Shadowkiller

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Do you mind hopping into the car for a few minutes, Allison? I have to run a quick errand.”

  “What?” She halts a few feet away, confused.

  “I was planning to swing by the store to pick up some wine and cheese and crackers on my way home,” Tammy explains, “but I got out late and I figured if I took even more time to stop, you might give up on me and leave.”

  “Oh—that’s okay. You don’t have to go to the store just for me. I can’t drink wine because I have to drive back, and anyway, it’s so warm out tonight I’m fine just with ice water. Really.”

  “Great, then we’ll buy a bag of ice, too,” Tammy says with a laugh. “I swear, I’m out of everything. Guess that’s what happens when you live alone.”

  So she isn’t married with children? For some reason, Allison finds that surprising. When they were kids, they always talked about what life would be like when they became wives and mothers. Granted, they were going to marry a boy band, but still . . .

  “Come on, we can start catching up on the way to the store. It’s just down the road.”

  “You really don’t have to buy anything for me. That’s sweet of you, but—”

  “Trust me, it’s not that sweet of me.” Tammy laughs again. “I’m dying of thirst, and I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I really want that cheese and crackers. Maybe some chocolate, too.” She waves Allison around to the passenger’s side.

  Okay, fine. She might as well ride along to the store. It’s better than waiting here alone in the driveway again. Anyway, it’ll probably be easier to launch their initial conversation in the dark, both of them facing forward, looking out into the night rather than at each other. Allison turns back to her own car to get her bag.

  “Wait, where are you going, Allison?” The urgency in Tammy’s voice stops her in her tracks.

  This is strange, isn’t it? The way Tammy showed up after she did and still hasn’t even gotten out of the car to say hello. The way she wants to rush right back out again, taking Allison with her . . .

  She always was impulsive, though.

  She was frequently late, too, Allison remembers. For school, and everything else. And a little scatterbrained. It would have been just like her to invite someone over without making sure she was equipped to play hostess.

  Allison’s misgivings subside and she tells Tammy, “I was just going to grab my wallet.”

  “You don’t need a wallet. Everything is on me. You’re my guest!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay—thanks.” Allison aims the key remote at the Lexus. She hears the locks click into place as she presses the button, and the horn gives two sharp chirps.

  “Come on,” Tammy calls again, then adds apologetically, “I don’t mean to rush you, but they’re going to close any minute now.”

  Climbing into the passenger’s seat of Tammy’s little car, she notices that the air-conditioning is off, and that the overhead light didn’t go on when she opened the door. She glances over, curious, still trying to get a good look at her old friend. Does she look the same? She doesn’t sound the same—but then, Allison wouldn’t expect her to. There’s definitely something familiar about her voice, yet she could swear that the girl she remembers had more of a Midwestern twang, and a higher-pitched voice . . .

  Of course she did. Because she was a young girl, remember?

  I bet I don’t look or sound anything like she was expecting, either.

  “Are you thirsty?” Tammy asks, holding out a bottle of Pepsi. “I bought it in the vending machine at work, but I meant to get Diet Pepsi and this is regular. I’m diabetic, so I can’t drink it.”

  “I never knew you were diabetic.”

  “I never knew it either back then. I found out a few years ago. Go ahead—you can have that. I only took one sip.”

  Realizing she is thirsty—who isn’t in this heat?—Allison accepts it and takes a long sip.

  Tammy puts the car into reverse. “Ready?”

  “Ready.” Allison sets the Pepsi in the cup holder and pulls on her seat belt.

  Tammy backs up quickly, then shifts into drive with an abrupt jerk. Startled by the recklessness of the move, Allison glances over at her.

  It’s too dark to see much of anything in the low light of the dashboard.

  Suddenly, Allison is uneasy again. As they speed off down the street, the hot night air blowing in the open window on the driver’s side, she presses a button on her phone, illuminating the rectangle of screen.

  “What are you doing, Allison?”

  “I was just going to text my husband and tell him we connected. He’s a little worried about me, and I promised I’d let him know when I got to your house.”

  “Here—let me see it.”

  “What?” She looks down at Tammy’s outstretched hand, bewildered.

  “Your phone. Can I see it for a second?”

  Not wanting to hand it over—foremost, because they’re careening along and Tammy shouldn’t be distracted behind the wheel—Allison shakes her head.

  “Just give it to me for a second. Come on—don’t be silly. I just want to show you something.”

  Is she being silly? Feeling like a middle school girl who thinks she just did something embarrassing, Allison puts the phone into Tammy’s hand—then watches, stunned, as, in one swift motion, she tosses it out the open window.

  “What are you doing?”

  Tammy laughs, a strange sound, mirthless and hard.

  Oh, God. Allison’s stomach turns, and she thinks about Mack. Mack, back at the hotel, so worried about her going out into the night alone.

  She reaches out, finding the door handle.

  “It’s locked,” Tammy tells her. “And I disabled the unlock switch on that side. But even if I hadn’t done that, you wouldn’t dare jump out of a moving car at seventy miles an hour, Allison, would you? You’re not stupid. You know you’d be killed.”

  Panicky, Allison turns to look behind her, into the backseat, wondering if those doors are locked, too.

  Her heart stops when she sees what’s lying across the backseat.

  A shovel.

  Dear God.

  She turns back to Tammy, trying to keep her voice calm. “What are you doing? Where are we going?”

  “We’re going someplace quiet where we can talk. It’s been such a long time, hasn’t it?”

  The truth dawns on her. “You’re not Tammy.”

  “I’m not? Do you recognize me, then?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Do you recognize me?” Holding the wheel with one hand, the woman reaches up and flips the dome switch with the other. She gives Allison a long, hard look.

  Allison gasps. “Oh my God.”

  It can’t be. It can’t be.

  She’s dead.

  But . . .

  “So you do know me.” With a satisfied smile, she flips off the light. “I thought you would.”

  This is impossible. Mack’s wife—his first wife, Carrie—died over ten years ago.

  Except, she’s sitting right here, driving and talking, both at breakneck speed. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? More than twenty-five years since that night. But I always thought you must remember me, deep down. Daddy always said that human beings are wired with far more knowledge and capability than most people ever tap into.”

  “What . . . what are you talking about?”

  Allison’s thoughts are whirling. Twenty-five years ago, she was just a little girl. She didn’t meet Carrie until ten, no, eleven years ago. Eleven years ago this month.

  Carrie . . . No. Carrie’s dead.

  But she’s not.

  “You remember that night, don’t you, Allison? You know . . . the night I came into your room. You were sleeping, but I woke you up, and I explained who I was. Don’t you remember? Remember how I introduced myself to you? Remember my name?”

  “What . . . what is it?” she asks in a whisper.

 
; “You mean, what was it?” She laughs. “Go ahead. Ask me. Ask me what it was.”

  Allison can’t find her voice.

  “ASK ME!”

  She manages to choke out, “What is—what was your name?”

  The answer isn’t the one she’s expecting.

  The answer isn’t Carrie.

  It’s . . .

  “Winona.”

  The ringing telephone startles Mack awake. He rolls over on the king-sized bed and fumbles for his BlackBerry on the nightstand. He notices the unfamiliar surroundings as he answers it, remembering that he’s in a hotel suite in Lincoln and Allison is . . .

  Out. Allison is out. Determined to stay awake until she got back, Mack had been lying, fully clothed, on the bed watching SportsCenter on ESPN, trying to catch the highlights on the Yankees game back home. He must have dozed off.

  “Hello?”

  The phone is still ringing; it’s not his BlackBerry, it’s the hotel room phone.

  In the portable crib beside the bed, J.J. stirs. One of the girls calls, “Daddy?” from the sofa bed in the next room.

  Mack snatches up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Hi . . . is this . . . I’m looking for Allison Taylor,” a female voice says. “I mean, Allison MacKenna.”

  “This is her husband.”

  “Oh! Hi! My name is Tammy Pratt, and I’m sorry to call so late, but I just got an e-mail from Allison about getting together while she’s in Lincoln. Is she there?”

  The words slam into Mack, knocking the wind out of him.

  “Isn’t . . . isn’t she with you?”

  “With me? No, I’m in Florida on vacation with my family. I can’t believe I’m going to miss seeing—”

  “Didn’t you send Allison an e-mail telling her to meet you at your house tonight?”

  “What? No!”

  Stunned, Mack clutches the phone hard against his ear, heart racing.

  If Tammy didn’t send it . . . then who did?

  And where the hell is Allison?

  “Daddy, can you drive me over to Carly’s house?” Lexi asks, appearing in the doorway of the master bedroom.

  How is it, Randi wonders, that the whole family walked in the door less than five minutes ago, yet her daughter has already changed her clothes? Fifteen-year-old Lexi has traded a tasteful black dress for a tank top and a pair of short shorts that bare too much tanned skin, while Ben hasn’t even finished loosening his tie and Randi, sitting on the edge of the bed, has only taken off one black dress shoe.

  “You want him to drive you to Carly’s right now when he just drove for three and a half hours?”

  “I was asking Daddy, Mom. Not you.”

  “I just drove for three and a half hours, Lex.” Ben opens the door to his walk-in closet.

  “Most of it wasn’t actual driving,” Lexi argues. “Most of it was sitting in traffic.”

  “Believe me, that’s worse.”

  Randi couldn’t agree more. She can think of only one thing more horrendous than the endless trip home from Long Island just now with Lexi and her ten-year-old brother, Josh, bickering in the backseat, and that would be the endless trip out there this morning for Great-Aunt Rhoda’s funeral.

  They had beach traffic and rush hour traffic all the way out, and Randi had been hoping to avoid it by heading home early. But after the service, the slow parade out to the cemetery, and the ceremonial tossing of dirt on the coffin, her cousin Mindy insisted that everyone come back to her house for, as she put it, “a little nosh.” That turned out to be a catered affair populated by every annoying relative in Randi’s family tree, with the exception of Great-Aunt Rhoda, now sadly mourned by a roomful of people who couldn’t stand her.

  Oy. Randi sinks backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  “Daddy . . . come on. I really want to see my friends.”

  “Lexi, stop begging.”

  “Please, Daddy?”

  “Why do you only call me Daddy when you want something?”

  “Please, Dad?”

  “That’s still begging.”

  Ben is softening, though. Randi can hear it in his voice.

  “It’s polite begging. You should be proud of me. All Mom’s crazy old relatives told me that I have nice manners.”

  “They also all told you that you look exactly like me,” Randi points out, “and you made a face every time.”

  “I did not.”

  “You sure did.”

  The telephone rings before Lexi can reply—most likely with another I did not.

  “That’s Carly, wondering where I am.” She reaches for the receiver on the bedside table. “I’ll tell her I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “Lexi—”

  “Mom, come on. Admit it. You guys don’t want to hang out with me tonight any more than I want to hang out with you. We’ve all had too much togetherness.” She grabs the phone. “Hello?”

  “Charming,” Randi mutters, shaking her head.

  Ben grins at her. “I’ll run her over to Carly’s and then—”

  “Phone’s for you.” Lexi thrusts the receiver at Randi and heads for the door, her long black hair swaying behind her. “I’ll call Carly from my cell.”

  With a sigh, Randi lifts the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Weber? This is Rocco Manzillo—we met last fall. I was the detective who—”

  “I remember.” She sits up quickly.

  “I’m trying to reach the MacKennas. Do you know where they are?”

  “They’re . . . away.” She was about to tell him they’re in Nebraska, but thought better of it. How does she know this is really Detective Manzillo? It might be some kind of crazy stalker. He wouldn’t be the first to come after Allison and Mack.

  “Can you put me in touch with them?”

  “I can call them on their cell phones and tell them to—”

  “I tried their cells. The numbers are disconnected.”

  That’s right. Both Allison and Mack changed them in the midst of all the media commotion last November. Randi has the new numbers, of course, along with contact information for Allison’s brother, Brett. But she’s not going to share that part with Detective Manzillo just yet.

  “I’ll get in touch with them for you,” she tells him. “What do you want me to say?”

  He hesitates. “Tell them that they might be in danger, and they need to call me right away.”

  “I told you . . . I don’t know the address of the house! Whoever sent it texted it to my wife’s phone, and she took her phone with her when she left, and now she’s not answering!” Mack runs a frustrated hand over his dark hair.

  “I understand that, sir. I’m just trying to make sure I have all the details straight here. Why don’t you just take a deep breath while I write this down . . .”

  Mack doesn’t want to take a deep breath. Locked in the bathroom of the suite, clutching his cell phone against his ear, he’s just about had it with this conversation with a Nebraska cop whose patience, under any other scenario, would be exemplary. Right now, Mack wishes he could throw the guy up against a wall. Slow and steady don’t always win the race. Not when your wife’s life might be at stake.

  Somehow, someone posing as Allison’s old friend Tammy intercepted the e-mail she’d sent and lured her . . . God only knows where.

  If only Mack hadn’t been too caught up in his BlackBerry, when that text came through, to ask her exactly where she was going. If only he’d gone with her . . .

  But of course, he couldn’t have done that. Not with three sleeping children on his hands.

  Forced to call the police instead of racing down there in person, he doesn’t want the kids to overhear him freaking out, because then they’ll freak out, and maybe—just maybe—there’s no reason for panic.

  Mack’s phone beeps, indicating that another call is coming in.

  “Officer, hang on!” he shouts, seeing that the call is coming from a private number. He puts the police on hol
d and answers with a breathless hello.

  “Mr. MacKenna? This is Rocco Manzillo. Do you remember me?”

  Of course he does. Detective Manzillo. Finally, someone who knows how to get something done.

  Blindly willing to accept the call as providence, rather than pausing to wonder how the detective knew to call now, Mack blurts, “Allison’s missing! Please—you have to help us.”

  “Missing?” There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Okay, just tell me what happened . . .”

  Mack does, in a rush, pacing the bathroom like a caged animal, trying to remember as many details as he can. Unlike the Nebraska cop holding on the other line, Detective Manzillo doesn’t keep stopping him and making him back up.

  He just listens until Mack runs out of story with a helpless “ . . . and then I called the cops.”

  “So you have no idea who this woman might have been?” Manzillo asks. “The one who sent the e-mail and the text?”

  “No. I just know that it wasn’t Allison’s friend Tammy, because she’s in Florida. At least, that’s what she says.”

  Mack sinks down onto the edge of the tub in despair, not sure what—or whom—to believe.

  The seat of his shorts is instantly dampened by water Allison splashed over the edge when she took her bath before going out. The bathroom still smells like her perfume, and the shorts and T-shirt she’d worn for the last couple of days are tossed in a corner.

  She’d been wearing a pretty blue and white print skirt when she left, a navy sleeveless top, and sandals that were black or dark blue leather. He’d described the outfit to the Nebraska cop, who had asked.

  Rocky Manzillo has not.

  Why, Mack suddenly wonders, is he calling? How is he calling? This is a new number.

  “How did you get this number?” he asks abruptly, thinking of Allison’s phone, wondering if she might have tried to call Manzillo for help—

  But that doesn’t make sense, because if Allison needed help, she’d call Mack.

  And if Allison, alone and desperate, needed help—that kind of help—that phone would be a lifeline she wouldn’t let go.

  No. I can’t even think about it.

  “I got the number from Randi Weber. I called her because I couldn’t reach you at home. I don’t know how to tell you this, Mr. MacKenna . . .”