“COULD NANNYNAPPER BE WOODS?”
Beverly thought phillip Woods was the Nannynapper. phillip Woods. Not Charlie. I thought back to the profile. What had she said? The killer might believe he was doing something good by killing, maybe righting a wrong? Had Woods seen his victims as impostors? Fakes? Mother impersonators who, in his mind, needed to be eliminated? But why? It made no sense.
I huddled under the desk, trying to put pieces together that didn’t seem to fit. All I knew for sure was that Beverly Gardener had been stalked and threatened by Woods. She’d gone to Nick for help, and they’d arranged to go for a 302. Woods was out of control; it couldn’t wait. Nick hadn’t wanted Molly or me in the neighborhood in case things got out of hand, so he’d left us at his place where we’d be safe. But why the secrecy? Why not just explain? Of course, I knew why. Nick was why. Nick would reveal only what he needed to, nothing else, not one fact more. Never the whole picture. Never one more detail than he absolutely had to. Dammit, Nick, I thought. Why couldn’t you trust me?
Furniture scraped the floor out in the waiting area. Woods was back. I held Molly, warned her to be quiet, and snapped off the lamp. Any minute, any second, he’d come bursting through the door, breaking the frame or throwing a chair through the glass at the top. No more time to think or read. I had to find a weapon, something to defend us with. Beverly lay limp, offering no suggestions, no advice.
I chewed my lip, clung to Molly, and looked from the door to the coat closet to the file cabinet to the window. The window. It was level with the top of my head. The kind that pushes open. If I could get us up there, we might be able to slither through. It was a chance.
Something was scraping, scratching at the door. Was he trying to file away the lock? The scratching stopped, and for the moment everything was quiet again.
“Molly,” I whispered and pointed to the window. I gestured, showing her what I was going to do. She nodded, eyes wide, and let go of me. I moved the desk chair, climbed up on it, and pulled at the window. It resisted, wouldn’t give. I found the clasp, which was old and rusted and promised that it hadn’t been unlocked in decades, but I pushed and turned anyway, trying to unlock it. Damn. My fingers slipped, and I saw flashes of white as pain slashed my fingertips. I’d torn a nail, and blood seeped under it, pulsing. But there was no time for cursing. I tried again, grabbing the clasp firmly, tugging at it slowly, steadily, with all the weight of my shoulders and torso. Finally, in slow motion, it gave. I turned the handle, pushed, and the window opened outward. Frigid wind slapped my face.
There was a crash at the door. The sound of something large butting the solid wood. Molly jumped up and ran to me.
I pulled her up onto the chair with me. The window looked very tiny. The door shook. I reached up, lifting Molly up to the windowsill. I pushed; she scooted and was out. I tried to follow. I grabbed the frame and tugged. No way. I was too bulky, too big to fit through. Another crash at the door. And another. I ripped off my sweatshirt and threw it out into the snow. I was thinner now, but not much. Woods rammed the door again and again. The top hinge burst. A few seconds and he’d be in. I had no time.