The Borrowed and Blue Murders (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (28 page)

I tried to calm down. “Okay. It’s just that my baby is sick and I have to get home.” The second part wasn’t a lie.

He turned, glanced at me and, looking both ways to check for cars, floored it. “Your baby? A boy or a girl?” We passed Market Street, headed toward Chestnut. Another red light.

“A little boy.”

“And why did you leave your little boy alone? What are you doing out so late all by yourself?”

Why was he interrogating me? Did he know I’d lied? Was he judging me, finding it unacceptable for a woman to be out late alone? “He’s not alone. My mother’s with him, and I just left my husband at a dinner party.” More whoppers. Why was I lying? What did I care what the cabdriver thought? No one had answered the phone at my house, and Bonnie Osterman knew where we lived, had seen my children. My stomach and heart had exchanged places, fluttering and pounding out adrenaline-soaked panic. At the thought of Luke, milk seeped into my bra. My entire body ached to feel his soft cheeks, to touch Molly’s curls. Oh God, my children.

“Okay, miss.” The driver seemed, if not to approve of me, at least to accept the gravity of my plight. “Sick baby boy, here comes Mommy.”

We flew through a red light at Walnut, again at Spruce. He spun onto Pine Street on what seemed to be two wheels and sped from Sixteenth all the way to Fourth Street, where he turned again. The whole ride lasted only a few minutes but seemed eternal, and when we arrived in front of my house on Monroe, I pulled a twenty out of my bag, couldn’t wait for change. The driver was happy.

“Good luck with your baby boy, miss. I think he’ll be fine.”

But I was already hurrying up the front steps, key in hand. Holding my breath, I flung the door open and rushed inside. A lamp was on in the living room, so I headed that way, and from halfway down the hall, to my relief, I saw Anna seated in the wingback chair.

Thank God. Probably she’d been in the bathroom when I’d called. Or checking on Luke, so she couldn’t get to the phone in time. Probably I’d gone crazy over nothing.

“Hi, Anna. I’m back.” I tried to sound chirpy and casual. “How did your evening go? The kids okay?”

Anna said nothing as I stepped into the living room, still chattering with relief. “Did Molly like the pizza? How late did she stay up?”

But Anna still didn’t answer; Anna didn’t even move. And as I came closer, in the lamplight, I realized why. One side Anna’s skull was crushed. Completely smashed in. Anna was dead.

I
BACKED AWAY ON
wobbly legs, trying to make sense of what I was seeing, fear pulsing, instinct overtaking reason. I didn’t think, didn’t hesitate.

“Molly!” The scream came from my belly, sounded deep like a roar. “Molly?”

I wheeled around, flung myself out of the room, into the hall. I raced into the dining room, my office, turning on lights, searching and finding no one. Hearing nothing but my own thundering cries. Then, somehow, I was upstairs, raging into Molly’s empty room and then to Luke’s and switching on the overheads to find abandoned, rumpled beds. Molly’s pillows had fallen on the floor; Luke’s dinosaur comforter lay alone in his crib. There was not a trace of Molly or Luke, though. They were simply, completely gone.

I couldn’t stop the wailing sound, couldn’t straighten up. I was bent over in physical pain, holding my belly, dropping to my knees. Bonnie Osterman had been here, had attacked Anna. The monster whose backyard had been full of tiny bones, whose freezer had been stocked with the tender limbs of infants, whose psychosis had been deemed cured by the state—Bonnie Osterman had taken my children.

I remember wailing, curled up like a fetus, rolling on the floor. Bellowing, moaning. And I remember knowing that nothing, no amount of screaming, would help. The unthinkable, unbearable, had happened, and I writhed, each breath knifelike, each body part racked with pain. I don’t know how long that anguished riot continued. I knew I had to call the police about Anna, but I didn’t seem able to move. I remember those moments only in flashes: lying tortured and spent on the floor of Luke’s room. And then, in the stillness of his absence, I imagined I heard whimpering.

Oliver. Oliver was crying somewhere. Probably he’d gotten in the way, nipping the killer’s ankles. Probably she’d shoved him into a closet. I lay, listening to him whine, and it dawned on me that I had to call the police. Get help. Maybe there was hope. Maybe the police could rescue Luke and Molly. I half-crawled, half-stumbled toward my bedroom to get the phone and call 911. But on the way, I passed the bathroom; the door was closed. Oliver was inside, scratching on the door, yipping. Without thinking, I opened the door. Oliver bolted out, jumping on me, licking my legs, but still I heard whimpering, and I looked past the door into the bathroom.

In the darkness, I saw a silhouette—Molly? She was sitting hunched on the floor beside the bathtub—thank God.

“Molly!” I flipped on the light. “Are you all right?”

Her mouth opened, but she didn’t move, made no sound.

“Molly—” I rushed in and reached for her. And that was the last I remembered.

Something was squeaking and something wet was tickling my nose. Slowly, I realized several other things: I was cold and uncomfortable, my eyes didn’t want to open, and the base of my head throbbed with pain.

The tickling continued. Okay, I told an eye. Open. It resisted, but I forced the eyelid to lift. And gazed into a dripping line of small jagged fangs. Instantly, I pushed myself up, but oops, I’d moved too fast, and I fell back down, banging onto a hard surface, slamming my head. White pain shot through my skull. But Oliver continued to slobber over me, whining and whimpering. I put a hand on his head, whispering that everything was all right. My hand was wet where I’d touched him, and I glanced at it, saw blood. Oh God. I looked at him, focusing, and gradually realized that the puppy’s mouth and paws were bloody. And as I sat up, more carefully this time, I tried to remember what had happened, how I’d gotten to the bathroom floor.

A small puddle of blood pooled on the floor where my head had been. I touched the base of my skull, felt a gash. Damn. Oliver sat with his paws in the blood, panting, happy that I was on my feet. But I swayed, tottering when I tried to take a step, and my thoughts were jumbled. Then a memory bolted from my chest to my brain: the children. Molly and Luke. And I raced, bumping into the sink, then into the doorknob, moving as fast as I could to the phone. Oh God. Where were they? Had Bonnie Osterman harmed them? Was Molly frightened? Where could Bonnie have taken them? I had to hurry, had to find them before it was too late. Oliver followed me, herding me, and I tripped over him, cursing, dimly aware of a banging sound coming from downstairs. Someone was pounding on the door, ringing the bell. Maybe the police?

I half-slid, half-stumbled down the steps and made it to the door, blood dribbling down my neck. Damn. The cut was beginning to sting, and I was dizzy as I reached for the knob. But I managed to hang on to it long enough to pull it open. And to recognize the furious person standing there, demanding to come in.

“W
HAT THE HELL’S GOING
on, Zoe? Why did you take off like that?” Susan’s face alternated between anger and alarm. She stepped inside and caught me just as I was fading, about to slide to the floor.

I must have passed out for a second; my next memory was of Susan saying “Good God,” as she pressed a kitchen cloth against the back of my head. “I think you need stitches. What happened? Did you fall?” Under the circumstances, she seemed relatively calm. Too calm. “Where’s Anna? Did she go home?”

Oh. Susan didn’t know. “She’s in the living room.”

Susan looked confused. “Anna!” she shouted. Her voice was loud, jangling.

“No—don’t shout.” I began to explain. “Susan. Anna’s in the wingback—”

“Why? Wait, what are you saying?” Susan cut me off. “Are you saying that Anna did this? She hit you on the head? For God sakes, why?”

I shook my head no. But the motion hurt. “Anna’s dead.”

Susan’s mouth dropped. “What?” She got up and looked into the hall toward the living room, unable to grasp the news.

“Somebody bashed in her head. Susan—” I almost couldn’t say it. “Susan.” My voice became a wail. “Molly and Luke are gone.”

Susan didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She stood frozen, her mouth a horrified oval.

“It was Bonnie Osterman. It had to be. I saw her—”

“Who?” Susan’s mouth still didn’t move.

“From the Institute, she’s psychotic.” I didn’t go into detail, couldn’t manage. “I saw her—”

“She’s here?” Susan spun around, looking behind her.

“No, I saw her in the album. In Eli’s pictures.” I was gulping air, trying to express thoughts that were unthinkable. “She wanted Luke. The whole time I was pregnant, she watched me, kept asking questions about the baby. She was already planning it. Fantasizing about taking him.”

“How can you be sure she—”

“Susan, there are pictures of her following us.” I looked into the hallway. Where had I left the album? “Wait, I’ll show you.” I started to get up to find it, but Susan shoved me back onto the seat.

“Sit down. You’re still bleeding. Have you called nine-one-one? We’ve got to get help for Anna.”

“Dammit, Susan.” Didn’t she get it? The cut on my head—God help me, even Anna didn’t matter right now. “She’s going to kill my babies.” My face was washed with tears.

“Oh God.” Finally, Susan was grasping the situation. Her eyes darted around as if looking for answers. “Okay.” She rattled off words. “Okay. First, we’ll call for help. Then we’ll call the Institute— they’ll have records. They must know where she lives. And we have to call the police. Nick—did you call Nick?” She shoved the towel into my hand, leaving me to apply my own pressure. “Where’s your phone?”

The phone? Oh, right. I’d been upstairs, about to call the police, when I’d heard Oliver whining. My cell phone was down here in my purse—but where had I put my purse? Never mind— the downstairs phone was around. Somewhere. It was portable, would be wherever the last person who’d used it had left it. Here in the kitchen. Or maybe in the living room. With Anna.

Susan was already looking in the kitchen, so holding the towel to my wound, I got to my feet, heading for the living room where Anna sat slumped in the wingback. Avoiding her, I turned into the darkness of the dining room. But before I could reach the light switch, I stumbled over something massive and fleshy. Cursing, I lost my balance and fell over it onto the floor.

Susan heard me and came running in, calling my name, turning on the lights.

At first, I was confused, not comprehending what I saw. Then, I recoiled, scuttling away from the thing I’d tripped over. It made no sense, but there beside me on the Oriental carpet, her dress stained crimson, was Bonnie Osterman, looking quite dead. One of my kitchen knives lay bloodied beside her, and the rug was spotted with darkening red.

O
LIVER JUMPED ONTO MY
legs, whimpering. I scooped him up and held him to my chest, more for my own comfort than his.

“It’s her,” I told Susan. “It’s Bonnie Osterman.”

Susan stared at the body, frowning. “You’re sure?”

Was she serious? “Of course I’m sure.” There was no question. The woman on the floor was Bonnie Osterman.

Susan helped me to my feet, into a chair. “Sit.” It was a command.

I sat, realizing that Susan had indeed found the downstairs phone. She made calls, and vaguely I heard her talking, probably to the police, probably telling them where we were. But I wasn’t really listening; I was talking also, out loud to myself, trying to make sense of what was happening. Because if Bonnie Osterman was here, knifed on the dining room floor, she obviously hadn’t taken Molly and Luke. But if she hadn’t, who had?

Obviously, I answered, it was the person who’d stabbed her. But who was that? It couldn’t have been Anna; Anna was dead. But aside from Anna, who else had been here? Just my children. I tried to piece it together, to remember what I knew. I’d gone upstairs and found Oliver whimpering, and then someone had slugged me. Maybe that had been Bonnie. But then what had happened? If no one else was here but Luke and Molly, then …I closed my eyes, picturing the possibility. Could Molly actually have killed Bonnie? Molly was slightly built, but she was agile, quick thinking, tough. But she was only six years old. Could she actually plunge a knife into someone? I doubted it. But she’d surprised me in the past with her daring and resilience. I tried to imagine it, couldn’t, told myself to stop trying. Whether Molly had stabbed Bonnie Osterman didn’t matter right now. Right now, all that mattered was finding Molly and her brother. But another thought occurred to me—maybe it had been the muggers. Maybe the people looking for the jump drives had taken the children. Maybe they were going to hold the children hostage until they got what they wanted.

No. No, I told myself. That couldn’t be true. They’d told Tony they were going to be back. They wouldn’t kidnap children in the meantime. Would they?

Oh God. I doubled over, reeling with the pain of their absence. My fingers, my arms, my entire body physically ached for them, longed to touch their solid warmth, felt only raw, empty air. Where were they? I ought to know; I was their mother, bound to them at the heart. Maybe if I just sat still and listened, I’d feel their pulses somewhere; I could follow the beat and go to them. I sat, listening, waiting, but heard nothing, felt only the screaming panic of loss and fear.

Suddenly I couldn’t stay still anymore. I was agitated, angry. I didn’t think about a bleeding wound or a pounding dizziness. I got out of the chair and started pacing around Bonnie’s lumpy body, thinking out loud, ranting. Where are they? I demanded to know. Maybe Molly grabbed Luke and ran off somewhere safe. But where would she take him? Where would a six-year-old go in the night, on foot, weighed down with a baby? To the park? No, it was cold out and dark, and there would be no one there to protect them. Okay, not the park. Neighbors? Our street wasn’t a community; people moved in and out all the time. We didn’t even know most of the people on the block. Still, she might simply have rung a bell, asking for help. But she knew better than to talk to strangers, and besides, if she had, the neighbors would have called the police, who would have been here by now; it had been a while since I’d been knocked out—long enough for cops to answer a 911 call. So no. Molly hadn’t taken Luke. It had been someone else. But who?