OUTSIDE, THE WEATHER HAD CHANGED FOR THE WORSE. THE temperature had dropped suddenly, refreezing the latest melt and the new rain, creating a world sheathed in glass. Trees along Pine Street sparkled like crystal under a darkening sky; branches glistened, heavy and stiff. Sidewalks and steps—even the stone bears in Three Bears Park—were treacherously glazed. The stretch of blocks between my house and Susan’s seemed endless as I stepped carefully, trying not to slip; my face stung, assailed by bits of jagged ice. Raw wind sliced through my jacket, and each breath pulled precious heat out of my body. The streets were empty; I walked home on feet that had lost all feeling, darkness grabbing at my back, a chain of icy air circling my throat.
When I reached my house, I turned away from the wind, fumbling to take my keys out of my pocket with numbed gloved hands. Frustrated, pulling off a glove to try again, I saw something move in the backseat of an old, ice-coated Pontiac parked at the curb. Gradually, I realized that the something was a hand, waving to me. I took another look. Somebody was definitely in there. Waving. Or—tapping?
All the childhood warnings about strangers in cars flooded my mind. I hurried to put my key in the lock, but someone called my name. “Miss Zoe!”
Charlie peeked through the now open Pontiac window. His voice was hoarse and guttural. My teeth were chattering, but I descended the steps, careful not to slip.
“No!” Charlie whispered. “Don’t come any closer! You’ll be seen!”
I continued toward the car, squinting in the sleet, leaning on the rear of Jake’s frozen pickup truck so I wouldn’t slip. Inside the Pontiac, I saw rumpled blankets and a pillow. A box of Ritz crackers. Cans of Dr. Pepper, Budweiser. Was Charlie living in this old car?
“What are you doing out here?” I asked.
“I had to get out of the house, miss.”
“You’ll freeze, Charlie. What happened? Do you need rent money?”
“Oh no. I’m the handyman, miss. I work for the owner; I got no rent. I just had to get out of there. Things are much worse.” He crouched back into the seat and whispered through the window. “The evil’s growing, gaining power. Now, see, my dreams have been taken over. My thoughts are being monitored. I’m under constant surveillance, see. Because I know what’s going on.”
He was absolutely crazy. And I was quaking with the cold. I wanted to run inside, to sip hot peppermint tea and take a bath in jasmine-scented bubbles. I had to hurry and get ready for dinner with Detective Stiles. But how could I leave poor Charlie out in the car?
“Charlie. You can’t stay out in this weather. Go inside. Nobody’s going to bother you.”
“Miss, I told you I’d watch over you. There’s danger coming your way. Soon, any day now. I’m warning you, there will be terrible consequences. We may be being watched, even now.”
I was shivering so much that I had trouble hearing. My face was raw and my toes were frozen. Charlie turned away, staring into the street. His face glowed red, then green, reflecting the lights of Phillip Woods’s blinking Santa.
“... I know what’s really going on. It’s about revenge. Revenge and immortality. But it doesn’t matter why he does it, see, because it’s evil, pure and simple. Evil butchery.”
He must have heard the news about the finger. He was rambling, tying together loose random thoughts, reminding me of my Institute patients. Maybe Charlie belonged there. A car drove slowly by. Charlie ducked. “See, people think I’m just a handyman. They think I’m old and slow. Well, I’m old, but not so slow. And I can tell he’s used my tools. Downstairs. Takes my lock-boxes. My tables. The space under the floor, below. He comes and goes, moves my things. And now that he listens to my thoughts— he’ll find out that I know. He’ll find out everything. Not only that I’m onto him but that I’m standing against him. That I’m warning you. I’m protecting you. He’ll come after me now, for sure.”
Charlie stopped for a long, scraping cough. He’d lost it completely, gone over the edge. He was raving. Delusional. He needed help. I wondered if I could get someone to see him at the Institute. Of course, by law, if he wanted treatment there, he’d have to admit himself. But beyond his mental state, Charlie was physically ill. His face glowed, damp with sweat. Red, green. Red. Green.
“You’re sick, Charlie. You must have a fever. Please go in and have something hot. I can get you to a hospital—”
“No, miss. No hospitals. I’m staying right here where I need to be. But if I disappear, you’ll know what’s happened. See, he probes my mind. I feel him in my head like a hot wire. It’s his telepathy. In the day, I can fend him off, see. But when I sleep, I can’t be vigilant. So nights, see, I stay out here, where there’s engines and sirens and radio interference, and he can’t probe.”
“Charlie,” I shivered, “go inside. I’ll bring you some hot tea or coffee. Or how about some cocoa?”
“No, miss. You go inside. Don’t worry. I’m still protecting you and the child. Because otherwise, see, you’d end up in the paper. Or on the posters and milk cartons. ‘Missing.’ They’re not missing. See, they’ve been taken. He takes them. I know. He works there, inside. He takes what he wants and leaves the rest. The coroners and judges, the police—they know, but they won’t say. They don’t dare. He has them under his control, holds their minds. Reads their thoughts, too. It’s part of his plan. Returning the children to the hands of the original Mother, the Virgin—”
His words were lost in another fit of coughing so violent that he bent over, holding his abdomen.
Ice had caked my eyelashes. My jaw was numb now, not just my feet and fingers, and my cheeks burned from the cold. Wind ripped through my coat, slashing my skin.
“Charlie. You might have pneumonia. You have to call your doctor. Or tell me the number and I’ll call.”
I reached for the car door to open it and help him out.
“No!” he shouted. His eyes moved rapidly from side to side, searching the street. “Don’t touch the car. Just go into your house, miss. Go in and pretend you don’t see me.”
He coughed into a rumpled handkerchief.
I was frustrated. “Listen, Charlie. If you want me to go inside, then you have to go, too. I’m not going unless you do.” It was a bluff, but what else could I do? I couldn’t let him freeze.
He thought for a moment. “Okay, miss. I think I can. For a little while, at least until he tunes in to my head again.”
“Will you call a doctor?”
“A doctor? No, ma’am. No doctor—” A hacking cough stopped him.
“Charlie, you need a doctor. You’re sick.”
“No, miss! A doctor could be in disguise. Might make me sick.” His eyes beamed feverishly.
“What if I knew the doctor? What if I took you to a friend—”
“No doctors, miss. I told you.” He was vehement.
I bit my lip. “Let’s go, Charlie.”
“You go first.”
“I’m not leaving until I see you get out of this car.”
“Okay, okay. But don’t you worry, miss. I’m on the job. Just watch the little girl.” He looked around, suddenly alarmed. “Where is she?”
“She’s visiting a friend, Charlie. She’s fine. Now, come on out.”
Slowly, bent and stiff, Charlie climbed out of the car. I took his arm, and together we shuffled across the ice to the steps of his house. His stooped body was sturdier than I’d expected, and he supported me as much as I did him. At the top of the steps, he wheezed, “Remember, Miss Zoe. People aren’t who they seem. They can disguise themselves and fool you. Don’t trust anyone.”
I backed away. “Charlie, are you going to drink something hot now?”
“I’ll have some soup, miss.”
“If you’re not better by tomorrow, either you call your doctor or I will.”
He nodded and waved, then went inside. I watched his door close, then, assuring myself that he’d be better by morning, I slid back to my house, fumbled with my key, and finally made it safely inside. I stood at the door for a moment thawing out, savoring the glorious warmth of my cozy home. Then, still shivering, fingers and toes swollen and burning from the frost, I put up the kettle and turned on the TV. The StairMaster beckoned from the corner, offering to warm me with exercise while I watched the news; I threw my coat over it. The news was just starting. Rubbing my frozen hands together, I waited to hear the latest about the missing nannies, but the smiling anchorwoman talked about the ice storm. For the first time all week, something had preempted the story of the vanished women.
Taking out a teabag, worrying about Charlie, I looked out the kitchen window at the empty Pontiac. The lights came on in Charlie’s living room. Poor Charlie was sick, and he sounded raving mad. But at least he wouldn’t freeze to death. Not tonight.