The nanny murders (33 page)

Jake hurried down the front walk so preoccupied that he didn’t look where he was heading. If I hadn’t said hi to him, he’d have barreled right into me.

“Christ,” he exclaimed, hopping sideways.

I smiled. “Sorry—”

“My fault, no problem,” he muttered, still moving.

“I haven’t seen you lately,” I went on. “How’ve you been?”

He glanced back at the house he’d just left, ahead at the street, shifting from foot to foot as if running in place. “Busy. Haven’t been around much—I got some jobs in Jersey, so I’m wrapping things up here.”

Ask about Victor, I told myself. Ask if he’s seen him. But Jake had gone on his way, calling over his shoulder for me to take it easy. “See ya,” he yelled.

Strange, I thought. What was Victor doing in that house? Did
Jake even know he was there? And why had Jake been so unfriendly and unsettled? Something wasn’t right.

Mind your own business, I told myself as I watched Jake hurry down the street and climb into his truck. Go home. But I didn’t go home. I stood on the sidewalk, thinking. What was bothering me? Something about Jake was rattling me. What was it? Think, I told myself. Figure it out.

Angela disliked him; he made her uneasy. And what did I really know about him? Nothing, really. Nothing at all.

I reminded myself that Molly was home alone—I had to get back. But I didn’t go. I stood on the sidewalk, staring at the house. Maybe I’d just check inside. Pop in briefly, quietly, see what Victor was up to, and leave. I’d be back before Molly even knew I was gone.

I watched Jake start up his truck and drive away. When he’d rounded the corner, I swung the gate and stepped onto the property. Trespassing. But the front door was open—it wasn’t like I was breaking in. I was just a neighbor, making sure another neighbor was okay.

I glanced around the interior. Unpainted drywall. A half-built fireplace. Exposed wiring. An unfinished stairway to the second floor. No Victor. Quickly, I went into what would become the kitchen. From there, a second stairway led down to the basement. There was a light on; maybe someone was down there, working. Or maybe it was Victor. I couldn’t hear him and wasn’t about to go look—I’d already gone too far, had no business being there. I didn’t want anyone to catch me snooping. I’d just leave. No harm done. Sneak out the way I’d snuck in.

I turned, stepping away from the staircase. That was when I noticed the hallway. The small scarlet puddle clotting on the hardwood floor.

SEVENTY-EIGHT

T
HE BLOOD WAS FRESH, STICKILY WET
.
THIN SCARLET SMEARS
led to my feet; smudges and droplets continued down the stairs.

Oh my God—Victor! I ran down the steps, following a path of blood drops. At the bottom, though, the path abruptly ended. I scanned the empty basement, saw nobody. A toolbox at my feet. An empty worktable. An electric bulb hanging from ceiling wires. Exposed ceiling beams, concrete blocks, a wood-paneled wall. No Victor.

I stood still, not breathing, listening for moaning or panting or any signs of life. Nothing.

“Victor?” I called softly, knowing he wasn’t there. I could see that he wasn’t. “Victor?”

He had to be here. Unless I was mistaken. Maybe Victor had gone out the back door. Or up to the second floor. Maybe the blood wasn’t even Victor’s; maybe it was Jake’s—he might have had an accident—that might be why he was hurrying away—

But if so, why was it smeared on the steps as if someone had been dragged into the basement?

I looked at the paneled wall where the path stopped. There was a patch of blood, not just drops, beside it. Why? I pictured Jake tugging a bloody Victor down the stairs, resting him against the wall at the bottom. That would explain the patch. But then what? What had Jake done with him? Where could Victor be?

I walked around the basement, looking again for a door, a
crawl space, a closet, a trunk. Nothing. Just an empty expanse of space with concrete walls. Except for one. The one at the bottom of the steps was wood. Why?

I didn’t know much about construction. In fact, I knew nothing about it. But I tapped the paneled wall and heard a hollow sound. I tapped harder, above my head, down at my knees. I walked from one end of the wall to the other, knocking, hearing a reply of vacant space from the other side. And I knew. Victor was back there. Jake had put him there. And I had to get him out.

I shoved the wall. I pushed and banged it. It didn’t budge. I called out Victor’s name and got no answer. Go home, I told myself. Call Nick. Let the police take care of this.

“Victor,” I told the wall, “I’m going to get help. I’ll be back.”

Turning to go, though, I saw the toolbox lying at my feet. I looked at the wall again, saw screws embedded in the wood. It took a few minutes to unscrew the center panel, but when I finished, surprisingly, almost effortlessly, I’d dislodged an entire segment of the wall. It moved easily to the side, opening to a secret room, releasing the odor of something foul.

SEVENTY-NINE

A
DIM LIGHT INSIDE REVEALED A CUBICLE ABOUT THE SIZE OF
my bathroom. The walls were covered with art—some kind of textured work. Collages? The floor was covered with Victor.

His legs were splayed; his head remained in shadows. I knelt beside him, vaguely noticing the garbage bags lining the floor. I felt his throat and found a pulse.

“Victor,” I kept saying, “wake up. Please wake up.”

He didn’t stir. His face was masked with blood. Don’t move him, I remembered. Go get help. I turned to go, but stopped. What was that form huddled in the shadows? Was someone lying there, not moving? I dreaded what I’d see, but I made myself look closer. Angela lay on a foam mattress, tied up, motionless, unconscious or dead.

EIGHTY

H
ER HEART WAS BEATING, BUT HER SKIN WAS COOL, THE TEM
perature of basement air. Her neck slumped to the side, loose like rubber. Jake. Jake had taken her, had taken all of them. Jake was the Nannynapper. Not Charlie, not Phillip Woods. Jake had watched the nannies on the street, selecting his victims. He’d seen Angela on her way to work, had trapped her and taken her here, just like the others. My God. Why hadn’t I known? I hadn’t even suspected him. Nobody had. Jake had been around the neighborhood so long, he’d become a fixture. As unnoticeable as a streetlight. Camouflaged by his obvious presence.

I had to go call Nick. Get an ambulance. Find help. I spun around, inhaling a rotten stench. Don’t panic, I told myself. Just go.

I took the steps two at a time and ran through the kitchen into the hall. I headed for the front door, was almost there.

Maybe I heard a thump. Maybe I even felt a blow. But I had no memory of either. In fact, I remembered nothing, not even darkness.

EIGHTY-ONE

I
WAS BLIND
. I
STARED AT BLACKNESS, TRYING TO FIND A CON
trast, a shape, an outline of anything. Nothing. Not a shadow, not a shade. My head throbbed, pulsing white pain. I tried to call out, but something—a rag?—was stuffed into my mouth, gagging me. I couldn’t move my arms or legs, turned my head slightly, felt a cloth draping my face—a blindfold? Maybe I wasn’t blind. I turned my head again and the cloth slipped slightly, just enough to let in a sliver of yellow light—yes, thank God—I wasn’t blind. But why couldn’t I move? What had happened?

I tried again but couldn’t lift my arms. My elbows were caught—tied to my body. In fact, all of me was tied. I couldn’t lift my legs, couldn’t sit up. Oh my God, I remembered. Jake. The basement room. He must have found me.

Pain raged in my head. I turned it too quickly; waves of nausea rocked me. Don’t throw up, I thought. You’ll choke on the gag.

I lay still, waiting for the nausea to pass. I nodded my head carefully, working the blindfold up little by little, rubbing it against the mattress. I slid the blindfold higher and higher until, if I raised my chin, I could see a slice of the wall. I recognized the paneling. I was in the basement of the empty house, in the hidden room.

I turned my head slightly to the left, nausea again. Smelled
something rotten. Slowly, I craned my neck all the way to the right. Angela was there, lying limply on the mattress. But where was Victor? I strained to lift my head and look around, but I didn’t see him. It took a moment to realize why my mattress was so lumpy and narrow and why, at my waist, it divided in two.

EIGHTY-TWO

M
Y HEAD THROBBED
. I
MANAGED TO ROLL OFF
V
ICTOR AND,

leaning against him, survey the room. Green garbage bags coated the floor. The kind they’d found the nannies in. And the door was screwed back in place.

The gag made it hard to draw in enough air, and what I did get reeked. Breathe slowly, I told myself. Find a way to get rid of the damned gag. But how?

I twisted my arms, trying to get free. Exertion made breathing more difficult. Breathe, I told myself. Keep breathing. I worked my head against Victor’s shoulder, inching the blindfold up over my eyes until they were both free.

Under the dim lightbulb, I wondered about the artwork on the wall, why Jake would hang it in a room only to wall it off, sealed up and tomblike. Oh my God. Was that Jake’s plan? To wall us up until we died here? The walls edged in closer. I panted, pulled, pressed, and stretched, but got nowhere.

I thought of Molly and realized I had no sense of time. How long had I been gone? Had I left her minutes ago? Hours? Days? Oh God. Molly I’d left her alone, not told her where I was going. Was she all right? Did she think I’d gone off to work without saying good-bye? Oh God. My mind raced, ricocheting from thought to thought. I pictured Molly alone, waiting with her dolls for Angela, for me, for somebody. Would she wait alone all day until Nick arrived for dinner?
Make a plan, I begged myself. But nothing, no plan came to mind.

Again I turned my hands and—twisting, rotating—pulled my wrists apart as far as I could. Which wasn’t far, but there was some slack. I kept the pattern up, determined to get back to my daughter, tugging and rolling, twisting and pressing, trying to slide one hand down and away from the other. My wrists burned, scraped raw, and sweat or blood—something wet— made my skin slippery, until finally one thumb moved down through the plastic rope that tied me and got jammed. I couldn’t move it up or down, and when I tried, pain shot up my hand and through my arm. But it didn’t matter if I tore my damned hand off; I wasn’t going to stop pulling until the rope was off. I turned, scraped, stretched, and ripped my skin. I told myself, you’re made of water, ninety-some percent water. Just pour through the rope. Think slimy. Think thin. Think about Molly and getting home. And finally, miraculously, my jammed hand slid a bit over the knuckle of my thumb. I twisted and pulled and it moved a bit more. And then my whole hand came out. One, then both. My hands were free.

I pulled off the blindfold and undid the rag that was stuffed into and around my mouth. Plastic yellow rope still tied my elbows to my body and held my legs to the mattress. My vision was blurred and the light was dim, but I could see. My wrists were raw and oozing blood. Angela and Victor hadn’t moved.

Victor didn’t respond when I nudged him.

“Angela,” I whispered. “Can you hear me?”

She didn’t move. I noticed she’d done her nails again. Each was two-toned, a combination of light and dark shades. I wished my nails were that long, able to dig in, separate fibers and untie. But mine were short stubs, and I had to work the rope with blood-and-sweat-slippery hands, slowly, bending elbows and stretching fingers to reach knots that clung tight. Each
knot took eons. But methodically, breathing evenly, I loosened the rope around my arms enough to reach the one around my legs. When that was loosened, I reached down under the rope and untied my ankles.

When I tried to stand, the walls tilted and spun. I sat and leaned back against the wall, not focusing, waiting for the room to hold still, the nausea to pass. Gradually, the whirling slowed. The room settled into a hover, ready to take off again if I jarred my head. Slowly, carefully, I raised myself in increments until I was standing. When I had my balance, I stepped over to Angela, untied her hands, touched her forehead, her throat, felt a weak pulse. Thank God.

“Angela?” I whispered. “Can you hear me? Angela—”

She quivered, stirring. I waited, held her hand, repeated her name. But Angela didn’t seem to hear.

Listening for Jake, I put my head against the wall, beside the collage. The light was dim, so it took a while for me to realize what it was made of, why the air was reeking so. I saw what the textured pieces were; one still wore a shiny silver ring.

EIGHTY-THREE

T
EARS STREAKED MY FACE, BLURRED MY VISION
. I
WAS FRANTIC
. I backed away, flailing.

Look for a weapon, I told myself. But what? Nothing was there but two unconscious people and a grotesque collage. Upstairs, I thought I heard movement. Footsteps. Was Jake still here? Had he heard me moving around? I listened but heard nothing. Had he gone away? Or was he outside the wall, listening? Think, I told myself. Maybe it’s not even Jake. If it’s not Jake, you’ll get rescued. If it is, you can jump him, take him by surprise. You have nothing to lose. Knock the wall down. Ram it and kick it and run like hell. And so I did.

EIGHTY-FOUR

T
HE RAMMING AND KICKING MADE A RACKET, BUT JAKE DID NOT
appear at the top of the stairs. I steadied myself, grabbing the banister along the unfinished steps, and pulled myself up toward daylight.

I expected to feel Jake’s meaty hand on my shoulder or my throat any moment, to be pulled back down to his closet of horror. Finally I was at the top step, the door. I turned the handle and thrust myself through the open door.

The light through the window was blinding. I blinked, saw a bracelet of blood clotting on my wrists and hands, the unfinished kitchen. I slowed, seeing and hearing no one. Jake must have gone.

I remembered the Institute, running from Phillip Woods. I could do this. A piece of cake. I was as good as out the door. Molly’d be waiting at home. I’d be there in minutes, in seconds. I was already in the living room, rounding the corner to the hall. The front door was only a few steps away when it opened.