The nanny murders (31 page)

My arms and shoulders ached, hands stung, thawing. I wiped away blood with tissues from the woman’s nightstand and led Molly to the door. But I didn’t open it; Woods might be out there, waiting. The man was slight, but he’d overpowered Nick and Beverly, had killed a burly guard and maybe five women younger and stronger than I was. I stood with my hand on the doorknob, listening. It was only a matter of time, maybe seconds, until he’d find us. There was no choice.

“Molly,” I told her. “That lady with the long dark hair? She’s dangerous. The police are coming soon, and they’ll find her. But
until then, we have to keep away from her. So if anything happens—if she gets close to you, run fast and get away. Understand?”

Another nod. Another silent, alarming nod.

I squeezed her one more time, then turned the knob and inched the door open, looking up and down the hall. As we stepped out, before the door closed, the woman stated, “Monday’s hash. Everything from the whole week, all mashed together.”

SIXTY-NINE

H
ER ROOM WAS ON THE FIRST FLOOR
. I
WORKED ON THAT
floor, knew it well. It had wider, brighter halls than the basement, and a less intricate layout. Woods would probably take the closest, most accessible stairway, the one nearest the foyer. He’d wait there for us to try for the front door. I rushed Molly to a smaller staircase at the far end of the corridor. There would be a fire exit there. We could get out. I hurried my daughter down the hall, pulled the heavy door open, crossed to the exit, and threw myself against it. It didn’t budge. It was locked.

But we couldn’t go back out the stairwell door; we’d run into Woods in the hall. Unless he was still downstairs. I stood still, holding Molly’s hand, debating which way to go. Out? Down? Finally, I decided. We’d cross the building upstairs. We went up to the second-floor landing, stopped, and listened at the door. No footsteps, no voices. No Woods. Why was it so quiet? Where was everybody? A pipe clanked somewhere, maybe a heater. Nothing else. No sounds of patients or staff, no meal trays, no music. Maybe this was normal after a blizzard. Maybe weekends were always sluggish and dull. Or maybe something had happened to quiet everyone. I couldn’t figure it out, didn’t have time to. We had to keep moving.

Holding my breath, I led Molly out of the stairway and oriented myself. We were down the hall from the locked partition that separated the violent patients in Section 5 from the rest of
the Institute. Surely there would be help in Section 5. We hurried along to the partition door where someone would buzz me in. But no one had to. The steel partition door hung wide open. Unlocked.

Woods. He had been there. Or might be there now. He must have used the guard’s keys and unlocked the high-security area.

But why would he unlock the door? Didn’t he know that these patients were dangerous? If they wandered out, who knew what might happen? A voice in my head whispered, “That’s just the point.”

Of course. Woods wanted the violent patients to escape. He wanted them to scatter all over the place—in every alcove, conference room and corridor—so it would look like they had stolen the keys, attacked Nick and Beverly, killed the guard, rifled through papers, vandalized offices. With chaos like that, no one would ask questions or look further for explanations.

Unless there happened to be witnesses.

I held on to Molly, not sure whether to go forward or back. The nursing station was close, a hundred feet away. There were phones there. And, with any luck, nurses. And staff.

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. Nobody 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 passed 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, shiny 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

T
HE 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 passing out? I couldn’t pass 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 bloody knife.

SEVENTY-ONE

I
SWALLOWED AIR AND BLINKED, STRUGGLING TO STAY CON
scious. 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

K
EVIN FERGUSON WAS JUST BEGINNING TO COLLECT THE
breakfast trays when a goose-bump-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 crashing to the floor.

The day shift 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 Institute— were gone. What the hell had happened that morning? Had there been a damned 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

O
F COURSE,
I
WAS AWARE OF NONE OF THAT
. I
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.

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 hell 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 muffled 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 scrape, 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 hell, 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.