The Nanny Murders Part 27

Warily, we stepped through the security door into the territory of violent patients. Patients with dangerous, unpredictable behavior. Like Evie Kraus. I listened, hoping to hear her singing. But I heard nothing. n.o.body seemed to be around. Where was everyone? The staff? Had the patients already gotten out? We headed toward the nursing station. The floor gleamed, reflecting hazy light. But nothing moved. We pa.s.sed patient rooms, a kitchenette, a shower, a linen closet. We were approaching the nursing station when a wiry brunette rushed out at us. Her stride was swift and confident; I recognized her spectacles, her high, glossy boots. I yanked Molly's hand and veered across the hall an arm's length ahead, barely glimpsing the thin, s.h.i.+ny object slipping from the brunette's pink sleeve. I sprinted forward, dragging Molly, glancing behind us. The brunette swung her arms out and pounced, catlike. Pain ripped through my back; I let go of Molly's hand and heard myself tell her to run out to the hall. The way we'd come.

I whirled around to show her, trying to go with her. But the hallway lost definition. The brunette, the walls, the doorways- everything blurred and darkened. Hot pain hissed, slid under my ribs to my lungs. Charlie shouted something as my legs buckled and stuck to the floor, and pain opened its fangs and swallowed me. I sank, thudding beside the black boots, fading. I thought of Molly, heard a sweet voice call, "Mommy!" and, looking up, saw small feet scampering away, disappearing through an open door.

SEVENTY.

THE BLACK HIGH-HEELED BOOTS DIDN'T MOVE RIGHT AWAY. I lay on the floor, looking at them, trying to focus. Woods's spectacled face emerged, painted with red lipstick. The dark brown wig was now askew, sitting like a nesting bird atop his head. He adjusted it and peered down at me. I tried to speak, but, unable to find any part of my body that made words, I decided that I must be dying, if not already dead. Apparently, Woods shared that opinion; he walked off, checking his sweater for something, probably blood.

The corridor was silent. I lay there, unable to move, watching the walls wobble and sway. Molly was my only thought, my only care. I couldn't let Woods catch her, had to stop him. I listened for her voice, heard nothing. Not a sound. Why? My thoughts blurred. Move, I told myself. My body didn't know how. Nerves had shut down, disconnected from muscles; muscles couldn't respond. Had Woods severed my spinal cord? Was I paralyzed? Warm liquid pooled under me, and breathing was difficult. Inhaling was excruciating, took all my energy. But I was still breathing. That meant I was alive. And if I felt pain, some of my nerves must be alive, too. In that case, I should be able to move. To find help.

Slowly, with monumental effort, I managed to turn my neck, move my head to see the hallway better. Images pulsed unsteadily, but I strained my neck so I could see ahead. I pressed my shoulders against the floor and repositioned my head. I'd never been very aware of the floor, never paid attention to it. Now the floor seemed fascinating. Solid. Dependable. And very strong. I lay against it, letting it support me, realizing that it was my friend. It would help me. If I pressed one arm against it and rocked the opposite way, I'd be able to push off against it and roll onto my stomach. If I had the strength. I thought of Woods and Molly, closed my eyes, and pushed. Pressing and rocking, I began moving slightly from side to side.

I rocked from side to side until I had momentum. Then I pushed, gasped, gave a wrenching shove, and rolled over onto my stomach. Pain blinded me. Were the lights dimming, or was I pa.s.sing out? I couldn't pa.s.s out, had to stay awake. Get help. Find Molly. I waited for the pain to ease, heard only my own panting, no footsteps, no screams, no struggles. Grimacing, I bent my knees one at a time, lifted my hips, hoisted myself up with my elbows, and pushed forward, inching my way ahead. Finally the steel door was within a few steps. I pushed myself up, slipped, hit my head. Landed on my face. I lay there, face on cold linoleum, and knew I couldn't make it. I wouldn't be able to get help. I'd just about given up, accepting the fact that I would die, when I reached my arm out and touched cool steel. The security door. I'd made it this far, couldn't stop now. I pushed ahead again, reached out another time-and froze, afraid to look at what my hand had found. I lay there, gathering the strength to raise my head and find out whose arm I'd grabbed. Finally, drawing a breath, I craned my neck.

Evie Kraus was wearing a bright blue sweatsuit. Crouched against the wall, she'd begun to sing, rocking back and forth in rhythm, cradling a b.l.o.o.d.y knife.

SEVENTY-ONE.

I SWALLOWED AIR AND BLINKED, STRUGGLING TO STAY CON SWALLOWED AIR AND BLINKED, STRUGGLING TO STAY CONscious. Evie huddled silently over her dripping knife. "Somebody's knockin'." I heard her clear, strong voice. "Lord, it's the devil. Will you look at him?"

Where was Molly? Or Woods? I grunted and pushed to get back up onto my elbows and look around, made it only halfway. I tried to say Evie's name, to ask her to go get help, but couldn't make a sound. Then I saw a figure in black boots, rumpled skirt, and pink sweater, lying on the floor behind her.

I remember letting my head drop on to Evie's lap. Her face was calm, almost pretty. "I've heard about him, but I never dreamed," she sang, "he'd have blue eyes and blue jeans . . ."

When I reached for the knife, she surrendered it without resistance. But it was heavy. I couldn't hold it and heard it clatter to the floor.

"Mommy?"

Molly? Was that Molly? Where? I couldn't talk, could barely breathe. Evie regarded me indifferently as she continued her song. "He must have tapped my telephone line . . ." I felt myself fading. Falling. Where was Molly? I opened my eyes and saw a small angel beside me, holding my hand. With a final effort, I took the small hand and reached for Evie's, connecting them, but I couldn't hold my head up anymore, couldn't talk. My head banged the floor as I fell back. "He must have known I'm spendin' my time alone . . . Somebody's knockin' . . ."

Dropping, letting go, I couldn't be certain whether Evie understood, whether she would take Molly and go for help or sit singing until someone wandered by.

SEVENTY-TWO.

KEVIN FERGUSON WAS JUST BEGINNING TO COLLECT THE breakfast trays when a goose-b.u.mp-raising, ear-splitting, high-pitched howl zoomed past him and down the hall. It seemed to come through the wall, from the plaster. breakfast trays when a goose-b.u.mp-raising, ear-splitting, high-pitched howl zoomed past him and down the hall. It seemed to come through the wall, from the plaster.

Kevin saw the security door standing open and stepped warily through it toward the noise. As he rounded the corner, his jaw dropped. The big catatonic one was walking toward him in a bloodstained sweatsuit, carrying a child. A blood-covered child. Kevin called out for a nurse. "Hey-nurse? Anyone? I need help here!" Somehow, the huge psychotic woman had gotten her hands on a kid. And Lord knew what she'd done to her. Kevin's knees turned soggy; his stomach flipped. The woman approached him, sleeves rolled up, cradling the child in her strong, tattooed arms.

Kevin reached into his pocket to beep for help, but the woman moved suddenly, kicking the beeper out of his hand, dislocating his thumb. He backed up to the security doors, but before he could step through and lock them, she kicked again. Kevin flew backward through the door into the stainless steel cart, knocking it over, sending trays and dishes and leftover food cras.h.i.+ng to the floor.

The day s.h.i.+ft had just begun, and two nurses in Unit 8 around the corner had just come on duty when they heard the racket and came running with an orderly. Kevin Ferguson saw them standing over him and heard them ask what had happened, what had caused all the mess and commotion. Dazed, he told them about the patient and the little girl. They called the security guard; getting no answer, they set off the emergency alarm and went off to search the area. Aching and bruised, thumb and belly throbbing, Kevin stumbled to his feet to help. But no one found any sign of the woman or the child. They were gone.

Down the hall, though, Kevin and the others did find some other people. Locked in a utility closet, they discovered a chloroformed orderly. Near the security door, they found the art therapist, stabbed in the back. And in the nursing station, the night nurse and an aide lay under the desk, gagged, their hands and legs bound together. As he limped along through the carnage, it dawned on Kevin that every single room was empty. The patients-the most violent psychotics in the Inst.i.tute- were gone. What the h.e.l.l had happened that morning? Had there been a d.a.m.ned revolution?

Mystified, Kevin reached the end of the hall and was about to give up his search when he got to the catatonic's room. Stepping inside, he let out an involuntary scream. It wasn't the bloodstained pink sweater beside the commode that spooked him; it was what lay on top of it. It turned out to be just a wig, but at first glance it looked like a giant dead brown rat.

SEVENTY-THREE.

OF COURSE, I I WAS AWARE OF NONE OF THAT WAS AWARE OF NONE OF THAT. I HEARD ABOUT HEARD ABOUT Kevin Ferguson later, when they told me that Phillip Woods had escaped. Wounded, his pink sweater sliced and blood-soaked, he'd left a trail of blood from Evie's room through the hall, down the back stairs, and out into the snow. There, like the man who'd spilled it, the trail had disappeared. So had Rupert's car, although it had been found hours later, empty, crashed into a telephone pole on South Street near the Schuylkill River. But I didn't know any of that. Not yet. Kevin Ferguson later, when they told me that Phillip Woods had escaped. Wounded, his pink sweater sliced and blood-soaked, he'd left a trail of blood from Evie's room through the hall, down the back stairs, and out into the snow. There, like the man who'd spilled it, the trail had disappeared. So had Rupert's car, although it had been found hours later, empty, crashed into a telephone pole on South Street near the Schuylkill River. But I didn't know any of that. Not yet.

The first thing I really remembered was surprise at opening my eyes. Convinced that I'd died, I was amazed that pain still seared my ribs. And I was indignant that death should hurt.

Then, looking around, I realized that, unless heaven or h.e.l.l was an emergency room, I hadn't died, at least not yet. There were tubes in my nostrils, and some green-masked person was leaning over behind me, hurting me. I protested, pulling away, emitting something between a yelp and a groan. More eyes, another green mask darted above my head. A voice m.u.f.fled through the mask welcomed me back, apologizing because I'd felt that.

"Tell her I'm almost through," said a voice, and the second mask reported that the doctor was almost through. Another jab, stab, searing sc.r.a.pe, and tug. My nails dug into my palms, but I couldn't move. My arms, apparently, had been strapped down. I looked around. Iv bottle, green masks, green walls. This was not h.e.l.l, I told myself. I was in a hospital because I'd been stabbed by Woods, and because I'd survived. And Molly? Where was Molly?

I struggled to turn over and sit up. Was she okay? I'd left her with Evie. I tried to speak, but no one was listening. Hands, and now one, two, a third green body held on to me. I squirmed to get their attention, tried to tell them to listen to me. I needed to find out where Molly was.

"Wait," I said. "just a second-"

"Hold her still. Don't let her move."

The hands tightened, pressing me down. I struggled and shouted, but they seemed not to hear. The more I tried to talk, the more they resisted listening.

"Relax, Zoe," a mask said. It sounded female, soothing. "Everything's going to be okay." Why wouldn't she answer me? Had something happened to Molly?

Another stab, this time in my arm, and a moment later I decided to lie back and rest. Still, I fought to stay awake, my ears straining to hear Molly's voice. In seconds, though, the pain lifted and my thoughts muddled. My questions became less urgent. Fading, I couldn't manage to study the eyes above the masks, couldn't be sure none of them was Phillip Woods wearing a new disguise.

SEVENTY-FOUR.

SUSAN? SUSAN WAS TALKING TO ME, OR, NO, NOT TO ME. TO TO other people. Talking about a man dressed as a woman. And something else, about Beverly Gardener. But I couldn't hear what. And she said no one could question Zoe Hayes; Zoe Hayes was far too weak. other people. Talking about a man dressed as a woman. And something else, about Beverly Gardener. But I couldn't hear what. And she said no one could question Zoe Hayes; Zoe Hayes was far too weak.

I listened for Molly, strained to hear her, but couldn't. Her voice wasn't there. Why not? Where was she? My eyes wouldn't open, lips wouldn't budge. A few times, I heard a man. Nick? Wasn't he dead? I listened closely, aware that if I could hear a dead man speak, I must be dead, too. Or lingering in a place where voices echoed like dreams and dreams like voices. Drifting, I couldn't distinguish real from imagined, alive from dead.

Then there were more than just sounds. Hands touched me. Held my fingers. Rested on my arm. Whose hands? Too big, too heavy to be Molly's. But I couldn't hold on to my thoughts, couldn't connect them, so I let go of my questions and once more slipped away.

SEVENTY-FIVE.

WHEN MY EYES OPENED AGAIN, BRIGHT LIGHT BLINDED THEM. Squinting, I saw a head silhouetted by brightness. The face was unfocused and the head swollen. Swollen? No, bandaged. And it was Nick's. d.a.m.n, I thought. I'm dead after all. He's come for me. The way people say that someone who's died comes to get you, to take you to the Light. I squinted harder. The bright light began to resemble a window, and suns.h.i.+ne peeked through curtains behind Nick's head. But Nick had been bludgeoned to death at the Inst.i.tute. So he couldn't be here. I was dreaming again, must not have opened my eyes after all. I told the dream to go away. It didn't. So I told the face out loud, in m.u.f.fled words from a dry mouth.

"Gwey." The face refused to obey. Instead, it smiled, leaned over, and kissed me on the mouth.

The kiss was warm, and I could smell Nick. And antiseptics. I could feel his breath on my face. Apparently, he wasn't dead, and neither was I. In fact, he whispered a thank-you, saying that I'd saved his life. The ambulance I'd ordered had arrived. The EMTs had gone to Beverly' office, just as I'd told the 911 operator. They'd found them both there. Nick and Beverly.

Nick talked slowly, mouthing words carefully, and I wondered if his brain had been damaged, but he didn't say. He told me that he had a nasty gash and a concussion, but he was recuperating. Beverly was also expected to survive. Woods had beaten her badly; she'd be hospitalized for a while. All the patients were back in their rooms. Evie'd been found walking along the train tracks, singing and barefoot, headed toward Center City. I'd been found at the entrance to Section 5, Evie's blanket draped over me.

And Molly? Where was Molly? Why didn't he tell me? Nick told me I'd need a lot of rest; I'd bled a lot. He said the knife had slashed long and deep, nearly puncturing my lung. He went on about how sorry he was, how it was all his fault. I listened, waiting for him to mention Molly. But he didn't. Not one word.

"Whzzmllee?" I asked him. My tongue wouldn't move, seemed glued to the floor of my mouth.

"Don't try to talk, darling." Darling? He touched my face. I was furious. What was wrong with him? What had happened to Molly? I had to see her. Who was watching her?

I mustered my strength to articulate another question. "Wehz-mawlee?"

This time, I knew he understood me. His eyes lit. "Molly? At Susan's. We thought it best if she didn't see you until you were conscious."

I closed my eyes, warding off tears. Molly was at Susan's. "Howshee?"

"She's a trouper. Worried about her mother. But a patient- the one we found on the train tracks? She took Molly to the art room. Get this-she even got paper and crayons out for her. Molly was fine-"

"Evie," I breathed.

"What was that, honey?"

Tears spilled. I couldn't help it. Evie had rescued Molly, had taken her to the art room, a place she thought of as safe. Thank G.o.d. They were both okay. My skin ached to hug my daughter, but I'd see her soon. And Nick was alive. And so was I. Slowly, cautiously, I let this information sink in, feeling the glow of it spread through my body. One by one, my muscles untensed, relaxed by the knowledge that Woods was gone. That Molly and I would soon be together, home again. Safe inside.

Nick sat beside me, coaxing me to sleep. Promising to stay with me. His voice was deep and rhythmic, like waves. I had lots of questions, but I was too tired to ask them. Instead, I stared at Nick's living face and the light behind his blue eyes until my own eyes burned. Then, when I trusted that if I shut them, they'd open again, I let them close.

SEVENTY-SIX.

THE HOSPITAL RELEASED ME THE NEXT DAY. WE HAD CHRIST WE HAD CHRISTmas dinner with Nick and Susan's family. Susan outdid herself, preparing a feast of duckling in cherry sauce and wild rice. Nick played the jolly saint bearing gifts: a new robe, sweater, and diamond earrings for me; for Molly, a bicycle, a jigsaw puzzle, and a stuffed ape larger than she was. He'd even bought gifts for Susan's family and signed both our names to the cards.

For me, Molly's smile was the best gift of all. I watched her for signs of anxiety or trauma, but though she didn't want to talk about what had happened at the Inst.i.tute, she seemed to be amazingly fine. Soon after the Tooth Fairy left a dollar under her pillow, another tooth loosened. She ate well, played hard, and, except for some nightmares, slept soundly.

Michael stopped by Christmas Eve, dripping concern and prepared for a fight. I handed him the ring without comment. Baffled, speechless, he wrote me a check. I accepted it, but the fact was that I wanted him to have the ring. It mattered to him; to me it was just an object, pretty to look at, nothing more. As he left, Michael thanked me and asked, "You okay, Zoe? You don't seem quite yourself." Of course, he was right. I wasn't quite myself, at least not the self he'd known.

Over the holidays, Nick spent more and more time with us. We talked about what had happened; he explained that after the trauma of Charlie's death he'd wanted to protect us from the corralling of Phillip Woods. He swore that whatever had pa.s.sed between him and Beverly Gardener had been purely professional. I neither believed nor disbelieved him. And I never mentioned my resemblance to his wife, never asked if he'd killed her. Beverly Gardener and Nick's marriage were beyond my concern. I moved ahead tentatively, hour by hour, day by day, accepting that truth was elusive, indifferent to how it might be grasped, represented, or perceived.

When she could be moved, Beverly Gardener went off to a sw.a.n.k Palm Beach clinic to recover. From her hospital bed, she signed another book contract and had her agent arrange to syndicate her radio program nationwide. She was negotiating for a television show. When and if she came back to work, it would not be quietly.

Days pa.s.sed into weeks. The pace of life picked up, began to feel almost normal. But not quite. There was still no sign of Phillip Woods, and I watched for him routinely, ready for him to spring out of a closet or from under the bed. Phillip Woods had become the bogeyman, haunting but elusive. Aside from that, loss weighed heavily-Charlie, all those poor women. Life was altered, would never be the same.

When Molly slept, I sometimes wandered the house, searching for signs, for some place or point to connect to. But I was unhinged. Not long ago, a woman had lived there with her daughter. A man had shared her bed. But that woman, like the nannies, had vanished. The child was still there, her books and flannel bunny Even the man had returned. The furnis.h.i.+ngs remained-her paintings, her purple sofa, even her cursed StairMaster. But these were props. Illusions. The place was a house full of tricks that made it seem that a real woman with a real life lived there.

I knew better. I didn't feel real. Whatever defined me was external. From the outside, I was a friend, a mom, a neighbor, a therapist, an ex-wife, a lover. Inside, underneath, I was vacant. Blank. Who was I? Who was I to myself?

I had no idea. But whoever I was, I was my own companion as I walked in circles, centered in a homespun web. At times a howl, or something like it, swelled silently inside my belly, my chest. I didn't know why or what kind of howl it was, only that it was my howl, something I could release or keep. Something real and known only to me. Something, maybe the only thing, I owned.

For days and weeks, recuperating, I paced the floors, walked from room to room, looking for something I couldn't find. Nick was often there, sleeping on the sofa, resting in the chair, cooking forty different flavors of spaghetti. I made myself cups of decaf, felt the steam, inhaled it deeply. The howl was building, battling to burst from my lungs. No, I told myself. I would not let it go. Not yet. I would hold on to it and wait, letting it grow inside me. I swallowed cups of murky hot liquid, washed the howl back down, and looked out the window as if life were normal, as if I were calm.

Charlie's empty house returned my gaze. His worried eyes peered forlornly from bas.e.m.e.nt windows. I met his eyes but couldn't comfort him. It would take time for Charlie's spirit to find peace.

Nor would peace come easily to me. I watched for Phillip Woods, always on alert, unable to relax. Peace, I realized, wouldn't knock at my door or ring the bell. No. If I were ever to get it, whoever I was, whatever I was made of, I'd have to go out and find it on my own.

SEVENTY-SEVEN.

ITWAS TUESDAY MORNING, LATE IN JANUARY. I'D GONE BACK I'D GONE BACK to work a few days before and was waiting at the door for Angela, who was late. As soon as she arrived, I'd have to rush off. to work a few days before and was waiting at the door for Angela, who was late. As soon as she arrived, I'd have to rush off.

Molly was still in her pajamas on the sofa, reading Amelia Be-delia Amelia Be-delia aloud to her dolls. Outside, the sun was trying to break through heavy blue clouds. Blackened crusts of snow lined the curbs, and someone was parking a big white van in front of Phillip Woods's house, obscuring my view of the aloud to her dolls. Outside, the sun was trying to break through heavy blue clouds. Blackened crusts of snow lined the curbs, and someone was parking a big white van in front of Phillip Woods's house, obscuring my view of the FOR SALE FOR SALE sign. sign.

Phillip Woods. The man had worn tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses, a cashmere coat, and ta.s.seled shoes. He'd claimed to know celebrities; his handshake had been soft. It still seemed impossible that he'd attacked Beverly, much less killed the security guard, several other women he'd become obsessed with, the nannies, and who knew how many others? Then again, maybe he hadn't killed the nannies. No one knew for sure who the Nannynapper was. Officially, the police still named Charlie. Unofficially, they suspected Woods. He'd had access to Charlie's tools and bas.e.m.e.nt and to each of the victims, and he'd had that recurring problem with "impostors"-which gave him means, opportunity and a possible motive.

Not a lot of effort was spent looking for the truth, though, since both suspects were dead. For weeks now, no nannies had disappeared-well, one, but her ex-boyfriend was suspected in that. The neighborhood was quiet again, if not the same. Life went on.

Meantime, where was Angela? She was fifteen minutes late. Molly held her book up to show the pictures to her dolls before turning the page. I leaned out the front door, looked up and down the frosty street, saw pa.s.sing cars, pedestrians hurrying on their way to work, Victor coming out his front door. No Angela. What could have happened? Why hadn't she called?

Wait a second. Victor? I looked again. Sure enough, across the street, Victor had opened his gate and was rus.h.i.+ng down the street, disappearing behind a parked SUV My mouth fell open. Victor? How was that possible? Victor was outside?

He reappeared at the other end of the SUV I blinked, but he didn't disappear. I'd never actually had a good look at Victor before, only glimpses. He was taller than I'd have imagined, and lanky, but the man definitely looked like Victor. He had Victor's s.h.a.ggy black hair, Victor's pasty white skin. As he came across the street, I could see his face. There was no question. The guy was definitely Victor. Except that it couldn't be; Victor never left his house. Never. Not in years. Victor was so phobic he couldn't take his trash to the curb; neighbors had to carry it from his door. Victor never went outside. Ever. But there he was. Why? What could possibly make him come out now?

"Molly?" I called. "I'm going out front to wait for Angela. I'll be right back."