by Merry Jones
The gun, I remembered. Get the gun. While Ivy chided Molly, I stepped back to the door where my bag had fallen, half in, half out of the house. I turned, stooping, holding on to Luke while I reached for the strap.
“Mom!”
Molly’s cry was ear piercing and primal; I didn’t turn, didn’t stop to look. I simply reacted; ducking and dodging, I took a dive to the right, sheltering Luke with my body Ivy, propelled by her own momentum, kept flying forward, hitting the door with her cleaver raised and ready to strike. Ivy crashed into the paneling, the cleaver firmly wedged in the wood of the open door. Luke clung to me, sucking his fist, and Molly ran over and threw her arms around me.
“Molls.” I reached for her with my free arm and, keeping my eyes on Ivy, I leaned forward, kissing Molly’s head again and again. “Are you okay?” I tried to balance well enough to stand so we could get the hell out of there.
Molly nodded yes, but her eyes looked wide and haunted. “You’re all bloody.”
“I’m okay.” I left my bag where it was and began to usher her out of the kitchen so we could run out the front door.
“There’s blood all over your back.”
“I know, but I’m all right.”
She wasn’t listening anymore, though. She looked back at the door and her eyes widened; I turned to see Ivy righting herself, freeing the cleaver.
“Mom—let’s go!” Molly grabbed my hand.
“Go? I don’t think so.” The cleaver in her hand again, Ivy walked toward us, swiftly, deliberately, and swiftly, awkwardly, Molly and I backed away.
“Molly, take off. Run.”
She didn’t move. “No, Mom—”
“Molly, go on—run for help.”
But Molly stayed beside me, clinging to my hand. We backed up, rapidly, until we bumped into a counter. No, not a counter. A stove. I edged alongside it, not sure what to do. Oh God. Ivy’s eyes were glowing, burning. She grinned, but her mouth formed a grimace.
“Molly and Luke belong with me. They’ll be better off.” She stepped forward.
“You’re crazy, Ivy.” Molly belted it. “You’re not my mother.”
Ivy was undaunted. “No? Well, neither is she.”
“Yes, she is, too.”
As they argued about whether or not I was the children’s mother, I realized that, stupidly, I’d backed us into a corner; we couldn’t move any farther away. Ivy, apparently tired of debating, had the cleaver raised and ready to swing. I turned away, shielding Molly and Luke with my body, preparing for a hacking blow. Nick’s face flashed to mind; I pictured him standing not at our wedding but at my funeral, beside the coffin with the kids. And then the box I was seeing wasn’t a coffin anymore; it was a carton of instant hot cocoa. And beside it was a kettle, steaming.
EIGHTY-ONE
I shoved Luke into Molly’s arms and yelled, “Run!”
She grabbed him like a wide receiver catching a pass and took off toward the living room while I grabbed the kettle and lunged in the opposite direction. The commotion confused Ivy only momentarily; her eyes darted from Luke and Molly back to me, and she lunged at me, her cleaver held high. It was. impossible to say which happened next, the splash of boiling water or the crash of the metal against the stove. But when I opened my eyes again, I saw Ivy writhing, contorted with pain, steam rising from the sizzling skin of her arms, chest and neck.
Oh God. I watched her, stunned, appalled. What had I done? I’d poached her. Okay, okay, I told myself. Calm down and think. What was first aid for third-degree burns? I couldn’t remember. Immersion in tepid water was for minor burns. But for major ones were you supposed to soak the wound or leave it dry? I couldn’t remember. Were you supposed to wrap it? Leave it exposed? I wasn’t sure; my mind wasn’t working, seemed disconnected. I took in images, snippets of sound. Ivy was shrieking and Luke was crying in the next room. Why could I still hear him? Hadn’t Molly taken him outside yet?
“Moll—” I stopped calling her mid-syllable, not wanting her to come back and see Ivy in agony. Molly had been traumatized enough that night. Aside from her babysitter swinging a cleaver at us, Molly might have seen Anna dead in the wingback. And a stranger, Bonnie Osterman, lying in the dining room.
“Molly.” I revised my message, hoping she’d hear me over Luke’s cries and Ivy’s moans. “Stay in the living room. I’ll be right there—”
Suddenly, Ivy’s shrieks crescendoed, became a continuous wail. Like a siren. Which reminded me: Where were the other sirens? What had happened to the police? I’d given Susan the address; hadn’t she told them to come? Call, I told myself. Make sure they’re on the way. Tell them we need an ambulance.
“Ivy.” I eyed her festering, reddening skin. “I’m calling for help. They’ll take you to the hospital.”
She didn’t seem to hear me, didn’t respond, just kept wailing, rocking from side to side.
My cell phone was in my bag near the door. I grabbed the bag and headed for the living room to gather up the children and wait for the police. Maybe I’d even manage to feed Luke in the meantime. I reached into my bag as I walked, found my cell phone and began to push the buttons, 9 first. But I missed the 1, hit the 4. My fingers were trembling; I had to start over. I was about to punch the 9 again when I got to the living room and looked up to see Molly curled onto the sofa, wide-eyed, tightly gripping Luke, who was still screaming.
Just a few arm’s-lengths away, her blood-soaked bodice peeking out from her open wool coat, stood Bonnie Osterman. And she was smiling.
EIGHTY-TWO
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME, SWEETHEART?” Her voice was softer, higher pitched, than I remembered.
Molly remained silent, tightening her hold on Luke, eyes afire.
“It’s okay. You can talk to me. I’m not a stranger. Your mother knows me, darling. My name’s Bonnie.”
Apparently, they hadn’t seen me; they remained focused on each other, indifferent to the wails of pain emanating from the kitchen.
“My goodness, you’re very shy, aren’t you?” Bonnie continued, her tone sweet, almost hypnotic, and she kept smiling, holding her hands behind her back. “Well, you’re cute, and you have a cute little baby brother.”
Molly tightened her grip. “My mom’s right in there—” She nodded at the kitchen door. Bonnie’s gaze moved from Molly to the doorway. When Bonnie saw me there, she didn’t budge and her smile didn’t waver. If anything, her grin widened pleasantly.
“Well, well. Here she is.”
“Back away from them, Bonnie.” I strode into the room, taking a stand directly beside Molly. Luke’s and Ivy’s wails continued. We had to shout to be heard.
“My, my, Zoe. You look dreadful. Look at you. You’ve got— wait, is that blood all over you?”
“What the hell, Bonnie?” I was startled to see her; I’d been sure she was dead.
“You thought I was dead, didn’t you? I got hurt but not bad. Just a little scratch. I wasn’t dead, though. I lay on your floor and kept very very still. I was faking.” Her smile was coy, her hands behind her back as she took a step closer. “Your children are beautiful.”
“Back off, Bonnie.”
She ignored me, edging closer to us, both hands still hidden. What was she hiding?
“I didn’t let her in, Mom.” Molly was worried I’d be angry. “I was going outside with Luke like you said, but she was on the porch and she tried to grab me, so I ran back inside—”
“That was good thinking, Mollybear. You did the right thing.” I kept my eyes on Bonnie, trying to keep her talking, trying to stall. Where the hell were the police? “Have a seat, Bonnie. Let’s catch up.”
“Thank you, but no.” She still smiled. “I’m quite a mess in this dress, and I really must change my clothes. We should be going.”
“But you’ve bled a lot; maybe you need a doctor.”
“No, but thank you anyway. Most of the mess isn’t from me; it actually came from that gaudy red-haired creature—”
“Anna.
Her name is Anna.”
“Mom? Wait—did something happen to Anna?” Apparently, Molly hadn’t seen Anna’s smashed head. At least she’d been spared that.
“Don’t worry, Molls.” I didn’t take my eyes off Bonnie. “Anna’s okay.”
“Don’t you believe it, hon. I got her good. She came at me, see. Charged me like a rabid dog. Ran right at me, her head like a slow pitch flying right into my bat. Well, it was a poker, but it could have been a bat. I could hear her skull crunch. I had no choice, really.” Bonnie sucked her teeth, as if removing a piece of meat stuck in her molar.
“Mom, she killed Anna?” Molly’s voice was urgent.
“Don’t worry, Molls.”
“Let me tell you, the momentum of her running sent her head right into my swing. She looked small, but she was solid. It was tough getting her off me. I’m not young anymore, you know. But I shoved her off me and she actually landed on a chair, comfy as pie. But see this? She bled, ruined my dress.” She glanced down at the crimson stains but kept her hands concealed behind her. “I’ll probably have to burn it—”
“Mom? Who is this lady?” Holding on to Luke, Molly moved to the edge of the sofa, ready to bolt.
“Oh, your mom and I, we go back years.” Bonnie gave Molly a grandmotherly nod. “How many, Zoe? Six? Twenty? I can’t recall. They kept me there so long. Days, years. Time meant nothing.” She took another tiny step forward.
“Bonnie, listen to me. Keep your distance.” I was exhausted, bloody. I didn’t sound scary even to myself. “Don’t go one step closer to my kids.”
“Why, Zoe? What are you worried about? Haven’t you heard? I’m cured.” She paused, her smile deflating a tad, as if her feelings were hurt. “Completely rehabilitated. They said so when they let me out.”
“Out of where?” Molly wanted to know.
“The asylum, sweetheart—”
“Bonnie was a patient in the Institute.”
“—I was an inmate at the zoo where your mother was one of the keepers. But you know, Zoe, it wasn’t the same after you left to give birth. No more finger painting—no more playing with clay.”
“How did you find us?”
“Find you?”
“Here. How did you know we were here?”
She took the tiniest of steps closer. Obviously, she had a weapon behind her back. Obviously, she intended to use it. Keep talking, I told myself. The police were on the way. They had to be.
“I followed you. Isn’t that obvious?” She moved forward another inch, her sweet smile still shining.
“Bonnie, I mean it. Do not take another step.”
She kept her eyes on Luke, but she didn’t move. “You left to get the children, so I came with you for the same reason.”
Oh God. Susan. How had Bonnie gotten past Susan? Maybe there was a reason the police hadn’t arrived. “Bonnie, did you hurt my friend?”
“Who, Mom? Who did she hurt?” Molly looked terrified. In the kitchen, Ivy let out a low, whalelike moan.
But Bonnie ignored my question, intent on asking her own. “Tell me, Zoe. How was it, giving birth? Did your water break first? And the labor—was it long? How bad did it hurt? Did you need drugs or did you tough it out? I want to hear all—”
“I’ve called the police, Bonnie,” I lied, but Susan might have, if Bonnie hadn’t hurt her. “They’ll be here any second.”
“Oh please, Zoe dear. That’s a crock—”
Inside my bag, my cell phone rang. For a moment, my eyes met Bonnie’s and neither of us moved. Then, as if a starting gun had fired, I dug my hand into the bag and Bonnie swung her hand forward. As Molly screamed, I saw a metallic flicker, recognizing the elegant blade of another of my Cutco carving knives. Good God. My entire set was being put to use. My hand rooted around in my bag, searching, and my phone kept ringing.
“Drop the bag.” Bonnie held the knife back, ready to plunge.
“Okay.”
But I hesitated, finding what I’d been feeling for, wrapping my hand around it. As I did so, Bonnie made her move, reaching past me, grabbing Molly’s shoulder. Molly kicked her and tried to squirm away without dropping her still-bellowing brother. The knife arced high, the blade reflecting a sinister glint as Bonnie’s raised arm extended to its fullest reach. But before she could plunge it downward, I held up my bag and reflexively held my breath. The sound of Nick’s gun was deafening, time stopping. Luke’s screams, Molly’s wriggling, came to a sudden halt. Bonnie’s arm froze; the knife seemed to hang mid-air, and then, as blood spouted from her right eye, her arm and the rest of her body collapsed, crashing heavily to the floor.
EIGHTY-THREE
The police and ambulance arrived a few moments later, Susan right behind them. By then, Luke was calmly nursing and Molly snuggling quietly against me, her head resting on my shoulder. Bonnie Osterman lay at our feet under a coat I’d pulled out of Ivy’s closet. Ivy groaned quietly as the EMTs carried her off on a gurney, and medics examined the gash on the back of my skull, determining that the cut was superficial and that the bleeding had stopped. I refused to go to the hospital, wanting nothing except to go home. A detective hammered me with questions and I explained what had happened, sounding oddly defensive about burning Ivy and shooting Bonnie, and when Susan informed my interrogator that she was my attorney, she seemed to polarize the situation even more.
I lost track of time; events swirled around me. I remember that Luke finished nursing and slept and a while later, reeking of booze and cheap perfume, Nick and his brothers finally rushed in with a gaggle of Nick’s cop pals. Suddenly, it was a party, a police reunion, a homicide investigation turned festive, and after I answered a few more brief questions, we went home, leaving Bonnie Osterman’s body and Molly’s unfinished cup of hot cocoa behind.
Nick held his questions, maybe because he was half-blitzed. But that was okay; I didn’t want to discuss everything in front of Molly. I worried how the events of the night would affect her, and I watched her, noting her paleness, the dark circles beneath her sleepy eyes.
“You okay?” I whispered to her in the car.
She nodded, wordless, her head pressed against me.
When we got home, we realized that, due to the abduction of the children and the attack on Anna, our entire downstairs except the kitchen had been taped off as a crime scene. Sam wanted us all to stay at the Four Seasons; after all, the wedding was going to be there and we’d have to go there anyway. But I didn’t want to rush around in frenzied packing; I wanted to keep life as normal and calm as possible for Molly’s sake. She’d been through enough, and it was already after two a.m. The last thing she needed was to be kept awake longer, grabbing clothes and shipping off to a hotel. No, Tony would take his tuxedo and the jump drives and go to the Four Seasons to stay in Sam’s suite, since the sofa he slept on was off-limits, but we were going to stay at home.
Susan helped, changing Luke into fresh diapers and pajamas, giving me time with Molly. I stayed with her as she brushed her teeth and washed up. I helped her into a fresh nightgown, fluffed her pillows and tucked her in, sitting beside her on the bed.
“You were very brave tonight, Molls.”
She nodded, pleased, and yawned.
“And don’t worry; Ivy’s going to be okay.” Ivy had been her sitter for half a year; I assumed Molly would be worried about her.
“No, she’s not, Mom. Ivy’s nuts.” Molly said it simply, as if she wondered why I hadn’t noticed such an obvious, uncomplicated fact.
“It’s sad.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“So what did you do to her?”
I hesitated, remembering that Molly didn’t know—she’d taken off with Luke.
“I thought she was going to hurt us.” She laughed, too high, too shrill. Why was she laughing? “What did you do, throw the kettle at her?”
Oh my. Once again, Molly’s thinking surprised me. But her laughter—was it a bit hysterical? Or just a much-needed release? I leaned down, kissed her for
ehead. “How would you get an idea like that?”
She shrugged. “It’s what I would have done.”
Oh my. “You’re a smart girl, Molly Hayes.”
She yawned again. “Do you really know that other lady? Was she really from your job?”
I nodded, holding Molly. “She’s very sick.”
“No kidding.”
No kidding? Sarcasm from a six-year-old? “But you’re safe now. And I meant what I said. Tonight you were very brave.”
She nodded, thinking. How would she process the terrible events she’d witnessed? How would they affect her long-term? In her short life, she’d seen far too much violence but had somehow managed to adjust. Now, she was up later than she’d ever been, and her eyelids were heavy, her small body demanding rest, drifting off to sleep. I’d have to wait; only time would tell how she was coping. Again, I leaned over and kissed her good night, whispering that I loved her more than I could say. Then I started for the door.
“Mom?
“Yes?”
“What if I drop the basket?”
If she what?
“Or what if I trip?”
It took me a second to grasp what she meant. But then I got it: Molly was worrying but not about being kidnapped or attacked by a murderous lunatic—she was worried about being a flower girl. How amazingly childlike and sweet. Except, suddenly, my heart and stomach switched positions, churning and pulsing, and air got stuck, clogged my throat. Oh God. The wedding—it was the next day. Or no. By now, it was nearly three. The wedding was today.