be said. Even that the guard in the downstairs hall was dead.

SIXTY-THREE

HE’D STOPPED BATTERING. I HEARD NOTHING BUT MOLLY’S rapid breathing. No footsteps, no sound at all. Had he given up? Gone to get an ax? Where was he? Sitting outside the door?

The operator told us to stay where we were. Good advice, since there was no way out except past Woods. The police could not possibly come in time, not nearly in time. Nick lay lifeless in the alcove, Beverly beside us on the floor. There was only one door. Beverly’s desk sat somber and morose, offering nothing. No pens or pencils. No letter openers. No scissors. Just a Tiffany lamp, a briefcase, and a vase of wilting lilies.

But the briefcase—maybe Beverly kept Mace in there. Or a small jewel-handled revolver? I picked up the case and clicked it open. The light was dim, but I knew right away that nothing in the briefcase could help us. Just files. Radio scripts. And a folder labeled in big block letters: PHILLIP WOODS 302.

Now, I was only an art therapist, but, working at the Institute, I’d often heard the term. A 302 was the provision that gave the state permission to commit a person without his consent if he was a danger to himself or others. The Institute housed a number of people who’d come there through 302s. And it seemed Beverly Gardener had prepared the documents for Phillip Woods to join them.

“I’m just getting a light,” I told Molly. Then, quickly, I reached up and pulled the lamp down under the desk. I turned it on and saw the fear on Molly’s face subside a little with the light. Holding her against me, I scanned the papers in the file. Copies of police reports, of a restraining order—and a lengthy harassment complaint Beverly had filed with the police. Nick’s name was at the top. Had he taken her complaint? Why was a homicide detective involved in a harassment case? Obviously, because he had a special relationship with the complainant. And that was why they’d met last night—to fill out the 302, stating that Phillip Woods had become a danger to himself or others. I looked out at Beverly’s bare, outstretched legs. An immediate, imminent danger.

I skimmed the complaint. The incidents started with fan letters and e-mails. Then phone calls, physical visits, stalking. Then threats. Beverly obtained a restraining order, but Woods ignored it. An attachment indicated that restraining orders had been placed against phillip Woods in the past decade by others: author Susan Erstine, violinist Erica Olsen, and local newscaster Deirdre Bogarth. When Beverly Gardener had confronted Woods and insisted he leave her alone, Woods said that she had no authority to insist on anything, that she was obviously an impostor, not actually Beverly Gardener at all. He threatened to expose her, said that he’d dealt with impostors like her before and that she could easily “meet the same fate as the others.” She took this to mean that Woods was irrational and intending her grave harm.

Attached to this last page was a Post-it. “Nick: Impostors = those who act as others. Woods has problem with impostors. ‘Deals’ with them. Nannies = impostor mothers == Could Nanny-napper be Woods?”

SIXTY-FOUR

“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