Nighttime Is My Time

59

Nighttime is my time, The Owl thought as he frantically waited for darkness. He had been a fool to risk going back to the house during the daytime-he might have been seen. But then he had gotten the unsettling feeling that maybe Robby Brent was not dead after all, that, actor that he was, he had pretended to be unconscious. He could just picture him crawling out of his car and making his way to the street-or maybe even going up the stairs to find Laura and call 911.

The image of Robby alive and able to get help had become so powerful that The Owl had no choice but to go back to confirm for himself that he was indeed dead, that he was exactly where he had left him, in the trunk of his car.

It was almost like the first time he had taken a life, that night in Laura's house, The Owl thought. Through the haze of memory he recalled tiptoeing up the back stairs, heading to the room where he had expected to find Laura. That was twenty years ago.

Last night, knowing that Robby Brent was following him, it hadn't been hard to outsmart him. But then he'd had to dig in Robby's pocket for his keys so he could drive his car into the garage. His first rental car, the one with the muddy tires, was occupying one space in the garage. He'd driven Robby Brent's car into the other space and then dragged Brent's body to it from the staircase where he had killed him.

Somehow he had revealed himself to Robby Brent. Somehow Robby had figured it out. What about the others? Was a circle closing so that soon he would no longer be able to escape into the night? He didn't like uncertainty. He needed reassurance-the reassurance that came only when he carried out the deed that reaffirmed his mastery over life and death.

At eleven o'clock he began to drive through Orange County. Not too near Cornwall, he thought. Not too near Washingtonville, where Helen Whelan's body was found. Maybe Highland Falls would be a good choice. Maybe somewhere in the vicinity of the motel where Jean Sheridan had stayed with the cadet would be the place to look.

Maybe one of the sidestreets near that motel would be the place where he was destined to find his victim.

At eleven-thirty, as he cruised down a tree-lined street, he observed two women standing on a porch beneath an overhead light. As he watched, one turned, went back inside, and closed the door. The other began to go down the porch stairs. The Owl pulled over to the curb, turned off the lights of the car, and waited for her as she cut across the lawn to the sidewalk.

She was looking down, walking swiftly, and did not hear him when he got out of the car and moved to the shadow of the tree. He stepped out as she passed him. He could feel The Owl spring from its cage as his hand covered her mouth, and he swiftly slid the rope around her neck.

"I'm sorry for you," he whispered, "but you have been chosen."