Scared to Death
Page 15
“The whole world knows where Garvey lived. How do you know that people won’t just show up to snoop around?”
“For one thing, they might know the building, but it’s a high-rise with over two hundred and fifty apartments. They can’t know which one is ours.”
I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Lauren wants to tell her…but then, if Marin feels secure after all she’s been through, why instill paranoia?
“Plus, we bought the place under an LLC years ago, and my lawyer said it would be almost impossible at this point to trace it back to Garvey.”
“So even the Realtor doesn’t know who you are?”
“Well, she knows—but she’s a friend of my friend Heather’s, and I trust her, and anyway, we have a confidentiality agreement in place for the sale. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Really? Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?
Marin changes the subject, asking again about her kids and camp.
“I’m dreading letting them go,” Lauren admits, “but Dr. Rogel—he’s the child psychiatrist—thinks it’s best for them to get some distance and have a normal summer.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t listen to him and never let them out of your sight again, after what happened.”
After what happened…
That’s how they refer to last summer’s events: “what happened.”
It’s as if neither of them can find the words to accurately depict the horror. Lauren’s stomach churns as she remembers what it was like to come face-to-face with every mother’s worst fear.
But it’s over. Her children survived. She survived.
And they can’t spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders. Nor should Marin Quinn.
Seeing her friend’s fraught expression, Lauren feels another stab of concern. Something tells Lauren that Marin is on the brink…of something. Some kind of breakthrough, or maybe a breakdown.
I’m afraid for her. But I have no idea how to help her as long as she refuses to let me in.
Gotta love a woman who digs her own grave.
Granted, the freshly turned patch of dirt at the back of the property probably wasn’t meant to conceal a corpse…
Probably?
Okay, it definitely wasn’t meant to conceal a corpse. Apparently, she’d dug it in anticipation of planting all those fresh herbs in the nursery flats she’d left on the back steps.
Well, lady, now the seedlings are in the ground—and so are you.
The good man upstairs has even seen fit to water the new garden. A drenching rain is giving the new little garden a good soaking—effectively washing away the fresh blood, with the added bonus of keeping the neighbors safely in their houses.
Not that anyone in a surrounding yard can possibly see into this one—or into the Cavalons’ yard next door, for that matter.
But there’s always a chance that someone might come along, and then what?
Then things would get even messier. You’d need another grave, and this time, you’d have to do the digging yourself…
No, thank you.
Time to get in out of the rain.
“Next stop: Stamford, Connecticut…Staaaaamford, Connecticut will be your next stop.”
Hearing the announcement, Elsa glances at her watch. Less than an hour from now, the train will be pulling into Penn Station. Then she and Renny will really be on their own.
Not that they aren’t technically on their own right now. Yet she can’t help feeling relatively safe here. Nothing is going to happen to them sitting in a brightly lit, crowded railroad car. Once they arrive in New York, though…all bets are off.
Needing distraction, Elsa tries to grab the magazine in the seat pocket. It’s out of reach unless she shifts her position, which would disturb Renny, sound asleep with her head in Elsa’s lap.
It was all she could do to calm her daughter’s frayed nerves after her full-blown panic attack, with plenty of disapproving passengers looking on.
She looks around the car. A few people are sleeping, others tap away on laptops, and an older couple is playing cards on their tray tables. Across the aisle, a young man plugged into an iPod bobs his head slightly to an audible beat.
As if he senses Elsa watching him, he suddenly glances at her, gives a little nod, looks away.
Unnerved by the eye contact, she turns her head, focusing on the drab industrial landscape out the window.
What if…
No, that’s ridiculous. He’s just some college student. Yale, probably. Elsa saw him get on at the New Haven stop, wearing jeans and carrying a backpack.
Just because he glanced at her and Renny…that doesn’t mean it’s him—the man who’s been watching Renny.
But he’s out there somewhere. Who is he? How does she know he’s not right here on the train?
Because that makes absolutely no sense, and you’ve got to stop doing this to yourself.
She’s spent almost two hours now—once Renny was asleep, anyway—watching every movement around her, just in case. She can’t help but imagine that whoever sent that package—and planted the Spider-Man and crept into Renny’s room in the middle of the night—might be on this train.
But of course that’s impossible. No one other than Brett—and most likely by now Mike, if Brett told him—knows they’re even here. Certainly no one would think to look for them in New York City, and even if they did, it would be your classic needle-in-a-haystack search.
What about Brett, though? He’s a sitting duck back at home—unless he finds out who’s behind this, and whether it’s a sick prank, or a true threat.
Elsa’s thoughts drift to the past, and Jeremy. Clearly, there’s some connection—or someone just wants her to think there is.
She’s been going over all the people in their lives back then—the disgruntled teachers whose classrooms Jeremy disrupted; the frustrated therapists who couldn’t reach him; the horror-struck members who were at Harbor Hills Country Club the day he went berserk.
Gazing at the sleeping child on her lap, Elsa can’t imagine how she’d feel if someone attacked Renny the way Jeremy had attacked poor little La La Montgomery. A coddled only child, she’d been about the same age Renny is now. Elsa will never forget the horror of seeing that tiny form lying on the ground with her head bashed in.
They never went back to Harbor Hills after that day. She’ll never forget the groundskeeper calling after them as they hustled Jeremy toward the car, “You’d better get that kid some help before he kills someone!”
Elsa scheduled an emergency appointment with Jeremy’s psychiatrist, Dr. Chase, in Boston. He spoke with Jeremy at length about the incident, then called the Cavalons in for a consult.
Dr. Chase seemed to weigh his words carefully, yet they were no less chilling than if he had come right out and said, Child abuse spawns serial killers.
What he did say was that children who have suffered at the hands of sadistic adults are statistically more likely to grow up to be capable of violent, even deadly, behavior. He cited, as evidence, Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Strangler, whom a colleague of his had once treated.
“There are a number of theories behind the link between child abuse and later violence,” he told Elsa and Brett, regarding them with clinical detachment, bearded chin propped on steepled fingertips. “The domination and isolation that go hand in hand with psychological and physical abuse can rob a child of basic human compassion and—”
“But not every abused kid grows up to become a depraved adult,” Brett interrupted. He sounded perfectly composed, yet Elsa could see the veins in his neck straining with tension.
“Absolutely not,” Dr. Chase agreed. “And any number of factors can come into play with those who do eventually resort to violent acting-out. For example, blunt force trauma to the head can cause significant injury to the pre-frontal lobe, which can make a person much more susceptible to aggression. Do you know if Jeremy ever suffered this type of injury?”
“No one is saying that it is, Mrs. Cavalon. I’m only saying that given Jeremy’s history, we need to consider that he might be suffering a neuropsychological disorder, and that such deficiencies can lead to criminal behavior.”
Criminal behavior.
That was the first time Elsa realized that it might be too late to save Jeremy. The damage had been done long before he came to live with them as a four-year-old. She knew that, and yet she was determined to try to heal him.
She’ll never know whether she’d have succeeded.
Maybe it’s better this way, though. Not better to have lost him—but better not to have witnessed countless other tragedies inflicted by Jeremy’s pent-up rage.
How can you even think that way? How can you presume that what happened on the golf course was some kind of omen? It’s horrible.
Horrible. Yes. But it happens sometimes. The tortured child grows up to torture others.
Yet here she is, willing to take a chance again, with Renny.
Her name, not that it matters, is—or rather was—Meg Warren.
That’s easy enough to discover via the stack of overdue bills on her kitchen counter.
Other details about her life become apparent during a quick tour of the house and her computer’s Internet history: she works at Macy’s, she has at least three kids living at home, and they’re conveniently visiting their dad for a week, according to the wall calendar. She has no apparent social engagements planned for the coming weeks, and just one appointment, at the podiatrist.
After turning off the television, polishing off the remains of a snack Meg so thoughtfully prepared, and tidying up afterward, it’s time to browse through the closets. They yield a bonanza of potential disguises, all of which fit into a large backpack hanging on the wall in a room that obviously belongs to a teenage boy. Chances are it won’t be readily missed now that summer vacation is here.
Really, this is all working out so very well.
The final order of business is to call in sick on Meg Warren’s behalf. Her illness, naturally, will be something that comes with severe hoarseness, making her voice virtually unrecognizable by whoever picks up on the other end of the line.
And—ha—whatever it is must be going around, because wouldn’t you know Roxanne Shields had the exact same thing?
“You sound horrible,” her coworker at the agency said when “Roxanne” called in sick the other day. “You need hot tea with honey and lemon.”
Yes, and at least a few days off to recover.
The call to Macy’s on Meg’s behalf goes just as well: “Feel better,” is the brief, impersonal response from the person who answers the employee line.
Meg was kind enough to leave her car keys right on the counter, so disposing of her little Toyota will be a breeze. With any luck, it’ll take a couple of days, at least, for anyone to realize something’s happened to Meg Warren—and chances are, they’ll never think to start their search here at home.
By that time, the nightmare next door at the Cavalons’ will be in full swing, and a missing middle-aged woman will be the least of the local police department’s worries.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On the west side of Broadway between Seventy-third and Seventy-fourth Streets, the eighteen-story Ansonia is, as Maman has always liked to say, as close as she could get to home without hopping an Air France flight to Charles de Gaulle.
Constructed during the Belle Epoque, the massive historical landmark—with its elaborate balconies, arches, masonry curls, and iron grillwork—evokes a romantic Parisian flair befitting the Champs-Élysées.
To Elsa, as a little girl, it looked more like an oversized haunted mansion, with its looming turrets and mansard roof. There was a time when she dreaded her after-school journey from the lobby to her door. Leery of the creaky old elevators, she’d race instead up the dizzying stack of marble stairways and through the yawning maze of corridors on their floor, lined with shadowy nooks where sinister bad guys and ghosts might be lurking.
Breathless by the time she reached her own door, she’d unlock it in a hurry and slam it closed behind her—only to be scolded by Maman’s longtime maid, Monique, or by Maman herself, who had no patience for what she considered silly, childish paranoia.
Looking back now, from a maternal standpoint, Elsa finds it hard to believe that her mother hadn’t simply met her in the lobby—or better yet, at school several blocks away—to escort her safely home in the afternoons.
But, then, it was a different world back then; less threatening. And parenting wasn’t as hands-on…
And let’s face it, Maman wasn’t the most nurturing mother.
Then again, maybe she did me a favor.
Forced to deal with her daily childhood anxieties, Elsa eventually got over them. Had she been coddled, she might never have developed the strength that allowed her to survive her worst fears becoming reality in adulthood.
How ironic that Maman largely left Elsa to her own devices in the big, bad city, and nothing terrible ever happened. Yet Elsa herself—the ultra-vigilant parent—couldn’t prevent the tragic loss of her child in their own bucolic suburban backyard.
“It’s spooky here,” Renny whispers as they climb endless flights of wrought-iron-railed stairs. The elevators have been renovated, but they’re out of the question for claustrophobic Renny.
“When I was your age, I thought so, too.” Still do—but it’s probably not a good idea to admit it. Her goal is to make Renny feel safe—like they’re on a fun adventure.
A far cry from Disney World, that’s for sure.
A familiar unease steals over Elsa.
The vast stairwell is deserted, as it often seems to be, and their footsteps echo as they ascend toward the shadowy domed ceiling seventeen stories above. Once, it was probably a dazzling glass skylight, though nobody knows for sure. Presumably, it’s a relic of the Second World War, covered in blackout paint for almost seventy years.
At every floor, a wide balcony landing houses the main elevator banks, shut off from the rest of the building by closed doors.
When they reach Maman’s floor, Elsa is thoroughly winded—thanks in part to having to carry her bag and Renny’s, along with a shopping bag from the Fairway market across the street.
There’s no way I could run down these halls the way I used to, even if my life depended on it.
She cringes at the thought, and forces herself to note that the wide corridors are much less foreboding now, thanks to new carpet, wallpaper, and paint.
Still, there are twists and turns, and plenty of niches along the walls that would make perfect hiding places if someone wanted to lurk here. Heart racing—and not just from the strenuous climb—she reminds herself that whoever sent those photographs of Renny can’t possibly know they’re here.
Not only that, but it would be impossible for a random person off the street to even get up here. If Elsa hadn’t been recognized by both Ralph the doorman and Ozzy, the longtime security guard, she and Renny would never have gotten beyond the lobby.
Trying to sound cheerful as they reach Maman’s door, she tells Renny, “This is it!”
Yet her voice sounds hollow even to her own ears, echoing through the deserted corridors, and Renny all but cowers at her side.
The sprawling apartment lies in a far-flung corner of a high floor, creating as private a residence as possible in an immense urban apartment building. Like many other residents, Maman bought and combined several apartments as their tenants vacated after the building went condo. The original entrance doors remain intact along the hallway, but only one is in use. The others, their knobs removed, have become nothing more than recessed decorative panels.
I
t takes Elsa a few tries to get the key into the lock, all the while fighting the urge to grab Renny and flee.
Her malaise doesn’t make sense, really. This is supposed to be a safe haven.
But what if…?
There you go again, being ridiculous. There’s no way anyone could be lying in wait for you here. Absolutely no way.
Though she’s careful not to slam the door, the noise seems to echo loudly through the rooms. She half expects a French-accented voice to reprimand her, but of course, no one does. The place is deserted and has been for months, other than the cleaning service that comes in once a week.
She sets down their luggage and flips a light switch to illuminate the overhead crystal chandelier. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”
“I guess.” Renny takes in the circular foyer with its seventeenth-century paintings, wall-sized gilt-framed mirror, and French Classical Baroque chairs that always seemed to Elsa as though they might as well have a velvet rope across the seats. “How come this room is round?”
“It’s special. A lot of rooms in this building are round,” she tells Renny, who seems more suspicious than intrigued as they make their way across the room.
“It was so loud outside, and it’s so quiet in here,” Renny whispers as their footsteps tap on the herringbone hardwoods. The only other sound is the hum of the refrigerator.
“That’s because the walls in this building are three feet thick,” Elsa tells her, repeating a bit of Ansonia lore she frequently heard as a child.
Maybe the measurement was exaggerated a bit, but the apartment is undeniably soundproof.
Evidence: Temperamental Maman’s equally temperamental across-the-hall neighbor Lucia—a soprano at the Met ten blocks down Broadway—liked to practice her arias at the same hour Maman needed her afternoon beauty sleep. The dueling divas had their share of confrontations over the years, but never about noise.
“Can I have my snack now?”
“Sure. Come on. And you don’t have to whisper.”