Enemy Closer, page 5
“Wait… Abigail is your real name?”
“It didn’t occur to me to lie.”
“Well now I almost feel bad. Can I give you a hand with that?”
“No, just—can you just leave me alone?”
He shrugged again, then disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, I heard the shower turn on.
“Make yourself at home,” I mumbled.
Thursday, June 25, 2020
Hesperus, Colorado
I knew Alan (for lack of a real name) still had my cell phone and would be using the privacy to go through it more thoroughly; but there was nothing to find. My laptop, comparably a Rosetta Stone of information, was safely hidden under the passenger seat of the Ram. I hadn’t even touched it since before I left Washington, much less turned it on. The worst he could do was Google my name, and I already knew what he’d find: bland, private social media profiles with my face over the name Abigail Breckenridge, the website of a Sydney-based photographer who clearly wasn’t me, and a few other obvious dead ends.
Alan took significantly longer to shower than I did to make dinner. I was sitting on the couch, picking up where I’d left off with Lost World and enjoying my second bowl of spaghetti, when I heard the bathroom door open.
“Where are those clothes that were in the closet?” he asked through the cracked door.
Studiously fixing my eyes on the TV screen, I shot back, “In the dresser upstairs, where clothes—wait.” I gave up and looked over my shoulder. “Those were yours?”
Rather than answering, he asked, “Could you… um… maybe go grab them for me?”
I turned back around, huffing, “I’m not your fucking servant.”
Focused again on the TV screen, I heard the slap of bare feet on the wooden floor as he went upstairs. Dude, who’d been feigning sleep in his favorite chair by the door, jumped up to follow. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop my eyes from darting toward the loft once he and Dude were up there. All they registered was a bare back and a white towel before I convinced them to return to the TV screen.
He came back downstairs, helped himself to the rest of the spaghetti, and sat down, not in the chair by the door, but on the other end of the couch where I sat. I glowered at the TV, trying to ignore him, but it was useless. As Dude descended from the loft, evidently assured all was in order up there, I gave up and retreated into the bathroom for my own alone time.
Though I locked the door behind me, the feeble barrier of hollow wood veneer did nothing to ease my mind. I leaned against the sink, facing the door, and for a good half hour simply listened and waited. Gradually boredom replaced nervousness, and I got in the shower.
The hot water lasted about three minutes. Cursing the inconsiderate asshole all the while, I endured the freezing cold water as long as I could—about another three minutes—and then gave up. When I turned off the tap, I froze, listening again.
The movie was still playing, but it sounded like he’d turned down the volume. I checked my watch: half-past five. Shivering violently, I threw on a bathrobe and started blow drying my hair, partially for the warmth and also for something to pass the time. I hadn’t been able to think in the shower, so as my hair slowly dried I tried again to focus my thoughts and really assess the situation.
Circumstances were far from ideal, but I decided they could have been worse. Philip hadn’t found me yet, which put me in the lead. The man calling himself Alan was either a paranoid schizophrenic or actually involved in something momentous, but either way he was as committed to keeping a low profile as I was. If he was who I hoped he was, he was a dangerous person; but he’d intentionally shifted the balance of power to me to prove a point. He was essentially my guest now, uninvited though he was; and I could make him leave—or shoot him—whenever I wanted. I wondered what he would do if I grabbed my truck keys and left, announcing my intention to drive to the nearest police station and file a report. What could he do?
A new thought, unnerving in the extreme, popped into my head. I grabbed my gun and quickly stripped the magazine and cleared the chamber. I flipped it over, inspecting the underside of the slide: The striker assembly was in place, at least the part that was visible without disassembling the weapon. I briefly considered stripping the thing down entirely, just to banish that last whisper of doubt; but this would be relatively time-consuming, I had no tools to speak of, and maybe I was being crazy. The only time he would have been able to remove or otherwise disable the firing pin would’ve been the hours he spent upstairs, and I was listening the entire time. I would’ve heard it. I put the weapon back together and steeled myself for a dash through the living room to get to the loft.
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and opened the door.
Not sure what I’d been expecting to see, I was mildly surprised to find Alan sitting on the floor between the TV and the couch, rubbing Dude’s belly. The magnificent beast heaved himself over as soon as he saw me, trying to act all casual like he hadn’t just been getting belly rubs from the person who choked me out a few hours ago—not that Dude witnessed that part. I spared him one disdainful look before whisking past them both and up the stairs as quickly as I could without losing too much dignity.
Once upstairs, I heard the kitchen tap come on and a clatter of pots and pans as Alan began doing the dishes. The kitchen sink, almost directly below the loft, was one of the poorer vantage points for anyone trying to see from the first floor into the loft; Alan seemed to be going out of his way not to make me uncomfortable. Or maybe I was riding a mental pendulum—overly suspicious one minute, overly generous the next, back and forth until eventually I’d stop somewhere in the middle. I hoped.
In any case, I had to hedge my bets a little. The usual contents of my backpack, which Alan had dumped in a pile on the dresser, contained one of two spare magazines. I squirreled it away in the same place I’d hidden my shotgun, other spare magazine, and small stash of ammo: the crawl space behind the bed, the entrance to which was totally hidden by the bed itself.
A few minutes later, I stopped at the foot of the stairs, dressed for a hike. Dude saw the hiking boots and sprang up at once, tail working madly, intent on not being left behind this time. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alan stand up too. I ignored him as best as I could, opening the door so Dude could dash outside.
As I started to follow, Alan asked, “Where are you going?”
Drawing my gun as I turned, I held it loosely in my right hand and snarled, “Wherever I want, I guess.”
“Okay.” He held up his hands, clearly unimpressed. “Just don’t…”
“Don’t what?” I gave him a few seconds to not answer, then went on, “Or better yet: What are you going to do about it?”
“… Can I tag along?”
“No.”
“I need to get some stuff from the other cabin.”
“Be my guest.” I gestured vaguely toward the south. “I’m going that way.”
Again I turned to leave, but he moved so quickly I barely had time to react. Yanked backward by the back of my shirt, I was spun around as he slammed the door closed. His left hand pinned my right wrist to the door, taking the gun out of the equation for now; and as soon as my left arm began to move (eager as I was to dislocate his jaw with my elbow), that too was pinned to the door. He glanced down at my feet, then back at me, shaking his head.
“Don’t start some shit, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Let me go.”
The door shook slightly as Dude jumped up, standing on his hind legs to peer through the window. I turned my head to lock eyes with him. For now, he seemed more curious than defensive.
“Are you going to the neighbors?” Alan asked.
“Fuck you, they’re not even there.”
“They have a phone.”
“Well I don’t have a key.”
“Right, a locked door is going to stand in your way.”
“I’m not going to call the police! You stupid shit, I keep telling you I don’t want anyone to know I’m here!”
“Thing is, you already lied to me about why you’re here, so I’m having trouble believing the rest of it.”
“I didn’t lie about anything.”
“Lie.”
Too angry to even attempt a response, I settled for glaring at him as the silence condensed in the too-small space between us. Up until now I’d managed to observe very little about Alan in the way of physical details, reflexively shying away from even looking in his direction more often than was absolutely necessary. At this distance, however, certain details simply couldn’t be ignored any longer: dark blue eyes, thick brown hair, a faint smell of pine needles. I frowned, annoyed, and managed to block out anything else by simply closing my eyes.
“If you think it’s time for round two, I’m game,” he said. “But you’ll have to put the gun down.”
“I just want to get out of this cabin.”
“Fine. But I’m not letting you out of my sight. And you can’t be trusted with this, obviously.”
He twisted the gun out of my hand, stepping backward so he was well out of reach. He stripped the magazine, tossed it to me, and then removed the round from the chamber. After slipping the unloaded Glock into his pocket, he came back and pressed the last round into my free hand.
“There. Now we’re both fucked.”
I yanked my hand away from his—failing to block out yet another observation that his hands were freakishly large—and crossed my arms. “Great. Now all you have to do is find some ammo.” No need to mention the tiny arsenal hidden upstairs, not if he thought we were on an equal playing field now.
“I’d still only have one shot. Based on my experience, that won’t be enough.”
“You’re Goddamn right it won’t be.”
One sharp, impatient bark cut across his retort. Outside, Dude jumped up to press his nose to the window again, probably wondering why the hike hadn’t started. I stuffed the magazine and loose round into my pocket and opened the door.
“I guess we’re going back to that tiny crack house, Dude,” I informed him; he responded by turning in several tight circles on the spot, overcome with enthusiasm.
“It’s not a crack house,” Alan defended.
“It’s a piece of shit.”
“Well I wouldn’t be cooped up in there if you hadn’t showed up.”
He took the lead as we started down the driveway. I glanced over my shoulder at the cabin, seeing it in a new, unflattering light. “You live here?”
“Normally.”
“Oh.” That explained why Dude was so comfortable with Alan; the man’s scent was all over the cabin, marking it as his own. I hurried to catch up to his long, quick strides and asked, “Did you leave that duck feather on the welcome mat?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You did! You were creeping around the other night, when Dude and I got back after dark.”
“Nope.”
We walked in silence for a few minutes while I mulled this over. His denials were so poorly delivered that he’d basically confirmed my sudden suspicions. When we got to the bridge and cut left to follow the creek, I asked, “Were you trying to scare me away?”
To my surprise, he answered promptly, “It’s worked before. I had to give it a shot.”
“How long have you been up here, then?”
“That’s enough chit chat.”
That was fine by me. I let him get a few yards ahead, so once we’d pressed into the thicker foliage away from the bridge, I could almost pretend it was just Dude and me out for a hike. We still had about two and a half hours of daylight left, and it only took about forty-five minutes to get to the other cabin with Alan leading the way.
While he ducked inside to get whatever it was he needed, I waited in the clearing. Dude waited with me for about two seconds, then decided he needed to see the inside of the cabin. I glared toward the doorway through which he’d disappeared for a few more seconds, then gave up and followed him.
Since there wasn’t much room inside, I leaned against the door frame to see what was going on. With practiced speed, Alan was piling clothes into a duffel bag I hadn’t noticed on my initial search of the cabin. He glanced up at me.
“Got somewhere to be?”
I shrugged. “Don’t forget your toothbrush.”
After a mumbled, “Uh huh, thanks,” he proceeded to ignore me. I ducked back outside, stifled by the close confines of the tiny shack. I didn’t envy anyone who had to spend a single night there, let alone several. I walked around the outside of the cabin, studying the highly permeable walls and unstable-looking roof. When I got back to the front, Alan was waiting outside.
“You done?” he asked, tossing me a bundle of something. I caught it on reflex and realized it was my flannel shirt.
“You know what I think?” I shot back, feeling ornery and awkward all of a sudden. Not waiting for him, I answered myself, “You want to stay in the cabin, and since you couldn’t scare me away, you’ve cooked up this whole bullshit story about needing to stay hidden and crap just to make me think you’re someone so I don’t run off to the police and have you hauled away for trespassing.”
“Brilliant,” he grinned. “Totally wrong, but brilliant.”
“I wasn’t asking for confirmation.”
“You’re assuming I gave up on the Scooby Doo shit pretty much immediately.”
“You had to give up when I found your hideout.”
“Ah. So you’ve got it all worked out, then.”
“Yes, I have.”
“So what’s my end game, genius?” he asked.
“What?”
“What is the logical conclusion of my master plan to have a snarky, paranoid, violent, lying roommate?”
“Don’t hold back.”
“I’m genuinely curious how you think this is supposed to end.”
I crossed my arms, dithering for half a second. “I guess… I mean, at some point you’re going to murder me. That’s a given.”
“That’s a bleak outlook.”
“It’s the simplest answer.”
“Well on August thirty-first, when I leave and you’ve got this place all to yourself, you’re going to feel pretty foolish. And you’ll definitely still be alive.”
With that he brushed past me, slinging the duffel bag over his shoulder, and started back toward the cabin. Dude trotted away behind him, happy as a clam, and I grudgingly brought up the rear.
Twilight was starting to settle when we got back, and the cabin’s interior was noticeably murkier than when we’d left. I hurried to flip on as many lights as I could, but the thought of bedtime had already occurred to me, so I couldn’t feign surprise when he brought it up.
“Guess I’ll take the couch,” he offered.
I met his eyes, looked away immediately, and found I had no answer for this.
“I swear to God I’m not going to bother you,” he insisted. “You won’t even know I’m here.”
I met his eyes again, forcing myself not to look away. “Dude will.”
“Consider me warned.”
“Good.”
I departed for the loft, measuring my steps so it didn’t look too much like a hasty retreat.
I stretched out on the bed, not even bothering to take off my hiking boots, and faced the top of the stairs. It wasn’t even 8:00 yet, but with two hikes under my belt, one knock-down-drag-out scuffle, and all the adrenaline and stress associated with having a roommate foisted upon me, I felt my eyelids drooping almost as soon as I’d settled into the position in which I intended to pass the entire night in hawklike wakefulness. Several times I caught myself nodding forward and jerked back upright, becoming more uncomfortable each time.
It was Dude who saved the day: Right at nine, when I was losing the will to stay awake, he trotted noisily up the stairs and rested his big face on the bed. He stared at me, his brown eyes beseeching, for a good minute before I realized what he wanted.
“Damn, it’s dinner time, isn’t it?”
At the word ‘dinner,’ Dude erupted in ear-splitting barks; his way of saying, “Yes, please!” He preceded me back downstairs, tail held high, pleased with himself for making the human understand and comply.
A quick, surreptitious glance confirmed Alan was still awake. He was stretched out on the couch, totally at ease, reading one of my books. I scoffed audibly, but otherwise let it go.
Dude’s dinner routine usually included a series of tricks that were guaranteed to please an audience, on the rare occasion he had one. I didn’t much feel like putting on a show, but one look at Dude’s perfect, statuesque sit and his eager eyes convinced me we couldn’t skip it.
“Platz,” I said, trying to speak just loudly enough for only Dude to hear me. He dutifully laid down, paws stretched toward me, tailing wagging slowly as though he had no control over it.
“Namaste.”
He pushed his big, fluffy rear end in the air, rested his chin on his front paws, and froze. Perfect downward dog. I couldn’t resist a grin; he was so damn clever.
“Sitz.”
He returned to a normal sitting position, and I pointed a finger gun at him.
“Bang.”
For his final act, he laid down, rolled over, and became as still as a statue—at least until his tail started wagging again. His part of the show thus complete, I filled his bowl and watched indulgently as he went to work.
“That could be German Shepherd for all you know.”
He crunched happily at the kibbles, ignoring me in favor of the singular delight that was, apparently, the same dry dog food he’d eaten every day for his entire life. I glanced toward Alan again, wondering if he’d caught the show, and saw his eyes dart back down to the book in his hands. I wasn’t sure why, but an intense urge to be rude to him suddenly overwhelmed me.
“I don’t remember inviting you to use my library.”
He looked up, eyebrows raised. “I don’t remember inviting you to rearrange my stuff.”
A derisive laugh was the only response I could manage. The sleepiness that had plagued me minutes before had vanished, replaced by restlessness. I almost wanted to go for another hike, but I knew Alan would defeat the purpose by insisting on coming with me. A full understanding of how little there was to do up here, and how long I’d be stuck here with little to do, settled over me like a raincloud. I was going to have to think of something to keep me busy.
