The Second Time Around (39 page)

Casey knew what I was trying to tell him when I was in the car with Ned and contacted the police. They had been watching the cemetery. They always thought Ned might go back there. When he explained that Patrick was my dead son, and knowing how often Ned went to Annie's grave, they raced there at once.

*   *   *

Today is June 15. There was a memorial service for Nick Spencer this afternoon, and Casey and I attended. The Gen-stone employees and stockholders, the ones who had denounced Spencer the loudest, were quietly
respectful and attentive when tributes were paid to his dedication and genius.

Dennis Holden was electrifying when he spoke. The picture of him, gaunt and near death, that he had shown to Ken Page and me was flashed on a billboardsized screen. “I am here because Nick Spencer took a risk and injected me with his vaccine,” he declared.

Nick's son, Jack, was scheduled to pay the final tribute. “My father was a great dad,” he began. Tears filled everyone's eyes as he said, “He promised me that if he could make it happen, no little kid would ever again lose his mother to cancer.”

He's clearly the worthy son of a splendid father. I watched Jack take his seat between his grandparents. I knew that with all that had happened, he was blessed to have been granted people like them to care for him.

Then there was a stir as Vince Alcott said, “Nicholas Spencer is believed to have given the cancer vaccine to one other person. She is with us now.”

Marty and Rhoda Bikorsky walked onto the stage, their daughter, Maggie, between them. Rhoda was the one who stepped forward to the microphone. “I met Nicholas Spencer at St. Ann's Hospice,” she said, fighting back tears. “I was visiting a friend there. I had heard about the vaccine. My little girl was dying. I begged him to give it to her. I brought her to him the day before he died in the plane crash. Even my husband didn't know about it. When I heard the drug was worthless, I was so afraid that we'd lose her even sooner. That was two months ago. Since then, the tumor in Maggie's brain has shrunk a little more every
day. We don't yet know what the final outcome will be, but Nick Spencer has given us so much hope.”

Marty held up Maggie to let the audience see her. The child who had been so fragile and pale when I saw her six weeks ago now had color in her cheeks and was putting on weight. “We were promised we'd have her till Christmas,” Marty said. “Now we're beginning to believe we'll get to see her grow up.”

As people filed out of the service, I overheard someone repeat what Maggie's mother had said. “Nick Spencer has given us so much hope.”

Not bad for an epitaph, I thought.

SIMON & SCHUSTER
PROUDLY PRESENTS

Nighttime Is My Time

MARY HIGGINS CLARK

Turn the page for a preview of
Nighttime Is My Time. . . .

The definition of an owl had always pleased him:
A night bird of prey . . . sharp talons and soft plumage which permits noiseless flight . . . applied figuratively to a person of nocturnal habits.
“I am The Owl,” he would whisper to himself after he had selected his prey, “and nighttime is my time.”

It was the third time in a month he had come to Los Angeles to observe her daily activities. “I know your comings and your goings,” he whispered as he waited in the pool house. It was one minute of seven. The morning sun was filtering through the trees, causing the waterfall that spilled into the pool to sparkle and shimmer.

He wondered if Alison could sense that she had only one minute more of life on earth. Did she have an uneasy feeling, perhaps a subconscious urge to skip her swim this morning?
Even if she did, it wouldn't do her any good. It was too late.

The sliding glass door opened, and she stepped onto the patio. Thirty-eight years old, she was infinitely more attractive than she had been twenty years ago. Her body, tanned and sleek, looked good in the bikini. Her hair, now honey blond, framed and softened her sharp chin.

She tossed the towel she was carrying onto a lounge chair. The blinding anger that had been simmering inside him escalated into rage, but then, just as quickly, was replaced by the satisfaction of knowing what he was about to do. He had seen an interview in which a daredevil stunt diver swore that the moment before he began to dive, knowing that he was risking his life, was an indescribable thrill, a sensation he needed to repeat over and over again.

For me it's different, he thought. This moment before I reveal myself to them is what gives me the thrill. I know they're going to die, and when they see me, they know, too. They understand what I am going to do to them.

Alison stepped onto the diving board and stretched. He watched as she bounced softly,
testing the board, then positioned her arms in front of her.

He opened the door of the pool house just as her feet lifted from the board. He wanted her to see him midair. Just before she hit the water. He wanted her to understand how vulnerable she was.

In that split second, their eyes locked. He caught her expression as she plunged into the water. She was terrified, aware that she was incapable of flight.

He was in the pool before she had surfaced. He hugged her against his chest, laughing as she flailed about, kicking her feet. How foolish she was. She should simply accept the inevitable. “You're going to die,” he whispered, his voice calm, even.

Her hair was in his face, blinding him. Impatiently he shook it away. He didn't want to be distracted from the pleasure of feeling her struggle.

The end was coming. In her craving for breath, she had opened her mouth and was gulping water. He felt her final frantic effort to break away from him, then the hopelessly feeble tremors as her body began to go limp. He pressed her close, wishing he could read her
mind. Was she praying? Was she begging God to save her? Was she seeing the light that people who have experienced near-death moments claim to have seen?

He waited a full three minutes before he released her. With a satisfied smile he watched as her body sank to the bottom of the pool.

It was five minutes after seven when he climbed out of the pool, pulled on a sweatshirt, shorts, sneakers, a cap, and dark glasses. He had already chosen the spot where he would leave the silent reminder of his visit, the calling card that everybody always missed.

At six minutes past seven he began to jog down the quiet street, another early-morning fitness buff in the city of fitness buffs.

Bernard Vidal

MARY HIGGINS CLARK
is the author of twenty-nine worldwide bestsellers. There are more than seventy million copies of her books in print. She lives in Saddle River, New Jersey.

B
Y
M
ARY
H
IGGINS
C
LARK

The Second Time Around

Kitchen Privileges

Mount Vernon Love Story

Daddy's Little Girl

On the Street Where You Live

Before I Say Good-Bye

We'll Meet Again

All Through the Night

You Belong to Me

Pretend You Don't See Her

My Gal Sunday

Moonlight Becomes You

Silent Night

Let Me Call You Sweetheart

The Lottery Winner

Remember Me

I'll Be Seeing You

All Around the Town

Loves Music, Loves to Dance

The Anastasia Syndrome and Other Stories

While My Pretty One Sleeps

Weep No More, My Lady

Stillwatch

A Cry in the Night

The Cradle Will Fall

A Stranger Is Watching

Where Are the Children?

B
Y
M
ARY
H
IGGINS
C
LARK AND
C
AROL
H
IGGINS
C
LARK

He Sees You When You're Sleeping

Deck the Halls

Simon & Schuster, Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2003 by Mary Higgins Clark

Originally published in hardcover in 2003 by

Simon & Schuster, Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For information address Simon & Schuster, Inc.,

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-7434-1262-1

ISBN 13: 978-0-7432-0634-1 (eBook)

Cover design by Rod Hernandez

Cover photo by Viosin Phanie, Rex Interstock/Stock Connection/Picture Quest