what I’d see. Sure enough. I hadn’t sat on a leather chair. I’d sat on Beverly Gardener.
SIXTY-TWO
I SET MOLLY DOWN AND TRIED TO COMFORT HER. “MOLLY.“ I hugged her, whispered in her ear. “I’m going to call for help.” She nodded, speechless, and stood beside me, clinging, her head buried in my side, her entire body shaking. I trembled, too, cemented to the floor.
“Beverly?” I managed. She didn’t answer. I stuck out a finger and touched her arm. Her skin was cold. Well, it was December. She wore only a bra and panties; of course she’d be cold. That didn’t mean she was dead. I poked her again, harder. Her head lolled off to the side, and with a sense of dread I noticed a stocking hanging around her neck. Pulse, I thought. Check her pulse. My hands were unsteady; I couldn’t feel anything but Molly’s trembling. Was Beverly breathing? I put my finger under her nose, thought I felt the slightest tickle of warm air.
I followed my instincts and gently lowered her off the chair onto the floor. It wasn’t easy, with Molly hanging around my waist, but I managed. Beverly didn’t make a sound. I listened at her chest, felt her breasts against my head. Was that my heartbeat or hers? I covered her with my jacket, got up. I had to use the phone. Quickly.
Beverly’s desk was a mess. Drawers hung open, and files lay all over the floor. Move, I told myself. Just call the police. I guided Molly, stepping around Beverly, and picked up the phone.
9-1-1. Nothing happened. No ringing. Then I remembered: the outside line. To get an outside line, I’d need to dial 9; all I’d actually dialed was 1-1. I started over, pushed the button: 9. Good. A dial tone.
Now another 9. Now a 1.
Footsteps. Very close, approaching the door. Then they stopped. A silhouette with shoulder-length hair darkened the frosted glass window near the top of the door. I pulled Molly down and we crouched, huddling under the desk. Where was the damned 1 button? In the dark under the desk, my arms around Molly, I felt the phone buttons, pushed what I thought was the right one.
He was trying keys. How did he have Beverly’s keys? I heard a jangle, then the thrust of metal. He was turning the knob, jiggling, twisting it. Trying another key. Then another. In a second, he’d be in. Another key. Another. Then a violent metallic slam. Under the desk, I curled over Molly, felt her terror, and tried to fade into mahogany.
Silence. Had Woods given up? Thrown the key ring against the door?
Why hadn’t any of the keys worked? If they weren’t Beverly’s, whose keys did Woods have? Who would have keys? In the darkness, I remembered the key ring dangling from Rupert’s belt. Of course. Woods had taken Rupert’s keys.
Suddenly there was an ear-shattering bang. Molly flew against me. The door shook. Woods was ramming, shoving, slamming his body against the door. Someone was talking, repeating himself, offering help. Not Charlie, not the guard. A real voice. Where? Who was it? I looked around, then remembered. The phone. The voice was on the phone. I snapped to attention, breathless. My voice scraped raw, trembled, tasted like acid. But I heard it gasp what needed to 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