John Saul - Perfect Nightmare

As they gazed at each other, Kara’s mind was already at work.

Ellen stared numbly at the badges pinned to the two policemen’s shirts. O'Reilly and Murphy, like some dumb B-movie they wouldn’t even show on TV anymore. Irish cops, smiling at her and telling her they were sure everything was all right. But everything wasn’t all right — the picture of Emily was gone from her house, and so was the knife she’d left on the kitchen counter when she’d gone up to find Emily. And now Emily was sitting on the floor in the Sanchezes’ house two doors up, watching TV under the vigilant eye of Angela Sanchez, and she was standing in front of her own house with Ramon Sanchez and two cops named O'Reilly and Murphy.

“You didn’t actually hear anything?” O'Reilly said as they approached the front door.

“I didn’t have to hear anything,” she said for what seemed like the hundredth time. “The knife was there when I went upstairs and gone when I came back down.” She fixed the officer with a cold stare. “Which means someone took it, which means someone was in my house.”

“All right,” O'Reilly said in a tone that clearly told Ellen he wasn’t buying her story. “You and Mr. Sanchez stay here, and Murphy and I will have a look around.” Then he spoke quietly into the microphone attached to his shoulder. “We’re going in.”

The door was not locked — indeed, Ellen was surprised it was even closed, given the way she and Emily had fled only half an hour earlier. As she and Ramon waited on the front lawn, O'Reilly and Murphy took positions flanking the door, then O'Reilly reached out with a foot and pushed it wide open.

Again, just like a B-movie. What did they expect? A blaze of gunfire? For a moment Ellen thought she was going to laugh out loud. But when they both disappeared into the house, the urge to laugh evaporated.

Seconds ticked by.

The seconds turned into minutes.

Twice she saw shadows in the upstairs windows, and both times her heart skipped a beat before she realized it was only the policemen, doing their jobs.

And then, after what seemed like an hour but was less than five minutes, O'Reilly appeared in the doorway. “You want to come in here, Ms. Fine?” With Ramon trailing after her, Ellen crossed the small porch and went into the house. “How’s it look?” O'Reilly asked. “Any different from earlier?”

Ellen glanced around at the nearly bare room and the boxes stacked against the wall. How could she know if anything was any different? If nothing had been packed, if the house was the way it had been before—

Before.

She put the thought out of her mind. Before didn’t count. Only now, and next week, and next month, and the rest of her life counted.

“I guess it looks the same,” she sighed.

“And there’s no one here,” O'Reilly assured her. “Not upstairs, not in the basement, and not here.”

“But the knife,” Ellen protested. “And the—”

“This knife?” It was the other cop, Murphy, and as Ellen turned to him and saw what he was holding, she felt like a complete idiot.

“Where was it?” she breathed. “Where did you find it?”

“On the kitchen floor,” Murphy replied. “In the kick space right under the counter where you were working. You musta dropped it when you went upstairs.”

Ellen took the knife, examining it carefully, part of her wanting it to be the right knife, but part of her hoping it was a different knife and she would be vindicated. But it was the same knife she’d been using, and there was no vindication, and she could almost feel the egg on her face and barely heard what O'Reilly was saying.

“I’ve searched the basement, and it’s secure. There’s no one there. There’s no one in the house at all.”

Ellen sighed. “Okay. I guess I wasted your time.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” O'Reilly assured her. “If you hadn’t called, me and Murphy probably would’ve eaten two more doughnuts each, and neither one of us needs that.” Ellen nodded distractedly, still barely hearing him. How could she have been so stupid? She’d probably packed the picture and forgotten about it, and of course she’d just dropped the knife! Why hadn’t she at least looked for it? “Anyway,” O'Reilly went on as she tuned back in, “I’ll write up a report, and if you have any other problems, you give us another call, okay?”

Ellen managed a faint “Okay” as she saw them to the door.

“I’ll call Angela and have her bring Emily home,” Ramon Sanchez said as the door closed behind the two officers.

“You don’t have to,” Ellen replied, “I’ll just walk down with you. I feel like such an idiot!”

“You did just what you should have done,” Ramon told her. “And you’re not going anywhere. I’ll wait here with you, and Angela will bring Emily. Or you can both stay with us tonight if you want to.”

Ellen shook her head. “You’ve done enough, and we’ll be fine.”

But ten minutes later, when she and Emily were back in the house, she wondered if she’d made the wrong decision.

It still didn’t feel right.

Emily’s piping voice interrupted her thoughts. “Mommy?”

“Hmmm?” The little girl was still nursing the juice Mrs. Sanchez had given her, and staring up at her through wide eyes.

“Will you sleep in my bed with me tonight?”

“C'mere.” Ellen dropped onto the sofa and pulled Emily up onto her lap, wrapping her arms around her warm, sweet-smelling little girl. It’s going to be all right, she told herself. Just a few more days and we’ll be out of this house, and out of this town, and back in Missouri where we belong. “How about instead of me sleeping in your bed, you sleep in mine?”

Now Emily was struggling to get loose, and reluctantly, Ellen let her go. Her daughter stood in front of her, noisily sucked down the last of her juice and handed her the empty box.

“I’m hungry,” she announced, and Ellen realized she had forgotten all about dinner.

And now it was far too late to start frying potatoes. “How about P.B. and J.?” she asked.

“Yes!” Emily jumped up and down a couple of times and clapped her hands. “And then I’ll sleep with you tonight so you won’t be scared!”

“P.B. and J. it is,” Ellen said, standing up and putting the last of her misgivings out of her mind. If Emily could get excited about something as simple as a sandwich, so could she. And if she didn’t stop worrying about every little thing, her fears would quickly infect Emily, and then they’d both be quivering masses of exactly the kind of jelly she was about to spread onto the bread that was waiting in the kitchen.

As Emily skipped ahead, Ellen followed. Yet as she began making the sandwiches, she found herself thinking yet again about the missing picture.

It had been there on the dresser this morning.

She was sure of it.

And now it was gone.

The front door wouldn’t stay closed!

No matter what she did, it kept on opening again.

How many times had she tried, and what was she doing wrong? Once again she firmly swung the heavy wood panel closed, and once again heard the lock click into the keeper.

Maybe this time it would hold.

But even as Ellen started to turn away, the door swung open yet again.

And she went through the process again, closing it once more, locking it once more, this time even throwing the dead bolt.

That was it! Before, she hadn’t thrown the dead bolt.

That was all there was to it!

She twisted the heavy latch, felt the bolt shoot home, and finally relaxed.

But as she turned away, she heard the door creak open and felt the draft of cold air on her back.