Scared to Death (13 page)

Now it's their turn. One by one, they're going to pay. All of them
.

I
n good weather, the view from the Gold Star Memorial Bridge high above the Thames River is striking: a picturesque Connecticut shoreline dotted with red brick, gray shingle, or white clapboard buildings; water bobbing with fishing boats, sailboat masts, and the occasional ferry or ship.

Today, however, as Brett drives across the bridge toward the New London train station, the world beyond the windshield is blanketed in dull gray to match his mood. He keeps a close eye on the rearview mirror. There are so few other cars on the rain-splashed road that he's almost sure no one is trailing them.

Almost
.

After seeing those pictures in the mail, Elsa was much too shaken to get behind the wheel herself. Brett wouldn't have agreed to let her do it anyway. Not now.

As they huddled in the kitchen with the horrifying surveillance photos, they weighed every possible scenario…

But one.

Brett hates that he's even capable of thinking it; hates the truth even more, but he has to face it.

Elsa herself might have sent the photos.

She wasn't in any of them, and they were taken at times when she would have been alone with Renny.

Just as she was alone with Renny when that window was open after the nightmare, and when she found the footprint in the mud, and Spider-Man…

It doesn't make sense, but…

What if some paranoid, delusional fragment of her brain just splintered off, and…

But why? Why would she—why would her brain—want to create the illusion that Renny is in danger?

He doesn't understand, but then it wouldn't be the first time. He didn't understand how she was seeing and talking to Jeremy after he disappeared, but she was convinced he was really there. And he didn't believe that she would actually try to kill herself even though she talked for months about wanting to die, and…

And this time, I know that anything is possible.

No, he's not going to call the police. Not yet, anyway. That would just guarantee that they'd lose Renny, and for what?

If there is an outside threat, then the first thing to do is get Elsa and Renny to a safe place and assess the situation with Mike.

If there's no outside threat, then he has to get Elsa the help she needs.

One thing is certain: No matter how fragile she is, she'd never, ever, ever hurt Renny or let anything happen to her.

They arrive at the station to find the red brick building nearly deserted. Brett hurriedly buys two tickets on the next southbound train, which happens to be running fifteen minutes late.

“Otherwise, you would have missed it,” the attendant informs him. “Guess this is your lucky day!”

“Guess so.” Brett's smile is strained as he takes the tickets from her.

When he first suggested this morning that Elsa take Renny to New York, he'd been trying to humor her. A change of scenery would be good for her, he figured, and by the time she was ready to come home, her paranoia would have blown over. He never imagined that the situation would escalate the way it has.

Elsa rests her head on his shoulder as they wait beneath an overhang, watching the rain drip miserably onto the tracks. The platform, too, is sparsely populated: just a young businessman in a suit and an elderly woman dressed in so many layers you'd think it was February instead of June. Neither seems to pay any attention to the Cavalons. Brett notices that Elsa is keeping a wary eye on them anyway.

“You don't have to worry,” he reminds her in a whisper. “Even you didn't know you were going to be here until an hour ago, so the chances that someone could be lying in wait for you here are—”

“What if the house is bugged, though?” Seeing his expression, she adds quickly, “I know it sounds crazy, but we did talk about the train at home…”

Crazy.

Oh, Elsa…

“But really,” she goes on, “is it any more crazy than anything that's already happened?”

He shakes his head.

Mike. He needs to talk to Mike about this.

As soon as he gets Elsa and Renny on the train, he'll call Mike.

Maybe it was wrong not to go ahead and call the police, he thinks again.

But then he looks down at Renny—at her sweet, hopeful face, waiting for the train to pull in and
carry her and Mommy away on an adventure—and he knows he can't risk it. Not yet. There's no way the agency is going to allow her to stay on with them under the circumstances. Not if someone is stalking them, and not if Elsa is losing touch with reality again.

Is it selfish of Brett not to want to give her up—even for her own good?

But who's to say she'd be any safer anywhere else? If she is in danger, Brett refuses to believe that anyone in the world would fight for Renny the way he and Elsa will. They know how dangerous the world can be, and they would die for her, both of them.

I don't care what the paperwork says or doesn't say. We're her parents, and we're not going to let anything happen to her. And if Elsa needs help, I'll get her help. But losing Renny—she couldn't bear that.

He keeps his arm around Elsa and a protective hand on Renny's shoulder as she excitedly watches the track for the train. She's never ridden the rails and was thrilled, back at the house, when they told her of the change in plans.

Now, when a whistle sounds in the distance, Brett can't decide if it's too soon or not soon enough.

Renny bounces excitedly. “It's coming! It's coming!”

Elsa looks up at him and he kisses her forehead. “I hate that we have to leave you here.”

“Someone has to stay and figure out what the hell is going on.”

“Call me as soon as you get there.”

“I will.”

“You'll be safe in your mother's building.”

“I know. I'm not worried about us.”

“I'll be safe, too.”

“You've got to talk to Mike.”

“I will.”

Brett releases her and swings Renny up into his arms as the train clangs into the station. “Have fun on the train and in New York, sweetheart.”

“I will, Daddy. I wish you could come with us.”

“So do I, but I have to go to work. When it's time for Disney World, though—” He breaks off, his throat thick. He buries his face in her soft, dark hair for a moment, then smooths it as he sets her back on her feet.

Elsa is watching, tears in her eyes further smudging the makeup she never had a chance to remove. Once they'd decided they were going, she threw some things into a couple of bags, hurriedly changed into jeans, and they were on their way.

It's unnerving, seeing her looking so haggard. He can't help but flash back to the old days, after Jeremy, before Renny, when it was all Elsa could do to wake up in the morning…

“All a-
bo-ard
!” the conductor calls from his perch in the open door as the train rolls to a stop.

Elsa grips Renny's hand and walks her toward the door. Brett picks up their luggage and follows, looking around to make sure no last-minute passengers have shown up. Coast is clear: The businessman and the older woman are boarding a few cars down.

The conductor takes the bags from Brett, greeting Renny with a jovial “Hello, there, young lady! Ready to go for a ride?”

Suddenly, Renny looks uncertain.

Brett's heart sinks. She's so small standing there, dwarfed by the conductor, the train, even the luggage.

“I don't want to go!” She shakes her head, holding back.

Elsa tries to coax her, which only makes her dig in her heels, starting to cry. “I want Daddy to come, too!”

Brett pastes a reassuring smile on his face, tells her they'll see each other again before they know it.

“Come on, Renny.” Elsa reaches for their daughter, her eyes meeting Brett's. Seeing tears in them, he opens his mouth to tell her not to go. But then Renny is in Elsa's arms, squirming and crying, and it's too late: the two of them disappear onto the train, the doors close, and the train chugs away, leaving him alone on the platform.

He wipes his own eyes on the sleeve of the dress shirt he's been wearing since yesterday morning. This is unbelievable. Did he really just ship his family out of town?

Pulling his cell phone from his pocket as he walks toward the steps, he pulls up his address book and presses the entry that bears Mike's phone number.

 

Papa was an American businessman in Mumbai—then known as Bombay—or so he told everyone who asked. Maybe it was true. Maybe it wasn't.

Jeremy probably didn't ask. Mercifully, he doesn't remember much about that time.

He does recall how relieved he was initially, after living on the streets, to wear clean clothes, and eat hot food, and sleep in a hotel bed—with Papa, who promised to get Jeremy home to his parents as soon as he could. And so Jeremy endured the nights in his bed, and the beatings that came whenever Papa didn't like something Jeremy did or said.

After a while, there was a long, long airplane ride. He remembers that part clearly: it was terribly bumpy. Things were falling from the overhead bins and people were praying and the woman across the aisle threw up. Jeremy was afraid, clutching his Spider-Man with
one hand and the seat arm with the other, until Papa pried his fingers loose and held his hand tightly.

“It's okay,” he said. “Nothing bad is going to happen. We're going home.”

It was a lie, of course—though not, perhaps, in Papa's twisted mind.

Jeremy was still angry with Papa for all the things he'd done to him. Yet he found himself clasping Papa's hand anyway, glad he wasn't alone on that scary plane ride.

“I'll take care of you,” Papa promised. “No matter what.”

And he did. When they landed, Papa bought Jeremy some food at the airport: a cheeseburger in a paper wrapper, French fries in a cardboard carton, a milk shake in a paper cup with a plastic lid and a straw.

Even then, even after all he'd been through, Jeremy recognized that the food was American. He knew he was home, and he was grateful to Papa for getting him there at last.

Papa put Jeremy into a car and drove out onto a highway. After a while, he glimpsed the ocean from the car window. The smell of salt air and the screech of gulls were familiar, and he knew for sure that his house was nearby.

Now, of course, he understands that it wasn't the Atlantic Ocean, but the Pacific—three thousand miles away from the seaside town where he'd been raised before the kidnapping.

When Papa pulled into a driveway and said, “Here we are, home sweet home,” Jeremy was taken aback. He didn't recognize the house at all, and he started to cry.

Papa beat him for that.

Later, Papa showed Jeremy around and told him he would have his own bedroom. He even let Jeremy pick
out the comforter from a catalog, and some toys and books for the shelves—but he never, ever let him sleep in his room.

No, Jeremy was forced to sleep with Papa every night, in a room where the shades were always down, even during the day; a room where terrible things happened to Jeremy. Things he didn't understand, back then.

Now, years later, he grasps what happened to him. Now he knows all about abuse, and pedophilia, and the Stockholm syndrome: the psychological phenomenon in which kidnap victims develop benevolent feelings for their captors. He knows that he did what he had to, and he shouldn't blame himself, and he doesn't.

Papa was a sick and dangerous man. And Jeremy's path never would have crossed his if not for
them
.

Elsa…

Marin…

Face it, Jeremy. They let you down.

The more he hears those words—spoken aloud, or echoing in his own head—the easier it is to believe them…whether he wants to, or not.

 

Marin was tempted to turn back when she hit bottleneck traffic on the northbound FDR, but that would be the easy way out. She forced herself to keep going, reminding herself—once again—to stay strong.

Now she's moving along pretty well, finally heading north on the Triborough Bridge.

Wait—not the Triborough anymore
, she reminds herself.
Now it's the Robert F. Kennedy
.

She remembers Garvey's reaction when the span was renamed a while back. Publicly, he called it a shameless Democratic photo op at the taxpayers' expense, and was roundly applauded by his constituents.

Privately, he promised Marin that one day, a bridge or tunnel here in New York, or perhaps in Boston, would bear his own name.

Typical hypocritical, egotistical Garvey. To think there was a time when she'd been invigorated by what she convinced herself was admirable confidence and ambition.

Just remember—you weren't the only one who was fooled by him.

Cold comfort now, though, to think of the thousands of people who believed in Congressman Quinn.

Ordinarily, Marin enjoys the skyline views as the highway curves away from the city. Today, however—the first time she's been here in months—she can see nothing at all. The landscape is shrouded in mist. It feels like a bad omen.

She's traveled this route out of the city hundreds of times over the years, heading to and from her home-town, Boston, or the nursing home in Brighton. But it's been a while since she's visited any of those places, and she feels a twinge of guilt thinking of her father.

John Hartwell's condition has steadily deteriorated over the past year or so. Dementia, the doctors are saying, though he's only in his late sixties. He's been talking to invisible people, hearing things, seeing things.

Some days are worse than others.

Once in a while, when Marin calls to check in, the nurse will say, “Mrs. Quinn, your father is having a good day,” and she knows that's a hint for her to come visit.

Bur her own good days are fewer and farther between than Dad's; she's never quite up to a spur-of-the-moment drive or the curious stares from the eavesdropping staff, let along having her father ask about her husband.