Scared to Death (21 page)

Or maybe it was missing all along, and she just thought she saw all the knives accounted for when she checked earlier…

Am I losing my mind?

Maybe it's crazy to acknowledge—even to herself—that she might be seeing things. But is that any crazier than assuming someone is creeping around the apartment, armed with a kitchen knife, like a murderous maniac from a horror movie?

Renny tugs her arm, and Elsa glances down to see that her face is etched in worry.

I can't take any chances. I've got to get her out of here.

Motioning with her forefinger against her lips, Elsa pulls Renny into the dining room, past the Baroque dining set and antique sideboard. She keeps an eye on the drawn gold brocade draperies at the windows for any sign of movement.

All is still. But that doesn't mean they aren't being watched from a gap in the curtains, or…or a crevice in the wall, or around a doorway…

Why, oh why, didn't Elsa think to grab one of the knives before she left the kitchen? Now she's utterly defenseless; the door might as well be on the far side of a crocodile moat.

Incredibly, Renny is cooperating. Does she realize their lives are hanging in the balance?

Or is she merely humoring Elsa, thinking she's gone off the deep end like her schizophrenic birth mother?

I'll explain everything to her later—as soon as I get her out of here.

Moving in absolute silence, they make it to the large, circular living room. The elaborate decor creates plenty of potential hiding places. Still, no hint of anyone lurking as they tiptoe across the carpet. Elsa keeps an eye on the French doors, where the wrought-iron Juliet balcony extends off to either side, beyond her view. What if someone is lurking there?

Then he can't see me, either
.

Step by stealthy step, they cover the home stretch.

In the foyer, acutely aware of the closed closet door and the shadowy recess beside the armoire, Elsa reminds herself again that slow and steady is the only way to escape with Renny. Her instinct is to get the hell out of here; if she were alone, she'd make a run for it. But she can't do that with Renny. She has no choice.

Inch by inch, they make their way across the her-
ringbone hardwoods. The apartment is silent but for the sound of the ticking clock and the humming refrigerator.

Holding her breath, Elsa reaches for the doorknob. Painstakingly, she turns it, pulls it open, bracing herself for the attack from behind.

When it doesn't come—when she finds herself crossing the threshold into the hall with Renny—it's all she can do not to collapse in relief. She leaves the door ajar, just as she found it, afraid the sound of it closing might alert the person who's lurking in the apartment—if, indeed, anyone is really there.

“Mommy,” Renny whispers, “what—”

“Shh, sweetie, we just have to get out of here, and then I'll explain.”

Oh, you will? What are you going to tell her? That you're afraid someone wants to kill you, or her? That this was meant to be a refuge, but we aren't safe here? That we aren't safe anywhere?

If they manage to get out of here in one piece, what next? Should she call the police?

She reaches into her pocket for her phone, just in case…

But it's not there.

What the…? She knows she had it earlier. She was going to call 911, right before—

Oh. She must have dropped it in the kitchen when she saw that the knife was missing.

The knife…

She can't go back for the phone. It doesn't matter. All that matters now is getting Renny out of here.

Please, God, let us get out of here…

The wide, deserted hallway stretches ahead of them. Short corridors branch off in several spots. There's an ancient stairwell no one ever uses—for all she knows, it might be locked or blocked off once they get inside.

No. Not worth the risk. They pass the stairwell, the garbage chute, the door to a utility room.

Just ahead looms a shallow recess that holds a fire extinguisher and enough room for someone to hide, flat against the wall.

But the danger lies behind them, Elsa reminds herself—not ahead.

Still, her chest aches with tension as they pass it and round the corner. No one follows; no one jumps out at them, yet she won't breathe easily until they're outside.

Not even then. Not until you know what you're dealing with, and why, and who…

Stop. Just focus. One thing at a time.

Ahead, the door to the main elevator bank and stairs beckons like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. She hustles Renny toward it, her brain ping-ponging between escape route options.

Stairs or elevator?

Stairs or elevator?

Stairs…

No. They'd be out in the open, easily spotted descending the stairwell from anyone on a landing above.

Once they got into an elevator, though, they'd be safe—as long as it showed up in a hurry. There are six of them; the odds are good. They'll take the elevator.

She pushes through the door and heaves a sigh of relief that they've made it this far.

She's about to press the down button when her daughter speaks for the first time.

“No!”

“What? What's wrong?”

Oh—oh no. Renny shrinks back, staring fearfully at the elevator doors.

“I can't.”

“You can. Please, Renny…” Elsa jams her palm
down hard on the button, repeatedly, and hears an elevator lurching up from below.

“No!”

“Shh! You have to.” It's all Elsa can do to speak over the awful lump in her own throat. “We need to get out of here, and I promise it's going to be okay.”

The doors glide open; the elevator is empty. She reaches for Renny, pulls her inside, and hesitates, thoughts careening again.

Lobby or ground floor?

Lobby or ground floor?

The security desk is right in the lobby—along with creepy Tom.

There's a service entrance in the basement, along with the door to the adjacent parking garage. They'll sneak out one way or another, and once they're on the street, she can figure out where to go next.

Elsa presses the ground floor button. The doors start to close.

Relieved, Elsa leans back her head, closes her eyes, and at last breathes a sigh of relief.

With an anguished cry and a fierce lurch of her little body, Renny wrenches herself free of Elsa's grasp. She throws herself back out through the elevator doors at the last second before they slide closed.

In a panic, Elsa presses the door open button, but it's too late. The descent is under way, and she's helplessly trapped inside without her daughter.

 

“Is there anything I can do from here?” Brett asks Mike's friend Joe.

“Do you pray?”

Brett hesitates, remembering all the years he'd gone faithfully to church—and all the years he hadn't.

He and Elsa were married at St. Mary's, the parish where he'd been christened, confirmed, served as an altar boy, and eventually cried at his parents' funerals.

“Will you accept children lovingly from God?” Father Nolan asked solemnly during the wedding ceremony. Brett and Elsa vowed that they would.

And they did. They accepted Jeremy lovingly from God—by way of the foster care agency back in Boston—and they did their best to make him their own. Brett even took him to church a couple of times, thinking it might be good for both of them.

Looking back, he remembers the disapproving glances from other parishioners and his own discomfort over Jeremy's behavior more than he remembers anything spiritually positive.

He thinks about what Jeremy did to the Montgomery girl, and of Jeremy's disappearance, and how he finally stopped going to church for good when his prayers weren't answered.

Then he thinks about Elsa, who tried to kill herself, and Renny, so close to becoming their daughter…

“Yeah,” he tells Joe. “I pray.”

“Then pray for Mikey. That's all anyone can do.”

 

Elsa keeps pressing buttons, but the elevator descends to the ground floor without stopping.

Trapped inside, on the verge of panic, she flashes back to the first moments after she realized Jeremy was missing from the backyard.

She remembers running back into the house, thinking he might have gotten past her and was safely inside; screaming his name; racing back outside, combing the yard, the block, a nearby field…

Later, years later, she wondered if her own terror
had precluded her from getting to Jeremy while there was still time. If she'd only stayed calm; if she'd called the police right away; if she hadn't been hysterical…

Yes. She blamed herself. All these years, she's blamed herself.

And the same familiar firestorm of panic is sweeping toward her now.

Yet she's helpless, trapped; there's nothing to do but wait for the elevator to hit bottom.

The second it does, she jabs the button for her mother's floor.

The elevator begins the excruciating ascent and Elsa prays it won't stop along the way, prays Renny will be right where she left her.

Of course she will. Where else would she go? She'd know I'm coming back for her.

Wouldn't she?

Yes. She'd know I wouldn't just abandon her, ever.

But what if he gets to her first?

What if…?

At last, at last, the elevator bumps to a stop. The doors begin to open. Elsa springs through the opening the moment it's wide enough.

Renny is gone.

It's all she can do not to collapse in despair, or shout her daughter's name.

No. Don't. Stay focused.

Think. Think…

Would Renny have left of her own accord? Or did someone grab her?

Dizzy with fear, Elsa rushes over to the wrought-iron railing and leans over, scanning the vast stairwell for Renny.

No sign of her daughter below, or above, either.

Again reliving the nightmare of Jeremy's disappearance, Elsa runs blindly back along the corridor.

She tries to reassure herself exactly as she did on that awful day fifteen years ago—that her child is simply hiding, or lost; that nothing bad can happen to someone who's already endured so much pain in a short lifetime.

But it did, and Jeremy is dead, and now Renny…

“Renny!” she calls recklessly, no longer in control of her instincts.

She races around the corner, retracing the path to her mother's apartment. The door is still ajar.

Did Renny go back inside?

Was someone waiting for her there?

Would she have left the door standing open exactly as Elsa had?

Without a thought to her own safety, Elsa dashes inside, dizzy with fear, calling her daughter's name.

It takes her a minute of frantic searching, maybe less, to determine that the apartment is empty—just as the house and the yard were fifteen years ago.

Back in the round entryway, she grasps the edge of an antique table as the world seems to spin around her like a carnival ride.

“Renny! Oh God, Renny, where are you?”

She's gone.

Gone.

At last, the bottom drops out and Elsa falls to her knees.

D
riving down the Saw Mill River Parkway, Marin can't stop thinking about Lauren's daughter, Lucy. A pretty, wholesome-looking brunette, she's really got her act together.

Not that Caroline doesn't, in her own way…

Yet Marin can't help comparing the two—especially when she remembers Lucy's polite response when Lauren introduced her; the way she managed to put Marin herself at ease. Whether or not her warmth was genuine—though Marin sensed that it was—Lucy sure sailed through the potentially awkward moment with grace.

No way would Caroline display that level of maturity under those particular circumstances. No, she's always put her own needs first, just as Garvey did.

It's easy to blame him for Caroline's character flaws—after all, he spoiled her rotten.

But I'm her mother. Aren't I partly responsible, too?

Marin's always told herself that she could love Annie enough to make up for the way Garvey treated her—but what about Caroline? Did she love Caroline enough?

Or did she resent her for being the center of Garvey's world—or for being so sick that—

No. Absolutely not. I'm her mother. Of course I love her enough.

Yes, Caroline possesses some of her father's more disagreeable personality traits: she's self-centered, sarcastic, and can be mean-spirited. But, like him, she's also charming, and quick-witted, and brilliant.

She'll probably turn out to be just fine
, Marin assures herself.

So what? Everyone has faults. Why, all of a sudden, are you dwelling on Caroline's?

She knows exactly why. That thing yesterday, with the rat—it's been in the back of Marin's mind all day. What if…?

No. She would never, ever do that.

And yet…Caroline thrives on attention. She always got plenty of it from Garvey. With him gone, she's taken the histrionics to a whole new level. The way she pitched a tantrum the other day over family photos, accusing Marin of burning them…

I couldn't even listen to her. I turned around and walked away from her in mid-tirade.

And yesterday, when the girls were fighting—Marin chose to ignore that, as well. Numb. That's it—she's been numb for so long, ignoring, denying, overlooking, overmedicating…

How far would Caroline go for her attention?

Did she make up the bizarre story about the rat?

Did she send the text message herself, so that Marin wouldn't doubt her?

She sighs, staring bleakly through the windshield as the wipers sweep the rain from side to side.

Maybe I should have called her on it last night.

But I will. I'll talk to her as soon as I get home.

 

Crumpled on the herringbone floor in her mother's foyer, head buried in her arms, Elsa tells herself that as bad as it seems, she can't give in to tears now. That won't do Renny any good.

“Mommy?”

Hearing her daughter's voice, Elsa lurches upright, praying it wasn't her mind playing tricks on her.

No—it's Renny!

She's standing in the doorway of the apartment.

About to cry out in relief, Elsa realizes that someone is standing behind the little girl.

It's Tom the doorman, his hand firmly planted on her shoulder.

 

Lauren's knock on Lucy's bedroom door is greeted by a gruff “Ryan, I told you, I don't know where it is, so stop bugging me!”

“It's not Ryan.” Lauren pushes the door open a crack. “What did he lose this time? His phone? His wallet? His iPod—again?”

Lucy, sitting at her desk in front of an open notebook, shakes her head. “I told him I wouldn't tell you.”

“Either your sibling loyalty has done a major about-face, or you're blackmailing him to keep quiet.”

Seeing the look on Lucy's face, she wonders why—then realizes the blunder.
Blackmail? You idiot.

Blackmail was what triggered Garvey Quinn's heinous plot last summer.

“Stupid thing to say. I'm sorry, Lucy. You know I didn't mean—”

“It's okay.”

Someday, Lauren hopes as she crosses her daughter's bedroom, this whole thing might really be behind them once and for all, and they'll never have to worry about stirring up painful memories.

But somehow, she doubts it.

One man's evil has scarred so many innocent people for life: Lauren and her children, Marin and hers, the Cavalon family, even Sam…

All of them are forced to live with the fallout.

Live…that's the key word
, Lauren reminds herself.
It could have been so much worse.

She looks down at her daughter. “I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of the way you handled yourself when you met Marin Quinn.”

“Oh…yeah. Well, what did you expect me to do? And, I mean…it wasn't her fault, right? What her bastard husband did?”

Ordinarily, Lauren would reprimand her for using bad language. In this case, it's well deserved. In fact, nothing she can think of is strong enough for Garvey Quinn.

“No,” she tells Lucy, “it wasn't Marin's fault.”

“She seemed nice. But nervous.”

“Yes.” Nervous, and frightened, and dangerously fragile…

“Is she okay, Mom?”

“I hope so, Lucy. I really do.”

Garvey Quinn has claimed enough victims.

Please, God, don't let there be any more.

 

As Elsa stares at the uniformed stranger behind Renny, her thoughts race from one wild scenario to another.

Is he armed?

Has he taken Renny hostage?

Does he want something in return for her release?

“I couldn't find you, Mommy!” Renny's expression is accusatory—but not frightened.

“She got off an elevator in the basement. Ozzy spot
ted her on one of the surveillance screens, wandering around down there.”

Tom's words fail to register, but his avuncular tone certainly does.

“I…”

Dazed, Elsa looks from him to Renny and back again, trying to assess the situation. Are his words meant to be informative, or menacing? She wants desperately to snatch her daughter from his clutches, but does she dare?

Before she can make a move, Tom releases Renny.

“I've got to get back downstairs to work.” He ruffles her dark hair playfully. “No more running away from your mother, you hear me?”

“She ran away from me.”

He laughs and shakes his head, then heads down the hall.

Elsa slams the door shut behind him and grabs on to her daughter, burying her face in Renny's shoulder with a sob.

“Why are you crying?”

“I'm so relieved. How did you…did you actually take an
elevator
?”

Renny nods. “I was scared when you left. I kept calling you but you didn't come back, so I pressed the button.”

“But…you don't like elevators.”

“I was brave,” Renny tells her matter-of-factly. “I had to find you.”

“Thank God you did.”

“Tom helped me.”

“I know.”

At least, for now, they're safe. And it's time to go…somewhere.

As if she's reading Elsa's mind, Renny asks, “Can we go home now?”

“Oh, sweetie…”
You have no idea how badly I want to say yes.
“Not just yet. You don't really want to get back on the train tonight, do you?”

“We can call Daddy to come get us.”

Call Daddy
—another fierce stab of longing. Elsa desperately wants to connect with Brett.

Forget the possibility that her phone is bugged. Right now, all that matters is hearing her husband's voice.

I've got to find my phone and get us out of here.

She hurries Renny to the kitchen, plotting their exit from the building.

They'll avoid the lobby, she decides, still not sure whether to trust Tom. He did say he saw her mother, and her mother isn't here. Why would he lie? If he wasn't lying, then is it possible…

The idea is so far-fetched that Elsa refuses to allow herself to consider it.

In the kitchen, she sees the bag of Chinese food on the counter, the ominously empty slot in the knife holder.

But no cell phone.

A quick search, then a more thorough one, and there's still no sign of it.

Maybe she was mistaken about dropping it here in the apartment.

Maybe she lost it while she was chasing through the building, or—

Or maybe whoever was here and took the knife came back and stole my phone as well.

 

Brett rummages through the drawer, looking for the little address book where Elsa keeps all the household phone numbers: the take-out pizza place, the plumber, the pediatrician…and presumably, Joan.

Brett has to call the therapist, and the sooner the better.

If Elsa is losing touch with reality, finding out about Mike's accident might push her over the edge.

A hit-and-run.

Unbelievable.

The way Mike's friend Joe described it, Mike had just stepped out of his building on Hanover Street, and the car came barreling at him.

Almost like someone was lying in wait.

Joe didn't say that. But Brett sure as hell thinks it.

Mike is a private eye. He's made his share of enemies. It's not that far-fetched to imagine that someone might have sought vengeance for an extramarital affair Mike had uncovered, or a jail sentence resulting from one of Mike's investigations…

Brett finds the phone book and flips the alphabetical pages, looking first under J for Joan—no luck—and then under T for therapist—again, no luck.

He has no idea what her last name is, but he thumbs through every page in the book, looking for any entry that bears the first name Joan.

There is none.

“Now what?” he mutters aloud.

He certainly can't call Elsa and ask her for her therapist's contact information.

No, but he can at least call her to check in and see how she sounds.

After that, I'll figure out how to reach her therapist.

Grimly shaking his head, he dials Elsa's cell phone.

 

It was all so perfect, right from the moment Elsa Cavalon and her kid showed up at the Ansonia with their take-out dinner, looking like drowned rats.

They could have stayed out for hours, which would have been okay, too—eventually they'd have returned to discover that their would-be safe house wasn't safe at all.

But at least the way it happened—their arrival within a half hour of “Sylvie Durand's” supposed grand entrance—prevented this thing from dragging on all night.

The veiled hat—purchased a mere two hours ago from a Scarlett O'Hara display at a costume shop in the Theater District—certainly served its purpose, as did the black pashmina and umbrella: twenty bucks from a street vendor near Columbus Circle. Now the hat, pashmina, and umbrella are carefully positioned on the edge of an alley Dumpster off West Seventy-third Street, where some poor homeless person can probably put them to good use.

See? Who says you don't have a heart?

The duplicate keys to Sylvie Durand's apartment almost landed in the Dumpster, too—after all, it's a safe bet Elsa Cavalon won't be coming back to the Ansonia anytime soon. But it seems like a shame to throw them away after going to all the trouble of stealing them, along with a spare set of keys to the Cavalons' house, having them copied, and returning them before anyone noticed they were missing.

All the trouble?

Okay, it was a piece of cake to walk in through the unlocked door while Elsa and her kid were out in the backyard the other day, having a cozy little picnic under a tree. So easy to keep an eye on them while snooping around the house, finding not just the keys, but planting the listening devices that had proven just as handy.

The best part was unlocking the door in the dead
of night to replace the keys, and taking a little detour, wearing the rubber mask, to scare the shit out of the kid.

Yeah. Good times.

Staying one step ahead—or rather, behind—the two of them in the apartment just now was even more fun. What a great setup for hide-and-seek—plenty of places to hide, though a few times, when Elsa looked over her shoulder, it seemed certain that the jig was up. Grabbing the knife from the kitchen was meant to be a scare tactic, but for a minute there, it almost seemed like it would have to be put to use.

That would have been a real shame, to end it all just as the real fun is about to get under way.

How fitting that it was Scarlett O'Hara herself who said it:
Tomorrow is another day.

 

Marin can't recall the last time she filled the car—
any
car—with gas. No wonder the fuel level is on E by the time she reaches the southbound Hutchinson Parkway. Figuring it's better to fill up now than within city limits, she pulls into a roadside service area.

Once she remembers how to work the pump, it takes only a few minutes to fill the tank.

There's something to be said for having your own means of transportation, she decides as she replaces the nozzle and removes her receipt from the machine. Throughout Garvey's gubernatorial campaign, and even before that, the Quinns traveled mostly by car service and limo.

It's kind of nice to be fully in charge, once again, of where she goes, and when she gets there.

Slipping back behind the wheel, she's planning to merge right back out onto the highway.

Instead, she finds herself pulling into a parking space near the on-ramp.

You sure you're in charge, there?

Yes. But once she gets home, she'll have to deal with Caroline, plus she and Annie will be in earshot.

If you're going to make that call,
she tells herself as she pulls out her cell phone,
you'd better make it now.