Mary Clark - Nighttime Is My Time

"How did she find out?" Jean asked.

"According to the housekeeper, one night shortly before she died, something happened and she turned completely against Mark. He didn't even come to her funeral. She cut him out of her will, too; she had big bucks from her mother's family. Mark was in medical school at that time."

"But he was only thirteen years old at the time of the accident," Jean said in protest.

"And always jealous of his brother," Carter Stewart said quietly. "You can bet that. But maybe he has been in touch with the father, and maybe he still has a key to the house, and maybe he knew the father was away."

Did Mark lie about having to go back to Boston? Jean wondered. He went out of his way to stop at the table in the bar when I was with Alice and Sam to tell us about walking past his father's house. Could he still be right here in town with Laura?

I don't want to believe that, she acknowledged to herself, as Gordon Amory volunteered, "We're all assuming that Laura went with someone. It's also possible she went to someone. We're not that far from Greenwich and Bedford and Westport, where a lot of her celebrity friends have homes."

Jack Emerson had brought a list of the people who attended the reunion. In the end, they decided that each of them would take names to call, explain why they were concerned, and ask for their thoughts as to where Laura might have gone.

When they left the dining room, after promising to be in touch in the morning, Carter Stewart and Jack Emerson headed for their cars. In the lobby, Jean told Gordon Amory and Robby Brent that she was going to stop at the desk.

"Then I'll say good night," Gordon told her. "I still have some phone calls to make."

"It's Sunday night, Gordie,' Robby Brent said. "What could be so important it can't wait till morning?"

Gordon Amory stared at Robby's deceptively innocent face. "As you know, I prefer to be addressed as 'Gordon,'" he said quietly. "Good night, Jean."

"He is so full of himself," Robby said as he watched Gordon walk across the lobby and press the button for the elevator. "I bet he goes up and turns on the television. Tonight's the opening of a new series on one of his channels. Or maybe he just wants to look in the mirror at his pretty new face. Honest to God, Jeannie, that plastic surgeon must be a genius. Remember what a dorky-looking kid Gordie used to be?"

I don't care why he's going up to his room, Jean thought. I just want to check to see if by any chance Laura has phoned and then go up to bed myself. "More power to Gordon that he was able to turn his life around. He had a pretty nasty time growing up."

"Like all of us," Robby said dismissively. "Except of course, for our missing beauty queen." He shrugged. "I'm going to grab a jacket and go out for a while. I'm a health nut and except for a couple of walks, I haven't had any exercise all weekend. The gym in this place is the pits."

"Is there anything about this town or this hotel or the people you've been meeting that isn't the pits in your opinion?" Jean asked, not caring if her voice sounded sharp.

"Very little," Robby said cheerfully, "except for you, of course, Jeannie. I was sorry to see that you looked kind of upset when we talked about Mark hanging around Laura this weekend. For the record, I could see that Mark was playing up to you, too. He's a hard guy to figure out, but then most psychiatrists are more nuts than their patients. If Mark did release the brake on the car that killed his brother, I wonder if consciously or unconsciously it was deliberate. After all, it was his brother's new car, a gift from Mommy and Daddy for graduation from Stonecroft. Think about that."

With a wink and a wave of his hand he was on his way to the bank of elevators. Furious and humiliated that he had so correctly diagnosed her reaction to the comments about Mark and Laura, Jean walked over to the desk. The clerk on duty was Amy Sachs, a small soft-voiced woman with short graying hair and oversized glasses that hung loosely over the bridge of her nose.

"No, we definitely have not heard from Ms. Wilcox," she told Jean. "But a fax came in for you, Dr. Sheridan." She turned and reached for an envelope on the shelf behind the desk.

Jean felt her mouth go dry. As she told herself that she should wait and read the contents upstairs, she ripped open the envelope.

The message it contained consisted of eight words: lilies that FESTER SMELL FAR WORSE THAN WEEDS.

Lilies that fester, Jean thought. Dead lilies . "Is anything wrong, Dr. Sheridan?" the mousy clerk asked anxiously. "I hope that isn't bad news."

"What? Oh… no… it's quite all right, thank you." In a daze, Jean made her way upstairs, went to her room, opened her purse, and ransacked her wallet for Sam Deegan's cell phone number. His terse, "Sam Deegan" made her realize that it was nearly ten o'clock and that he might have been asleep. "Sam, I probably woke you up-"

"No, you didn't," he interrupted. "What is it, Jean? Did you hear from Laura?"

"No, it's Lily. Another fax."

"Read it to me."

Her voice trembling, she read the eight words to him. "Sam, that's a quote from a Shakespeare sonnet. He's referring to dead lilies. Sam, whoever sent this is threatening to kill my child." Jean heard the rising hysteria in her voice as she cried, "What can I do to stop him? What can I do ?"

She probably had the fax by now. He still didn't know why he enjoyed taunting Jean, especially now that he had decided he was going to kill her. Why twist the knife by threatening Meredith, or Lily, as Jean called the girl? For nearly twenty years his secret knowledge of her birth and of her adoptive parents had been one of those little facts that seem useless, like gifts that cannot be returned but will never be taken from the shelf.

It was only when he met her parents at a luncheon last year and realized who they were that he had made it his business to be friendly with them. In August he had even invited them to spend a long weekend with him and to bring Meredith who was home on vacation with them. That was when the idea of taking something that would be proof of her DNA occurred to him.

The opportunity to steal her brush had been handed to him on a platter. They were all at the pool, and her cell phone rang while she was brushing her hair after a swim. She answered the call and walked away to talk privately. He slipped the brush into his pocket and then began circulating among his other guests. The next day he sent the brush and the first message to Jean.

The power of life and death-so far he had exercised it over five of the lunch room girls as well as over many other women, chosen at random. He wondered how soon it would be before they found the body of Helen Whelan. Had it been a mistake to leave the owl in her pocket? Until now he had left his symbol hidden, unobtrusive, unnoticeable. Like last month, when he had slipped one of them into a kitchen drawer in the pool house where he had waited for Alison.

The lights in the house were off. He took the night vision glasses from his pocket, put them on, put his key in the lock, opened the back door, and went inside. He closed and locked the door and walked through the kitchen to the back staircase, then padded noiselessly up the stairs.

Laura was in the bedroom that had been hers before her family moved to Concord Avenue when she was sixteen. He had tied her hands and feet and put a gag on her mouth. She was lying on top of the bed, her gold evening gown glittering in the dark.

She had not heard him come into the room, and when he bent over her, he could hear her terrified gasp. "I'm back, Laura," he whispered. "Aren't you glad?"

She tried to shrink away from him.