Scared To Death (Live to Tell #2)(49)
Unnerved by the eye contact, she turns her head, focusing on the drab industrial landscape out the window.
What if…
No, that’s ridiculous. He’s just some college student. Yale, probably. Elsa saw him get on at the New Haven stop, wearing jeans and carrying a backpack.
Just because he glanced at her and Renny…that doesn’t mean it’s him—the man who’s been watching Renny.
But he’s out there somewhere. Who is he? How does she know he’s not right here on the train?
Because that makes absolutely no sense, and you’ve got to stop doing this to yourself.
She’s spent almost two hours now—once Renny was asleep, anyway—watching every movement around her, just in case. She can’t help but imagine that whoever sent that package—and planted the Spider-Man and crept into Renny’s room in the middle of the night—might be on this train.
But of course that’s impossible. No one other than Brett—and most likely by now Mike, if Brett told him—knows they’re even here. Certainly no one would think to look for them in New York City, and even if they did, it would be your classic needle-in-a-haystack search.
What about Brett, though? He’s a sitting duck back at home—unless he finds out who’s behind this, and whether it’s a sick prank, or a true threat.
Elsa’s thoughts drift to the past, and Jeremy. Clearly, there’s some connection—or someone just wants her to think there is.
She’s been going over all the people in their lives back then—the disgruntled teachers whose classrooms Jeremy disrupted; the frustrated therapists who couldn’t reach him; the horror-struck members who were at Harbor Hills Country Club the day he went berserk.
Gazing at the sleeping child on her lap, Elsa can’t imagine how she’d feel if someone attacked Renny the way Jeremy had attacked poor little La La Montgomery. A coddled only child, she’d been about the same age Renny is now. Elsa will never forget the horror of seeing that tiny form lying on the ground with her head bashed in.
They never went back to Harbor Hills after that day. She’ll never forget the groundskeeper calling after them as they hustled Jeremy toward the car, “You’d better get that kid some help before he kills someone!”
Elsa scheduled an emergency appointment with Jeremy’s psychiatrist, Dr. Chase, in Boston. He spoke with Jeremy at length about the incident, then called the Cavalons in for a consult.
Dr. Chase seemed to weigh his words carefully, yet they were no less chilling than if he had come right out and said, Child abuse spawns serial killers.
What he did say was that children who have suffered at the hands of sadistic adults are statistically more likely to grow up to be capable of violent, even deadly, behavior. He cited, as evidence, Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Strangler, whom a colleague of his had once treated.
“There are a number of theories behind the link between child abuse and later violence,” he told Elsa and Brett, regarding them with clinical detachment, bearded chin propped on steepled fingertips. “The domination and isolation that go hand in hand with psychological and physical abuse can rob a child of basic human compassion and—”
“But not every abused kid grows up to become a depraved adult,” Brett interrupted. He sounded perfectly composed, yet Elsa could see the veins in his neck straining with tension.
“Absolutely not,” Dr. Chase agreed. “And any number of factors can come into play with those who do eventually resort to violent acting-out. For example, blunt force trauma to the head can cause significant injury to the pre-frontal lobe, which can make a person much more susceptible to aggression. Do you know if Jeremy ever suffered this type of injury?”
“My son was beaten relentlessly before we adopted him by people who were supposed to take care of him,” Elsa informed Dr. Chase, not the least bit composed as tears ran down her cheeks. “None of what happened to Jeremy before he came to us—or what’s happening now because of it—is his fault.”
“No one is saying that it is, Mrs. Cavalon. I’m only saying that given Jeremy’s history, we need to consider that he might be suffering a neuropsychological disorder, and that such deficiencies can lead to criminal behavior.”
Criminal behavior.
That was the first time Elsa realized that it might be too late to save Jeremy. The damage had been done long before he came to live with them as a four-year-old. She knew that, and yet she was determined to try to heal him.
She’ll never know whether she’d have succeeded.
Maybe it’s better this way, though. Not better to have lost him—but better not to have witnessed countless other tragedies inflicted by Jeremy’s pent-up rage.
How can you even think that way? How can you presume that what happened on the golf course was some kind of omen? It’s horrible.
Horrible. Yes. But it happens sometimes. The tortured child grows up to torture others.
Yet here she is, willing to take a chance again, with Renny.
Her name, not that it matters, is—or rather was—Meg Warren.
That’s easy enough to discover via the stack of overdue bills on her kitchen counter.
Other details about her life become apparent during a quick tour of the house and her computer’s Internet history: she works at Macy’s, she has at least three kids living at home, and they’re conveniently visiting their dad for a week, according to the wall calendar. She has no apparent social engagements planned for the coming weeks, and just one appointment, at the podiatrist.