Sam knew it was too soon for the investigator assigned to surveillance on Fleischman to have arrived. "Why don't you wait a little while and see if she shows up," he suggested. "The odds are that driving around, you'll miss her."

"I don't intend to sit around and do nothing when I'm worried about her," Fleischman said abruptly. He handed Sam his card. "I'd very much appreciate it if you'd let me know when you hear from her."

He walked swiftly through the lobby toward the entrance of the hotel. Sam watched him go, conflicted in his reaction to the man. I wonder if you took any drama medals at Stonecroft, he thought. Either you're on the level, or you're one hell of a good actor, because outwardly you appear just as worried about Jean Sheridan as I am.

Sam's eyes narrowed as he watched Fleischman swiftly depart through the front door. I'll give it a little while longer, he thought. She may just be out for a walk.

81

The chair he had tied her to was against the wall, next to the window, and facing the bed. There was something about the room that was familiar. With growing horror and the sense of being in the midst of a nightmare, Jean strained to hear Laura's muffled outpourings. She mumbled almost constantly and seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness as she tried to talk through the gag that gave her voice an eerie, throaty tone. The result was a sound that was almost a growl.

She never used his name. "The Owl" was how she referred to him. Sometimes she would recite his line from that second-grade play: "I am an owl, and I live in a tree." Then she would suddenly lapse into a disquieting silence, and only an occasional shuddering sigh told Jean that Laura was still breathing.

Lily. Laura had said that he was going to kill Lily. But she was safe. Surely she was. Craig Michaelson had promised her that Lily was safe. Was Laura delusional? She must have been here since at least Saturday night. She keeps saying that she's hungry. Hasn't he fed her? She must have had something to eat.

Oh, my God, Jean thought as she remembered Duke, the counterman at the deli-coffee shop at the bottom of the hill. He had told her about a man from the reunion who stopped in regularly to pick up food-Duke was talking about him!

She twisted her hands in an effort to see if she could pull the cords apart, but they were too tight. Was it possible that he had killed Karen Sommers in this same room? Was it possible that he had deliberately run over Reed at West Point? Had he killed Catherine and Cindy and Debra and Gloria and Alison, as well as those two women in this area who were murdered this week? I saw him drive into the hotel parking lot early Saturday morning, Jean thought, with his headlights turned off. Maybe if I had told Sam about that, he would have investigated him, stopped him.

My cell phone is in his car, Jean thought. If he finds it, he'll throw it away. But if he doesn't find it, and if Sam tries to locate it the same way he did the phone Laura used to call me, maybe we have a chance. Please, God, before he hurts Lily, let Sam try to trace my phone.

Laura's breathing became gasping gulps, then formed into barely coherent words: "Cleaner's bags… cleaner's bags… no… no… no."

Even with the dark shades over the windows, a little light managed to seep into the room. Jean could see the outline of plastic bags suspended by hangers that had been hooked over the arm of the lamp by the bed. She could see writing across the front of the one directly facing her. What was it? Was it a name? Was it…? She couldn't quite make it out.

Her shoulder was touching the edge of the heavy shade. She threw her weight to one side, then to the other, until the chair moved a few inches, and the shade caught on her shoulder and was tilted away from the window frame.

The added light made the thick black marker pen writing on the plastic bag clear enough to be read: lily/meredith.

82

Jake could not skip his first class at 8:00 a.m., but as soon as it was over, he rushed to the studio. In his opinion the prints of the pictures he had taken yesterday looked even better in daylight than they had under the overhead light in the late afternoon. He congratulated himself as he studied them.

The McMansion on Concord Avenue really looks so "see me, I'm rich," he thought. The house on Mountain Road is such a great contrast to it-middle-class, comfortable suburban, but now with a mystique about it. At home that evening he had checked the Internet and confirmed that Karen Sommers had been murdered in the corner bedroom on the right side of the second floor. I know Dr. Sheridan used to live next door when she was growing up, Jake thought. I'll stop at the hotel and see if she can confirm that was Laura's room. It probably was. According to the floor plan of the Sommers murder on the Internet, it's the other large bedroom on that floor. It makes sense that precious only-child Laura got it. Dr. Sheridan will probably tell me. She's been nice -not like old "Throw-Him-in-Jail" Deegan.

Jake put the prints of yesterday's pictures in the bag with his extra film. He wanted to have them available while he was shooting, in case he needed them for comparison.

At 9:00 a.m. he was approaching Mountain Road. He had decided that it wouldn't be smart to park in the street. People noticed strange cars, and that cop might recognize his pride and joy. At times like this he wished he hadn't painted it with zebra stripes.

I'll have a soda and a Danish, leave my car at the deli, and walk up to Laura's house, he decided. He had borrowed one of his mother's oversized shopping bags from Bloomingdale's. There'd be no car and no camera in sight. I can sneak down Laura's driveway and get my pictures of the back of the house. I hope the garage doors have windows. That way I can tell if there are any cars parked inside.

At 9:10 he was sitting at the counter of the delicatessen at the foot of Mountain Road, chatting with Duke, who had already explained that he and Sue, his wife, had owned the place for ten years, that it used to be a dry cleaner, that they were open from 6:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. and that they both enjoyed being here. " Cornwall is a quiet town," Duke said as he whisked an imaginary crumb from the counter, "but a nice town. You say you go to Stonecroft Academy? That's pretty Tony. Some of the reunion people were in here. Oh, there he goes."

Duke's eyes had darted to the window that faced Mountain Road.

"There who goes?" Jake asked.

"The fellow who's been coming in early mornings and some late evenings to pick up coffee and toast or coffee and a sandwich."

"Know who he is?" Jake asked, not really caring.

"Nope, but he's another one of your reunion people, and he's been coming and going all morning. I saw him go out in his car, come back a little while later, and now he's on his way again."

"Uh-huh," Jake said as he got up and pulled some squashed dollar bills out of his pocket. "I feel like stretching my legs. Is it okay if I leave my car outside for about fifteen minutes?"

"Sure, but not more than that. As it is, we don't have enough parking spots."

"Don't worry. I'm in a hurry, too."

Eight minutes later Jake was in the backyard of Laura's former home, taking pictures. He photographed the back of the house and even took a couple of shots of the kitchen through the door. A grill covered the glass pane over the door, but looking in, he could see a fair amount of the room. It could be a display kitchen in Home Depot, he thought. The counters that he could see were bare-no toaster, no coffee pot, no canisters, no cutsie-pie plates or trays or radio or clock. Absolutely no sign of occupancy. I guess for once in my life I was wrong, he decided reluctantly.