison in Nebraska will be an incredibly perfect, full-circle ending to a journey whose purpose didn’t become clear until tonight.

  Gone is any naïve illusion that the two of them might actually connect on some level, perhaps build a relationship to replace all the ones that had shattered in the past.

  No, Allison stole everything that ever mattered to Carrie—including Mack.

  He was supposed to have been Carrie’s ticket to normalcy. Together, they should have had everything—could have had everything. A happy marriage, a beautiful home, children . . .

  A life. A happy, normal life . . .

  The kind of life he now has with Allison.

  It’s time she learned that nothing—not even happiness—comes without a price.

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday, June 30, 2012

  “All set, Al?”

  She turns to see Mack in the doorway of the master bedroom and quickly tosses the last few pillows on the just-made bed. “Yes. Are they still sleeping?”

  “Still sleeping.”

  “Even Hudson?”

  “Even Hudson.”

  Their seven year-old has been more excited than anyone about the road trip to Nebraska—so excited that when Allison tucked her into bed last night, she thought she’d never get to sleep.

  Indeed, Hudson was still awake at eleven o’clock when Allison checked on her. She was in bed, but with a flashlight and the map of the United States that she’d marked with a highlighter to trace the cross-country route they’re planning to take.

  “Are you sure we can’t stop in Chicago, Mommy?” she asked. “It’s only about thirty miles out of the way.”

  “Not this trip,” Allison told her yet again. “We want to spend as much time as we can with Uncle Brett, and we’re already wasting six whole days of Daddy’s vacation on the road.”

  “Wasting?”

  “Not wasting,” Allison told her apologetically. “The drive is going to be really fun. You’ll see.”

  Fun . . . but long.

  “Get some sleep,” she told Hudson, taking away the flashlight and the map.