John Saul - Perfect Nightmare

“Shhh,” Steve said, rousing himself from his chair and going to her. He put his arms around her and drew her close, and a moment later thought he felt some of the tension in her body ease.

Kara rubbed the tears from her cheeks, pulled away from him and went back to the kitchen. She returned with a cup of coffee for each of them. “At eight o’clock I’m going to call the police, and the newspapers,” she declared. “And then I’m going to make flyers and start taking them around. Somebody must have seen something!”

“Kara—” Steve began, but she shook her head, cutting off his protest.

“What do you expect me to do, Steve?” she asked. “Sit here like a helpless idiot while nobody does anything?”

“The police—”

“This is not Sergeant Grant’s daughter we’re talking about,” Kara said, her voice taking on an edge. “He thinks she ran away, remember? He’s not going to do anything.” She felt a mixture of panic and anger begin to rise inside her, and in the end it was the panic that won out. “Oh, God,” she sobbed, and collapsed onto the couch again. But as quickly as the panic overcame her, she forced it back. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and stood up. “I’ve got to do something. ” Taking her coffee cup, she headed upstairs, leaving Steve sitting alone in the living room.

In the silence, Steve’s exhaustion from the sleepless night began to overtake him, and despite his worry about Lindsay, his eyes drifted shut.

And then Kara screamed.

Steve sat bolt upright in the wingback chair and for one terrible instant thought that Kara must have found Lindsay.

And she was dead.

Then Kara yelled again. “It’s gone, Steve!”

“What?” he called back, taking the stairs two at a time. When he got to the top, Kara was waiting for him, her face ashen, a slipper — one of Lindsay’s slippers — clutched in her right hand. “Her blanket’s gone!” Kara said. “The one she always kept folded at the foot of her bed. And I can’t find her other slipper.” She gazed at him, her eyes wide, her voice bleak. “Where’s her other slipper, Steve?”

Steve ran his hands through his hair and massaged his scalp. “Did you look in her closet? Under the bed?”

Kara’s look told him she had. “I’m calling the police again,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Right now.”

Steve nodded and followed her back down to the kitchen, feeling utterly useless. All night he had tried to convince Kara that the police were right, that Lindsay had just taken off somewhere and would come home when she cooled off.

And not once had he taken the time to go upstairs and look around the room for himself — to look at it the way Kara just had.

Now, seeing that single worn and forlorn-looking slipper in Kara’s hand, he was finally as terrified for his daughter as his wife was.

But it might already be too late…

Mark Acton and Sergeant Grant arrived at almost the same time. Steve poured each of them a cup of coffee while Kara introduced the two men, then told Grant what she’d been doing all night, from calling every one of Lindsay’s friends — and every one of their friends — to calling every hospital and police department on Long Island, and then she told Grant about finding the slipper and the missing blanket. But even as she spoke, she could see in Sergeant Grant’s eyes that he didn’t feel nearly as certain about what had happened as she did.

Mark Acton, apparently stunned by what Kara was saying, handed his logbook to Grant. “Your girl is missing?” he kept repeating, over and over again, as if the concept were somehow evading him.

“She isn’t technically missing yet,” Grant said, “given that it hasn’t been twenty-four hours since she—” He hesitated, saw the look of cold fury in Kara’s eyes, and smoothly shifted gears. “—that she’s been gone,” he went on, glancing at the names in the book as he spoke. His eyes shifted to Acton. “Did everybody sign in?”

The agent shrugged. “It was busy — I was talking with people the whole time. I’m pretty sure everybody signed in, but—” He spread his hands helplessly. “I always ask them to, but I guess I can’t be sure.”

“Did you see everybody leave?” Grant asked, more to appease Kara Marshall than because he thought there might be any merit to the idea she’d expressed last night and repeated again this morning.

Mark took the guest book back from the policeman and looked down the list of names. But now his hands were sweating and he was trembling, and he was sure the sergeant knew just how nervous policemen made him.

Kara Marshall noticed it as well, and her eyes bored into Grant, willing him to see what she was seeing. But if he was aware of Mark Acton’s nervousness, he gave no sign.

“Rick Mancuso was at both open houses,” Acton finally replied. “He’s an agent with Century 21. I remember him coming in yesterday, but I’m not sure I remember seeing him leave.” He pointed to the name near the bottom of the list.

Kara fixed her eyes on Acton. “Did anybody—” She hesitated, searching for the right word, then settled for the first one that came to mind. “— strange come through?”

“Strange?” The question seemed to catch him off guard.

Sergeant Grant took back the logbook and, to Kara’s relief, picked up the thread of her question. “Anybody who seemed out of place? Nervous?”

“It’s a public event,” Acton said, shrugging. “We get lots of strange people.” He paused, reflecting. “Nobody who stood out.”

“And what did you do afterward?” Grant asked.

“Afterward? After the open house?”

Grant nodded.

“Went to Fishburn's, like I always do. Had a couple of beers, ate a little something, went home and watched television.”

Grant eyed the agent speculatively for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “Thanks for your time,” he said. “If I have any more questions, I’ll be in touch with you.”

Mark Acton shot off the couch and almost ran toward the door.

“I’ve got some things to follow up on, Mrs. Marshall,” Grant said, rising to his feet as the front door closed behind the real estate agent.

“And I’ve got a reporter from the Sentinel-Gazette coming over at ten,” Kara replied, her eyes fixing on the policeman as if daring him to ask her not to talk to the press. To his credit, he only nodded, and then she pressed a wallet-sized school photo of Lindsay into his hand. “She’s our only child,” she said. “Please — you’ve got to find her. I’m begging you.”

“She’ll be home,” Grant assured her, but she could see in his eyes that he wasn’t as certain as he’d been last night.

“Only if we find whoever took her,” Kara said.

Grant looked at her appraisingly, clearly taking her measure. Then: “I’ll be in touch.” He shook hands with Steve, who opened the door for him, and when the door closed behind him, the house again was quiet.

Too quiet, and too empty.

“No,” Kara said softly, “I’ll be the one in touch.”

Everything about the place had changed, and though Claire Shields Sollinger knew exactly why it had changed — and when that change had come — she still wasn’t used to it. Until last Christmas, she’d always felt a sense of peace fall over her as she waited for the big estate gates to swing open. Today, though, her fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel of her Range Rover as the gates moved back. She looked again at the newspaper on the seat beside her and firmed her resolve as Lindsay Marshall’s eyes seemed to look right into her own.

The crunch of the gravel on the quarter-mile-long driveway gave her no comfort as she approached the house, and as she pulled to a stop in front of the immense Tudor pile her great-grandfather had built, the title of a book she hadn’t read since her days at Miss Porter’s suddenly popped into her mind.