Nighttime Is My Time

43

The discovery of the body of Helen Whelan became a major story for the media. The disappearance of the popular teacher forty-eight hours earlier had already been given heavy coverage, but now the confirmation of her murder was a prime interest story because it had also triggered alarm throughout the small towns of the Hudson Valley.

The fact that her dog had been savagely attacked and his leash was still wrapped around the victim's wrist when her body was found gave added spice to the possibility that a random or serial killer was on the loose in this area that was normally drenched in history and tradition.

The Owl had dozed intermittently throughout Sunday night. After his first visit to Laura at ten-thirty, he'd managed to catch a few hours of rest. Then his dawn visit had given him the satisfaction of reducing her to trembling pleas for mercy-mercy she had denied him in their school years together, he had reminded her. After that second visit he had showered for a long time, hoping that the hot water would help relieve the terrible throbbing in his arm. The wound from the dog bite was festering. He had stopped at the old drugstore in town, where he used to shop as a kid, but then he'd walked out immediately. He had been about to pick up peroxide and antibiotic salves and bandages. Then it had occurred to him that the cops weren't necessarily stupid. They might have put a notice out to local pharmacies to watch for someone buying those kinds of medical supplies.

Instead he went to one of the big chains and bought shaving supplies, toothpaste, vitamins, crackers and pretzels and sodas, and then, in a moment of inspiration, he'd added cosmetics, cold cream, moisturizing lotion, and deodorant. Only then had he thrown into the mix the supplies he needed, the peroxide, bandages, salves.

He hoped he wasn't getting a fever. His body felt warm, and he knew his face was flushed. With all the useless camouflage items he had tossed into the basket at the drugstore, he had managed to forget to include aspirin. But that he could safely buy anywhere. Most of the time, most of the world has a headache, he thought, smiling to himself at the mental image conjured up by that reasoning.

He turned up the volume on the television. They were showing pictures of the crime scene. He observed intently how muddy it seemed. He hadn't remembered the area as being that swampy. That meant the tires of his rental car were probably embedded with dirt from that area. It would be wise to leave the car in the garage of the house where so far he was allowing Laura to continue to live. He'd rent another mid-priced, mid-sized, unobtrusive black sedan. That way, if for any reason anyone started to nose around and check the cars of the reunion group, his would be passed over.

As The Owl was selecting a jacket from the closet, a breaking story came across the screen: "Young reporter from Stonecroft Academy in Cornwall-on-Hudson reveals the disappearance of actress Laura Wilcox may be linked to a fiend he calls 'The Lunch Table Serial Killer.' "