I’m such an ass, trying to make light of it. I’m still shaking, see? Look at my hands. I can’t imagine how you must feel. You were right next to him.”
“I’m okay.” She looked me squarely in the eye and licked away the crumb.
“No. You are not. But hey, thank God they stopped him before he hurt anyone else.”
I looked toward the stairs. “I should go check and see how Molly is.”
“She’s fine. Let her be with the other kids. There are moms around if she needs one. Who else’s here?”
“Karen.” I didn’t remember who else. “Maybe just her.” “Karen’s enough. Relax. You look ghastly.” “So do you.”
“Do I? Damn. Time for a dose of medicine.” She took a bottle of Scotch from my liquor cabinet. “Here.” She poured. “Drink.” “Susan.”
“Drink.” It was an order.
I drank. She made a toast in what sounded like Italian and gulped.
“Look. At least we know they got him. We don’t have to worry about a loose psycho anymore. Maybe Bonita will come back to work.”
I looked at Susan as the Scotch slid down my throat, golden and warm. She held up her glass again.
“Here’s to the sharpshooters. And our luck that they shot straight.”
I nodded. “That thought occurred to me.”
“Shit. If somebody’d sneezed, if a guy’s finger trembled, you’d have splattered the walls instead of Charlie. Believe me, the cops haven’t heard the end of this. I intend to—”
Something beeped.
“Damn.” Susan reached for her bulky embroidered bag and took out a phone. I swallowed more Scotch while she spoke efficiently, rapidly, with few syllables, and stuffed the phone back into her handbag.
“Well, that was interesting.” She wrestled with a date book and a cosmetics case, jammed them together, and zipped the bag, fraying the edges of a manila envelope. “That was Ed. I guess he saw me at the shooting, so he thinks I’m an insider again.”
“What did he want?”
“To keep me informed.” She gazed out the window. “Guess what they’ve found in Charlie’s basement?”
I closed my eyes and drained my glass. “Don’t tell me,” I said. “I don’t want to know.”
But Susan had already started to tell me. With a trembling hand, I reached for the Scotch and poured myself another shot.
FORTY-TWO
“CUTTING TOOLS. ALL KINDS. SAWS, AXES, CHISELS, KNIVES—“ “What a surprise, Susan. Charlie was a handyman. He worked with tools.”
“He had everything he’d need to dispose of the bodies. Even a big worktable. But that’s not all.” Her eyes widened. “Here’s the corker. He had their stuff. Claudia’s handbag, Tamara’s locket. Shoes. Earrings. Keys. Mementos. Something from each victim.”
I pictured Charlie’s bad legs hobbling down shadowy stairs to visit some gruesome shrine and shivered. Susan shoved a lock of hair behind her ear and frowned.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I said.
“What?”
“Charlie. I just can’t believe it. He didn’t seem like a murderer.” “He was stark raving nuts, Zoe. He cut up women’s bodies in his basement.”
“But if he was a killer, why didn’t he kill me the way he killed the nannies? Why would he insist that he was protecting me? And why did he start shooting? Who did he think the killer was?”
“Whoa.” Susan put her hand on my arm. “Slow down. Don’t upset yourself more by trying to get inside a maniac’s mind. Stop applying reason to behavior based on insanity.”
She was right. I wasn’t thinking clearly
“Meantime”—she glanced at her watch—”I’m starving. We missed dinner, and the kids have to eat. I ordered pizzas.” “You did?”
“They said half an hour. If they don’t get here soon, somebody’s head’s gonna roll.”
“Somebody’s already did.” I didn’t intend to joke. “Really funny, Zoe. Bag it.”
“Now, there’s an advertising concept. For extra-heavy-duty trash bags?” I wasn’t smiling. I could see television commercials showing cleanup crews carrying green plastic bags from the guillotine, Jeffrey Dahmer stuffing them into his fridge, Ted Bundy storing them in his car.
I ripped skin off my lip with my teeth, tasted blood. Saltier, not as sweet as Charlie’s. Tamara’s head rolled across a shelf in Charlie’s basement, scowling.
Susan looked me over. “You really look awful.”
“You already said that.”
“Well, you do. You worry me.”
“I’m okay. Are you?”
“No, not even close. So how can you be?” “Well, I am. Or I will be.”
She picked at a cuticle. Her hands were trembling. “I wish Tim were here. Or Nick.”
I squinted, wondering why. What good could Tim or Nick or anyone do? Bags of body parts, weapons, and the personal effects of each missing nanny had been found in Charlie’s basement. Charlie’d been protecting me,