by Merry Jones
Instead, dressed in knee-high boots and a red sheared-beaver coat, her long brunette hair loose and blowing in the wind, Beverly Gardener stepped onto the porch and marched up the street, cutting her way through the snow.
FIFTY-SEVEN
WE FOLLOWED HER.
“Get back in,” I told Molly and closed the door before she could take the snowball out of her mouth to ask a question. I went around to the driver’s side and climbed into the cab. Without thinking. Without quite knowing why.
“Why aren’t we getting out?” Molly asked. The snowball was melting, dripping in her hands.
“Here, open the window. Throw that out. It stopped bleeding, I think.” I started the engine.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m not sure—I want to see where that lady’s going.”
She cranked down her window and threw out the mushy snow. “Why? Who is she?”
“Someone from work. I want to know what she was doing at Mr. Woods’s house.”
“But I want to go home—”
“We will. Soon.”
That seemed to satisfy her.
“And can we make pancakes?”
“We’ll see.” When Beverly was a few houses up the block, certain that she hadn’t seen me, I started driving, staying half a block behind.
What would I do if she saw us? Confront her? Demand to know the truth about her relationship with Woods? With Nick? If she didn’t see us, how long would I follow her? Would I lurk with Molly indefinitely outside her condo? Or in front of a store if she went shopping? And what if she was meeting Nick?
I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I was ready to take both Nick and Beverly on and make a fool of myself, even in front of Molly. I kept going. At Sixth Street, she walked north. Damn. Sixth was one-way south. I couldn’t follow. I pulled over and watched her. And saw her get into the driver’s seat of Nick’s old Volvo, parked halfway up the block.
FIFTY-EIGHT
I WATCHED FROM THE INTERSECTION AS THE VOLVO STRUGGLED out of its parking spot. It pushed through snow and made its way right past us. I waited until the car was a few houses down, then lowered the plow and followed, shoving snow aside, blocking driveways and walling in cars as I went. Where was she heading? At Bainbridge, she turned left, progressing at a slow but steady pace to Fifth, where she turned left again and went north, crossing Lombard, Pine, Spruce, Walnut. When she got to Market, she made another left. Gradually, as she crossed Broad Street and continued west toward Thirtieth Street Station, I recognized the route. We were on the way to work.
The Institute parking lot was only half plowed and nearly empty; it was the weekend, and undoubtedly the blizzard had kept everyone but essential staff away. Weekend visiting hours wouldn’t begin until three, not for hours. Beverly Gardener pulled into a spot in the plowed part of the lot and headed inside. Was Nick waiting in her office? Sleeping on her lush leather sofa? I envisioned his bare chest. Stop it, I told myself. Think about what you’re doing.
I knew what I was doing. I was setting myself up for a fullblown emotional catastrophe by confronting Nick and Beverly together, at my place of employment, with my daughter by my side. I was about to humiliate myself beyond my wildest imaginings, but I didn’t care. I felt good. Righteous. Ready for high drama. Catharsis. It would be cleansing, better than throwing up.
Even so, I thought better of subjecting Molly to the spectacle. She’d stay with the security guard in the foyer for a few minutes. I wouldn’t be gone long.
After Beverly went in, I waited a few seconds to give her time to clear the foyer. I didn’t want her to see me, not yet. When I thought she’d made it to the hall, I pulled up to the front door, took Molly out of the truck, and led her into the Institute.
But the foyer was empty. Where was the security guard— what was his name—Reginald? Something like that. He was on duty during the quiet shifts on weekends, covering Agnes’s reception desk until afternoon visiting hours. Why wasn’t he there? What was I going to do with Molly?
We walked toward the desk, past the monstrous, glittering tree. Rufus—was that his name? Rufus must have gone on a coffee break. Probably he’d be right back. We kept walking, passing his desk. The nameplate read RUPERT SIMPSON. That was it: Rupert. Well, Rupert still wasn’t there. I’d have to take Molly with me. Maybe it would be better that way; with Molly along, I’d have to behave myself.
“Where are we going, Mommy?”
“I’m not sure.”
I looked up the main corridors, past empty offices, bulletin boards, water fountains. Which way had Beverly gone? Where was she? I looked, listened for footsteps. Heard, saw nothing.
“I want to go home.”
“I know. Soon.”
“I don’t like it here.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t. Where’s your art studio?” “Over that way.”
Molly kept chattering, and I answered her automatically, without thought, trying to figure out what to do. Up the middle corridor, the empty elevator opened, then closed; someone had pressed the button. Beverly? We followed the sound, heading toward the elevator, and Molly finally stopped talking. We passed locked office doors, heard and saw no one. Not one nurse or an orderly. Not a single staff member. I stopped and listened, heard only the echo of our own steps.
Of course, I reasoned, it was too early for visitors. And the blizzard had probably reduced the staff. A few doctors on call would straggle in later. Silence was not necessarily an indication of trouble. Still, the quiet was unsettling. Unnerving. Then I saw Rupert, sitting on a bench across the hall. What was he doing? Waiting for the elevator?
I nodded at him. He didn’t respond. He sat slouched, staring at his lap. “Rupert?” I asked. “You all right?”
No answer. Amazing. The man was dozing, napping on the job. Should I wake him up? Embarrass him? Molly let go of my hand and pushed the elevator button. “Are we going up, Mommy?”
Were we? Suddenly I thought we should leave. I’d followed Beverly on impulse, but I’d been exhausted and bitter, not making good decisions. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Down?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
Being there felt stupid, foolish. Not worth the effort. And Molly shouldn’t have to watch me confronting Beverly. We needed to leave. To go home before I caused a disaster.
The elevator rattled somewhere in the shaft. The bell dinged, doors rolled opened and shut. Who’d gotten in? Nick? Beverly? I didn’t know. But it wasn’t my business. I was getting overheated in my jacket; sweat rolled down my midriff. Time to go.
“Come on, Molly.” I took her hand and crossed the hall, eyeing Rupert. A ding announced the arriving elevator car. I glanced back. The door slid open, revealing Beverly Gardener. She’d removed her fur jacket. Taking her time, she smoothed her hair, adjusted her glasses.
“Mommy, there’s the lady!” Molly announced.
“That’s okay—”
Too late. Beverly looked up, pausing and squinting at us through tortoiseshell frames. Our eyes met, locked, and froze. And suddenly I remembered: Beverly Gardener didn’t wear glasses.
Phillip Woods did, though. And he fit snugly into Beverly Gardener’s clothes. His mouth opened. He froze, surprised. I grabbed Molly’s hand and called to Rupert, but Rupert didn’t wake up, didn’t even stir. I hurried over to him, noticing only now the blood smeared on the wall behind him, the dark stain on the shoulder of his uniform. Molly was saying something, but I didn’t hear what. I was pulling her across the hall, dragging her into the staircase. As the stairway door swung shut behind us, I looked back and saw Phillip Woods sneering at us while the elevator snapped shut on his high-heeled leather boot.
FIFTY-NINE
WOODS? PHILLIP WOODS? DRESSED AS BEVERLY GARDENER. Suddenly I understood. Beverly Gardener hadn’t been visiting Woods; Woods himself had left his house, dressed as Beverly Gardener. And Rupert, the security guard, was dead. Murdered. Rupert must
have noticed something odd about Dr. Gardener. Maybe he’d confronted her. Was that why Woods killed him? I thought of Charlie, his warning that the killer wore disguises. I could almost hear his hoarse whisper, “Trust nobody,” as I tugged on Molly’s hand.
“Mommy,” Molly huffed. “Why are we running? Where are we going?”
Where were we going? Good question. What was I doing? I stopped dragging her. We stood panting on the landing below the third floor.
“Why are we running away from that lady? You said we were trying to find her.”
I could hear the elevator rising in the shaft. Was Woods in there, riding up ahead of us? We shouldn’t go up, had to go down.
“Molly, I can’t explain everything now, okay? I’m sorry. I goofed up. Just come with me. We’re going back downstairs.”
Pivoting, reversing our steps, we went down, down, around. A few times I stopped, leaned over the railing, and looked up, half expecting to see spectacles and a lipsticked smirk looking down at us. But no one was there. We made it to the first floor and headed for the door. But I stopped, my hand on the knob. Was Woods out there? Maybe he hadn’t gone up in the elevator but had waited in the hall, outside the door. I turned away. Molly and I kept going down.
The door to the basement opened to shadows, doorways, corridors branching off in all directions. The Institute maze, silent and empty. No Woods. Nobody at all.
The door squeaked; the sound ricocheted off the walls. I pressed on, clutching Molly’s hand.
“Where are we going, Mommy?”
“Shh,” I whispered. “We have to be quiet.”
“Why? I don’t want to be quiet. I want to go home.” She stamped her foot.
“Molly.” I stopped walking and knelt, meeting her eyes. “It’s important that we keep our voices down. Try not to talk. I’ll explain later, okay?”
“Now—tell me now. I don’t like it here. Let’s go.” Her whisper was louder than her voice had been.
“Soon, I promise. But first, I need you to help by being quiet. Like a mouse.”
She nodded, but she was running out of patience. I kissed her forehead and stood, wondering how long it would be before Woods figured out where we were. Then it hit me: If the person I’d been following was Woods, where was Beverly? On the phone, she’d said she’d be here, at the Institute. She might be here still. We’d go to her office, find her, and call for help. Great. Good plan. But I had to remember where her office was. What was the number? 35? No—37. I remembered finding her note there. And Phillip Woods, pacing in the waiting area, frantic to find her. Claiming to be her friend. Damn. Was he going to her office now? Or already there? I could feel him hunting, waiting in ambush. Oh, where was number 37? The door beside us was 12. Not too far from 37. But we had to get out of the main corridor, out of sight of the elevator and the stairway. We ducked into a side passageway and waited. Molly began a question, but I cut her off, pressing a finger to my lips, reminding her to be quiet. I listened, peering into the hall behind me. Seeing nobody.
“Are we hiding from the lady?” Molly whispered. When I nodded, her eyes widened, and her grip tightened on my hand.
Somewhere behind us, a door closed. Footsteps clacked along the floor. We hurried away from the sound, turning into a dead end. I tried a doorknob. Locked. Of course it was locked. We turned back, and I peeked around the corner. The footsteps continued, softly, steadily. I led Molly around the corner, down the hall, and turned again to keep out of sight.
“Mommy, I’m scared.” Molly’s whisper was hushed, frightened.
I stopped and leaned down. Her eyes were wide, doelike. How had I gotten us into this mess?
“Don’t be scared, Mollybear. Help me find room number thirty-seven. We might get help there.”
Her chin wobbled, but she nodded, looking at doors. Backed against the wall, I stood still and listened. The footsteps persisted, muffled and distant. The office across from me was number 49. Damn. We had to go back. Toward the footsteps.
I told myself to be calm. Breathing deeply, I recalled Rupert’s back bathed in blood. Oh God. Where was Nick? Had Woods found him with Beverly? Who was coming down the hall?
A lone lightbulb glowed dully in the ceiling as we cowered and crept through the dingy basement. Shadows flickered in the dim light; footsteps echoed from all directions, or maybe from none at all.
I thought of what would happen to Molly if Woods caught up with us, and told myself to stay focused. Molly reminded me that 53 was higher than 51. That we should turn around, go the other way. Yes—49, 47. Fabulous. Another division, a fork in the hall. Which way to go, left or right? Somewhere behind or off to the left of us, footsteps paused. Was Woods listening? Deciding which way to go? We went left. And, bingo! 37. The door announced, with boldface block letters, DR. BEVERLY GARDENER. We’d made it. I looked across the hall, checking the waiting area. Woods wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the alcove, waiting. Not this time. No. But oh my God. This time, Nick was.
SIXTY
THE WAIL WAS UNEXPECTED. DEEP, WRENCHING, IT ERUPTED from my belly. I stood frozen, staring at Nick’s unmoving form. Eventually I managed to take a breath, then another. But I still couldn’t move. Maybe it was Nick’s stillness, his unnatural position. Or maybe the crimson liquid clotting on his head.
Then I remembered—Molly—Molly was there with me, her small hand still in mine. I looked at her, saw the mirror of my own scream frozen on her face.
“Molly,” I heard my voice urge. Other than her name, I couldn’t manage to make words. She was trembling, swallowing air.
I stroked Molly’s face, telling her to breathe. Nick’s face was in my hands, a bad shade of gray, lips apart, head slumped and bloody. So very bloody. Then my hand was under Nick’s jacket, where he was still warm, still familiar. My fingers, lingering, trying to smooth and caress death away. But Nick didn’t stir.
The office, a voice in my head said, go into the office. But my legs were numb and useless. I knelt beside him, holding my breath, listening to his chest for a heartbeat, but hearing only the whisper of passing time. Molly’s face was covered with tears, and I wiped them away, smearing blood across her cheeks. Blood? Oh God. Nick’s blood, from my fingers. What was I doing? I had to take Molly away, not let her see this.
“Get up, Nick,” I heard myself say, and Molly echoed, “Get up, Nick.” I grabbed him under the arms, reached around him, and pulled. Molly helped, tugging at him. His torso came up, but his head flopped backward. We couldn’t move him. He was dead weight. Suddenly, from somewhere, leather soles clacked on linoleum. Someone walking. A guard? Or Woods? How long had we been there, tugging on Nick?
Molly looked at me, alarmed. I took her hand, reassuring her.
“Mommy, let’s go.” Molly pulled at me, whimpering.
The footsteps were coming our way. I let go of Nick’s hand and hurried Molly across the hall. We’d get into Beverly’s office and call for help. The police. An ambulance.
The door should have been locked, but it wasn’t. The footsteps came nearer, became more distinct. Any second, Woods would pop around the corner. Show up down the hall.
We ducked into the office. Close the door, a voice whispered. Lock it and call the police.
But before I did, in the alcove, someone moved. Woods? I quickly closed the door, just glimpsing Nick as he slid sideways, keeled over, and crumpled onto the floor.
SIXTY-ONE
I LOCKED THE DOOR AND HUGGED MOLLY, AND SHE HELD ON to my sleeve as I made my way across the office to find the phone. An outdoor security light cast dim beams through the window; even so, I stumbled on loose papers, tripped on the back of a chair. An overturned chair. Righting it, I told Molly to sit down, but she wouldn’t let go of me, hung on for her life. Together, we inched our way past the leather sofa and made it to the desk. My hand found Beverly’s big desk chair and swung it around. I reached for the phone and sat down—and jumped right back up. Molly leaped onto me, clutching me so that I couldn’t see or move.
Finally, holding her, I turned around slowly, dreading what I’d see. Sure enough. I hadn’t sat on a leather chair. I’d sat on Beverly Gardener.
SIXTY-TWO
I SET MOLLY DOWN AND TRIED TO COMFORT HER. “MOLLY.“ I hugged her, whispered in her ear. “I’m going to call for help.” She nodded, speechless, and stood beside me, clinging, her head buried in my side, her entire body shaking. I trembled, too, cemented to the floor.
“Beverly?” I managed. She didn’t answer. I stuck out a finger and touched her arm. Her skin was cold. Well, it was December. She wore only a bra and panties; of course she’d be cold. That didn’t mean she was dead. I poked her again, harder. Her head lolled off to the side, and with a sense of dread I noticed a stocking hanging around her neck. Pulse, I thought. Check her pulse. My hands were unsteady; I couldn’t feel anything but Molly’s trembling. Was Beverly breathing? I put my finger under her nose, thought I felt the slightest tickle of warm air.
I followed my instincts and gently lowered her off the chair onto the floor. It wasn’t easy, with Molly hanging around my waist, but I managed. Beverly didn’t make a sound. I listened at her chest, felt her breasts against my head. Was that my heartbeat or hers? I covered her with my jacket, got up. I had to use the phone. Quickly.
Beverly’s desk was a mess. Drawers hung open, and files lay all over the floor. Move, I told myself. Just call the police. I guided Molly, stepping around Beverly, and picked up the phone.
9-1-1. Nothing happened. No ringing. Then I remembered: the outside line. To get an outside line, I’d need to dial 9; all I’d actually dialed was 1-1. I started over, pushed the button: 9. Good. A dial tone.
Now another 9. Now a 1.
Footsteps. Very close, approaching the door. Then they stopped. A silhouette with shoulder-length hair darkened the frosted glass window near the top of the door. I pulled Molly down and we crouched, huddling under the desk. Where was the damned 1 button? In the dark under the desk, my arms around Molly, I felt the phone buttons, pushed what I thought was the right one.
