The nanny murders (32 page)

“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

S
USAN? SUSAN WAS TALKING TO ME, OR, NO, NOT TO ME
.
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.

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

W
HEN 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. Damn, 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 sunshine peeked through curtains behind Nick’s head. But Nick had been bludgeoned to death at the Institute. 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 muffled 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 God. 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

T
HE HOSPITAL RELEASED ME THE NEXT DAY
.
WE HAD CHRIST
mas 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 Institute, 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 passed 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 swank 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 passed 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 furnishings 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 basement 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

I
TWAS TUESDAY MORNING, LATE IN JANUARY
.
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.

Molly was still in her pajamas on the sofa, reading
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
FOR SALE
sign.

Phillip Woods. The man had worn tortoiseshell glasses, a cashmere coat, and tasseled 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 basement 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 passing 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 rushing 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 shaggy 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.”

“ ‘Kay.” She didn’t look up from her book.

I waited until he’d crossed the street. He kept looking over his shoulder, left, then right, then left again, as if making sure no one was following. Or watching? When he stepped out of the line of sight, I went outside and down the steps. Where was he? He’d been headed toward the pair of newly renovated
townhomes on my side of the street. But they were still unoccupied, not even finished. Why would he be going there?

Maybe he wanted to buy one. To move. Or invest. But it didn’t matter why. After all, Victor had every right to cross the street. It was none of my business. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder. Why would Victor venture outdoors to go to an empty house? From the bottom of my front steps, I saw him pass through the front gate of one of the new houses. Casually, as if out for a stroll, I wandered over. No one was around. No workers. No one. The place seemed abandoned.

It made no sense. Maybe Victor had recovered. Maybe he’d overcome his agoraphobia. Maybe, as part of his recovery, he actually went outside and took walks every day—after all, I hadn’t been watching him. Even so, why would he go into an empty house? I told myself to mind my own business, to stop staring at the windows and the open gate. I was about to go home when the front door burst open and out flew Jake. Jake? But what about Victor? Was he still inside?