Live to Tell (26 page)

“She didn’t give it to me. Daddy did.”

“Then Daddy will get you a new one.”

“Daddy moved away.”

“He’s not that far away,” Lucy assures Sadie, sitting between the two of them. “Right, Ryan?”

“Yeah, he’s just on vacation.”

“Mommy said they’re having a divorce and he’s never coming back.”

“Not to live with us,” Lucy whispers, “but we’ll see him.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“What if he’s gone forever?”

“He won’t be,” Ryan tells Sadie.

“But Fred is.”

Ryan and Lucy exchange a glance.

Lucy clears her throat. “He’s not, sweetie. Daddy will find him, and he’ll get you a new toy. But right now, we really need you to go get the pink—”

“No!” Sadie bellows. “No, no, no! It’s mine and you can’t have it!”

“Shut up! Shut up now!”

Ryan sees that the gun is dangerously close, and pointed right at his little sister.

Lucy puts a protective arm around Sadie, and her hand comes to rest on Ryan’s shoulder. He feels a lump rise in his throat.

“Please,” Lucy says in a small voice, “don’t hurt us.”

“Believe me, I don’t want to. And I won’t, if you just tell me where it is.”

Ryan closes his eyes and tilts his head back, willing Sadie to give in before she gets them all killed.

“Sam, this is Lauren Walsh,” she says in a rush. “Do you remember me?”

“Lauren! Good to hear from—”

“Are you at home?”

“Yes. What—”

“Please just listen to me. I need your help. My kids are at my house, and someone is there with them. Someone who’s armed with a gun and taking them away.”

“
What?
”

“Whoever it is wants something from me, and he’s going to hurt my kids if he doesn’t get it, or if I call the police.”

The elevator arrives. The doors slide open. Still talking to Sam, Lauren steps in.

“They were still in the house a minute ago.” She repeatedly jabs the lobby and door close buttons. “Can you see if you can tell through the yard what’s going on? Don’t let them know you’re there—he’s got a gun pointed at my son’s head, and he’ll shoot. But if you can get a description of the person and the car and a license plate—”

“Are you sure there’s only one?”

“Car?”

“Person.”

“No.”

“But you know that it’s a man, and—”

“I’m not sure of that, either.”

“I’ll check it out. Where are you, Lauren?”

“White Plains, but I’m on my way home. Call me when—”

The elevator descends abruptly, cutting off the connection.

Knees wobbling, head spinning, Lauren catches a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall. Deer in headlights—a stark contrast to the self-assured reflection she saw upon her ascent.

It’s going to be all right
, she tells herself.

If only there was someone here with her; someone who could say the words aloud and make her believe them. She’s never felt more alone in her life.

But you’re not.

Thank God
, she thinks.
Thank God for Sam.

Brooding, Garvey sits in his office, one eye on the clock, the other on his silent cell phone, clutched in his hand. All morning, he’s been waiting for word.

Today. It has to be today.

Don’t let me down. If you do, you’ll be sorry.

And I’ll be sorrier
, he thinks grimly.

“Garvey.”

He looks up to see Marin standing in the doorway. Her hair is pulled back in a prim chignon and she has on a navy blue suit with pumps.

“I’m ready to go.” She tucks a compact into her clutch purse and snaps it closed. “Do you have an umbrella?”

“The driver will. That’s what you’re wearing?”

“No. I’m wearing jeans and sneakers. I was about to change.”

He forces a smile at the quip.

“Trust me,” she tells him, “I didn’t pick it out.”

Of course she didn’t. She rarely chooses her own clothes for public appearances these days. His campaign staff has taken over his wife’s wardrobe, along with everything else. They organize Marin’s clothing well in advance, according to what’s on the calendar.

Garvey looks her up and down. “It’s not bad. Just kind of…boring, and buttoned up. But it matches your eyes.”

“Beverly said the same thing.”

Beverly. He keeps his expression carefully neutral.

Funny—his longtime campaign aide didn’t mention that she’s dressing his wife these days, going around telling Marin that her blue suit matches her blue eyes.

Once, a long time ago, Garvey told Beverly that her own eyes were the color of the summer sun—and just as warm and welcoming.

He honestly believed that, then.

“Beverly thought this outfit presented the right image for this event,” Marin tells him. “So where’s it being held, in a nunnery?”

“Close. It’s—”

“I
know
where it is,” Marin interrupts, giving him a look. “And I know
what
it is.”

Yes. Of course she does.

“Okay. So let’s go.” Garvey pushes back his chair and stands. He’s been dreading it all morning: a luncheon with religious leaders opposed to stem cell research.

The bitter irony doesn’t escape him—nor does it escape Marin. He can see the tightness in her expression; can sense the tension in her posture as they walk, side by side, to the door.

He knows what she’s thinking; he’s thinking the same thing.

Just another hypocritical incident in the lives of the wholesome, conservative Quinns.

“It’s fine. We’re the only ones who know, Marin,” he reminds her in a low tone as they ride down to the lobby in the elevator.

“Sometimes, I’m not so sure,” is her cryptic reply.

Startled, Garvey looks up to find her with her arms folded, staring at the doors. They glide open before he can ask her what she meant by that comment. Marin and Garvey are immediately overtaken by the security detail accompanying them to the luncheon.

The question will have to wait.

Barreling north on I–684, Lauren is careful to keep the speedometer less than ten miles over the limit. This road is notorious for speed traps, and getting stopped by the cops will cost precious time.

Please, please, please… Please, God, don’t let anything happen to my babies.

Fighting off hysteria, she drives with her cell phone in hand, dialing Sam every couple of minutes.

His phone keeps going straight to voice mail. The outgoing message is automated.

“The person you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message.”

What if she has the wrong number? But it can’t be. She reached him the first time, and she’s been hitting redial.

The first few times, she left frantic messages.

Now she doesn’t bother, just hangs up, waits as long as she can stand to wait, and tries again.

Why isn’t he answering?

What if…?

No. She can’t bear the thought and so she pushes it away, focusing on the road ahead. The landmarks are familiar. Just a few more miles.

She’s going to make it on time.

She tries Sam again.

“The person you are trying to reach—”

Where, where,
where
is Sam?

Please, please, please…

Her mantra beats in time with the windshield wipers.

What does this person want from her?

Ransom?

It makes no sense. Why her? Anyone who’s seen the Queen Anne Victorian on Elm Street would know that it doesn’t hold a candle to many of the other homes in town. There are mansions right around the corner; vast estates a stone’s throw away. Why would anyone target the Walshes for financial gain?

Dear God. What if they want a million bucks in exchange for the kids? Two million?

Lauren can’t get her hands on that kind of money. Can Nick?

Nick
.

Anyone could have sent her that text message asking her to meet him at his apartment. Anyone with access to his phone.

Why didn’t I realize that before now?

I’m such a fool.

Maybe he lost his phone. Maybe he was mugged. Or his apartment was robbed.

But who would steal a cell phone and leave Louis Vuitton luggage behind?

Someone who wanted to use it to trick me.

Where are Nick and Beth, though? Clearly, they’re not still on Martha’s Vineyard.

If Nick was robbed and his phone stolen, he’d have canceled the service immediately.

If he was aware of it.

Having reached the exit for Glenhaven Park, Lauren forces herself to decelerate along the ramp when her instinct is to pick up speed and barrel toward home.

Stay calm. Almost there.

This—today—was a setup. Someone used Nick’s phone to get Lauren out of the way.

Tears stream down her face, her body quakes with sobs.

Did something happen to Nick?

On the heels of that unwanted thought, the other one—the darkest thought of all—barges into her brain at last:

Are my children dead?

Bile rises in Lauren’s throat.

Lucy.

Ryan.

Sadie.

Please, please, please…

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

S
adie wore a blindfold once before, when she played piñata at someone’s birthday party. She didn’t like it then, even though there was candy involved.

She really doesn’t like it now. Her hair is pinched in the fabric knot at the back of her head. But when she fussed, Ryan and Lucy told her to be quiet and wear it. They all have them on.

The three of them are crouched down in back of a car that’s been driving for a long, long time. It was a smooth, fast ride at first, and Sadie could hear other trucks and cars around them. But then they started making turns, and the drive got slower, and a lot bumpier.

Every so often, she hears a harsh “Keep your head down” from the front seat, and she wonders if Lucy or Ryan is trying to peek out and see where they’re going.

They’re both crying. Not loudly, but Sadie can hear them sniffling, and she can feel their bodies shaking. She’s seen Lucy cry before, a few times, but not Ryan. It scares her.

“I want Mommy,” she says in a small voice.

Someone—she’s not sure who—pats her shoulder and shushes her. It makes her feel better. She can’t see them, but at least she’s not alone. Her big brother and sister won’t let anything bad happen to her.

Finally, the car comes to a stop. The engine cuts, and it’s quiet. The driver’s door opens.

There are birds singing, Sadie realizes. She can smell the rain and hear it dripping, like it does from the trees after a storm.

The back door opens. “Come on. Get out. You first.”

“Please, no…please, we want to stay together,” Lucy protests. Her voice sounds funny. High-pitched.

“You will be together, trust me. And Ryan and Sadie, if you two try to escape while we’re gone, I’ll shoot your sister in the head.”

Sadie gasps. “No! Please don’t shoot her!”

“You know I’m not afraid to use this gun.”

They know. Sadie shudders. This is scarier than the Wicked Witch of the West, by far.

“Stay put.” The car door slams shut.

She feels a hand groping for hers. It’s Ryan. His grasp makes her feel a little better. But not entirely.

“Are we going to die?”

Ryan doesn’t answer right away, and when he says no, she doesn’t believe him.

“I’m afraid.”

“So am I. You’ve got to tell, Sadie. I know you know where that stuffed animal is.”

Sadie bites her lip. “I can’t tell.”

“Don’t you get it?” her brother explodes, and jerks his hand away from hers. “This is life or death.”

She gets it. She does.

But there has to be some other way.

The children are gone.

Lauren had known they would be.

Still, somehow, it’s shocking to step over the threshold into the empty house. Sobbing, she calls out for them. Chauncey is there, barking wildly, following her from room to room in a futile search.

From the first floor to the second, everything is in its place; the entire house just as Lauren left it. No sign of a break-in, no sign of a struggle.

In the doorway to Sadie’s room, Lauren runs her fingertips over the waxy crayon lettering she herself had done just last night.

“Keep Out.”

Oh, Sadie. You were so afraid. And I didn’t believe you. No one did.

Someone really was here before, and came back today.

Was the intruder someone the kids willingly let into the house?

Again, she remembers the caller’s effort to disguise his—or her—voice.

Again, she thinks of Sam.

What if…?

No. He was going to help her.

But he hasn’t called back.

How well does she know him, really?

Not at all.

He came out of nowhere. Single. Handsome. Interested in her.

If something seems too good to be true, it probably is.

“Oh my God.”

Lauren sinks onto the bed in Sadie’s room as the terrible truth washes over her.

Sadie is the last to be taken from the car.

It was scary to wait alone after Ryan was dragged away. But it’s even scarier to be blindly led to some unknown fate.

“Careful. Don’t fall.”

She’s on some kind of rocky path that winds through some high, wet grass that feels slimy against her bare legs. Birds are singing all around her. If only they could fly away for help. But they don’t know that she’s in danger.

“This is it.” The firm hands on Sadie’s shoulders jerk her to a stop. She hears a creaking sound: a door being opened.

“Step up.”

Sadie fumbles around with her sneaker.

“No, here.”

A hand grasps her leg and places her foot, then gives her a little nudge forward, up, and in. A door closes behind her and she’s no longer outside. There’s a musty smell, like the basement back home.

“Sadie?”

“Ryan!” Relieved to hear his voice, she asks, “Is Lucy—?”

“I’m here, sweetie.”

“So am I, sweetie,” a mocking voice announces, and Sadie shudders.

She can feel her blindfold being untied.

She blinks as it’s lifted away. There’s nothing to see but a tiny room of some sort, with wooden plank walls and no windows. The only light is from a flashlight, and it beams into Sadie’s face, blinding her.

“Okay. Here we are, all cozy.”

“I’m not cozy!” Sadie protests. “I want to go home!”

“Then I’m going to ask you one more time. Where is it?”

Sadie chews her lower lip. If she tells, she’ll lose the one thing her father gave her. Well, maybe he gave her other stuff, but she doesn’t remember it. Not like this.

The funny thing is, she hated the dog when Daddy brought it to her. But that was mostly because it wasn’t Fred.

She sort of got used to Fred being gone. And then she sort of got used to the pink dog in her room. But she didn’t even know it until she tried to give it away.

“I’m waiting for an answer, Sadie.”

She makes up her mind. “The tag sale. I put it into the box for the tag sale.”

“Where is the box?”

“I don’t know.”

“I do,” Ryan speaks up. “Mom and I brought everything to the basement of Glenhaven Episcopal.”

Sam
.

Incredible.

Sam Henning is behind this—if that’s his real name.

Of course. That day she saw the Peeping Tom in the backyard…it was he. It must have been. Why didn’t she trust her instincts? Why was it so easy to chalk it up to a trick of the light, or paranoia, or stress, or whatever the hell excuse she used to decide there was nobody there?

He was there. Watching her. Waiting.

But why the charade? What does he want from her? From her kids?

Is he keeping them at the house on Castle Street?

There’s one way to find out. She can sneak through the yard and peek through the windows.

But there are so many things wrong with that plan. He might be watching for her and see her coming. And even if he’s not, he isn’t going to have the kids out in full view of anyone who happens to glance into the house.

The dumpy white Cape with the puke green shutters.

How does she even know he really lives there, though? How does she even know such a house exists?

Lauren’s mind is spinning.

Maybe she should call the police.

But what if he’s watching her? He said he would be. If he’s living in her backyard, that wouldn’t be difficult.

As Lauren wrestles with the decision, the ringing telephone shatters the silence. The house phone, not her cell.

When she looks at it, she sees Sam’s number in the caller ID window.

Maybe she was wrong about him.

Maybe he’s calling her back because she asked him to.

Maybe…

“Hello?” she says breathlessly.

“Ah, you made it home,” the strange, guttural voice tells her—still disguised, but now she knows, and her heart sinks.

She was right. Sam. He’s the one. And to think she’d been hoping he might ask her out.

The thought of it makes her sick.

“Listen carefully, Lauren. Your daughter has a pink stuffed dog your husband took from the lost and found a few weeks ago. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yes.” Lauren’s eyes go automatically to Sadie’s dresser, where she keeps the dog. Bewildered, she wonders what it has to do with anything.

“It’s mine, and I need it back.”

“You can have—” Stunned, Lauren sees that the dog is no longer there.

“Thank you for being here. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your support, Congressman Quinn.”

“It’s a pleasure, Father.” Garvey smiles, shaking hands with the priest. “And this is my wife, Marin.”

“So nice to meet you, Mrs. Quinn.”

“I’m glad to be here, Father.” Marin is the model of decorum, a modern-day Jackie Kennedy to Garvey’s charismatic JFK.

We can do this
, he reminds himself as they take their seats at the banquet table.
We can do anything, as long as we hold it together and protect our secret.

What did Marin mean, back there in the elevator? The cryptic statement has his stomach in knots.

Who can possibly know what they did?

Hell, even Marin doesn’t know the worst of it. Not by a long shot.

Maybe he should come clean with her.

After all, Garvey wasn’t the only one willing to do whatever it took to spare their child’s life.

Caroline needed a hematopoietic stem cell transplant. The chance of finding a nonrelated donor was next to nothing; the waiting list was impossibly long. Caroline didn’t have that kind of time.

But she did have a brother out there somewhere.

The adoption records had been sealed at Garvey and Marin’s request. A court order could potentially open them—but that would risk making public the fact that they had borne a baby out of wedlock. It could also take months—and there were no guarantees.

Garvey had promised Marin he would begin the process, even at the risk of destroying his political career.

“But in the meantime,” he told her, “we have to consider other options.”

She knew what he was talking about, of course.

A savior sibling was Caroline’s only chance. What parent wouldn’t seize it?

Together, Garvey and Marin made the decision to conceive another child, regardless of the heated moral and religious controversy surrounding the issue. They were planning to add on to their family anyway…someday.

No one would ever have to know they had accelerated the plan…or why they had done it.

And so they conceived Annie.

She was meant to save her dying sister. Doctors and geneticists assured the Quinns that the odds were in their favor.

But in utero testing showed that the baby wasn’t a donor match.

Garvey was beside himself. He wanted Marin to terminate the pregnancy.

“I’ve already lost one child and I might be about to lose another,” she told him. “I’m not going to destroy a third.”

“But we can try again, right away. The next baby might be a match.”

“What about this one? Are we just going to discard it like some science experiment gone wrong?”

“It isn’t like that, Marin. I’m talking about saving our child’s life.”

“So am I,” Marin told him, arms wrapped protectively around her still-flat stomach.

She did what she had to do.

So did Garvey.

Lauren Walsh is out of her mind, frantic.

It’s so very easy to picture her pale, terrified face on the other end of the phone line. It would be easy, too, to feel sorry for her—and, of course, for her children.

But that would be a terrible mistake.

Sympathy got the best of you once, fourteen years ago. You don’t dare let it happen again. This time, Garvey would find out for sure, and if that happens…

No. That can’t happen.

His instructions were clear. Do what has to be done; no outside help this time. No hiring a professional, like the one who so efficiently disposed of Byron Gregson and that Rodriguez kid.

Pop and pay…such an easy, uncomplicated way of doing business compared to what came afterward.

But I did it. I took care of the husband and girlfriend all by myself. And it wasn’t even as upsetting as I expected it to be, once we got rolling.

The first order of business that day was to get into the White Plains apartment building and wait for Nick Walsh to come home. Such a shame that it was impossible to get into his apartment without a key to the deadbolt, or bloodshed might have been completely unnecessary.

That’s what I thought at the time, anyway…when I figured that the stuffed animal was conveniently located on the other side of that locked door.

Of course, it wasn’t. And so there were complications. Too bad. It should have been so easy.

The wait there in the corridor was endless, and when Nick finally arrived midday, he wasn’t alone. A beautiful woman accompanied him. They were both tanned, relaxed, weighed down with luggage; obviously returning from a vacation.

That was surprising. One would expect a man who’d picked up a stuffed animal from a lost and found to be accompanied by a child, and probably a wife. But it was obvious this woman wasn’t his wife—they were too playful and affectionate with each other, pausing for a long kiss as he unlocked the door.

They didn’t even notice they were being watched from the shadows at the end of the hall. They stepped into the apartment, dropped their luggage, and kissed again. Nick Walsh was reaching to pull the door closed when he realized that someone was about to step over the threshold after them.

He paled beneath his summer tan when he saw the gun. The woman opened her mouth to scream, but was effectively silenced with a curt “Make one sound, and I will pull the trigger.”

They assumed it was a robbery. It might have been that simple, were the pink stuffed dog in the apartment.

No.

It would have been a robbery-murder, because Garvey wanted no witnesses. They never had a chance.

Nick claimed that the toy wasn’t there, and it didn’t take long to search the place, thanks to the minimalist decor and obvious bachelor pad setup.

“Where is it?”

Nick, oh so heroic at that point, wasn’t willing to talk. He had probably realized that it would be messy—and loud—for two people to be gunned down in the middle of the day in an apartment building. Not to mention that he had something his adversary wanted—his only bargaining chip if he wanted to stay alive.