The River Killings (31 page)

Finally, he was clothed. Ready to go. The daily gaggle of cops had come to visit, and when they saw that Nick was being released, they wanted to party. They offered to escort us out, even to take Nick home, to join us for coffee and Danish at home. Nick thanked them, but a little too curtly sent them on their way. He wanted to be left alone. So, leaving all his flowers and candy with the nursing staff, thanking them profusely, as soon as the orderly brought the wheelchair we were on our way. Molly skipped alongside Nick’s chair to the elevator, and at the ground floor the orderly helped us to the car, an umbrella over Nick.

The air had cooled with the storm, but the steady rain showed no sign of letting up. The evening was dark, brooding, as if reflecting my thoughts. As glad as I was that Nick was coming
home, I was equally concerned that he wasn’t ready. He said nothing as we drove; just sitting up seemed to drain all his energy. Molly chattered at first; then, realizing that Nick wasn’t responding, she sat in the backseat silently. I watched her in the rearview mirror, somberly studying the back of his head.

When we got to the house, I double-parked and ran through the downpour to unlock the door. Molly scampered inside, and I went back for Nick. He leaned on me heavily as I helped him out of the car, and we progressed slowly from the street to the sidewalk, up the steps, into the house. We were dripping wet, and Nick seemed barely able to stand.

The house still smelled faintly of ammonia, but the odor wasn’t as pungent as before, didn’t sear our nostrils, and it was masked by other scents, like brewing coffee and the summer storm. Molly stood beside Nick, still watching him, holding his hand.

“It’s good to be home.” Nick kissed me on the forehead and tousled Molly’s curls.

“Where should we plant you?” I asked. “The sofa?”

“I just want to go to bed. Would you ladies mind tucking me in for a nap?”

Nick panted as we led him upstairs. He peeled off his wet shirt and fell into bed, asleep almost before I pulled the comforter over him. Outside, horns blared fiercely. I glanced out the window and saw Nick’s Volvo blocking traffic. Damn. I’d forgotten that I’d double-parked.

Molly stood at the bedroom door, looking worried.

“I’ll be right back, Molls,” I said, and touching her cheek, I hurried outside to move the car.

I
T
T
OOK
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OREVER
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IND
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ARKING
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INALLY
found one, it was almost three blocks away. When I came in, I was drenched.

“Molly?” I called quietly, not wanting to awaken Nick. Although, I realized, probably snare drums wouldn’t awaken him. “I’m back.”

I stopped to pick up the mail that had piled up all week beneath the slot. I glanced at bills and ads, plopped them onto the kitchen counter and, drying my hair with a dish towel, I began to check my phone messages.

“Mom?” Molly called from upstairs.

“Come on down, Molls. Let Nick rest.”

It had been days since I’d opened a bill or answered a call, and now that Nick was home, I was determined to get back to normal, to be responsible for my life again. Deleting a dozen calls from telemarketers, I listened to messages from friends wanting to hear from me, wanting to know if we were all right. Karen and Davin-der had called. Ileana had called four times. And Gretchen. And Victor. Victor? I played his message over again.

“This is Victor Delaney, your neighbor from across the street.” As if I wouldn’t know who Victor Delaney was. “I wonder if you could call me at your earliest convenience.” He gave his phone number, then repeated it. How odd. I wondered what had happened; Victor almost never made direct contact. He never went outside, hid behind his window shades, cracked his door open only to admit grocery deliveries. Whenever Molly and I left tins of
cookies on his front step, he thanked us by e-mail. I couldn’t remember Victor ever actually calling before. It had to be important; I’d better call him back.

Lightning flared and thunder shook the house almost immediately; according to Molly, the storm must be centered right over us. Half expecting her to come flying down the stairs in terror, I dialed Victor’s number. But Molly didn’t appear; she must be braver than I thought. Another lightning flash cast blue light through the rain-drenched kitchen windows. I waited for my call to connect, listening to the pounding of the storm and watching the lights flicker, hoping the electricity wouldn’t go out.

That’s when I noticed that my coffeepot was on. And that it was full. I stared at it, frozen, holding the phone. The coffeepot couldn’t be on, I decided. Couldn’t be full. I hadn’t eaten breakfast at home in the last two days, hadn’t made coffee in at least as many. Besides, if I had turned it on, I would have also turned it off. Wouldn’t I?

I gaped at the brewing coffee, remembering the break-in, the broken mug, the spilled coffee on my kitchen floor. Nick asking, “Was it black or with cream?” Because he’d suspected who’d spilled it, how she liked her coffee—

Heather? Oh, God. She was here? In the house?

“Molly . . . Nick?” I ran up the steps, the phone still in my hand. “Molly, where are you?” My mouth was dry, my throat like sandpaper. Oh, God. Had Heather found them? Were they okay? “Answer me—”

I sped to her room, panting, sweating. “Molly—where are you?” Clutching the cordless phone like a weapon, watching shadows, I recalled the decapitated photos, the jagged scissor cuts, and I flew through the door, ready to swing.

Molly sat on her bed, watching the door. “I’m in here,” she said. Her voice sounded small. Maybe tired. Maybe she hadn’t answered until now because she’d fallen asleep and hadn’t heard me. Maybe she was fine.

Stepping in, I turned on a lamp. Molly was a mess, still in her
wet T-shirt and shorts. Her damp curls were matted, her eyes wide. Thank God. She was all right. Thunder rattled outside.

“Molls.” I spoke softly. “Come have a bubble bath. Let me just check on Nick.”

She didn’t move. She just watched me. And I noticed that she seemed to stare at the wall behind me.

“Come on, Molls. Let’s go.”

“Mom . . .” Molly began. But she didn’t go on. Her eyes didn’t leave the doorway, even as I started across the room to get her, and, too late, I realized why.

I’D
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ALKED
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IGHT
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. H
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beside the door; I’d been so focused on Molly that I hadn’t seen anything else. Not Heather. Not her gun.

“Mom!” Molly dashed for me and I caught her, wrapped her in my arms. Instinct kicked in; I felt no fear. Only outrage.

“I know who you are, Heather. I’m not afraid of you. Leave us alone. Get out of my house.”

“Mom.” words spilled from Molly’s mouth. “When you left, she got in and started tying up Nick. I ran out but she chased me—”

Nick. “Is Nick okay?”

“She tied him up. I don’t know. I ran away.” She looked guilty

“I’ll go check.” Ignoring Heather, I started out of the room.

“I don’t think so.” The bullet whizzed past my head before I even heard the shot. I stopped cold and turned slowly. Heather studied me, her gun aimed at my chest. “So you know who I am. Interesting. I want to hear about that.”

Heather was tall, about twenty pounds heavier than she should have been, in jeans that were too tight. Her features were symmetrical, even pretty, but her skin was pasty, washed out. Locks of damp mousy hair had come loose, falling from her ponytail. She smiled, revealing a gap between her front teeth.

She pointed the way with the gun. “Let’s go downstairs. I need coffee. We’ll chat.”

Molly clung to me so tightly I couldn’t move. “Heather,” I said. “There’s a child here. How about you lose the gun?”

Molly dug her face into my belly; her arms strangled my hips.

“No, I don’t think so. But I’ll take the phone, thank you.”

I hadn’t realized I was still holding it. I handed it to her, and her lips curled unpleasantly, more a grimace than a smile. “Let’s go. Now.”

Apparently Molly and I didn’t move fast enough; the crack of gunfire convinced us to hurry. There were two bullet holes now in Molly’s bedroom wall, right above my head. Molly and I walked, two bodies curled into one four-legged creature, into the hall and toward the stairs.

I looked back, saw Heather’s gun aimed at us, its barrel a hollow, indifferent eye leveled at my back. Or maybe at Molly’s head. Would she actually shoot us? What had we done? I knew why she’d stalked Nick; she believed he’d murdered her sister, his wife—and she wanted revenge. She’d already gone to jail once for assaulting him. But what did that have to do with us? We hadn’t even known her sister.

Think, I told myself. Don’t try to figure her out rationally; clearly, she’s not rational. She’s obsessed with Nick and getting even. You’re a therapist. An expert. You’ve dealt with psychos before. psych her out. Be professional. I tried to remember what I knew, anything that might apply. My mind went instantly blank, completely void of any knowledge. I recalled not a single theory or pertinent principle. As I descended the stairs all I could think of was that, if she liked us, she wouldn’t hurt us. I might even be able to convince her that Nick was innocent. So I set about building rapport, making Heather our friend.

“Okay, Heather.” I tried to sound warm and cordial as I said her name. Then I said ours, making us seem like people rather than objects. “How about we introduce ourselves? I’m Zoe Hayes and this is my daughter, Molly—”

“Shut up.” She shoved the gun into my spine.

Molly and I stumbled down the steps, Heather right behind us. At the bottom of the stairs she stepped over to the window and looked out at the rain.

“It’s supposed to go on all night,” I tried again. “There are flood warnings.”

“Stay right there. Don’t move.” She stepped into the kitchen, and holding the gun with one hand, poured herself a cup of coffee with the other. She opened the refrigerator, took out the milk and poured it into the mug.

“You’re almost out of milk,” she complained. “By the way, kids shouldn’t drink skim. They need the fat. Two percent’s better. Even one percent. Not skim. Skim sucks.”

Heather was chatting. Good. Keep it up. Make her your friend, I coached myself. “Really? That’s good to know. I’ll remember that.”

She eyed me as if to say that I might not need to. That I might not be shopping anymore.

Thunder rolled overhead, long and low, and the lights flickered. For a moment we stood in the hall beside my kitchen, lit only by the blue of the lightning flash. Without saying a word, Heather motioned us to the living room.

“Sit,” she commanded.

We sat on my purple sofa, Molly a wide-eyed appendage on my hip. Heather sat in a wingback chair, gulping French roast, her eyes darting around the room.

“So, you know who I am.” She swallowed coffee. “He told you about me?”

I nodded.

“Was he expecting me?” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“He should have been after he stood me up the other day. We had a date. Son of a bitch didn’t show up.”

Nick had a date with her? “Well, he probably couldn’t get there. He got shot. He was in the hospital.”

“Bullshit, don’t make excuses for him,” she said. “Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t read the papers? I know he got shot, and I know when. He was supposed to meet me before that. I told him when and where. Did he show? No.”

I didn’t know what to say, said nothing.

“So what did he tell you about me?” She smirked, exposing her gap. “Did he say I’m crazy?” “No, of course not.”

“Then what? That I want to kill him? I bet he told you some load of crap. Like I was coming after him because I was jealous of my sister. Or like I was in love with him but he married her, instead. Is that what he told you?”

I shook my head. No. Nick hadn’t said anything like that.

“Because I know his ego, I know what he thinks. He thinks I never got over my teenage crush on him. He thinks I was jealous of Annie.”

“I don’t know. He never said that.”

Molly whispered, “Who is she, Mom?” I squeezed her tighter, signaling her to keep still.

Heather scoffed. “Did he tell you how Annie died? I mean the truth.”

I didn’t answer, didn’t know what to say. Molly squirmed, whispering something I couldn’t hear.

“Answer me. Did he tell you how she died?”

I held Molly close. “He said it was suicide.”

“Shit. That’s the bullshit story they gave the press. I mean the truth. Did he tell you how she really died?”

Oh, God. Was she going to say that Nick had killed her?

“I guess not.” She laughed at that, shaking her head. “Of course not. Why would Nick tell the truth? Suicide, huh. Yeah, he would say that.”

She lifted the coffee mug again, slurping when she drank. Molly pressed against me, whispering again. “Who is she? Who died?”

I kissed her head, whispered, “Later.”

“Well, trust me. It wasn’t suicide. My sister didn’t shoot herself.” Heather shook her head. “Annie liked herself way too much for that. Way too much.”

So, if she thought it wasn’t suicide, Heather must believe that it
was murder. That Nick killed her sister. Apparently she was here to take her revenge. “Heather,” I used her name again. “Nick was never even charged—”

“Of course he wasn’t. I knew he wouldn’t be. Cops don’t get sent to jail. But, trust me, my sister didn’t kill herself. It wasn’t suicide.”

“But how can you be sure? You weren’t there. Nick’s the only one who really knows what happened.”

“Nick? Nick only thinks he knows.” Chugging coffee, she tilted her head and studied me, examining my face. “You look like her, you know. A lot like her.”

I’d seen pictures of Nick’s wife. She was right; we had a resemblance.

“Did you ever think maybe that’s why he’s with you? You ought to consider that. Because maybe he’s trying to replace her. You know, make you into her. And that would be worrisome, wouldn’t it. Because what happened to her could happen to you.”