Live to Tell

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  “What?”

  “Yes! Yes, I understand.”

  “Good. I’ve told you what you’re not going to do. Do you want to know what I would like you to do?”

  Lauren forces the word. “Yes.”

  “Drive back here and wait by the phone. I’m going to call you in a half hour, and you’d better be here, because if you’re not…”

  The threat is ominously left unspoken.

  There’s a click, and the line goes dead.

  “What did you do to my baby?” Molly shrieks at Sharon, rushing to the crib and snatching her son from it.

  Avery screams.

  “I’m so sorry, Avery. Mama’s so sorry…” The physical contact against his skin must be excruciating; his little body scorched in a red, blistering burn.

  “I didn’t—it’s just—it’s a sunburn, Mrs. Cameron.”

  “Just a sunburn?”

  “I’m so sorry. I had him out in the stroller yesterday, and—”

  “You had him out where?” Molly demands over Avery’s miserable wails. “On the beach for hours without sunscreen? Where?”

  “No, just around the neighborhood.”

  “Where does a baby get a sunburn like this in the middle of Manhattan, in a stroller with an awning?”

  “It was hot and sunny and—”

  “And was he naked? Because his stomach is burned, and his legs—oh, Avery. Oh, my poor baby.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Cameron.”

  “You dim-witted, idiotic… Get out!”

  “You mean…”

  “I mean get out. You’re done here. Fired.”

  Sharon stares for a long moment, then hangs her head and leaves.

  Why, oh why did I hire her? Molly berates herself as her son screams in pain.

  But she knows the answer to that question.

  She hired Sharon because she was impressed by her last position: caring for the daughters of a high-profile congressman, whose office had graciously provided a glowing reference.

  Sharon was good enough for the Camerons, Molly figured, if she was good enough for Garvey Quinn.

  Barring traffic, it takes almost half an hour to get from White Plains to Glenhaven Park.

  Thoughts careening wildly, Lauren races to the elevator and punches the down button repeatedly.

  “Hurry, hurry, hurry…”

  She needs help. Desperately, immediately. Help from someone other than the police. She has no intention of risking her son’s life.

  Dear God, why did she leave the kids? She hardly ever goes anywhere. Why, on the rare occasion the kids are home alone, did someone come into the house to harm them?

  “Oh, Nick, why? Where are you? I need you.”

  But Nick isn’t here for her. He hasn’t been here for her in ages…and he won’t be, ever again. She’s on her own. With this. This…

  The thought drifting at the back of her mind barges forward. This is no accident.

  Unless…

  Is it some kind of hoax?

  No. Remembering the strangled fear in Ryan’s voice, Lauren knows the danger is real.

  Were they being watched all along? Was someone waiting to pounce the moment she left the house?

  She couldn’t even tell if the voice belonged to a man or a woman. Someone was working hard to disguise it. Why?

  Was the caller someone she knows?

  If the children are being taken away— oh God, someone’s taking them away!— there must be a car.

  I need a description, a license plate, something…

  Still clutching her cell phone, she looks down at it in frustration. If only there were someone—a friend, a neighbor—who could look out a window and see what’s going on at her house without drawing any attention.

  But they’re all gone. Trilby, the Hilberts, the Levines, O’Neals…

  There’s no one around, she realizes in despair. No one at all.

  Or is there?

  It’s a crazy thought, but she’s desperate.

  Flipping open her phone, she presses the call log button. There it is—the number is right at the top.

  And Sam Henning answers on the first ring.

  At first, Ryan thought it was a joke. Something his sisters cooked up, fake gun, very funny, ha ha.

  How he wishes that was the case.

  But this is real. He, Lucy, and Sadie are really being held at gunpoint by a lunatic who’s obsessed with some stuffed animal of his sister’s.

  “But I don’t know where it is,” Sadie said—a few times now.

  Ryan can tell that she’s lying. He only hopes their captor cannot.

  “Sadie,” he says softly, keeping one eye on the gun as the three of them sit lined up on the couch, “you can hand over the toy. Seriously. Mom will get you a new one.”

  “She didn’t give it to me. Daddy did.”

  “Then Daddy will get you a new one.”

  “Daddy moved away.”

  “He’s not that far away,” Lucy assures Sadie, sitting between the two of them. “Right, Ryan?”

  “Yeah, he’s just on vacation.”

  “Mommy said they’re having a divorce and he’s never coming back.”

  “Not to live with us,” Lucy whispers, “but we’ll see him.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “What if he’s gone forever?”

  “He won’t be,” Ryan tells Sadie.

  “But Fred is.”

  Ryan and Lucy exchange a glance.

  Lucy clears her throat. “He’s not, sweetie. Daddy will find him, and he’ll get you a new toy. But right now, we really need you to go get the pink—”

  “No!” Sadie bellows. “No, no, no! It’s mine and you can’t have it!”

  “Shut up! Shut up now!”

  Ryan sees that the gun is dangerously close, and pointed right at his little sister.

  Lucy puts a protective arm around Sadie, and her hand comes to rest on Ryan’s shoulder. He feels a lump rise in his throat.

  “Please,” Lucy says in a small voice, “don’t hurt us.”

  “Believe me, I don’t want to. And I won’t, if you just tell me where it is.”

  Ryan closes his eyes and tilts his head back, willing Sadie to give in before she gets them all killed.

  “Sam, this is Lauren Walsh,” she says in a rush. “Do you remember me?”

  “Lauren! Good to hear from—”

  “Are you at home?”

  “Yes. What—”

  “Please just listen to me. I need your help. My kids are at my house, and someone is there with them. Someone who’s armed with a gun and taking them away.”

  “What?”

  “Whoever it is wants something from me, and he’s going to hurt my kids if he doesn’t get it, or if I call the police.”

  The elevator arrives. The doors slide open. Still talking to Sam, Lauren steps in.

  “They were still in the house a minute ago.” She repeatedly jabs the lobby and door close buttons. “Can you see if you can tell through the yard what’s going on? Don’t let them know you’re there—he’s got a gun pointed at my son’s head, and he’ll shoot. But if you can get a description of the person and the car and a license plate—”

  “Are you sure there’s only one?”

  “Car?”

  “Person.”

  “No.”

  “But you know that it’s a man, and—”

  “I’m not sure of that, either.”

  “I’ll check it out. Where are you, Lauren?”

  “White Plains, but I’m on my way home. Call me when—”

  The elevator descends abruptly, cutting off the connection.

  Knees wobbling, head spinning, Lauren catches a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall. Deer in headlights—a stark contrast to the self-assured reflection she saw upon her ascent.

  It’s going to be all right, she tells herself.

  If only there was someone here
with her; someone who could say the words aloud and make her believe them. She’s never felt more alone in her life.

  But you’re not.

  Thank God, she thinks. Thank God for Sam.

  Brooding, Garvey sits in his office, one eye on the clock, the other on his silent cell phone, clutched in his hand. All morning, he’s been waiting for word.

  Today. It has to be today.

  Don’t let me down. If you do, you’ll be sorry.

  And I’ll be sorrier, he thinks grimly.

  “Garvey.”

  He looks up to see Marin standing in the doorway. Her hair is pulled back in a prim chignon and she has on a navy blue suit with pumps.

  “I’m ready to go.” She tucks a compact into her clutch purse and snaps it closed. “Do you have an umbrella?”

  “The driver will. That’s what you’re wearing?”

  “No. I’m wearing jeans and sneakers. I was about to change.”

  He forces a smile at the quip.

  “Trust me,” she tells him, “I didn’t pick it out.”

  Of course she didn’t. She rarely chooses her own clothes for public appearances these days. His campaign staff has taken over his wife’s wardrobe, along with everything else. They organize Marin’s clothing well in advance, according to what’s on the calendar.

  Garvey looks her up and down. “It’s not bad. Just kind of…boring, and buttoned up. But it matches your eyes.”

  “Beverly said the same thing.”

  Beverly. He keeps his expression carefully neutral.

  Funny—his longtime campaign aide didn’t mention that she’s dressing his wife these days, going around telling Marin that her blue suit matches her blue eyes.

  Once, a long time ago, Garvey told Beverly that her own eyes were the color of the summer sun—and just as warm and welcoming.

  He honestly believed that, then.

  “Beverly thought this outfit presented the right image for this event,” Marin tells him. “So where’s it being held, in a nunnery?”

  “Close. It’s—”

  “I know where it is,” Marin interrupts, giving him a look. “And I know what it is.”

  Yes. Of course she does.

  “Okay. So let’s go.” Garvey pushes back his chair and stands. He’s been dreading it all morning: a luncheon with religious leaders opposed to stem cell research.

  The bitter irony doesn’t escape him—nor does it escape Marin. He can see the tightness in her expression; can sense the tension in her posture as they walk, side by side, to the door.

  He knows what she’s thinking; he’s thinking the same thing.

  Just another hypocritical incident in the lives of the wholesome, conservative Quinns.

  “It’s fine. We’re the only ones who know, Marin,” he reminds her in a low tone as they ride down to the lobby in the elevator.

  “Sometimes, I’m not so sure,” is her cryptic reply.

  Startled, Garvey looks up to find her with her arms folded, staring at the doors. They glide open before he can ask her what she meant by that comment. Marin and Garvey are immediately overtaken by the security detail accompanying them to the luncheon.

  The question will have to wait.

  Barreling north on I–684, Lauren is careful to keep the speedometer less than ten miles over the limit. This road is notorious for speed traps, and getting stopped by the cops will cost precious time.

  Please, please, please… Please, God, don’t let anything happen to my babies.

  Fighting off hysteria, she drives with her cell phone in hand, dialing Sam every couple of minutes.

  His phone keeps going straight to voice mail. The outgoing message is automated.

  “The person you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message.”

  What if she has the wrong number? But it can’t be. She reached him the first time, and she’s been hitting redial.

  The first few times, she left frantic messages.

  Now she doesn’t bother, just hangs up, waits as long as she can stand to wait, and tries again.

  Why isn’t he answering?

  What if…?

  No. She can’t bear the thought and so she pushes it away, focusing on the road ahead. The landmarks are familiar. Just a few more miles.

  She’s going to make it on time.

  She tries Sam again.

  “The person you are trying to reach—”

  Where, where, where is Sam?

  Please, please, please…

  Her mantra beats in time with the windshield wipers.

  What does this person want from her?

  Ransom?

  It makes no sense. Why her? Anyone who’s seen the Queen Anne Victorian on Elm Street would know that it doesn’t hold a candle to many of the other homes in town. There are mansions right around the corner; vast estates a stone’s throw away. Why would anyone target the Walshes for financial gain?

  Dear God. What if they want a million bucks in exchange for the kids? Two million?

  Lauren can’t get her hands on that kind of money. Can Nick?

  Nick.

  Anyone could have sent her that text message asking her to meet him at his apartment. Anyone with access to his phone.

  Why didn’t I realize that before now?

  I’m such a fool.

  Maybe he lost his phone. Maybe he was mugged. Or his apartment was robbed.

  But who would steal a cell phone and leave Louis Vuitton luggage behind?

  Someone who wanted to use it to trick me.

  Where are Nick and Beth, though? Clearly, they’re not still on Martha’s Vineyard.

  If Nick was robbed and his phone stolen, he’d have canceled the service immediately.

  If he was aware of it.

  Having reached the exit for Glenhaven Park, Lauren forces herself to decelerate along the ramp when her instinct is to pick up speed and barrel toward home.

  Stay calm. Almost there.

  This—today—was a setup. Someone used Nick’s phone to get Lauren out of the way.

  Tears stream down her face, her body quakes with sobs.

  Did something happen to Nick?

  On the heels of that unwanted thought, the other one—the darkest thought of all—barges into her brain at last:

  Are my children dead?

  Bile rises in Lauren’s throat.

  Lucy.

  Ryan.

  Sadie.

  Please, please, please…

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sadie wore a blindfold once before, when she played piñata at someone’s birthday party. She didn’t like it then, even though there was candy involved.

  She really doesn’t like it now. Her hair is pinched in the fabric knot at the back of her head. But when she fussed, Ryan and Lucy told her to be quiet and wear it. They all have them on.

  The three of them are crouched down in back of a car that’s been driving for a long, long time. It was a smooth, fast ride at first, and Sadie could hear other trucks and cars around them. But then they started making turns, and the drive got slower, and a lot bumpier.

  Every so often, she hears a harsh “Keep your head down” from the front seat, and she wonders if Lucy or Ryan is trying to peek out and see where they’re going.

  They’re both crying. Not loudly, but Sadie can hear them sniffling, and she can feel their bodies shaking. She’s seen Lucy cry before, a few times, but not Ryan. It scares her.

  “I want Mommy,” she says in a small voice.

  Someone—she’s not sure who—pats her shoulder and shushes her. It makes her feel better. She can’t see them, but at least she’s not alone. Her big brother and sister won’t let anything bad happen to her.

  Finally, the car comes to a stop. The engine cuts, and it’s quiet. The driver’s door opens.

  There are birds singing, Sadie realizes. She can smell the rain and hear it dripping, like it does from the trees after a storm.

  The back door opens. “Come on. Get out. You
first.”

  “Please, no…please, we want to stay together,” Lucy protests. Her voice sounds funny. High-pitched.

  “You will be together, trust me. And Ryan and Sadie, if you two try to escape while we’re gone, I’ll shoot your sister in the head.”

  Sadie gasps. “No! Please don’t shoot her!”

  “You know I’m not afraid to use this gun.”

  They know. Sadie shudders. This is scarier than the Wicked Witch of the West, by far.

  “Stay put.” The car door slams shut.

  She feels a hand groping for hers. It’s Ryan. His grasp makes her feel a little better. But not entirely.

  “Are we going to die?”

  Ryan doesn’t answer right away, and when he says no, she doesn’t believe him.

  “I’m afraid.”

  “So am I. You’ve got to tell, Sadie. I know you know where that stuffed animal is.”

  Sadie bites her lip. “I can’t tell.”

  “Don’t you get it?” her brother explodes, and jerks his hand away from hers. “This is life or death.”

  She gets it. She does.

  But there has to be some other way.

  The children are gone.

  Lauren had known they would be.

  Still, somehow, it’s shocking to step over the threshold into the empty house. Sobbing, she calls out for them. Chauncey is there, barking wildly, following her from room to room in a futile search.

  From the first floor to the second, everything is in its place; the entire house just as Lauren left it. No sign of a break-in, no sign of a struggle.

  In the doorway to Sadie’s room, Lauren runs her fingertips over the waxy crayon lettering she herself had done just last night.

  “Keep Out.”

  Oh, Sadie. You were so afraid. And I didn’t believe you. No one did.

  Someone really was here before, and came back today.

  Was the intruder someone the kids willingly let into the house?

  Again, she remembers the caller’s effort to disguise his—or her—voice.

  Again, she thinks of Sam.

  What if…?

  No. He was going to help her.

  But he hasn’t called back.

  How well does she know him, really?