Scared to Death (8 page)

Still…no matter how tempting it is to get another glimpse of the stricken Caroline, it would be foolish to risk arousing anyone's suspicion.

Then again, who would ever imagine that the rat didn't find its way into her bag on its own, but was planted there by a human hand?

Why would anyone want to scare the living daylights out of a beautiful young girl?

Why, indeed.

It was supposed to be enough just to shake them up, to see them suffer, the way Jeremy had.

Somehow, though, it isn't nearly enough.

Now that the line has been crossed…

Now that I've felt human blood on my hands…

Now that I know what I can do…

This is only the beginning
.

Back out on the street, a quandary: where to go next?

Find a concealed spot nearby and watch for Caroline to emerge? Head back to the alley across from the Quinns' building?

Now that there's been contact, though, why bother? It's only a matter of time before the apartment itself will be accessible, and then—

A sudden pocket vibration suitably curtails the thought.

That can mean only one thing…

Frustratingly, the glare of the midday sun obliterates the small screen. But a few steps away, beneath
the shade of a bodega awning, the alert is instantly visible.

One of the Cavalons' vehicles has just traveled beyond the designated area.

No question, now, where to go next.

They're heading north.

And so will I.

T
he drive up I–95 through Rhode Island and Massachusetts is long and silent, other than the necessary calls Brett has made to—and received from—the office. There's much to be said, but Elsa and Brett don't dare say it in front of Renny.

Maybe it's better that they can't talk right now. Elsa didn't miss the dubious expression on Brett's face back there in the gas station parking lot; she knows he isn't entirely taking her seriously. She doesn't have the energy to argue with him now. All that matters is that they tell Mike what's going on.

“Is this Boston?” Renny asks from the backseat.

“Almost.” Elsa turns to see her gazing out the window at the billboards and strip malls, redbrick schools and chain hotels, clusters of Capes and saltbox Colonials.

The landscape is foreign territory for Renny, but achingly familiar to Elsa and Brett. They lived in Nottingshire in the south suburbs of Boston fifteen years ago, with Jeremy.

“Boston drivers are the worst,” Brett mutters, and Elsa has to agree. At high speed on the highway, or
flying through the city streets, drivers in this part of the country tend to careen unpredictably, or tailgate.

Glancing into the rearview mirror, Brett shakes his head. “Look behind you.”

Elsa glances back to see an SUV hugging their bumper. “Just pull over and get out of his way.”

“There's no place for him to go.”

“No place but into our backseat with Renny,” Elsa tells him pointedly, and he flips on the turn signal and moves into the other lane without a word.

Predictably, traffic slows to a rush hour crawl. Anxious as she is to get to Mike's, Elsa decides there's something to be said for sitting in a traffic jam—a momentary reprieve from harrowing drivers and concern about shadowy intruders.

But the longer they sit, the more restless Renny becomes. “Did we forget my Barbies at the gas station?”

“No, they're in the trunk,” Elsa tells her reluctantly.

“Can we get them out?”

“Not now.”

“Why not?”

“Because…”

Because that bag and everything in it might be evidence.

“Just because.”

For the moment, Renny seems satisfied. Then she asks, “How long until we get there?”

“About another half hour.” Brett jerks the wheel, moving from the slow lane to the less slow lane—which promptly grinds to a halt in front of them. He slaps the wheel in frustration and leans his head back against the headrest.

He's more anxiety-ridden than Elsa, if that's even possible. She knows the reaction from Lew when Brett tried to explain why he'd left the office so abruptly—blaming it on Renny being sick—was definitely not
sympathetic. Elsa, who's never held a corporate job in her life, had to bite her tongue to keep from telling Brett to tell Lew to shove it. If he gets fired, they're screwed.

“How long are we going to
be
there when we get there?” Renny asks.

“We don't know,” Elsa replies, looking over her shoulder at the traffic as Brett tries to merge back into his original lane, which naturally is now full speed ahead.

“Why do we have to visit this man now?”

“Because he's our friend.”

“Do I know him?”

“Go ahead, Brett, he's going to let you in,” Elsa tells her husband, as a driver in the next lane waves them to get in front of him.

Or maybe he doesn't. A horn blasts angrily as Brett begins to merge. With a curse, he swerves, narrowly avoiding an accident.

In the backseat, Renny asks again, as though nothing has happened, “Do I know him?”

Brett swears again and shakes his head at Elsa. “I thought you said he was waving me in!”

“I thought he was!”

“Mommy?”

“We could have been killed,” Brett tells her. “All it takes is a split second, and—”

“Do you think I don't know that?” She presses her palm against her pounding heart.

“Mommy!”

“What?” she snaps. “What do you want?”

“Never mind.”

Elsa turns to meet her daughter's reproachful gaze. “I'm sorry.”

Renny shrugs, wounded, and Elsa finds herself thinking of Jeremy.

What? What do you want?

How often did those words spill from her mouth in the past? Jeremy was such a demanding child, so needy, so impetuous. He constantly tried her patience.

Renny isn't anything like him, and yet, just now…

But you didn't mean to be short with her. You're only human
, Elsa reminds herself.
You can't be the perfect mother, and…

And history doesn't have to repeat itself.

That's what's really bothering her, isn't it? That's why she's on the verge of falling apart here.

She reaches over the seat and touches Renny's arm. “Remember, I told you before—Mr. Fantoni came to see us in the winter, so he could meet you. He brought you something.”

“What?”

“I'm not sure…it was a toy.” Something age-inappropriate, Elsa vaguely recalls, and remembers noting at the time that Mike seemed to know very little about kids. He doesn't seem to have any, though she's pretty sure he's married—at least, he had been at one point during the long search for Jeremy.

In all those years, she never felt comfortable asking the details of his personal life. Or maybe it was more that she was so absorbed by her own trauma, she didn't care enough to ask.

Funny how you can know so little about someone who played such a pivotal role in your life. If it hadn't been for Mike, she'd never know what happened to Jeremy.

Brett has always preferred to keep Mike at arm's length. He tends to do that with anyone he hasn't known all his life—a Yankee tradition, he claims.

While it's certainly true that many New Englanders tend to keep a polite distance, Elsa always wondered
whether it was more than that, with Brett. She wasn't convinced Brett really believed in Mike.

And right now, she's not convinced he believes in her, either.

 

“I really think she's overreacting, Mom. I mean, listen to that.”

Marin looks up from the congealed vegetable chow fun on her plate to see Annie across the table, shaking her head. “What?”

“That.” Annie points over her shoulder in the general direction of the hallway.

Oh.
That
.

In her room, Caroline is loudly sobbing on the phone long-distance with one of her friends, once again rehashing this afternoon's dramatic rodent encounter.

“I don't know…” Marin picks up her chopsticks again. “If I reached into my purse and found a rat, I think I'd be pretty upset, too.”

“Upset. But hysterical?”

Marin shrugs. “I don't know what to tell you, Annie.”

She didn't know what to tell an inconsolable Caroline, either, when she burst through the door sobbing frantically a few hours ago.

It took Marin several minutes to even comprehend what was wrong.

Not sure what to do, and worried about rabies though Caroline hadn't been bitten, Marin called the doctor. To her relief, he assured her that rats don't carry rabies—not in this country, anyway.

“Just make sure she cleans her hands really well,” he advised. “And of course, call me right away if she develops any strange symptoms.”

“What kind of symptoms?”

“Symptoms? Symptoms of what? What is he talking about?” Caroline was hovering at her side, listening.

“The usual…headache, fever, chills…” He went on to explain that there's a rare disease called rat bite fever, transmitted through rodent saliva and mucus. “Chances are that Caroline is fine, but you should keep an eye on her.”

Unfortunately, Caroline overheard that and was beside herself. Ever since she found out about her childhood illness, she's been something of a hypochondriac. And really, who can blame her? She's been through hell.

We all have. Including Annie.

Annie, the one bright spot in Marin's life these days.

Maybe not just these days.

Caroline has always accused her of playing favorites, but of course Marin loves both her children equally. It's just that Annie has such an easygoing temperament, and Caroline—like her father—can be…intense.

Please, God, let that be all it is. An intense personality and not another inherited genetic flaw, courtesy of the Quinn family tree.

“She's such a drama queen.” Annie rolls her eyes.

“Eat your egg roll, Annie.” Marin pushes the waxed-paper pouch across the table to her.

“I did. That's Caroline's. Can I have it?”

“No.”

“She said she isn't hungry.”

But one egg roll is enough—they're fattening, and unhealthy.

“She might be hungry later. Here, have some broccoli.”

Annie wrinkles her freckled nose. “Can't. I'm allergic.”

“You aren't allergic to broccoli.”

“I think there's something in the sauce. Last time I ate it, I got hives, remember?”

Maybe. Poor Annie has so many allergies that hives are a frequent occurrence.

Before Marin can reply, her cell phone, in the back pocket of her jeans, buzzes with an incoming text message. Probably Heather, wanting to see if she's changed her mind about the beach, or France.

But when Marin pulls the phone out and checks it, she doesn't recognize the incoming number.

She clicks on the message. “What in the world…?”

 

Jeremy first returned to the Northeast last autumn, after Dr. Jacobson had conducted a surgical follow-up and given him the green light to leave Texas.

There was still a little tenderness and swelling around his nose and eyes, reminding him of all the injuries that had shattered and bruised his features over the years. But the doctor assured him that it would eventually subside, and that he'd be left looking like…

Well, not like himself, that was for damned sure.

As long as he was going to have his long-broken bones repaired, he'd figured he might as well go all out. Having found his way to Texas after seeing Dr. Jacobson featured on a television documentary about facial reconstruction, he knew the plastic surgeon was capable of creating a whole new look. That was what he wanted: to look like a different person.

Maybe, he reasoned, he would actually
feel
like a different person, too.

He had no way of knowing, at the time, that he really
was
a different person: Jeremy Cavalon, and not Jeremy Smith, as he'd been called all these years.

Smith
.

Maybe Papa just couldn't be bothered with coming up with a better pseudonym for himself and thus, for Jeremy.

Or maybe it was his real name.

Jeremy might never know for sure, and he no longer cares.

By the time he had the surgery, Papa had been dead and buried for a year.

As he drove north from Texas, Jeremy occasionally caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the rearview mirror, and marveled at the change in his appearance. It was well worth the pain and the expense—though he'd be hard-pressed to think of a more fitting use for his inheritance.

Papa had smashed up his face. Papa should pay to fix it. Papa should pay for a lot of things.

There was plenty left over after the hospital bills. Enough to keep Jeremy from having to work for a couple of years, at least—though he figured when he got to where he was going, he'd find some sort of job to keep himself busy.

That was what normal people did, wasn't it? And now, at last, he was going to be a normal person, living a normal life.

Jeremy took his time along the way. He spent an entire day winding along Virginia's picturesque Skyline Drive, stopping at overlooks to take in the fall foliage. It was nice, but nothing compared with the scenery when at last he reached New England.

The leaves were at their peak in Groton on that dazzling Indian summer afternoon: a brilliant canopy against a royal blue backdrop that reminded him of a western sky.

But his home wasn't out in California anymore, and it wasn't in Texas. His home was with the Cavalons.

He'd known that ever since he'd first spotted Elsa
on the news that day in the hospital. A dam had burst in his brain and his past gushed forth, flooding him with memories.

Suddenly, he knew he'd had another life, before Papa. He remembered Elsa; remembered Brett as well—but not as vividly. He wasn't around as much.

No, it was Elsa who'd taken care of Jeremy; Elsa who always made him feel safe and loved.

The warm, cozy memories weren't the only ones that came rushing back. There were others as well—gradually, a torrent of troubling memories he'd just as soon forget. He tried—but once they'd been unleashed, they floated around his brain like flotsam from a devastating wreck.

And I'm the survivor doomed to relive it, over and over again…

 

“Is this it? Are we there?” Renny asks Elsa from the backseat as Brett wedges the car into a tiny parallel space along the narrow brick sidewalk.

“Almost. We just have to go find the restaurant where we're meeting Mr. Fantoni.”

“And then I can have ice cream.”

Elsa smiles faintly, remembering her earlier promise. “Yes, and then you can have ice cream.”

“Pink ice cream.”

“If they have it.”

“And can I watch a movie on Daddy's iPad while you talk to your friend?”

“Daddy?” Elsa looks at Brett.

“Definitely.”

They don't even discuss the decision to violate their own policy against using sweets and screens as bribes or rewards. In the grand scheme of things, anything they can do to keep Renny happily distracted—
even if it means plugging her into headphones and plying her with sugar—is necessary in light of the situation.