The Nanny Murders

by Merry Jones

  Shaking, I got up and crossed the room.

  “Don’t open it, miss.”

  I didn’t answer. Charlie wouldn’t shoot me. with trembling hands, I moved the chair; Coach Gene flew into the room, gaping at the hole in the wall. “what the heck’s going on in here?”

  “Just a little accident,” I said. “But everything’s okay.” I looked at my terrified friends. Susan was beside me, smiling stiffly, indicating that Gene should play along.

  “We’re fine,” she said, drawing his attention to Leslie, who was still yelping on the carpet. women clustered, hugging each other. Gretchen, Davinder, and Ileana huddled together, bug-eyed. Karen had moved to the doorway and now sheltered Nicholas in her arms. All eyes were riveted on Charlie. “Jingle Bells” continued its maddening endless loop.

  “who’s that?” Nicholas pointed to Charlie.

  I remembered then that nobody knew. Crossing the room, I stood beside him. “Everybody. This is my neighbor Charlie.” I could barely hear my own voice. It came from far away. “He wants to keep us safe, so let’s all stay calm and let him help us.”

  Gene, pretending nothing was wrong, gave a nod and backed away. “All right, then. Okay. I see. Everything’s under control, then. Nice to meet you, Charlie. Come on, Nicholas. Mom, why don’t we take Nicholas back to class? In fact, why don’t all the moms come watch in the gym?”

  “The women better stay with me,” Charlie told him. “They’re safer here.”

  Coach Gene’s eyes darted from Charlie to the exit door. I thought he might run for it, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves. Finally, though, he led Karen and Nicholas back to the gym: Karen glanced back at us as Gene reached for his cell phone. Help would come soon.

  “Charlie thinks somebody may be trying to hurt me,” I kept talking, trying to hold Charlie’s attention.

  “Dammit,” Charlie gasped. “what’s wrong with you? There’s no maybe. He’s about to do it. She knows.” He pointed at Leslie, still whimpering on the floor. “She already knows what I’m talking about. Don’t you read the newspapers? Don’t you see the TV? I’m not making this up.”

  “We know that, sir. We all know.” Susan’s voice came from across the room. “And we appreciate your courage in trying to protect Zoe. And the rest of us, too.”

  She was going along with him, trying to calm him. But Leslie didn’t get it. “What the hell, Susan? He’s not protecting any—”

  “Shh.” Susan squeezed Leslie’s arm, shutting her up.

  “Don’t be afraid.” Charlie ignored them, speaking softly to me. “As long as I’m with you, you’ll be safe.”

  We sat for a few moments in silence. Waiting. Listening to Charlie’s labored wheezing, wondering what to do. Then, over Charlie’s shoulder, through the observation window, I saw Gene gather the children into a circle at the far side of the room by the pit. Uniformed policemen crept into the gym, taking cover behind stacks of mats, sneaking along the walls, leading the children out the back door.

  “Charlie,” I begged him. “Please, give me the gun.”

  “No, miss. Can’t.”

  His forehead dripped sweat. His pupils were dilated, his breath short. He grabbed my arm. When he leaned close, I smelled sour wine and stale sweat. White globs foamed in the corners of his mouth.

  “Charlie, please,” I interrupted. “Put the gun away before someone gets hurt.”

  “You still don’t get it?” Charlie coughed, holding up the gun. “Don’t you realize what I’ve done? Coming here? I’ve signed my own death warrant.”

  “Charlie, please.” Behind him, police had their guns drawn, aimed at the window. Susan waved at me, signaling that I should move away from Charlie, but I stayed put.

  “No. He’ll never let me live, not after this. Look. He’s not alone. There are others like him all over the country. Where do you think all those missing young people are? All the kids who go to the mall and never come back, who hitch rides and disappear? They’ve been taken—just like the women—”

  Susan couldn’t be silent anymore. “Charlie, sir? The police are here. Put down your weapon or they’ll take it from you by force.”

  He wasn’t listening, didn’t seem to hear her voice. “Remember, miss. Evil wears disguises, and as long as those like him live and breathe, caution’s your only hope.”

  “Charlie, listen,” I repeated Susan’s message. “The police are here. They want you to put down your gun. Give it to me. Please.” I held my hand out. His eyes widened, but he shook his head. No.

  Cops were everywhere now. I could see five of them. If Charlie turned around, he’d see them scattered through the gym, guns raised. Any second, they’d rush the room.

  Charlie slumped against the window and wiped sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his overcoat. The gun hung loosely in his hand. I sat beside him. Would he shoot me if I grabbed it?

  “Sorry, miss.” He looked at Leslie. “I wish I’d stopped him sooner. But at least I’m stopping him now.” Charlie looked at me with glazed and somber eyes.

  A voice called over the loudspeaker. “You, in the observation room. Charlie. This is Sergeant Bennings of the Philadelphia Police Department. You are surrounded by police officers. You have no way out. Put down your gun now and come out with your hands on your head.”

  Charlie turned and gazed out the window, gun raised. “I told you—he’s closing in, miss. I’ll stay by your side and hold him off as long as I’m able, but you have to be on guard, too. Mind my words. Trust nobody.”

  “Charlie, you have sixty seconds to release your hostages and come out of there peacefully.”

  “Please, Charlie,” I said.

  Leslie wailed. Susan gestured for me to move away. The rest of the mothers sat silent and still.

  “Charlie, do what the man says,” I begged. “I’ll go out there with you. Please. We’ll go together.”

  Susan came over and grabbed my arm. “Zoe. For godsakes move away from him.”

  “No—it’s okay. Charlie and I are going to go out there together, right, Charlie?”

  “They mean business, Zoe.”

  “Charlie? Let’s go, okay?” I touched his shoulder and stood. “Zoe, I’m serious—move away—” “Just a second—”

  “Dammit,” Susan scowled. She stood glaring at me while Charlie leaned forward, peering through the glass. He looked exhausted, pensive. Seconds passed, each one leaden, adding weight to the next. Thirty, forty. The room was silent. Motionless. The air too heavy to breathe.

  When a minute had passed, Sergeant Bennings began to speak again, but Charlie shouted over him. “Okay—zero hour—here we go! Get down!” He raised the gun and fired at the window. Glass shattered, shards soaring.

  “No!” I screamed. “Charlie—the children!” Susan pulled at my arm; I yanked it away and pulled at Charlie, trying to stop him. With surprising strength, he shoved me away. Behind me, women shrieked and dropped to the floor. Susan ducked; someone ran for the door. Charlie shouted obscenities and kept firing, popping two shots, three, until suddenly what remained of the window exploded in a glittering shower. A gush of red burst from Charlie’s hand and his gun flew through the air onto the floor. He turned to me with a look of surprise. His mouth opened, forming words I couldn’t hear, and his skull exploded. Brains, bone, blood, bits of Charlie flew all over the room. Warm, sticky spray splattered my clothes, my face, my eyes. I couldn’t see, squinted to find Molly through a warm, crimson veil.

  On the floor, the mass that had been Charlie twitched awhile before it lay still. Susan led me to a chair. Then she was gone. Coach Gene stared from the doorway, his mouth moving, no sound coming out. Police in white jumpsuits shoved past him, clearing the room. Sometime, out of nowhere, Nick appeared, wrapped me in his arms, and carried me out. I saw events as a silent movie, heard no voices, no commotion, no cries. Long seconds passed before I realized that I’d been deafened by the gunfire, so I couldn’t hear any sounds at all, even my own screams.

&n
bsp; THIRTY-NINE

  POLICE CARS BLOCKED OFF OUR STREET, THEIR STROBES LIGHTing Charlie’s porch. Blue and white flashes pierced the night, outshining the Santa’s red and green. Police swarmed all around and inside Charlie’s house. Neighbors and passers-by gathered on the sidewalks. Jake must have been working late again; he lingered at the curb, talking with a policeman. Phillip Woods stood on his porch. Victor peered through his blinds; I actually saw his hands. I sat on my steps, watching, breathing on my fingers for warmth.

  Inside, Karen, Davinder, and Gretchen watched the children. Ileana and Susan had left their kids with us while they went to the emergency room with Leslie and Coach Gene, who’d become hysterical after the shooting. The rest of us stayed together simply because we weren’t able to separate. We didn’t know, couldn’t imagine, how to return to the lives we’d left just that evening. Though nothing was said about it, each of us suspected that those lives had been, with Charlie’s, blown away.

  An ambulance had arrived at the Center to remove Charlie, and someone had given me a clean sweatsuit to change into. I had no idea where my old clothes were, the ones coated with clumps of Charlie. Nick had taken Molly to be with Susan and Emily, minimizing her contact with the frightful sight of her mother. Then he’d taken me to the locker room, where he’d helped me peel off my gore-soaked clothes and wash away the carnage that covered me. Under a steaming shower that had splashed his pant legs and shoes, Nick had washed my face and shampooed my hair. Then he’d stayed while I’d given the officers my statement. I’d begun trembling, shivering so badly that Nick had wanted to take me to the hospital. But I’d declined. I’d wanted to go home. To take Molly inside and lock the door.

  Nick had driven us. My ears rang: I had trouble hearing. But I understood that Molly was asking questions and that Nick was answering. I heard him say that Charlie had been very sick. That Charlie had imagined things. That it was very sad, and Charlie was gone, but everyone was safe now. Everything would be okay. I wondered what she’d seen and heard, what she understood, but I didn’t have the energy to talk to her about it yet. Even Molly was beyond my reach.

  At home, Nick held me, kissed me, and promised to return in a few hours. I accepted the touches, the kisses, didn’t question the fact that our relationship had somehow instantly resurrected itself. I watched Nick talk to Molly and hug her, then cross the street and talk with police before hurrying to his Volvo and driving off.

  Women from gymnastics gathered with their children in my living room. I wasn’t comfortable. I didn’t want company yet couldn’t bear to be alone. I knew I should talk to Molly but had no idea what to say. I stroked her cheek and hugged her, whispering trite reassurances. But I couldn’t sit, couldn’t stay inside, paced from the kitchen to the office, the office to the living room. I couldn’t stay away from the windows where I could look out at Charlie’s house, as if somehow the house would explain things to me, set me straight. Finally, I wandered out the front door and sat on the dark icy steps, watching, waiting, realizing that what I was waiting for would never happen. Charlie would never again appear.

  The police milled about. A couple of them protectively urged me to go inside. But I couldn’t budge. Charlie’s blood had spattered all over me. His life had spilled onto my skin, soaked into my pores. And it was my fault. I should have stopped it, should have been more forceful, grabbed his gun, protected him. I’d never believe that he’d intended to shoot anyone, but he’d shot first, and with children around the police had had no choice. What had happened to Charlie? Had there been a turning point, a precise moment when he’d lost it? Did he have some chemical imbalance? A brain tumor? A split personality? In a way, it didn’t matter, now that he was gone. But I’d miss his pipe glowing in the dark, the warm aroma of his tobacco, his watchful concern, even his overprotective warnings. Tears stung my cheeks in the cold. Mourning Charlie, the irreversibility of death.

  Suddenly, a policeman ran out of Charlie’s house. Before he reached his van, he dropped to the curb, puking. I went down the steps, but a strong arm restrained me. “Stay back, ma’am.”

  Another officer yelled from the doorway, and radios began barking. Uniforms scurried into Charlie’s door as a guy strung more yellow tape around the property. Men in overcoats arrived. An ambulance drove through the blockade, lights flashing. Heavy men in navy parkas carried a stretcher into the house.

  “What’s going on?” Karen stood beside me. She looked haggard.

  “Dunno.”

  “A stretcher? Is somebody else inside?” “He lived alone.”

  Karen shrugged. “Hot tea?” She handed me a mug. “Thanks.” My hands were trembling. Tea slopped onto the steps, melting the thin coating of ice.

  “You better come inside, Zoe. It’s really cold out here.” “I’ll be in. I just need to see this.”

  “Are you all right?” She looked me over. “You’re not, are you?” Her eyes were sad, her voice gentle.

  ““No,” I said. “Are you? Is anyone?”

  She put her arm around my shoulders. “Maybe you should get checked out at the hospital. You might be in shock or something. I can watch Molly.”

  “No, I’m okay. Thanks.”

  Men shouted back and forth, and we looked across the street. The men in parkas stumbled out Charlie’s door carrying the stretcher. They moved slowly, as if straining under its weight.

  “What’s that?” Karen asked. “His garbage?”

  “Oh my God,” I breathed. Karen looked bewildered. Across the street, Jake and his men stood at the curb among pedestrians, staring. Phillip Woods stepped over to the yellow ribbon edging his railing and watched. Victor’s blinds lifted; he actually pressed his forehead against the windowpane, straining to see. The ambulance crew yelled for police to help them carry the stretcher down the steps. It was apparently very heavy, loaded with lumpy green bags of trash.

  FORTY

  SUSAN ARRIVED AS THE PHONE RANG. I ANSWERED THE DOOR with the phone in my hand, greeting Susan’s person and Nick’s voice simultaneously, hearing fragments of their conversations through ears still ringing with silence. “I’ll be there as soon as I can—”

  “What’s with the ambulance? Did someone else get shot?” “—developments I have to look into—” “We heard sirens on the way—” “—we have to talk when I get there—” “Coach Gene was so pale—he was ice cold and couldn’t stop shaking—”

  Susan stopped talking midsentence and gaped at me. Karen called down the steps, “Are you okay, Zoe?” Nick harmonized the question in baritone.

  By their reactions, I understood that I’d done something inappropriate. Had I screamed EVERYBODY JUST SHUT UP or only thought it? I couldn’t remember, wasn’t sure, but I apologized, and they seemed appeased. My ears were ringing, head throbbing, and Nick began talking again.

  “Zoe, I don’t want you there alone after what’s happened . . .” The words buzzed like mosquitoes. I wanted to slap them away.

  As Emily ran off to join the other children, Susan rifled through my cabinets, searching for something edible to relieve her stress. She found a bag of Cheese Doodles, frowned at them, gobbled a few, and sucked cheese scum off her fingers. Red nails disappeared inside moist lips, slid out and returned to the open bag. As she stuffed her mouth, it occurred to me that Molly hadn’t had dinner. Were the children hungry?

  “. . . somewhere for a few days,” Nick buzzed on.

  Out the kitchen window, another ambulance pulled away Only one remained now, being loaded with the last of the garbage bags. Police cars still blocked off the street, and a bunch of uniformed men hovered on Charlie’s front porch.

  “Dammit—they’re calling me, but I’ll be over as soon as I can. Who’s there with you?”

  “A couple of people.” Gretchen had taken Hannah home a while ago, and Davinder had just left with Hari. “Susan, Karen—”

  “Can I talk to somebody? Susan?”

  I pressed my tongue against the spot where my lips had cracked, felt th
e thin, sharp pain. Susan chewed an oatmeal cookie. I handed her the phone without wondering why he wanted to talk to her. Upstairs a child—Nicholas?—was angry, yelling that something wasn’t fair; Karen’s gentle voice hushed him.

  Susan’s head bobbed up and down as she listened. Mouth full of cookie, she made sounds of agreement, one syllable each. When she hung up, she said that Nick wanted me to stay at his place for the weekend. “It’s in Chester County. Go—it’ll be good for you.”

  Good for me? Chester County? What was she talking about? Nick and I weren’t a couple. Were we? We’d called it off, hadn’t we? And what about his “deal” with Beverly Gardener? Still, I remembered his protective embrace, how naturally he’d gathered me up and cleaned me off. How safe it felt to be beside him as he’d taken us home. But Chester County? I’d had no idea where Nick lived. What kind of place was it? A condo? A farm? Was it clean? Child friendly?

  “Zoe, you look—well, I love you dearly, but frankly I’ve seen murder victims who look better. Go with him. You need R and R.” I was too tired to discuss it, but I wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t have the energy, didn’t want to bother, even if I were sure about me and Nick. And what about Molly? How would she feel, suddenly whisked away to Nick’s? She needed normal structure and familiar settings—stability after the traumatic events of the night.

  “Go. Molly’ll be fine.” Had Susan read my mind? Or had I said my thoughts out loud again? I didn’t know. Did it matter? Did I care? I rubbed my temples and leaned back against the kitchen counter. My legs didn’t seem able to support me.

  Upstairs, overtired children were slamming doors, running, jumping, an extension of gymnastics class. Molly’s soprano giggles flittered down the steps. For the moment, incredibly, she was fine.

  Susan stared raptly out the window, biting into another cookie. “What about that? Trash bags full of nannies, just like the one I told you about. It’s their bodies. Gotta be. That’s why the ambulances. Otherwise, why not take trash bags away in, like, a trash truck?”