Scared to Death

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Her kids are away. Maybe she has a secret lover, and she’s spending the night.

  No. Meg has made the Cavalons privy to every detail about her life. If she had a lover, Elsa would know about it.

  She’ll be home soon. When she gets here, Elsa will go over—with Renny, of course—and use her phone.

  For now, there’s nothing to do but sit on the couch, clutching the knife, and wait.

  Still shaking from the confrontation with Caroline, Marin jerks open the drawer on her bedside table and grabs an orange prescription bottle. It takes her a few tries to open the childproof cap. She dumps a couple of pills into her hand and steps into the bathroom to wash them down with a palmful of tap water.

  She turns off the faucet and catches her reflection in the mirror above the sink.

  “What’s happened to you?” she asks the haggard woman in the mirror, who stares back at her with haunted eyes.

  She’s a mess; utterly depleted. When was the last time she ate anything, or actually even sat down, other than in the cab home from Lenox Hill?

  Marin turns away from the mirror and goes back to the bedroom. For a moment, she stands looking at the door she slammed closed a few minutes earlier—after storming out of Caroline’s room and slamming her door closed as well.

  Should she go apologize?

  Maybe.

  You shouldn’t have lashed out at her like that. She’s your daughter.

  But so is Annie. When Marin thinks of what might have happened to her, lying on the ground in Central Park, all alone, struggling to breathe…

  Awash in fresh fury, she turns away from the door and climbs into her big, empty bed to wait for sleep to overtake her.

  Brett pauses to read the sign posted just off the elevator outside the ICU.

  ABSOLUTELY NO CELL PHONE USE

  “They mean it,” advises a grumpy-looking woman who just stepped off the elevator with him. “Electromagnetic interference messes with the equipment.”

  Brett frowns, wondering if that’s even true.

  “You need to turn off your phone,” the woman orders him. “My husband is in there on a ventilator, and the last thing I need is for some jackass to kill him by not following the rules.”

  Jackass?

  Jesus.

  But Brett can’t really blame her. Like everyone else in this unit, the poor woman is under terrible pressure.

  Reluctantly, he removes his phone from his pocket. He really doesn’t want to turn it off now, in case Elsa tries to reach him, or Joan does.

  But what if it’s true about the electromagnetic interference?

  “Off,” the woman repeats, all but folding her arms and tapping her foot.

  Brett presses the button and holds it up to show her that it’s powering down. She gives a satisfied nod and walks briskly into the unit.

  He stays close on her heels. He’s gotten this far without incident, but security has to be much tighter up here on the ICU floor.

  Luck is with him: the staff is just changing shifts. He sticks close to the woman from the elevator, acts as though he belongs here just as much as she does, and miraculously, no one stops either of them.

  Mike’s name is scrawled beside a half-open door at the end of the hall.

  Brett stops and stares at the unrecognizably battered and bandaged comatose man in the bed.

  “You here for Mike?”

  He turns to see that the room has one other occupant: a gruff-sounding, burly guy who seems ill at ease in a small bedside chair.

  “Yes. I’m Brett Cavalon. You must be Joe.”

  The man nods, getting to his feet, and they shake hands. Brett can smell cigarette smoke on his clothes.

  “How the hell did you get here?” he asks.

  “I walked.”

  “All the way from Connecticut?” Joe returns his faint grin.

  “No, all the way from the parking lot. I tried to call and tell you I was going to drive up, but your phone went into voice mail.”

  “Yeah, they make you turn it off in here.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Have a seat.” Joe gestures at the chair.

  “That’s okay. It’s yours.”

  “Nah, I’ve been sitting for hours. I don’t want to leave the poor guy lying here alone.”

  “What about his family?”

  “Mikey don’t have family as far as I know. He’s divorced, no kids.”

  “Parents?”

  “Dead.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Yeah.”

  The two of them stand somberly watching Mike breathe, assisted by the machines.

  “Has he said anything at all?”

  “No.” After a moment, Joe adds, “But the nurse said he might be able to hear.”

  Brett tries to imagine what it would be like for Mike to be helplessly trapped somewhere inside that broken body. It’s probably better for him if he’s completely unconscious.

  But it’s better for me if he can hear.

  He can’t help wishing—somewhat guiltily—that Joe would leave so that he might try to ask Mike about Mumbai.

  I hate her.

  She ruins everything. Daddy’s life, her own life…

  But she’s not going to ruin mine.

  Pacing her room like a caged animal, Caroline knows she can’t stay here. Not for long, anyway—maybe not even for the rest of the night.

  But she can’t leave until she has someplace to go—and she won’t until she works up her nerve to make the phone call.

  She keeps finding reasons not to—the most convincing one being that it’s too late—yet it probably isn’t, and the more she stalls, the later it gets. Pretty soon, it really will be too late—even for a college guy.

  Frustrated, Caroline pulls his phone number from her pocket as she has countless times since her mother slammed her bedroom door and stormed away.

  This time, though, she actually dials.

  After a few rings, she hears, “Hello?”

  “Jake? It’s Caroline. What are you doing?”

  “Now?” There’s a pause. “Why?”

  “I was just wondering if you wanted to get together.”

  “Now?” he says again.

  “If you’re not busy.”

  “I’m…ah, I was just about to go to bed.”

  She thinks about making some kind of suggestive comment, but decides against it. That’s his department—if he’s interested in her.

  But all he says is “Yeah. It’s been a long day.”

  Tell me about it.

  The thing is, he doesn’t sound all that tired. He sounds wide awake.

  “Okay. I just thought…you know…” Trailing off awkwardly, knowing she must seem desperate, she wishes she’d never called.

  Then Jake surprises her.

  “How about tomorrow?” he asks.

  “You mean…getting together?”

  “Sure.”

  “Really?”

  “Why not? I’ll call you, okay?”

  “Okay. When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Great. So, uh, have a good sleep.”

  “Yeah.” He yawns loudly. Maybe he really is tired. “You too.”

  “I definitely will,” Caroline assures him, and hangs up the phone.

  Tomorrow isn’t ideal, but it’s better than nothing.

  With a silent curse, Jeremy hangs up the phone.

  Caroline’s call caught him off guard. He didn’t know what to do, what to say.

  So you told her you’ll get together with her tomorrow?

  He was nervous. It just popped out somehow.

  Maybe he should call her back now and tell her the truth.

  Not the whole truth, of course. Just that he’s been called out of town, to Boston, and won’t be around tomorrow.

  Then again, maybe he should see her. Maybe it’s time to come clean. Tell Caroline that his name isn’t really Jake.

  He plucked that from thin air that day i
n Starbucks. Jake…as in Jacobson…as in the surgeon who’d given him a fresh start. It seemed fitting.

  Still does.

  No. Jeremy puts his phone back into his pocket. He won’t call Caroline back tonight. Better to wait and see what tomorrow brings.

  Sleep tight, sis.

  The night drags on past midnight, into morning, and still, there’s been no change in Mike Fantoni’s condition.

  Doctors and nurses check the patient, requiring the visitors to leave the room for a bit. So far, no one has asked Brett who he is or how he got in here. The staff seems too sympathetic, or maybe just too busy, to worry about rules.

  “This is torture,” Joe comments, rolling a pen back and forth between his right thumb and forefinger and looking at the clock. It’s almost two in the morning now.

  “I’ll stay here with him if you want to go get something to eat, or grab a few hours’ sleep,” Brett offers, realizing Joe is probably desperate for a cigarette.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  Brett doesn’t have to volunteer twice.

  Left alone in the room, he sits for a long time in the uncomfortable chair, watching Mike.

  Finally, he goes over to the bed. “I don’t know if you can hear me. It’s Brett Cavalon. I’m so sorry this happened to you.” He pauses to clear his throat. “I know you were looking into what happened down in Groton yesterday, and I know you were heading to Mumbai. If you—”

  “Excuse me!”

  He looks up and is startled to see a scrubs-clad stranger in the doorway.

  “Who are you?” So much for the kindly nurses who looked the other way. This one clearly isn’t thrilled to find him here.

  Brett takes a step back from the bed. “I’m a friend of Mike’s.”

  “You’ll have to leave. No one is supposed to be in here right now.”

  Judging by the no-nonsense expression, Brett figures it’s no use arguing—and, considering the patient’s condition, no use staying.

  He leans over Mike one last time, again whispering, “I’m so sorry. Hang in there. I’ll be back when I can.”

  “Mommy!”

  Renny!

  Elsa’s eyes snap open.

  She sits up in bed.

  No—she’s not in bed. It’s dark, but she’s…

  Where am I? What’s going on?

  Disoriented, she knows only that Renny is calling her. She gets her feet onto the floor, takes a step, and bumps into something.

  “Ouch!”

  The coffee table? What is she doing in the living room? Why—?

  Then the memories hit like a barrage of bullets and she rushes toward her daughter’s bedroom, her heart pounding.

  “I’m coming, Renny!” she calls out, remembering but not caring that the house might be bugged.

  The door is closed. No, no, no…they never close Renny’s door. Something is wrong.

  She jerks the knob, bursts through the door, and flips on the light.

  The bed is empty.

  She’s too late.

  Reeling, Elsa flattens a palm against the wall to stay on her feet.

  How could she have let this happen? How could she have fallen asleep knowing that someone out there wants to hurt her daughter?

  Oh God. Please, God, no.

  He can’t have taken Renny very far. But if he’s armed—

  “Mommy!”

  She lets out a whimper of relief as Renny’s voice hits her, along with the recollection that she’s not sleeping in her own bed tonight.

  Elsa races back to the master bedroom, terrified of what she might find there.

  Renny looks small and defenseless in the king-sized bed—and as disoriented as Elsa herself was just moments ago. A quick glance reveals that the room is empty—apparently so, anyway.

  “What’s the matter?” She gathers Renny into her arms.

  “The monster.”

  Elsa’s heart stops. “He’s here?”

  Renny nods and buries her head against Elsa’s breast.

  “Where? Where is he, Renny?”

  “I don’t know. I saw him…” A tremendous yawn overtakes her.

  Elsa casts another wary look around. “Are you sure you saw him?”

  “Mmm hmm,” Renny says sleepily.

  But there’s no evidence of him, and nothing seems to have been disturbed. Was it another of Renny’s usual nightmares? Or was the monster sighting as real as everything else that’s been going on?

  Awash in uncertainty, Elsa strokes her daughter’s hair.

  Is any of it real?

  Or was it her own imagination—that someone was stalking her around her mother’s apartment, that the doorman had taken Renny hostage, that someone had planted a Spider-Man toy that had once belonged to her dead son.

  But what about those pictures that came in the mail? Brett saw them, too.

  Unless her mind—fed by her own worst nightmares, and Renny’s wee-hour monster ones—conjured that, like everything else?

  It happens. It happened to Renny’s birth mother.

  But she was mentally ill.

  Yet Elsa herself was unbalanced enough, at one point, to have completely lost touch with reality. She’d even tried to take her own life, convinced it was the only way to end the pain.

  But that means nothing. Sane people commit suicide.

  So do insane people.

  Dear God.

  Who’s to say Elsa isn’t suffering from acute stress disorder all over again? She wouldn’t know it if she were. She certainly didn’t realize it when it was happening to her last time around.

  Is she suffering the final vestiges of a breakdown that began fifteen years ago, with Jeremy’s disappearance?

  Is it any wonder?

  She lost a child. She’s terrified of losing another. The human mind, under duress, is capable of playing all kinds of terrible tricks.

  Somehow, right here, right now, in her own familiar house in the middle of the night, it’s easier to believe that she’s delusional than it is that the whole nightmare—her own, and Renny’s—ever happened at all.

  Wait! Brett! Don’t leave!

  The silent scream that seizes Mike’s body obliterates everything else—the pain, the fear, the sounds and sensation of movement around him.

  It’s no use.

  Brett is gone.

  And even if the staff hadn’t come along to kick him out, Mike couldn’t have warned him anyway. He can’t communicate, dammit; can’t even bat an eyelash to let anyone know that he’s alive in here, like an undetected disaster survivor entombed in wreckage.

  He can only pray that Brett and Elsa will figure it out somehow, before it’s too late. Or that he’ll have a miraculous recovery and be able to tell them himself. It doesn’t seem likely, but…

  Anything is possible. Anything at all.

  Isn’t that what he’d told himself when he suspected that Jeremy Cavalon might actually be alive?

  Yes—and that was his fatal mistake.

  Almost fatal, anyway.

  After all, he’s not dead. He—

  A sudden sound reaches his ears. The slightest sound, barely there—a whisper of movement somewhere nearby.

  Startled, Mike realizes he’s not alone after all.

  Someone is in the room.

  It must be a doctor, or a nurse.

  He waits.

  All is still. Wouldn’t the medical staff be bustling about their business?

  Whoever it is seems to be just…here.

  Maybe it’s clergy, come to pray over him, or maybe Brett snuck back in, or—

  “You should have minded your own business,” a voice hisses, its proximity as startling as the ominous words.

  Caught up in thoughts of Mike, Brett doesn’t remember to turn on his phone until he’s in the car, heading back toward the highway.

  He must have countless voice mails from Elsa. She’s probably worried sick. And with any luck, there will be one from Joan, as well
.

  Working his phone with one hand while he steers over the unfamiliar road with the other, he sees that his voice mail box is empty.

  That can’t be. He must have hit the wrong button. They’re so small, and his fingers are clumsy.

  He fumbles with the phone, trying to find the right one as he merges onto the highway.

  Nope…that was the right button. There are no messages.

  It’s understandable that Joan wouldn’t check her voice mail after hours, or that she wouldn’t call him back even if she’d gotten the message, but…

  Surely, Elsa would have found a way to charge the battery before now. Or she would have realized hers was dead and called him from her mother’s house.

  He gropes the buttons and blindly dials her cell.

  Unlike earlier, it doesn’t bounce right into voice mail. This time, it rings a few times, getting Brett’s hopes up. Then Elsa’s voice comes on the line.

  “You’ve reached the Cavalons. We can’t come to the phone right now…”

  Brett lets out a frustrated curse and tosses the phone aside.

  “Where are you, Elsa?” he mutters.

  Clenching the wheel hard, he runs through one terrifying scenario after another until a blaring horn jerks his attention back to the road. He swerves just in time to avoid hitting the concrete median and pulls off at the next exit, shaken.

  He needs to call someone.

  But without Mike, he’s at a loss.

  It’s time to involve the police. There’s nothing else he can do. He’ll just have to pray that when the time comes, the agency will understand and let the adoption go through.

  When the time comes…

  Please, please, please let the time come.

  Let my girls be all right.

  It must be a good sign, though, that the phone rang a few times before going into voice mail. It means the battery is no longer dead, right? So she must have charged it. Maybe—

  Wait a minute.

  You’ve reached the Cavalons…

  That wasn’t her cell phone’s outgoing message.

  He really must have hit the wrong button that time, pressing the speed dial number for their home phone, not Elsa’s cell.

  No sooner does he realize that than his own phone, which landed on the floor in front of the passenger’s seat, begins to ring.