Scared to Death (9 page)

The North End bustles with locals on their way to or from work, college students, school groups and tourists following the red-painted Freedom Trail through this ancient, historic part of town. Brett and Elsa navigate the narrow, winding sidewalks as swiftly as they can with Renny between them, holding both their hands and playing her favorite game.

“One, two, three,
swing
!” she shouts over and over, erupting with glee every time they simultaneously swing her into the air.

Elsa notices affectionate glances from passersby in a tour group led by a Paul Revere clone in period clothing. To them, she knows, she and Brett and Renny must appear to be just an ordinary family. No one would ever imagine that the parents are hanging on to the child for dear life.

They're meeting Mike at the usual spot: an Italian café off Hanover Street. Elsa suspects he lives somewhere in the vintage neighborhood, but again, she never asked.

The café is quiet in the pre-dinner hour, occupied only by a couple of college students, a pair of elderly women in double-knit pantsuits, and Mike. He's waiting in one of the red vinyl booths, sipping a cup of black coffee.

It's been less than six months since she's seen him, but Elsa is taken aback by the salt and pepper in the dark, wavy hair that brushes the collar of his Nike T-shirt.

Is Mike getting old? He was in his early thirties when she met him; a brash and hungry private eye who promised he'd do what the police wouldn't—or couldn't—to find Jeremy.

Closing in on fifty now, he's still handsome, still has the muscular build of a much younger man, still exudes a roguish charm…

But those dark eyes of his have seen a lot, and it shows.

“Elsa…” He stands to hug her. He smells familiar, of cologne and coffee, and she's swept by an unexpected wave of emotion. All those years, sitting here across from Mike, begging him to find her son…

And that's what he did.

Elsa swallows hard.

“Good to see you again, Brett.”

“You too.” Clean-cut Brett shakes Mike's hand, looking vaguely out of place here in his crisp white shirt, Brooks Brothers suit, and silk tie. “Renny, say hello to Mr. Fantoni.”

“Hello.”

“Don't you look pretty today.”

“Yes,” Renny agrees demurely, hands buried in the pockets of her orange plaid shorts. “Do you know if they have pink ice cream here?”

Mike looks amused. “What flavor would that be? Bubble gum? Strawberry?”

“Um, it doesn't really matter,” Renny tells him. “Just so long as it's pink.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” she remembers to say, and glances to Elsa for a nod of approval.

They've been working on basic manners from the day Renny came to live with them. She's come such a long way since then.

As soon as they settle into the booth, the waitress meanders over to take their order—espressos for Elsa and Brett, raspberry gelato for Renny.

When it arrives, she spoons it rhythmically into her mouth, her eyes riveted to the small screen of Brett's
iPad. Elsa explains the situation to Mike, well aware that Brett is leaving the talking to her.

“Spider-Man.” Mike slowly rubs his five o'clock shadow. “This isn't something that was ever released to the public…unless either of you brought it up to the press during all the commotion last fall?”

“That Jeremy was playing with Spider-Man when he disappeared? Never.”

“And there was no mention in any of the missing person's reports…” That isn't a question. Mike is more familiar with those reports, perhaps, than they are.

“No.”

“Where's the other one? The one you found on the grass when he disappeared? Do you still have it?”

“It's in the cedar chest in our bedroom,” Brett speaks up at last. “Elsa keeps it there with some of Jeremy's other things…his blanket, and a couple of his shirts…”

Elsa
keeps it there. Not
we
keep it there.

Elsa feels a familiar flicker of resentment. Brett, the father who rolls over and goes right back to sleep.

“Are you sure it's still there?” Mike is asking—her, not Brett, she notices. He gets it. Of course he does. He's been around them for years. He knows that they both might have lost a child, but that she's the one who clings to the memories.

“Because I'm thinking maybe it's the same one you found in the parking lot,” Mike goes on, despite her nod. “Maybe Renny came across it and put it into the bag with her toys.”

“No way. I keep that chest locked. She couldn't have gotten into it. And anyway, this Spider-Man is different.”

“Are you sure?” Brett asks her. “Spider-Man is Spider-Man.”

Elsa doesn't bother to answer. Of course she's sure.
She spent years clinging to the last thing her son ever touched, even slept with it under her pillow. She knows exactly what it looks like: similar enough to the toy she found on the ground today, but certainly not the same.

“A lot of little boys are into superheroes,” Mike points out.

Elsa bristles. “So you think—”

Mike cuts in, “I don't know
what
to think. I'm just trying to gather information. To the best of your knowledge, are there any pictures of Jeremy holding a Spider-Man toy, or wearing a Spider-Man costume…?”

Brett looks at Elsa, who again shakes her head. “He was never interested until that day at Wal-Mart. And anyway, I've spent fifteen years going through every photo album we have. There are no pictures anywhere of Jeremy in a Spider-Man costume.”

“What about before he came to you?”

“Before he came to us, there were no toys, and no pictures—other than the ones the foster agency took.” Maybe Elsa is exaggerating, but not all that much.

Jeremy bounced from one foster home to another before he landed in theirs, having been deprived of just about everything—toys, fun, love…particularly love.

“As far as I'm concerned, there's only one way anyone would link Spider-Man to Jeremy…” She pauses meaningfully before delivering the bombshell: “And that's by having been there when he disappeared fifteen years ago.”

 

“What is it, Mom?”

Marin frowns at the text message on her phone. “I don't know…I just got this text. I guess it was meant for someone else.”

“What does it say?”

“It doesn't
say
anything.”

“Is it porn?” Annie asks with interest.

“No, it's not
porn
!” Wait—it's not,
is
it?

“Can I see?”

Marin shrugs and hands over the phone.

Annie takes a quick glance and announces, “That's an emoticon, Mom.”

“A what?”

“You know how people type a row of symbols—like, to show that you're making a joke, you do a sideways smiley face made out of a colon for the eyes and a close parenthesis for the mouth?”

“Yes…so you think this is something like that?”

“Probably. See?”

Marin looks over Annie's shoulder, trying to see the cryptic text message as an image.

~~(=:>

“What's it supposed to mean?” she asks her daughter, still stumped.

“I have no idea.” Together, they silently study the symbols.

Annie gasps. “Whoa! I think I know what it is.”

“What?”

“Okay, don't freak out, Mom…but that totally looks like a rat.”

“A rat?” She squints at the image. “I don't see—”

The phone cuts her off, buzzing with another message. It's from the same sender. Marin opens it, and her blood runs cold.

That was nothing, Mrs. Quinn. Stay tuned
.

 

That first day in Groton last fall, Jeremy had found the Cavalons' home with no problem. Incredible,
what you can find on the Internet with a little bit of searching.

Yet somehow, no one ever managed to find
me
in fourteen years.

Once he got to the house, he wasn't sure what to do. He sure as hell wasn't going to march right up, ring the doorbell, and say, “I'm your long-lost son.”

Anyway, the place looked deserted; there were no cars parked in the driveway. So he sat in his rented pickup truck down the street and studied the house.

The long, low ranch was different from the home he remembered, back when they were living in Nottingshire. But this one was just as inviting. The yard was carpeted with leaves from the huge old trees surrounding the house, and potted mums and a couple of pumpkins sat on the front step. It looked like a wonderful, cozy place to live, and Jeremy was dizzy with homesickness by the time a car pulled into the Cavalons' driveway.

Seconds later,
she
stepped out of the driver's seat.

He braced himself for his first glimpse of Elsa in over fourteen years. His recent obsession with news footage of her must have lessened the impact, though. Seeing her in person brought a fleeting wave of nostalgia and comfort, and none of the anguish he'd anticipated.

Swept by the urge to run down the street and hurtle himself into her arms, he was about to do just that…

Then she opened the back door of the car and leaned inside as if to remove a bag of groceries or something.

Something? No. It was
someone
.

Jeremy froze.

A child.

Elsa—
Jeremy's mother
—was holding the little girl's
hand, just the way she used to hold his. She bent over and planted a kiss on the little girl's hair, just the way she used to kiss Jeremy.

He knew, then, that it could never be the same; knew that he could never, ever go home again.

Someone had taken his place.

C
aroline can't sleep.

That's not unusual—not since her father left, anyway.

Left?

Oh please, Daddy was ripped from their lives without warning. He might as well have been gunned down in the street that day—in fact, maybe that would have been better. An assassination, or an innocent victim of a drive-by shooting…

An image of her father lying on the sidewalk, bleeding all over his Italian wool suit, flutters through Caroline's head. She won't let it roost there; she doesn't wish Daddy were dead. Of course not. She loves him more than anything, and she knows he'll be back one day.

It's just…

Right now, it's hard. On her. If he were dead, he'd be a hero. People would have pity for her, instead of contempt. Neighbors in the elevator, kids at school, strangers on the street—even now that the press coverage has died down and the photographers no longer stake out their building, Caroline can sense people watching her, recognizing her, whispering about her.

That's why she's starting to think that what hap
pened today—with the rat—was no accident. That it didn't just crawl into her bag. Maybe someone put it there, a cruel prank, because she's Garvey Quinn's daughter.

The coffeehouse was crowded, so many people jostling past her table, walking—or sitting—within arm's reach of her purse. Anyone could have unzipped the bag as it hung on the back of the chair, dropped the disgusting creature inside, and zipped it up again.

Anyone?

Well, anyone with a seriously warped mind.

Not that cute guy, though—Jake. Caroline is pretty sure it wasn't him.

For one thing, he's not from here; he doesn't even know who she is…

Or so he said. How do you know it's true?

She tries to ignore the nagging little voice in her head. Why would he lie?

She remembers reaching into her bag a few times before he got there, to check for her iPod. There was no rat…not until after he arrived.

But that doesn't mean it was him. And it doesn't mean the whole place isn't infested with rodents, and one didn't happen to crawl into her purse.

Yeah…one that managed to work the zipper with its paw?

She has other things to worry about right now, though. Like dying from rat bite fever.

No wonder she can't sleep.

Someone knocks on Caroline's bedroom door.

Daddy!
she thinks for an exhilarating moment. Then she remembers, and the fragile shimmer of hope shatters like crystal on granite.

In the old days, he'd come home late and check to see if she was still awake. He'd come into the room and tickle her toes, always hanging out at the bottom of the
mattress. They both sleep that way—not wanting to be confined like mummies by tightly tucked sheets.

Sometimes, she'd get up and sit in the kitchen with Daddy while he ate a sandwich or sipped a cup of tea. Mom never joined them, and Annie was always asleep—or perhaps just uninvited.

It was no secret to anyone that Dad loved Caroline best.

She cherished those late night encounters.

Another knock, louder this time. She checks the digital clock, irritated at the interruption to her thoughts, if not her sleep.

Then again…only nine-thirty? Why does it feel like the middle of the night?

“Caroline?” Mom calls through her door. “Are you awake?”

“No.”

The door opens. “Very funny.”

The light from the hallway spills into the room. It's not that bright, but Caroline throws her arm up to shield her eyes, pointedly letting her mother know she doesn't welcome the visit.

Mom used to be such a classy lady, always dressed to the nines, meticulously styled with scarves and jewelry. These days, she spends a lot of time in old jeans that are much too big for her, her blond hair in a bedraggled ponytail, like right now.

Way to let yourself go, Mom
.

Between Mom wasting away and Annie blowing up a couple of sizes, Caroline wonders if Daddy will even recognize them when he comes home.

I'm the only one who's holding it together
, she often tells herself.
Daddy will be so proud of me.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay, Car.”

“Sure. I'm great. No big deal at all that I found a live rat in my bag.”

Mom closes her eyes, like she's counting to ten. When she opens them, she asks, “Do you think we can have one conversation without sarcasm?”

Caroline tilts her head, mulling it over. “Mmm, no,” she says, “I don't think we can. We wouldn't want to squelch my creative personality, would we?”

“Oh, is
that
what we're calling it now?” Mom manages to crack a grin.

“Hell, yes.”

“Don't swear, Caroline.”

“I wouldn't dream of it, Mom. Daddy says ‘hell' isn't a swear word.”

Her mother's mouth straightens into a firm line. Watching her, Caroline pretty much knows what she's thinking about Daddy and hell.

But Mom quickly shifts gears, as she has a habit of doing. “Annie and I saved you some Chinese. Want me to heat it up?”

“No, thanks. I'm not hungry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Even if I was…I mean, Chinese? Really? They use rat meat in kung pao chicken.”

“Who told you that?”

“Everyone knows that.”

Mom crosses the room and bends over to pick up the sandals Caroline had been wearing this afternoon. She opens the closet door, places them neatly on the shoe rack, closes the door.

Then she turns and says, “Listen…about the rat…”

Caroline tenses, realizing that her mother isn't just here to tidy up or make her eat leftover takeout.

“I thought all along that it must have crawled into your bag. But now I'm wondering…maybe I was wrong.”

Her heart beats faster. Yes, she'd been thinking the same thing. But hearing Mom say it…

Suddenly, she's frightened—
and
irritated with her mother for scaring her.

She isn't Daddy. She doesn't protect Caroline the way he did. So why would she come in here and make things worse?

“Is there anyone you can think of who might want to upset you?”

Other than you?
“No,” Caroline tells her. Then, to be fair, she adds, “I mean, a lot of people hate me—
us
—because of…”

Daddy.
She can't say it. It's so unfair, the way they judge.

“That's what I was thinking, but…” Mom peers at her in the dark, maybe seeing the look on Caroline's face, because she quickly says, “Who knows? Maybe the rat just crawled in there. This is New York, after all.”

“Yeah, and everyone knows that New York rats have outstanding fine motor skills. Zippers? Totally not a problem.”

“I'm trying to help you here, Caroline.”

“You're making me feel like someone is out to get me.”

“I didn't say that. All I said—”

“Was that someone put the rat there on purpose. Why would you even come in here and bring this up now?”

Mom hesitates, looking as though she wants to say something.

Caroline waits.

“Did you give them your name?”

“What?”

“When you reported the incident to the manager…did you tell him who you were?”

“Report it? You think I, like, calmly went and ‘reported it'?” Caroline can't believe that her mother doesn't get it. “Basically, I screamed and went hysterical, and they hustled me into the back room.”

“Did you tell them your
name
?”

Suddenly realizing what her mother's getting at, she shakes her head. “Are you kidding? Do you think I wanted it to get out? The next thing you'd know, they'd be calling me Rat Girl on the front page of the
Post
.”

“So no one knew you were—”

“No, Mom. No one knew I'm related to the dreaded Garvey Quinn.”

“I was just worried that…”

“Someone's out to get me.”

Even in this light, she can see her mother's eyebrows shoot up. “You think so?”

“No, but you do.”

“Oh, Caroline…I didn't mean to…Here, just get some sleep.” Mom kisses her forehead and bends over to snugly tuck in the sheet and blanket around the foot of the bed.

Caroline waits until her mother has left the room before she angrily kicks them all loose again.

 

Brushing her teeth over a motel sink clogged with cloudy, saliva-tainted water and God only knows what else, Elsa can just imagine how Maman would feel about this place.

“Zee peets!
” she would say, wrinkling her perfect French nose.

Then again, she once said just that about her suite at the Grand Hotel et de Milan, which had previously been occupied by the queens of Belgium and Sweden—sufficient for foreign royalty, but not for the fair Sylvie Durand.

This low-budget chain motel somewhere off I–95 is a far cry from the Grand Hotel et de Milan. And room 103 definitely isn't what Elsa had in mind when she and Mike convinced Brett that it wasn't a good idea to sleep at home tonight, just in case.

As she turns off the tap, the pipes make a horrible groaning sound.

They probably should have stayed right in Boston, where there are plenty of nice hotels, but Brett wanted to get closer to home—and the office. With no reservation, no vacancies at the halfway-decent places they tried, and an overtired little girl, they settled on this.

“It's just for one night,” Brett reassured Elsa, as she checked beneath the fitted sheet for evidence of bedbugs in the mattress seams.

“Mike said we should find someplace to stay for a while.”

“I know he did, but either way, it's not going to be here.”

“Either way? We can't just go home, Brett, like nothing ever happened.”

Brett looked like he was about to say something, but then he shrugged. “Never mind. We'll figure out something in the morning.”

Or maybe
, Elsa couldn't help but think,
we'll wake up and find out this is all just a bad dream.

Now, gazing at herself in the mirror, cast in a greenish tint from the overhead light, she knows it's all too real. Yet she can't help but wonder whether Brett's thinking that she's overreacting—and whether he might be right about that.

No. No way. I know what I saw.

Anyway, Mike took her seriously. He took the bag of dolls and the Spider-Man figure, promising to get right on it. He seems to think there's a possibility that someone might want to hurt them.

Someone who knows about Spider-Man's significance.

Garvey Quinn keeps popping into her head. Unless he's broken out of jail—which would surely be front-page news—he wasn't the one prowling through their house last night. Yet he's proven that he's not beyond getting others to do his dirty work.

To what end, though? He has nothing to gain by hurting the Cavalons.

Someone must.

What happened makes no sense, but she keeps telling herself that it might, if she thinks it through logically; that she might be missing something.

She's too exhausted for logic at this point, though.

A toilet flushes in the adjacent bathroom, on the other side of the paper-thin wall.

Exhausted
and
disgusted, Elsa takes one last look in the mirror, wishing she'd thought to pick up some eye makeup remover when they'd stopped at Walgreens to buy the toothbrushes.

The sliver of cheap motel soap succeeded only in smudging this morning's mascara around her lash line. In her modeling days, makeup artists used that trick to make her eyes look bigger. Now it only accentuates the haunted expression in them.

She flicks off the bathroom light and hurries into the next room, not wanting to imagine what might crawl up through the drains in the dark.

God, this is depressing. What are we doing here?

The moment of self-pity immediately gives way to self-contempt.

We're protecting our daughter, that's what we're doing. And I'd live in this dump for the rest of my life if that were what it took to keep Renny out of harm's way.

Feeling her way across the unfamiliar room, Elsa can hear traffic from the nearby highway, and distant
voices, and what sounds like a bottle being thrown across pavement into a chain-link fence. Through it all, of course: Brett's peaceful snoring.

Claustrophobic Renny wanted the room door left ajar, which of course was out of the question. They agreed to leave the curtains open instead.

Uneasy, Elsa goes over to the window and looks out into the night. When they checked in, there were only two other cars. Now there are three.

Not a soul in the parking lot, and yet she has the sudden sensation that someone is lurking…

She darts a quick look over her shoulder. Her heart stops; a figure is standing in the shadows across the room.

Her mouth opens.

A scream lodges in her throat.

Then she sees that it's just Brett's clothing on a hanger dangling from the outer hinge of the closet door—the closet itself too musty-smelling for clothes.

Her heart beats again, fast and hard, her senses on full alert. She checks the window latch, the chain and lock on the door. It's a dead bolt, but the kind that opens with a key, rather than an electronic key card. Any previous guest could have made a copy…

But it's not the previous guests I'm worried about
.

She quietly lugs the lone chair over from the desk and puts it in front of the door, where a would-be intruder will trip over it. A feeble trap, perhaps, but it makes her feel a little better.

She returns to the window and takes one last look at the parking lot before tugging on the vinyl-lined curtains. They don't quite meet in the middle; red neon from the “Vacancy” sign falls through the crack. Anyone could see in…