Scared to Death

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Such a shame to see a nice religious kid like her killed right down the street from St. Rose’s, huh?” Rivera comments, leaning in to get a close-up of what Bill had assumed, at a glance, was a bruise on her arm above a leather-studded bracelet.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her ink. She’s got a nice fancy cross there, see it?”

  Bill waves off a fly and bends over to take a closer look at the corpse.

  “First of all, she wasn’t killed in this spot. There’s not enough blood. Someone dumped her here. The other thing is…that’s no cross,” he informs Rivera, pointing at the tattoo. “It’s a hieroglyphic symbol.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Bill levels a look at him. “I don’t think it—I know it. I’ve been to Egypt. And by the way—it’s called an ankh.”

  This was the longest stretch Marin’s been away from home in months. Maybe that’s why the apartment feels oddly empty as she crosses the threshold.

  “Hello…girls, I’m back!”

  She can’t help but compare the sterile entry hall to the Walshes’, with its pleasant clutter of personal belongings. Here, everything is perfectly staged for the real estate sale; a reminder that soon the place will belong to somebody else.

  Why does it already seem as though it does?

  But it’s not just the absence of stray shoes and books and framed photos on the walls and knickknacks on the shelves.

  The apartment is still. Too still.

  And dark. This might be one of the longest days of the year, but the dreary weather calls for lamplight. She tosses her keys on the bare surface of the hall table and flips a wall switch. There—that’s a little better.

  “Anybody home?”

  No reply. She kicks off her shoes as she walks, wincing.

  It’s hard to believe her feet were once accustomed to wearing heels morning, noon, and night. Today, they merely carried her a block and a half from the parking garage back to the building, and they’re killing her.

  Since she usually doesn’t bother to wear shoes around the house—and around the house is pretty much the only place she’s been lately—she’s out of practice.

  With shoes, and driving.

  But you did it, she reminds herself. You made it up to Westchester and back all by yourself—no pills, no tears, no…panic attacks.

  Remembering what Lauren said about her episodes, and about finding a shrink, she wishes she’d never mentioned anything about it. True, she went up there to find some moral support, thinking Lauren might be the one person who might understand what she’s going through…

  But even she can’t quite relate. Lauren’s never lost a child. Not like Marin. Not like…

  Elsa.

  Will Jeremy’s adoptive mother call back when she gets Marin’s message?

  Why wouldn’t she?

  Why would she?

  Marin’s head is throbbing again.

  “Girls!” she calls, walking down the hallway toward their rooms. They’re probably both plugged into headphones, as usual.

  Annie’s door is ajar. Marin sticks her head in. No Annie.

  Caroline’s door is closed. Are they in there?

  Together?

  An image flashes through her head: two little girls sitting side by side, heads close together—one blond, one brunette—over an open storybook across their laps, the older sister reading to the younger.

  Oh please. That would never happen.

  It never did, even when they were younger. Her girls were never close.

  There’s no way they’re both cozily occupied in Caroline’s room, yet she knocks anyway. “Caroline? Annie?”

  No answer.

  “Caroline!” Uneasy, she tries the knob. Sometimes, her daughter locks it when she’s inside.

  Not today.

  The door isn’t locked, but Caroline’s not inside.

  Marin surveys the empty room, wondering where she is.

  And where, she wonders, her pulse beginning to race, is Annie?

  Brett is sitting at the kitchen table in front of an open laptop, scrolling through the online listing for local therapists when the phone rings. He jumps on it, certain it’s going to be Elsa. He’s been nervous ever since he tried her earlier and she didn’t pick up.

  He keeps reminding himself that her battery might be dead, and she might not have thought to pack her charger.

  But when he tried calling the regular line to her mother’s apartment, no one answered there, either.

  Maybe, not thinking it would be for her, Elsa didn’t bother.

  Or maybe she took Renny out to eat and couldn’t hear the phone in a crowded restaurant…

  Or maybe they went to a movie, and she had to turn it off…

  Come on—would she really do that under these circumstances?

  She might. She might have been trying hard to distract Renny.

  Really, there are any number of scenarios that might explain why Elsa’s cell went straight into voice mail—and has continued to, several times—but Brett can’t quite accept any of them.

  Now, he eagerly checks the incoming call. His heart sinks.

  It isn’t Elsa.

  He doesn’t recognize the number on the caller ID screen, nor, for a moment, the voice that greets him when he picks up.

  “Hi, sorry to bother you again…”

  Who…?

  Oh. Joe. Mike’s friend.

  “Is Mike…?”

  “No change.”

  “Thank God.” Brett closes his eyes briefly.

  “Listen, you asked me if I knew where he was going. You know, on vacation?”

  His eyes snap open. “Yes.”

  “When the nurses gave me his phone, they gave me his other stuff, too. You know—to hang on to. After I talked to you I got to thinking…I know it probably wasn’t right, but I looked through Mikey’s stuff. He had the printout of the e-mail with the confirmation number for his flight. It was in his pocket.”

  Brett holds his breath, waiting.

  “Funny thing is, the confirmation e-mail had a time on it—and it was from early this morning, so I guess it was some kind of last-minute trip.”

  “Where was he going?”

  “That’s the funny thing. It’s a hell of a place for a vacation—even at the last minute.”

  “Where?”

  At the reply, Brett lowers himself into the nearest chair, stunned.

  Mumbai: the city where Jeremy was killed.

  Creeping up the rain-slicked West Side Highway in Friday night congestion, Elsa keeps a close eye on the headlights and changing traffic patterns in the rearview mirror.

  Breathing easily—or perhaps, just breathing—for the first time since they left the Ansonia, she’s fairly certain they’ve managed to shake whoever was dogging them there.

  They definitely weren’t trailed as they walked over to the car rental place on West End Avenue. They made several turns—more than were necessary—and she made sure they eventually lost all the pedestrians who’d been behind them from the start.

  It was surprisingly simple to rent a car—complete with a booster seat—on short notice. Or maybe not so surprising. Maybe people do it all the time in Manhattan, where so few residents own cars. Maybe that’s why the man behind the counter didn’t give her a second glance as he ran her credit card and handed her the keys.

  Renny pretty much dropped off to sleep within minutes after they pulled out of the rental agency garage. Poor kid has been dragged from Boston to Groton to New York and now back again; from car to train to cab to car; up and down steps, into a dreaded elevator, along the streets in the rain…

  For a fleeing moment, Elsa wonders what kind of a mother would put a child through all that.

  Maybe she isn’t fit to—

  Wait a minute. What are you thinking? Stop that right now!

  She’s the best mother Renny could ever have because she loves her with all her heart. She’s gone to such extremes today for
one reason alone: to keep Renny safe. No one in this world is going to do a better job at that.

  Less than two hours to go, and they’ll be home. Then at last she’ll be able to tell Brett what’s been going on—but not while they’re inside the house. It must be bugged, like their phones. She’ll have to take him outside to talk—or write it down on paper. She’ll figure it out when she gets there.

  All she wants is to get there.

  Home…home…home…home…

  The windshield wipers beat in time to the refrain in her head.

  Taillights blur into red splotches in front of her, and she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. She can’t cry now. She can’t cry at all. There’s no reason to. Renny is fine, and she’s going to stay that way.

  Please…please…please…please…

  Caroline’s cell phone rings just as she’s telling Jake one of her best stories: the one about her top falling off while she was surfing on Long Island last summer. It’s a particularly good story because it makes her seem adventurous and sexy and funny all at the same time. Plus he must surf, too, so he’ll realize how much they really do have in common.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?” he cuts into the story when she ignores the phone.

  “Nah.”

  It rings three more times, then bounces into voice mail.

  “You know,” Jake says thoughtfully, “I’ve been kicking myself since yesterday that I didn’t stick around to get your phone number—but maybe that’s not the best way to get in touch with you?”

  “Oh, I’d answer it if it was you. But obviously, it’s not, because you’re right here, so…”

  “So why don’t you give me your number now?” Grinning, he reaches for his backpack.

  “Right this second? You mean, before a disgusting rodent comes crawling out of your bag?”

  “No rodents.” He pulls out a pen and pats the bag. “Not yet, anyway.” He writes her number on a napkin, and she does the same with his.

  As she tucks it into her pocket, her phone rings again.

  Again, she ignores it.

  Again, it goes into voice mail.

  Less than a minute later, it starts ringing again.

  “You should probably get it,” Jake advises. “Maybe it’s me.”

  She laughs, then reluctantly pulls out her phone and glances at the caller ID. “It’s my mother.”

  “Go ahead. Pick it up.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Hello?”

  “Caroline!”

  Her mother practically screams her name. Caroline winces and holds the phone away from her ear.

  “Where are you girls?”

  “I’m at Starbucks. Annie’s home.”

  “No, she isn’t!”

  “What?”

  “I’m at home. I just got back. Where is she, Caroline?”

  “I have no idea. She was there when I left.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “Umm…I guess around eleven-thirty.”

  Her mother starts going on and on, freaking out about Annie. Shaking her head, Caroline holds the phone out away from her ear again.

  “Don’t mind her,” she whispers to Jake. “She’s kind of nuts. But then, I guess, aren’t they all?”

  “What?”

  “Mothers. You know—they’re all crazy.”

  Jake doesn’t reply.

  “Well, mine is, anyway,” she mutters, wondering if he gets along great with his own mother or something. Whatever. His mother probably isn’t dealing with half of the crap that’s going on with Mom. No wonder she’s ranting and raving on the phone…not that Caroline can make out a word of it with the phone held at arm’s length from her ear.

  “She sounds really upset,” Jake tells her. “Maybe you should go home and make sure everything’s all right.”

  Go home? Is he trying to get rid of her?

  Or is he just trying to be helpful?

  Or maybe he just thinks she’s a terrible person, not talking to her own mother.

  Quickly, she puts the receiver back up to her ear. “Hey, Mom, listen, you need to chill. I’m sure she’s okay.”

  “I can’t believe you left her!” Mom’s voice is shrill. “I asked you to keep an eye on her!”

  “It’s not like she needs a babysitter. She’s thirteen.”

  “She’s gone, Caroline. Oh my God. She’s gone.”

  There’s only one therapist named Joan in the area—and her phone goes into voice mail.

  “Hi—this is Brett Cavalon. My wife, Elsa, is a patient of yours and…I’d like to talk to you, as soon as possible.”

  He left his cell phone number, and ended the call asking Joan to please not mention to Elsa that he’d gotten in touch.

  He has no idea whether she’ll be willing—or even able—to heed that request, or to call him back. He can only hope.

  After changing into jeans and a polo shirt, he tries again to reach Elsa.

  Her phone bounces straight into voice mail again.

  “Elsa, it’s me. I’m getting worried. Why aren’t you picking up? Is your battery dead? That’s probably it. Call me on my cell when you get this message. I’m…”

  Wait a minute. He’d better not say he’s going to Boston, because she’ll wonder why, and he can’t tell her about Mike. Certainly not in a voice mail.

  Nor does he want to mention he’ll be back tonight, because he might not be. He should probably stick around Mike’s bedside, in case he regains consciousness.

  After all, the guy was working Brett’s case. He wasn’t going off to Mumbai on the spur of the moment without a good reason. Brett needs to find out what it is—and what it has to do with his family.

  If it gets late, he can grab a room someplace—not last night’s fleabag motel, though. Just someplace where he can get some rest without having to keep one eye open in case someone comes prowling around.

  Not that he’s afraid to sleep here at home.

  No, of course not.

  “Just get a good night’s sleep, you and Renny,” he finishes the message to Elsa. “I love you both. Hug her for me.”

  After hanging up the phone, he opens the desk drawer where his wife keeps her phone charger. Sure enough, there it is.

  Okay, at least he knows why she’s not picking up. Hopefully she’ll figure out that the battery has died and that she’s forgotten her charger, and she’ll get herself to a store to buy a new one. But that might not happen until tomorrow morning.

  In the meantime, she’ll probably try to reach him from her mother’s phone. When she doesn’t get him at home, she’ll call his cell.

  Okay. So he’s good to go…

  As soon as I figure out what the heck I did with my keys.

  They aren’t in any of the usual spots: on the kitchen counters or dangling from the hooks beside the door.

  But there’s the suit coat he wore today, draped over the back of a chair. The keys are in his pocket—and so is the note from Renny’s new social worker. He rereads it.

  He can’t call. Not just yet. Elsa doesn’t even know that the case has been handed off yet again, and Renny’s not even in town.

  No, she’s across state lines without permission. That’ll go over well with the agency.

  It’s not a good idea to ignore caseworker requests, but…no one even knows he got it for sure. The Post-it could have fallen off the door and blown away, right? Or the ink could have smeared in the rain so that the whole thing was illegible, and not just the signature.

  Frustrated, Brett tosses the note onto the kitchen counter. He’ll deal with it later. Right now, he’s got to get to Boston.

  “So as you probably figured out, my idiot sister is missing,” Caroline informs Jake as she hangs up the phone—with a slight twinge of guilt over her choice of words.

  Okay, so maybe Annie’s not a total idiot. Not all the time.

  What if something terrible actually happened to her?

  “She’s missing?”

  “Yeah
, and my mom is a basket case. I guess she thinks she’s going to have to, like, put up missing kid posters all over town or something.”

  She means it as a joke, of course—but seeing the look in Jake’s dark eyes, she realizes he doesn’t find it the least bit funny. Maybe he just doesn’t get black humor.

  “I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t think Annie was okay,” she tells him hastily, but the damage seems to be done.

  He pushes back his chair. “You should go help find your sister.”

  “I’m sure she just—”

  “It sounds like your mother needs you. Anyway, I have to go to—uh, class.”

  No, he doesn’t. She can tell he’s lying. It’s just an excuse to get away from her.

  “Okay…I guess I’ll see you around?”

  “Sure.”

  But he doesn’t say he’ll call her.

  Too bad, because there was something about him—a real connection, the kind you usually don’t feel with a stranger. And she’d been pretty sure he was into her, as well.

  Now she’ll probably never see him again.

  Oh well. His loss.

  Mine, too, she thinks wistfully, watching Jake sling his backpack over his shoulder and walk away.

  Sick with fear, Marin paces the apartment clutching both the cordless and her cell phone.

  How can this be happening?

  Her younger daughter is missing, her older daughter doesn’t give a damn, and…

  My son is dead.

  And Lauren was wrong. I’m not strong enough to deal with all this.

  Her hands are trembling so violently that it takes her a couple of tries to dial Annie’s cell phone number again. As before, it goes straight into voice mail.

  “Annie, it’s Mom again. Where are you? I’m home, and you’re not, and I’m worried, and…”

  She trails off and hangs up, swallowing over the painful lump in her throat.

  Should she call the police again?

  When she called the first time, the desk sergeant transferred her to a female officer who asked a few questions—including Marin’s full name, which didn’t seem to strike a chord—and wanted to know whether she had reason to believe her daughter might be in danger.

  “Of course she might be in danger! She’s out there somewhere alone! And—oh God—yesterday, someone put a live rat into her sister’s purse.”