The Nanny Murders

by Merry Jones

  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

  TEARS 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

  THE 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.

  “Yo.”

  Jake. There was no sense running. His hand grabbed my wrist, yanking me to him. I cried out in pain. “Hai-ya!”

  The voice sounded childlike, not like my own. Jake was holding my wrist, twisting it.

  “Hai-ya!” I heard again, certain this time that the voice was not mine. Molly? Jake’s knee buckled and he went down, almost pulling me with him. Stumbling, he reached out to balance, releasing me, and his knife clattered to the floor. I managed to kick it away just as Jake reached for it.

  “Fuck,” he yelled. Molly was behind him, kicking Jake’s ankle, the back of his knee.

  “Mommy,” she screamed. “Did you see me?”

  I was stunned, trying to process what was happening. Molly kicked again. I saw the knife across the room, gleaming on the hardwood floor.

  “You little shit,” Jake growled, trying to get hold of Molly. “I’ll kick your sorry ass.”

  “I don’t think so.” I leaped at him. No, I flew, fingers extended, aiming at Jake’s eyes. He turned his head away, dodging, so I just poked one eye. Still, he bellowed, writhing with pain, while Molly kept kicking the hell out of the back of his leg. Jake turned in circles, half blinded, trying to catch me or her, and I had the image of a pig roasting on a spit but felt no pity. I slammed my boot into his privates. I kicked so hard my toes hurt. Jake curled into a whimpering ball on the floor, reaching, trying to crawl, even then, for the knife. I ran to pick it up and held it high, ready to strike.

  “Molly?” I panted, reaching for her. “My God, sweetheart. Are you okay?”

  She ran over and snuggled against me. “I got him. Just like Angela showed me.” She repeated her move, kicking the air to show how she’d toppled Jake. Then, chin wobbling, she burst into tears.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  WITH HINDSIGHT, WHAT HAD HAPPENED SEEMED OBVIOUS. VICtor had been watching the street from his window for years. He knew everyone by sight. He’d seen Jake drag Angela into a vacant house, and he’d come running, heroically, defying his phobia, to rescue her. Jake, of course, had overpowered him and hidden him in the basement. Which is where I’d come in.

  Molly, meantime, had followed me down the street. When I’d gone up the block, she’d trailed behind, watching me go into the house, waiting on the stoop next door. When she’d seen Jake go inside holding a butcher knife, she’d followed. And saved our lives.

  Her picture was in the newspaper, minus two front teeth. She practiced her reading by searching the article for familiar words in the stories, “Superkid Kickboxes Nanny Killer” and “Kindergartner Nabs Nannynapper.” She was even interviewed on television; Molly had a whole week of fame. And the Nannynapper was finally history

  Phillip Woods, however, remained at large, at least for a while. Late in February, some boys made a grisly discovery in the snow near the South Street Bridge. Woods’s frozen body, still in a nurse’s uniform, lay beside an old coal dock, almost invisible in the ice and mass of tall weeds along the Schuylkill River. After he’d crashed the stolen car, he’d apparently stumbled, bleeding and disoriented, to the dock, where he’d frozen or bled to death. With Woods gone, breathing seemed easier. Slowly, the rhythm of life began to resume. Time passed. Each day, I took note of the dusk, confirmed that the sun lingered for a few more moments, that darkness was waning.

  Molly was growing almost visibly. New teeth appeared; more came loose. Bored with jigsaw puzzles, she played computer games and still loved any craft that involved beads. She continued to amaze me with her insights and ability to take in stride events that knocked others off their feet.

  Once again, I broke my New Year’s resolution to work out on the StairMaster half an hour each day. It continued to lurk in the corner, taunting my conscience, but I found plenty of excuses to avoid it. At work, my caseload grew, but I looked in on Evie Kraus even on days when we had no sessions. She still sang—often her devil song, but also others. And she’d begun to draw subjects outside her direct view. She sketched stone houses, hilly landscapes. A tattooed woman standing at a bus stop. I thought her face looked softer, more peaceful than before.

  Beverly Gardener went on a six-month leave of absence to recover and write her book. Agnes announced her early retirement.

  When Angela regained consciousness, Joe asked her to marry him. The wedding was planned for October.

  Victor’s daring trip across the street had ended in an emergency room, where he panicked and had to be sedated so he could be treated. He went back into seclusion as soon as he got home. Molly and I began regularly bringing him casseroles, cakes, or lasagnas, convinced that with a little urging he might again emerge one day.

  Micha
el called to borrow our crystal punch bowl for a party—after all, he said, it had been a wedding gift to us both. I knew he’d never return it, but I didn’t mind. I told him okay, fine. Susan managed to keep one of her clients out of jail; two were convicted of lesser charges. For their anniversary in January, she and Tim went to Europe for a week, leaving the kids with Bonita.

  And Nick. Nick stayed around. He was part of our lives. Instead of doubting or questioning him, I let go, didn’t worry about where we were headed or dwell on his past. I neither needed nor minded having a man to take care of me; even in his presence, I rode the days solo, one at a time.

  Days became weeks, putting a cushion between us and the nannies, Charlie, and Jake. At dusk, I watched darkness settle onto the street. A solitary lightbulb glowed in Victor’s upstairs window. Woods’s blinking Santa was long gone; the new neighbor had put up awnings, drooping eyelids veiling the view. In the middle, the skeleton of Charlie’s house released a hollow sigh and settled down for the night.

  I listened to the hum of the refrigerator and the whoosh of occasional passing cars. Sooner or later, I knew, there might be an aftershock, a surge of anger. Or fear, or grief. Or maybe self-pity. But so far, nothing. Nothing. No feelings boiled over. I waited, alert, but felt completely neutral. Not empty, exactly. More like an idling engine. My heart was weightless, for now. But I knew better than to trust that lightness; it was only a passing phase.

  As for Molly, she seemed unscathed by everything she’d been through. I watched closely for signs—behaviors like withdrawal or aggressiveness, sleeplessness or nightmares. But after a pizza, a bubble bath, and a good night’s sleep, Molly seemed to bounce right back to her normal almost six-year-old self. She gave no indication that she’d been traumatized.

  One day around Valentine’s Day, she barreled into the kitchen, her blanket flying behind her. “Mommy, can I have a hot dog?” Hugging her, I smelled sunshine in her curls. I felt a flutter, an unfamiliar tickle in my chest. The new year had begun; spring couldn’t be far away. In just a matter of weeks, the ice would thaw. If I listened closely, even at that moment, I might be able to hear the sighs of snow melting, the exultation of water bursting free. Maybe I’d paint tonight.

  “Sure.” I got out buns and pickles, savoring the ease of our ordinary routine. I’d learned to take pleasure in small moments.

  Maybe there would be no aftershock. Maybe just this quiet change. Nothing earth-shattering, but still a change.

  “Can we melt cheese on them?”

  “Cheese?” I wondered if we had any. And how old it might be, and where. Yes, there were some slices of American in the door of the fridge. I didn’t remember buying cheese, but there it was.

  Someone knocked at the door. I almost didn’t answer, didn’t want to be disturbed. I was enjoying our quiet privacy.

  “Mommy, someone’s here.” Molly ran to the door. “Can I get it?”

  “No. You know the rule.” She waited at the door, hand on the knob. I looked through the peephole and saw Nick’s sky-colored eyes. He knocked again.

  “Somebody’s knockin’,” Molly began to sing. “Should I let him in?”

  “What?”

  She didn’t answer, just kept singing, swaying to the tune. “Lord, it’s the devil. Would you look at him?”

  Shivers ran down my back. She was singing Evie’s song. “Where did you learn that?”

  She shrugged, grinning, holding on to the doorknob. “Somebody’s knockin’. Should I let him in?”

  Of course. Evie had rescued her; Evie would have been singing her song. Molly had heard it then, and the knocking reminded her. She kept singing. “But I never dreamed . . . he’d have blue eyes and blue jeans . . .” Nick knocked again.

  For a moment, I watched him, his blue eyes magnified, distorted by the peephole. Then, taking Molly’s hand from the knob, I opened the door.

  Table of Contents

  COVER

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE