Nighttime Is My Time

last name was Irish and began with a K. Kelly… Kennedy… Keegan… It will come to me, I know it will, she thought.

It was a beginning.

The sharp ring of her cell phone made her jump. She glanced at the clock as she picked it up. It was almost eleven. Laura, she thought. Maybe she's come back.

Sam's message that Laura had called the desk clerk should have been reassuring, but Jean heard the concern in his voice. 'You're not sure that she's all right, are you?' she asked.

'Not yet, but at least she did call.'

Which means that she's still alive, Jean thought. That's what he's saying. She chose her words carefully. 'Do you think that for some reason Laura may not be able to come back here?'

'Jean, I meant for this call to reassure you about Laura, but I guess I'd better level with you. The fact is that two people who heard the call have confirmed that she sounded distressed. Laura and you are the only two lunch table girls still alive. Until we know exactly where she is and who she's with, you've got to be very, very careful.'

40

She knew he was going to kill her. It was only a question of when. Incredibly, after he left, she had fallen asleep. Light was flickering through the closed blinds, so it must be morning. Is it Monday or Tuesday? Laura wondered as she tried not to become fully awake.

Saturday night when they'd gotten here, he had poured champagne for them and toasted her. Then he'd said, 'Halloween is coming soon. Want to see the mask I bought?'

He was wearing the face of an owl, each enlarged eye with a wide black pupil set in a sickly yellow iris, and edged with tufts of grayish down that darkened into deep brown around the pointed beak and narrow mouth. I laughed, Laura remembered, because I thought that was what he was expecting. But I could sense then that something had happened to him-he had changed. Even before he took off the mask and grabbed my hands, I knew I was trapped.

He dragged her upstairs, tied her wrists and her ankles together, and covered her mouth with a gag, being careful to leave it loose enough to be sure she didn't choke. Then he tied a rope across her waist and fastened it to the frame of the bed. 'Did you ever read Mommie Dearest?' he'd asked. 'Joan Crawford used to tie her kids to the bed to make sure they didn't get up at night. She called it 'safe sleep.' '

Then he'd made her begin to recite the line about the owl in the tree, the line from that grade school play. Over and over again he made her say it, and then he made her imitate the girls at the lunch table, laughing at him. And each time, she could see the murderous anger building in his eyes. 'You all laughed at me,' he said. 'I despise you, Laura. The sight of you revolts me.'

When he left her, he deliberately put his cell phone on the top of the dresser. 'Just think, Laura. If you could reach this phone, you could call for help. But don't do it. The cords will tighten if you try to open them. Take my word for it.'

She had tried anyway, and now her wrists and ankles were throbbing with pain. Her mouth was parched. Laura tried to moisten her lips. Her tongue touched the rough cloth of the sock he had taped over her mouth, and she felt bile rise in her throat. If she got sick, she would choke. Oh, God, please help me, she thought, panicking as she fought back the wave of nausea.

The first time he reappeared, there was some light in the room. It must have been Sunday afternoon, she figured. He untied my wrists and gave me soup and a roll. And he let me go to the bathroom. Then he came back a long time later. It was so dark, it must have been night. That was when he had me make the phone call. Why is he doing this to me? Why doesn't he just kill me and get it over with?

Her head was clearing. As she tried to move her wrists and ankles, the dull throbbing became intense pain. Saturday night. Sunday morning. Sunday night. It had to be Monday morning now. She stared at the cell phone. There was no way she could reach it. If he let her call anyone again, should she try to shout his name?

She could imagine the pillow muffling the sound before it escaped her throat, imagine the pillow pressing over her nostrils and mouth, choking life from her. I can't, Laura thought. I can't. Maybe if I don't upset him, someone will realize that I may be in trouble and try to find me. They can trace calls from cell phones. I know they can. They can find out who owns his phone.

That hope was the only chance she had, but it gave her the faintest trickle of relief. Jean, she thought. He intends to kill her, too. They say people can project thoughts. I'm going to try to send mine to Jean. She closed her eyes and imagined Jean as she had looked at the dinner, dressed in her royal blue evening gown. Moving her lips under the tape, she began to say his name aloud. 'J^ean, I'm with him. He killed the other girls. He's going to kill us. Help me, Jean. I'm in my old house. Find me, Jean!' Over and over she whispered his name.

'I forbade you to use my name.'

She had not heard him come back. Even with the gag over her mouth, Laura's scream broke the silence of the room that had been hers for the first sixteen years of her life.

41

Monday morning, around dawn, Jean finally drifted off into a heavy but fitful sleep in which vague, undefined dreams of urgency and helplessness pulled her to momentary consciousness. But when she became fully awake, she was shocked to see that it was almost nine-thirty.

She considered ordering room service, then vetoed the idea of having even a continental breakfast in this room. It felt cramped and depressing, and the gloomy colors of the walls, bedspread, and window drapery made her long for her comfortable home in Alexandria. Ten years ago, in an estate sale, she had bought a seventy-year-old Federal-style, two-story house that had been owned by the same recluse for forty years. It had been dirty and neglected and cluttered, but she had fallen in love with it. Her friends had tried to dissuade her, saying such an undertaking was a bottomless pit of financial woes, but now they confessed that they'd been wrong.

Beyond mouse droppings, peeling wallpaper, the soiled carpet, dripping sinks, and the filthy stove and refrigerator, she had seen the high ceilings, oversized windows, and generous rooms, and the spectacular view of the Potomac that was then obscured by overgrown trees.

She'd gone for broke, buying the house and having the roof replaced. After that she had done the minor repairs herself, scrubbing and painting and wallpapering. She'd even sanded the parquet floors that had been an unexpected bonus, discovered when she pulled up the ragged carpet.

Working on the house was therapeutic for me, Jean thought as she showered, washed her hair, and toweled it dry. It was the place I dreamed of living in when I was growing up. Her mother had been allergic to flowers and plants. With an unconscious smile, she thought of the conservatory off her kitchen where every day fresh flowers bloomed.

The colors she had used throughout the house were those that to her meant cheer and warmth: yellows and blues and greens and reds. Not a single beige wall, her friends joked. The advance on her last contract had made it possible for her to panel her library and office as well as remodel the kitchen and bathrooms. Her home was her haven, her retreat, her sense of accomplishment. Because it was not far from Mount Vernon, she had jokingly named it Mount Vernon, Jr.

Being here in this hotel, even totally aside from her need to find Lily, had brought back the painful memory of all the years she had lived in Cornwall. It had made her feel once again like the girl whose father and mother were the joke of the town.

It made her remember how it felt to be desperately in love with Reed and then have to hide the grief of his death from everyone. All these years I've wondered if I made a mistake in giving up Lily, she thought. Coming back here, I'm beginning to understand that without my parents helping me, it would have been just about impossible to keep her and care for her properly.