There’s a pause. “Excuse me? What was that?”
Even as Marin hurriedly explained about the rat and the text message, she could tell it wasn’t making much sense to the officer.
“And this happened to your daughter just yesterday?”
“To my other daughter. Her sister. We thought it was a prank.”
“It sounds like one. Getting back to today—are you sure your daughter didn’t just go for a walk, or to a friend’s house, or maybe out with a boyfriend…?”
“She doesn’t even have a boyfriend!” Marin shrieked into the phone.
“Ma’am, please, I’m trying to assess the situation.”
She managed to control herself long enough to answer several other frustrating questions, all of which allowed the officer to conclude that this isn’t an emergency.
“You don’t think a missing child is an emergency?” Marin asked incredulously, certain she was being regarded as an incoherent, overreaching maternal lunatic.
“At this juncture, we—”
“You have to do something!”
“Ma’am, please,” the officer said again, all but sighing. “You’re welcome to come down to the precinct with a recent photograph of your daughter and a description of what she was wearing—”
“I have to come down there? How can I leave here when she might show up any second? You can’t send someone here?”
“At this stage, no. As you said, she’ll probably turn up safe and sound any second, but—”
“That isn’t what I said!”
“Ma’am, please—”
That was when Marin banged the phone down in frustration.
The woman has no idea. No idea who Annie is, or what their family has been through, or why they don’t take missing children lightly.
Marin should have told her.
Why didn’t she tell her?
What the hell is wrong with me?
God, I wish Garvey were here.
It isn’t the first time she’s missed him, but it’s the first time she’s needed him. For all his faults, at least he’d know what to do. He always did. He was the one in control, the one who took care of things—of her; the one who—
Her phone rings in her hand, startling her. She answers with a breathless “Hello?”
“Is this Marin Quinn?” an unfamiliar voice asks.
“Yes…”
“I’m calling from Lenox Hill Hospital. It’s about your daughter Anne.”
According to the GPS planted in Brett Cavalon’s car, he’s on the move again.
Surely he’s not on his way to rescue his wife and daughter—unless he thinks they’re somewhere up north, toward Boston.
Are they?
That’s highly unlikely. They’re probably holed up in a hotel somewhere here in New York. Who knows? Maybe even this one.
It doesn’t really matter where they are, though.
I’m finished with them for tonight. They’ve had enough, and so have I.
It’s been such a long day—so tempting just to stay in Manhattan for tonight, as planned, and let Brett go wherever he’s going.
But then, Elsa’s husband might be dangerous, left to his own devices. More dangerous than Elsa herself, for the time being.
So much for a reprieve.
Might as well hop a shuttle to Logan and see what he’s up to.
One quick phone call, a cursory check of the room, and it’s time to go.
Downstairs, the Times Square hotel is teeming with weekend tourists checking in, bellhops pushing luggage carts, and locals grabbing pre-theater cocktails at the posh lobby bar.
A doorman opens the door with a friendly tip of his hat. “Do you need a cab?”
Yes. But I’m not going to let you get one for me.
“No, thank you.” It wouldn’t be a good idea to draw any extra attention. That would only increase the risk of being remembered later, should anything go wrong and investigators find their way to the hotel.
“All right, then. Have a good night.”
“Same to you.”
Down the block, across Seventh, down another block, around the corner onto Sixth. It’s much quieter over here; flagging a taxi is surprisingly easy on this rainy evening.
“La Guardia airport, please.”
The cabbie nods and hits the meter. “You want me to take the bridge, or the tunnel?”
“The bridge, please. I’m claustrophobic.”
The cabbie mutters disinterestedly, “Oh yeah?”
No.
But I know someone who is. And she’s got a big, big day ahead of her tomorrow.
Marin doesn’t give a damn who recognizes her as she races to the nursing station; doesn’t care who over-hears her frantic “My daughter is here. Her name is Annie—Anne. Quinn. It’s Anne Quinn, and I don’t know what happened, but I got a call—”
“All right, let me see here…” With maddening precision, one of the women behind the desk types something on a computer keyboard.
At least she didn’t say, Ma’am, please, like the female cop had, over and over. At least she’s not looking at Marin like she’s some kind of nutcase. She’s not looking at Marin at all.
“And you spell that—”
“With an E.”
“Q-U-I-N-N-E…”
“No! We spell Anne with an E! There’s no E on the end of Quinn!”
She goes back to typing as Marin grips the edge of the counter, fearful that her legs are going to give out. The lights seem garish and she closes her eyes, praying that she won’t faint right here.
“All right, come with me,” someone is saying, and Marin’s eyes snap open to see a scrubs-clad nurse with a clipboard.
Somehow, Marin’s feet carry her down the hall to a curtained-off area, and then…
There she is.
“Annie!” She rushes to the bed, swept by a massive wave of relief at finding her daughter lying there, physically intact, with her eyes open.
“Hi, Mom.” Annie smiles wanly behind the oxygen tubing that snakes up her nostrils.
“Oh, Annie—” Her voice breaks. She clears her throat, turns to the nurse. “What happened?”
“She was running in the park and she had a severe asthma attack. She collapsed, and luckily, someone called 911.”
Marin looks at Annie, trying to wrap her head around it. “You were running in the park? Was someone chasing you?”
“No! I was running. You know—jogging.”
“Jogging? But…you don’t jog.”
“Caroline said I should.”
Caroline.
Marin opens her mouth to ask why she’d tell Annie to run, then closes it again. She knows why, and she shakes her head, her bewilderment rapidly giving way to rage.
The nurse is talking again, saying something about paperwork, and that she’ll send a doctor in to speak with Marin.
Annie’s going to be all right. That’s all that matters, she tells herself, sinking into a chair beside the bed.
But in her heart, she knows that isn’t true.
Caroline, who looks so much like Garvey, acts so much like Garvey, treats Annie with as much resentment as Garvey did…
Caroline.
Caroline did this.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Despite the crummy weather, it seems that a good portion of the metropolitan New York population is headed to the New England coast for the weekend. Thanks to relentless traffic, Elsa’s two-hour trip has taken nearly five.
By the time she reaches Groton, the last two frantic days and virtually sleepless nights have taken their toll. Her shoulder blades are ablaze, her head is pounding, and her eyes desperately want to close. All she can think of is falling into her own bed—with Renny safely tucked between her and Brett—and going to sleep.
She doesn’t give a damn about anything else. As long as the doors are locked and Brett is there—
But as soon as she turns onto their block, she can see that the house is dark, the driveway empty.
At this hour?
She pulls over to the curb, thoughts racing.
Maybe he’s taking advantage of their absence and working late.
Maybe he’s on his way to New York after all. Maybe he’s been trying to call her and got worried when she didn’t answer.
That must be it.
Why didn’t she try to reach him? Even if the phones are tapped and the house is bugged, she could have let him know that she and Renny are okay. How could she have been so stupid?
Stupid, scared, deliriously tired…
And now, alone once again.
Even Meg’s house next door appears unusually deserted. Oh, that’s right—she mentioned that her kids are out of town, and she’s working nights.
Ordinarily, Elsa would be glad for the opportunity to have her nosy neighbor MIA. But right now, it might be nice to have someone within earshot, just in case…
In case she needs to scream for help.
Yet no one can be in two places at the same time. Whoever was back in New York prowling around Maman’s apartment isn’t here waiting for them now, inside the house—not unless he read Elsa’s mind and somehow managed to beat her back to Groton.
For now, they’re safe here.
All we have to do is get inside.
Then I can call Brett and tell him where we are.
No—she’d better not do that. Not from the home phone. If it really is tapped, or the house is bugged, Brett wouldn’t be the only one who knows where she and Renny are.
Oh, come on. Do you really believe this guy wouldn’t think to check here sooner or later?
But this isn’t her car. Hers is still in the parking lot of the Sunoco—or, for all she knows—or cares—it’s been towed away by now.
If she parks this rental car, with its Florida plates, around the corner, and doesn’t turn on any lights when they get inside the house, it’ll look like no one is home.
And Meg Warren should be home from work any second now. Elsa can run over and call Brett from her phone. Of course, Meg will want to know why she’s doing that…
I’ll just tell her we’re having trouble with our lines.
Then Meg will want to know why she doesn’t just use her cell phone.
I’ll tell her the battery is dead.
She’ll ask why I don’t just plug it into the charger.
I’ll tell her I lost it, or that the power lines aren’t working either, or…
Something. Anything. Right now, it’s the best she can do. This is the end of the road—not just literally. She’s depleted; far too weary to figure out where else she can possibly go, much less get herself and Renny there. It would be dangerous to keep driving in her condition.
Mind made up, she shifts into drive and passes the house, turns the corner. A little ways down the next block, she parks the car, turns off the engine, and pulls the keys from the ignition.
Renny barely stirs as Elsa picks her up, whispering, “It’s okay, Mommy’s got you.”
The child’s arms wrap around her and her legs straddle Elsa’s hip. Her sleepy head rests on Elsa’s shoulder and she yawns softly, exhaling a whisper of warmth against her bare neck.
She’s too heavy for Elsa to carry her very far…but Meg Warren’s yard is right beyond that stand of trees in a nearby lot. They can cut through and go in the back door at home. If anyone is watching the house from the street…
No. You know they’re not.
But just in case…
The rain has stopped at last, having left the ground spongy beneath Elsa’s feet as she walks through the moonless night, picking her way around tree trunks and shrubs. Around and above her, branches drip steadily and the crickets have taken up their nightly chorus. Her ears strain to pick up other sounds—snapping twigs, footfalls other than her own…
But they’re alone out here tonight. Elsa feels it with just as much conviction as she felt the earlier presence in Maman’s apartment.
As she crosses into the Warrens’ yard, her feet suddenly start to slide out from under her. Managing to keep her hold on Renny and regain her balance, she looks down. Even in the darkness, she can see that she’s mired in a large rectangular patch of mud dotted with seedlings.
Meg must have planted a new garden…
And I’ve gone and trampled right through it. There will be hell to pay when she finds out.
For a moment, the thought strikes her as so ludicrous that Elsa is on the verge of hysterical laughter. Just as quickly, the humor disappears, though the burgeoning hysteria threatens to burst forth as a violent sob instead.
Good Lord, she’s an emotional wreck—and now is not the time to fall apart.
Gingerly, her arms beginning to sag under Renny’s weight, she picks her way across the muddy plot to the grass. Seconds later, she’s unlocking her own back door.
The last thing she wants to do is walk across the threshold without Brett waiting on the other side. But she has no choice.
Opening the door, she whispers to her sleeping daughter, “Everything’s going to be okay now, Renny—we’re home.”
Caroline is lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, when she hears footsteps in the hall and an abrupt knock on her bedroom door.
Startled, she sits up. “Who is it?”
The door jerks open. “Who do you think it is?” Her mother is standing there, still wearing the clothes she had on this morning. But her makeup is smeared around her eyes, and her hair is a mess—like it got wet, and she let it dry without bothering to comb it.
“You were out when I got home.” Looking like that, besides. Sheesh. “Did you find Annie?”
“Yes, I found her.”
“Where is she?”
“Right now, she’s in bed. I just tucked her in.”
Tucked her in? Caroline opens her mouth to point out that her sister isn’t five years old, but sees her mother’s expression and thinks better of it. Clearly, Mom is in a bad mood.
Instead, she asks, “So where was she?”
“In the hospital.”
“What? Is she okay?”
“She will be.”
“What happened to her?”
“You sent her out to run in the park. That’s what happened. In the rain, all alone, with her asthma…”
Uh-oh. Remembering her earlier conversation with Annie, Caroline feels a twinge of guilt—not that she’ll admit it.
“I didn’t send her anywhere!” she tells her mother. “I wasn’t even here.”
“Exactly.”
Caroline frowns. “What does that mean?”
“I asked you to take care of things around here.”
“That’s your job. Not mine. Anyway, where were you? What were you doing in Westchester?”
Her mother’s blue eyes flash. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you, and Annie, and how you could have been so irresponsible to—”
“Stop it!” Caroline bolts from her bed. “Stop blaming me! Not everything is my fault!”
As they stand there glaring at each other, Caroline waits for her mother to soften and offer an apology.
It never comes.
Renny barely stirs when Elsa tucks her into bed in the master bedroom, still wearing her clothes. She had considered trying to get her into pajamas, but that would be sure to wake her, and she’d start talking, and that might be dangerous.
She leaves the bedroom door open and tiptoes out.
Well aware that the house might be bugged, Elsa is careful not to make a sound as she walks through the rooms with a small flashlight. Every door and window is securely locked, the shades are down, the lights are off. She casts light into the far corners, making sure no one is lurking, doubting she could even defend herself and Renny if someone were.
Right now, she barely has the energy to stay on her feet, much less fight off an assailant, or flee into the night with her daughter.
In the kitchen, she checks her own wooden knife block. The handles are all there. She stands with her ha
nd poised over it for a moment. Then she pulls out a utility knife and examines the honed blade glinting in the flashlight’s beam.
Are you really capable of using this to harm a human being?
Remembering what happened to Jeremy fifteen years ago when someone violated their own backyard, she knows the answer.
If she had been armed then, and standing guard over her child, she would have killed to protect him. No question about it.
I’d do the same thing now, with Renny.
About to turn away from the counter, she sees a slip of paper with some writing on it. A note from Brett?
She snatches it up.
Mr. and Mrs. Cavalon: I’ll be Renata’s new caseworker…
Elsa’s heart sinks as she reads on. The last thing they need right now is this—this person—snooping around.
The signature is illegible, but there’s a phone number.
She paces, holding the note and the knife, wondering whether Brett called the number on the note, wondering whether she should call him after all.
But if she uses the phone and the line is tapped, all bets are off. She’d have to get Renny out right away.
I just need some time to rest and regroup, figure out what to do.
Brett won’t call here—that much is certain. Why would he? He thinks she’s in New York; he might be headed there himself.
He doesn’t have the keys to Maman’s apartment. What happens when he arrives and no one is there to buzz him up?
Is Tom the doorman still on duty?
Is he even a doorman?
He’s the one who helped Renny, remember? He could have hurt her, and he didn’t. He wasn’t the one stalking us in the apartment.
But why did he think he’d seen Maman in the lobby?
Was she really there?
I can’t even call her to see what the hell is going on. Not from here, anyway.
Peering through a crack in the shade, Elsa sees that Meg Warren’s driveway is still empty; the house still dark.
She should be home from work by now. She must have gone out afterward. Of all the nights for someone who frequently complains of having no social life to depart from her regular routine…
Oh well. She can’t stay out all night—can she?
Scared to Death Page 22
