She had, indeed, exposing a patchwork of a.s.sorted scabs and scars. A jagged cut here and a razor slice there. Normally, Celia hid her wounds under clothing; today, she displayed her self-inflicted carnage openly, almost proudly. Seeing the damaged skin, I forced an encouraging smile.

"Wow, Celia," I congratulated her. "That's a big step. How does it feel, baring your arms?"

"Embarra.s.sing," she shrugged. "Naked."

I tried to concentrate on her eyes, not her ravaged flesh, but when I closed my eyes, my mind recalled other grisly wounds. A lopped-off finger. A gory bag of sliced skin and brittle bone. A brunette profiler and a rugged cop. Stop it, I scolded myself. This is Celia's time. Focus on Celia.

I gave her some soft modeling clay, hoping it would give her a physical focus. Some patients found it soothing to make pinch pots or animal figures. Working and molding the clay, Celia talked freely about herself. "You know, for the longest time, n.o.body knew I was cutting," she bragged. "The only reason they found out is that I got carried away and went a little too deep into my thigh."

In fact, she'd almost bled to death, having dug a razor into her femoral artery. Celia's stream of consciousness continued for the entire session, revealing how sly she'd thought she'd been, how carefully she'd hidden her secret, how long she'd been doing it. She talked calmly and matter-of-factly about slashing herself as her fingers worked and squeezed. When the orderly came to get her, she released her clay onto the table in a twisted, strangled wad.

The day sped on, a staff meeting and private sessions in close succession. My final patient was the silent schizophrenic, Evie Kraus. Evie's chart indicated some dramatic changes had been made. Her medications had been reduced, and she'd become more alert and responsive. And although she hadn't actually spoken, she'd begun expressing herself vocally. Evie had begun to sing. In fact, she'd been singing all week. Even as I greeted her, she was crooning a tune.

"Somebody's knockin'. Somebody's knockin'." I recognized the song. An oldie, recorded by Terri Gibbs. It was about the devil. About choices, giving in or resisting sin. I made a note on her chart, even wrote down the words as she sang them.

"Lord, it's the devil. Would you look at him? I've heard about him . . . But I never dreamed . . . he'd have blue eyes and blue jeans."

Evie's voice was clear and, in contrast to her imposing size and tattooed limbs, surprisingly sweet. I was thrilled to hear it and told her so. She looked my way but didn't respond. She just kept singing. "He must have tapped my telephone line. He must have known I'm spendin' my time alone."

Working with pastel oil sticks, she drew a pink door, just the door, no house or building attached. The door was locked, padlocked in vivid purple. She sang and hummed as she worked, the same song. Over and over. "Somebody's knockin'. Should I let him in? Lord, it's the devil. Would you look at him?" On and on. Over and over. When her session ended, she was still singing. After she was gone, for the rest of the day and well into the night, her song remained in my head, an endless loop of melody and words.

Finally, it was time to go home. I grabbed a taxi, puzzling over Beverly Gardener's morning visit. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Who'd given Beverly Gardener the right to claim Nick as her personal property? And what made her think she could order me off? Thinking about her made my head throb. Evie's devil song didn't help, beating over and over in my mind. The cab headed across town through a drizzling, ominous dusk, and I rubbed my temples, eager to get home, lock the door, and settle in for the night.

But-oh d.a.m.n-it was Thursday. Gymnastics night-the mothers' meeting. Susan was bringing whistles; we were going to organize and plan ways to protect our nannies and our neighborhoods. Like starting a town watch, a buddy system. Arming the nannies with cell phones and maybe Mace. Discussing Angela's kickboxing cla.s.ses, the possibility that her instructor could start a nanny program. Maybe I'd alert the others to the details of Beverly Gardener's profile. d.a.m.n, there she was again, Beverly Gardener, brazenly intruding into my thoughts. Claiming her turf, clinging to Nick's arm. I closed my eyes, erasing the image, and kept humming Evie's song.

By the time the cab pulled up to the house, the sky was dark and the drizzle had turned to gla.s.sy sleet. Even so, I sprinted up to the door without slipping. Thanks to Jake's guys, my steps had been freshly salted.

THIRTY-FIVE.

"DON'T HANG UP."

I was changing, getting ready for gymnastics, when Michael called.

"I can't talk now, Michael." Or ever, for that matter.

"Look, that stuff about no more Mr. Nice Guy? I got p.i.s.sed. You frustrated me and I lost my temper. But you know it was all smoke."

"It doesn't matter, Michael. Stop pushing." "Pushing? Oh, you think I'm calling about Nana's ring? No, Zoe, I'm calling because I'm worried about you."

"Really."

"Christ," he sighed. "You bet I am, with you and your kid all alone right where all those single women are disappearing."

"Don't worry. I'm not single; I'm divorced."

"You think some lunatic's going to make the distinction? You're an unattached woman, that's all that matters."

"They were all nannies or babysitters, Michael. Not moms."

He paused; I was sure he was thinking, "Well, you're not really Molly's mom-she's adopted." But he didn't say it. Didn't dare. "The latest one disappeared right around the corner from you. On Lombard."

"I heard." I pulled on a pair of loose corduroy pants.

"How can you be so nonchalant?"

"I'm not. But it's not like I can do anything about it." Why was he trying to upset me? "Look, I really can't talk now."

"I'm serious, Zoe. n.o.body knows if this maniac does strictly babysitters. How big a leap is it from a babysitter to an unmarried woman caring for a kid?"

"Thanks, Michael. That makes me feel real safe."

"I don't mean to alarm you. I'm just concerned."

"That's sweet. But you don't need to be. And, like I said, I've got to go."

"What, you got a hot date or somethin'?" His tone was sarcastic, as if the idea were absurd. There was a tiny, awkward pause while he realized that, oh, maybe it wasn't so absurd; maybe Zoe actually did have a hot date. "Oh, hey. Do you? Is it the same guy? From the other night?" He couldn't help it, had to ask, and I couldn't help responding with silence, even though I had n.o.body to go out with. Nick appeared on the bed, his head on Michael's pillow. I blinked him from my mind.

"Well, good for you. So. Is he as good-looking as I am?"

"Don't even start, Michael." I fluffed the pillow, smoothed the comforter.

Molly wandered in, dressed for gymnastics. "I'm ready, Mommy," she announced.

"Michael, chatting with you is grand, but I really have to go."

"Okay, then-oh, by the way, have you thought any more about the ring?" He strained to sound casual.

"Actually, no."

"Because I'll give you five thousand for it. You can buy yourself a great new ring for that."

Was he serious? He sounded desperate, and I felt sorry for him. But I wasn't going to let him pressure or manipulate me. Not again.

"Or-have it appraised. I'll pay whatever they say. How about it?"

Women were disappearing, and all Michael could think about was getting a diamond ring. I looked at the clock; it was time to leave. "Let's talk later, Michael."

"It's a fair deal, Zoe. I'm not cheating you."

"I'll think about it."

"Promise?"

"Yes. Michael, I'm late." "Okay, okay. But-Zoe?"

"What?" If he mentioned the ring again, I was going to slam the phone down.

"Just... be careful, okay?"

I was touched. Michael was genuinely concerned about me. "Thanks. I will."

"And think about the ring? Like I said, I'll go as high as the appraiser says."

Before he could say another word, I hung up, breaking the connection, wishing it could be that simple.

THIRTY-SIX.

EVEN WITH THE BAD WEATHER, GYMNASTICS CLa.s.s WAS packed. All the moms showed up, even Leslie. Pale and thin, she seemed to have lost weight in just days. She hadn't answered her phone or returned calls all week. But she'd shown up for the meeting. And I was glad to see her. "Are you managing okay?" I asked her. packed. All the moms showed up, even Leslie. Pale and thin, she seemed to have lost weight in just days. She hadn't answered her phone or returned calls all week. But she'd shown up for the meeting. And I was glad to see her. "Are you managing okay?" I asked her.

"You should go to your mother-in-law's place in Florida," Karen advised. "Get some sun for a few days. Thaw out."

"I can't. It'd probably rain and I'd be stuck inside with Billy and my mother-in-law."

There were sympathetic chuckles. "Well, we're glad you're here."

"Besides, Florida wouldn't be an escape. Tamara'd still be gone no matter where I went." "But you'd get a change of scene."

Leslie shook her head. "You don't leave your head behind. Trouble travels with you."

Charlie whispered for me to go home and stay there. I shrugged him away, but he was in my head. Like trouble.

"Leslie, you should get some pills-Zoloft or Paxil. Ask your doctor. You don't have to feel so bad, even with all that's happened." Davinder was the local expert on prescription drugs.

"Yeah, I know," Leslie sighed. "But pills won't change the truth. Those poor girls. And Tamara-I really miss her. I really, really do."

"Oh, come on," Gretchen piped up. "Let's stop concentrating on the bleak side. Life could be a whole lot worse." She smiled, pleased, as if she thought she'd said something helpful.

With that, Susan cleared her throat and stood to begin the meeting. "Well, it looks like most everyone's here, so let's get started. Why don't we begin by brainstorming? List everything we've thought of to do, and then form a committee to follow up on each? I'll read my list to start with, and then we can add other ideas."

The discussion took off, women sharing ideas, uniting their efforts, combining their strengths. We formed six committees. I'd volunteered as a block captain for town watch and as cochair with Gretchen to set up a buddy program, so young women wouldn't travel the neighborhood alone. Finally, with committees defined, deadlines set up and sign-up sheets posted, Susan handed out whistles and we began stringing them on necklaces.

"Is there any more news about Tamara?" Karen asked.

Leslie shook her head. "The police don't tell us anything. To them, she's just one of the missing nannies."

"They weren't all nannies, you know. That fourth one was actually the mother, not a sitter. She'd adopted a baby from China."

I tensed, listening.

"Really? Well, that breaks the pattern, doesn't it?"

"Not necessarily. The mom was blonde and fair. The baby was Chinese, so she didn't look like her mother. Plus, the mom was young, in her twenties. The killer probably thought she was a nanny."

"Killer? Why'd you say 'killer'? Do we actually know that they're dead? I mean, they haven't found any bodies, have they?"

"Who knows what they've found?" Susan said, her eyes meeting mine. "They're probably withholding a lot of what they know, so they don't tip the guy off."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Not just nannies were victims. Adoptive mothers might be targets, too. I wasn't going to mention the garbage bag or fingers. Neither, apparently, was Susan.

On the other side of the gla.s.s, Coach Gene cheerfully demonstrated a cartwheel on the balance beam. Kids in leotards bounced on trampolines, did flips on uneven parallel bars. I envied their innocence, their glee.

Gretchen opened a box of homemade Christmas cookies. "Okay, we have our plan. Now let's cut the glumness. Help yourselves." She took a star coated with green sugar. We pa.s.sed the rest around, and for a while we munched and talked, trying to be normal. A cheery tape of "Jingle Bells" drifted in from the gym, the music, the conversation as weightless as snowflakes. But, instead of mistletoe and holly on the walls, we hung alarm whistles on string.

"Peas?" I heard Davinder ask. "Your kids eat peas?"

"They love peas. Frozen, straight from the box, like candy. Or in tuna, or with rotini and cheese."

I wandered off and sat by the observation window, watching the children practice, listening to the lulling rhythm, the gentle flow of women's chatter. After a while, Leslie drifted over and sat beside me, staring quietly at her knees. She was deeply depressed about Tamara. I thought about suggesting help, offering her a referral, but then Karen joined us.

"Is Billy okay, Leslie?" she asked.

The voice startled her, bringing her back. "Huh?"

"I wondered if he's changed. You know, his sleeping or eating. Sometimes with kids, that's the only way to tell if something's wrong. Emotionally. I mean. He must be a mess with Tamara being gone and you and his dad being so upset-"

Karen stopped midsentence. The interruption wasn't a noise or even a gasp; it was a sudden, pervasive silence. Leslie spun around to face the door. Everyone froze as the stranger entered and scanned the room. I looked up and, in the instant before he saw me, I had just enough time to recognize Charlie-and the fact that he was carrying a gun.

THIRTY-SEVEN.

UNSHAVEN, UNKEMPT, HIS FRAYED JACKET HANGING LOOSELY over grease-stained pants, Charlie shuffled in. Dark circles ringed his red, strained eyes, and he spoke slowly, as if no one were in the room but the two of us. over grease-stained pants, Charlie shuffled in. Dark circles ringed his red, strained eyes, and he spoke slowly, as if no one were in the room but the two of us.

"Don't you worry, miss," he said. "I told you I'd protect you."

Susan stepped directly in front of him. She was accustomed to guns and criminals. "What do you think you're doing, sir?" she stared at him, ignoring the gun.

Charlie stepped back and closed the observation room door, shoving a chair under the doork.n.o.b. "Step back, ma'am. Don't interfere. I'm here to help."

Susan spoke calmly, as if men wandered in carrying guns all the time. "Well, you have to put the gun away. There are children-"

Charlie scowled as he aimed the gun right at her. "Who are you? Mind your business. I've got to talk to Miss Zoe."