Ryan tilted his head up, searching her face in the faint glow from the window. “Promise?” he asked.
“Promise,” Caroline echoed. Then, though her own fear was still raging, she steadied her voice. “Just go back to sleep, and try not to be afraid. I’m here, and you don’t have to worry.” She tucked Ryan in, kissed him, gave Chloe a pat, then went back out to the corridor.
Laurie’s closed door loomed before her. She’s all right, she said to herself. She’s sound asleep, and nothing is wrong. But the nearer she drew to Laurie’s door, the emptier the words sounded, and when at last she stood in front of her daughter’s door, she began to feel something from the room beyond.
A terrible emptiness, that reached deep inside her, squeezing her soul.
No, she thought, unconsciously speaking aloud. Her fingers gripped the cold crystal of the doorknob, and then she twisted it.
Locked!
“Laurie?” she whispered. Then again, a little louder. “Laurie, are you all right?”
Silence!
She started to scream her daughter’s name, but then caught herself, certain that it would only bring Ryan running from his room, even more terrified than he already was.
Keys! The ring in her bag — the ring she’d brought from the store that morning. Surely one of them would open Laurie’s door. Turning away from Laurie’s door she raced down the hall to the top of the stairs, groped on the wall for a moment, then found the switch that would light the six sconces that illuminated the staircase. And there was her bag, right by the hall table, where she’d left it. Taking the stairs so fast she almost tripped, she plunged her hand into the depths of the bag, found the keys, and wheeled back to the stairs.
Then she was back at Laurie’s door, fumbling with the ring, searching for a key that would fit. Just as she thought she would scream with frustration, the lock clicked. With one motion Caroline twisted the knob, pushed the door open, and switched on the light.
Empty!
She stood paralyzed, staring at her daughter’s bed, its sheets and comforter rumpled and thrown back as if its occupant had become too warm in the night and thrown the covers aside. But the room was cool.
And if Laurie had left, why had she locked the door?
Her eyes shifted to the closet, whose door stood open, then to the window, opened part way.
Could Laurie have slipped out through the window?
Instinctively she ran to the window, but when she looked out, she realized it was impossible: beyond Laurie’s window was nothing more than a narrow ledge that even Ryan wouldn’t have tried to balance himself on. She moved on to the closet; Laurie’s suitcase was still on the shelf, her clothes still hung on their hangers.
The drawers of her dresser were still full.
Abandoning the room, Caroline raced through the upstairs of the apartment, checking every bedroom and bathroom, but found no sign of her daughter.
Or her husband.
The terror that had been growing inside her since she’d awakened a few minutes ago was starting to coalesce into panic, but Caroline fought it off, running once more to the stairs. In less than half a minute she’d searched the downstairs rooms as well, all except for one.
Tony’s study, whose door stood locked before her.
This time, she remembered which key was the one that fit, inserted it into the lock, and twisted. The lock snapped open, and once again Caroline stepped into the forbidden room. She switched on the lights, and gazed around. Everything appeared exactly as she’d left it.
No sign of her daughter.
Nor of Tony Fleming.
Then, as she stood in the doorway staring into the empty room, she heard something.
A sound, so faint and muffled she wasn’t certain she’d heard it at all. Yet it was enough to draw her further into the room.
She was close to the desk when she heard it again, and this time she could identify where it was coming from: behind a door in the corner of the wall containing the fireplace. She moved closer to the door, and listened again.
Voices. Voices murmuring words she couldn’t quite make out.
She tried the door. Locked.
Locked, like Laurie’s door, and the study door. But this lock succumbed to the same key that fit the study itself. The lock snapped open, and before the courage her fear had lent her could drain away, she pulled the door open.
A closet! Nothing more than a closet lined with cedar, its aroma flooding into her nostrils. She felt a sneeze start to build, but when she suddenly heard the voices again — even louder now — she cut it off, pressing her finger so hard against her upper lip that it hurt. The sounds came again, emanating from the back of the closet, and she pressed her ear against the cedar panels, straining to translate the inchoate sounds into words. Then, as her fingers moved over the paneling, she felt something: a small recess under the fingers of her left hand, just large enough for a single fingertip to get a tenuous hold. Unconsciously holding her breath, she pulled.
Did the panel move a fraction of an inch, or did she imagine it?
She tried again, this time pressing against the panel with her free hand to give herself more force. She felt it give slightly, then slide to the right, disappearing into a hidden pocket.
For a moment she stood frozen where she was, unable to believe the sight before her.
A dimly-lit room — not large, but big enough to hold an oblong table. Around the table were nearly a dozen people, all of whom had suddenly fallen silent, and were staring at her.
She recognized them — every one of them. Max and Alicia Albion were there, along with Irene Delamond and her sister Lavinia. On the other side of the table were Tildie Parnova, George Burton, and Helena Kensington. Yet even as she recognized them, she realized that something about them looked different.
Something had changed.
Then she realized what it was: the oldest of the women looked younger than they were. Their eyes were less sunken in their sockets, the liver spots were gone from their skin.
Their hair looked thicker, and had taken on a sheen that hadn’t been there before.
Her gaze shifted again, and she saw her husband standing at the foot of the table. His eyes were fixed on her, flashing with anger, and a vein was throbbing in his neck. Then he stepped to the side, revealing the figure on the table.
Her daughter, stripped of her nightgown, her body small and pale.
There were tubes everywhere: in Laurie’s nose, her mouth, her ears.
Where there weren’t tubes there were needles with tubes attached to them.
And pumps — pumps for every tube. At the other end of every tube was one of the women who were her neighbors.
The women who had welcomed her and her children into their building and their lives.
Who had brought food, and fussed over Laurie and Ryan as if they were their own grandchildren.
And suddenly, as she stared at Melanie Shackleforth, she knew the truth. It wasn’t Melanie at all. It was Virginia Estherbrook, looking exactly as she had when she’d made her debut as Juliet almost half a century ago, and when she’d played the same role as Faith Blaine forty years before that.
Then Tony, with Dr. Humphries on one side of him and Max Albion on the other, was coming toward her. A tiny part of her wanted to turn and flee from the nightmare, to run back through the closet and the study and the hall, to bolt out of the apartment and escape into the street.
But a far stronger instinct surged to the defense of her child, and with a scream of anguish and rage she howled out her daughter’s name, then hurled herself at the man she’d married, her fingernails slashing as she tore at his face.