Mary Clark - Nighttime Is My Time

"I ammmm an owwlllll annnnd I livwwe in in in a tree," he whispered. "You thought it was funny to mimic me, didn't you? Do you think it's funny now, Laura? Do you?"

With the night glasses, he could see the terror in her eyes. Whimpering sounds came from her throat as she shook her head from side to side.

"That's not the right answer, Laura. You do think it's funny. All of you girls think it's funny. Show me you think it's funny. Show me."

She began to shake her head up and down. In a quick movement, he untied the gag. "Don't raise your voice, Laura," he whispered. "No one will hear you, and if you do cry out, I will hold this pillow over your face. Do you understand me?"

"Please," Laura whispered. "Please…"

"No, Laura I don't want you to say 'please.' I want you to mimic me, giving my line onstage, and then I want you to laugh."

"I… I ammmm an owl annnd I lllivwe livwwe innnnn aaaa treeee."

He nodded approvingly. "That's the way. You're a very good mimic. Now pretend that you're with the girls at the lunch table and giggle and snicker and cackle and laugh. I want to see how amused all of them were after you ridiculed me."

"I can't… I'm sorry…"

He lifted the pillow and held it over her face.

Desperately, Laura began to laugh, shrill, high-pitched, hysterical bleating sounds. "Ha… ha… ha…" Tears spilled from her eyes. "Please…"

He put his hand over her mouth. "You were about to use my name. That is forbidden. You may only call me The Owl.' You will have to practice imitating the girls being amused. Now I am going to untie your hands and let you eat. I brought you soup and a roll. Wasn't that good of me? Then I will permit you to use the bathroom.

"After that, when you are back in a safe sleep position, I am going to dial the hotel on my cell phone. You will tell the desk clerk that you are with friends, that your plans are indefinite, and to hold your room for you.

"Do you understand that, Laura?"

Her answer was barely audible: "Yes."

"If you attempt in any way to seek help, you will die immediately. You do understand that?"

"Y-e-s."

"Very well."

Twenty minutes later the computerized answering system at the Glen-Ridge House was responding to a caller who had pushed "3" for reservations.

The phone at the front desk rang. The clerk picked it up and identified herself. "Front desk, Amy speaking." Then she gasped. "Ms. Wilcox, how good to hear from you. We've all been so concerned about you. Oh, your friends will be so happy to hear that you've called. Of course we'll hold the room for you. Are you sure you're all right?"

The Owl broke the connection. "You did that very well, Laura. Some stress in your voice, but that's natural, I suppose. Maybe you do have the makings of an actress." He tied the gag over her mouth. "I'll be back eventually. Try to get some sleep. You have my permission to dream about me."

Jake Perkins knew that the clerk who had booted him out of the Glen-Ridge went off duty at 8:00 p.m. That meant he could go back to the hotel anytime after eight and hang around the desk with the other clerk, Amy Sachs, to see if anything had developed.

After dinner with his parents, who were enthralled with his account of what was going on at the hotel, he went over the notes he would be giving to the Post. He had decided to wait until the morning to call the newspaper. By then Laura Wilcox would have been missing a full day.

At ten o'clock he was back at the Glen-Ridge, entering the deserted hotel lobby. You could fly a plane through this place and not hit anyone, he thought as he walked to the front desk. Amy Sachs was there.

Amy liked him. He knew that. Last spring when he had been covering a luncheon for Stonecroft she had said he reminded her of her kid brother. "The only difference is Danny is forty-six and you're sixteen," she'd said, then she'd laughed. "He always wanted to be in publishing, too, and in a way I guess he is. He owns a trucking company that delivers newspapers."

Jake wondered how many people realized that under her timid, anxious-to-please exterior, Amy had a good sense of humor and was pretty sharp.

She welcomed him with a timid smile. "Hi, Jake."

"Hi, Amy. Just thought I'd stop by and see if you'd heard from Laura Wilcox."

"Not a word." Just then the phone at her elbow rang, and she picked up the receiver. "Front desk, Amy speaking," she whispered.

Then as Jake watched, Amy's face changed and she gasped, "Oh, Ms. Wilcox…"

Jake leaned over the desk and motioned to Amy to hold the receiver away from her ear so that he could listen, too. He caught Laura saying that she was with friends, her plans were indefinite, and to please hold her room for her.

She doesn't sound like herself, he thought. She's upset. Her voice is trembling.

The conversation lasted only twenty seconds. When Amy replaced the receiver, she and Jake looked at each other. "Wherever she is, she's not having a good time," he said flatly.

"Or maybe she's just hung over," Amy suggested. "I read an article about her in People magazine last year, and it said she'd been in rehab for a drinking problem."

"That would explain it, I guess," Jake agreed. He shrugged. So much for my big story , he thought. "Where do you think she went, Amy?" he asked. "You were on duty all weekend. Did you notice her hanging around with anyone specially?"

Amy Sachs' oversized glasses wiggled when she frowned. "I saw her arm in arm with Dr. Fleischman a couple of times," she said. "And he was the first to check out Sunday morning, even before that brunch at Stonecroft. Maybe he'd left her sobering up somewhere and was anxious to get back to her."

She opened a drawer and took out a card. "I promised that detective, Mr. Deegan, that I'd phone him if we heard from Ms. Wilcox."

"I'm on my way," Jake said. "I'll see you, Amy." With a wave of his hand he started for the front door as she dialed. He went outside, stood indecisively on the pavement, walked halfway to his car, and then returned to the desk.

"Did you reach Mr. Deegan?" he asked.

"Yes. I told him that I'd heard from her. He said that was good news and to let him know when she actually comes back for her bags."

"That's what I was afraid of. Amy, give me Sam Deegan's number."

She looked alarmed. "Why?"

"Because I think Laura Wilcox sounded scared rather than hung-over, and I think Mr. Deegan should know that."

"If anyone finds out I let you listen in on her call, I'll lose my job."

"No, you won't. I'll say I grabbed the receiver when you mentioned her name and turned it so I could hear, too. Amy, five of Laura's friends are dead. If she's being held against her will, she may not have much time, either."

Sam Deegan had barely hung up after speaking to Jean when he received the telephone call from the Glen-Ridge clerk. His immediate reaction was that Laura Wilcox was a remarkably selfish woman to have missed her friend's memorial service, worried her other friends, and cost the limousine driver another fare by not canceling. But even that reaction had been tempered by the unsettling fact that there was something suspicious about the vague story she had told the clerk and the clerk's assessment that she had sounded either nervous or hungover.

Jake Perkins' follow-up phone call cemented that impression, especially since Jake was emphatic that he thought Wilcox sounded frightened. "Do you agree with Ms. Sachs that it was exactly ten-thirty when Laura Wilcox called the hotel?" Sam asked him.

"At exactly ten-thirty," Jake confirmed. "Are you thinking of tracing it, Mr. Deegan? I mean, if she used her cell phone, you'd be able to trace the area where the call was made, isn't that right?"