Neighbors And Favors

by Kate Davis

  I hesitate. I used to believe, that’s true, but one day things changed. Until now, she didn’t ask. Even if she had, I wouldn’t have told her, and I have no intention of telling her now.

  “Life,” I say matter-of-factly. “It’s what happens to most people when they grow up. You tried to protect me from everything. For that I’ll always be grateful, but there are things that even you couldn’t protect me from.”

  She nods empathetically, as though she knows exactly what I’m talking about when she can’t possibly have a clue. But in her mind she’s probably picturing the worst the way she always does. I don’t like the idea of leaving her in the dark, but if she were ever to find out, she’d probably go banging on people’s doors, demanding they apologize and repent of their sins in the process. While the thought brings a smile to my face, I can’t have my mother fight my battles—though she does make a fine warrior, even if only when it comes to praying.

  “We’re so worried about you,” she says softly. “Turn back, Sam. It’s never too late, for anyone.” Her eyes are imploring, just like her strong grip on my arm.

  I shake my head, not in response but because I can’t have this conversation now. I can’t tell her the truth because it’s so mundane I would be ashamed to share it with her. While the pain’s long gone, the scar is still there, a rugged reminder of all the things that a child shouldn’t have to go through.

  “Some people find their faith late in life; some are born with it and lose it along the way. It happens.”

  “No.” She shakes her head vehemently. “Not to my daughter. You let it happen. No one says being a Christian is easy, Sam. That’s why you’re called to deny yourself, take up the cross and follow Christ. Maybe if you talk to Pastor Rick, he’ll—”

  I smile and meet her gaze. “Thanks for stopping by, Mom. While I don’t appreciate the fact that you sent my manuscript to Madeleine Albright without consulting with me first, I understand your concern. But you and Dad have nothing to worry about. I’ll call you as soon as I can, okay?”

  She gets the memo. I can see it from the sudden glint of disappointment in her eyes. “Nothing to worry about, apart from your salvation,” she mumbles and hugs me a last time. “Promise you’ll take care of yourself?”

  “I promise.” I give her a peck on the cheek and watch her walk to the elevator, head high, back straightened in determination, with a certain tension in her shoulders.

  She’s not going to give up, I know it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I’ve lived in New York City for several years, but I’ve never been to the Hamptons, which is probably the reason why I assumed the place was small and everyone knew everyone.

  As it turned out, that is not the case at all.

  First of all, the place is gigantic and getting there by public transport sounds like a nightmare. After a quick internet search, I can already tell my already overstretched budget is going to be strained further by an overnight stay, and everyone knows the Hamptons aren’t exactly cheap.

  I spent an hour calling one hotel after another to inquire about Madeleine Albright’s whereabouts, during which I also discovered that people over there aren’t particularly forthcoming when it comes to divulging information. Either Madeleine isn’t a celebrity in the publishing world and no one knows her or hotels in the Hamptons take the whole VIP privacy thing to a new level.

  I remember reading somewhere that if you enter a room full of people, at least half of them are dog lovers, but mentioning my pup didn’t get me anywhere, and Sammy’s cute barking in the background didn’t help either.

  So much for all those well-researched women’s magazine articles! Whoever wrote that obviously hasn’t been to the Hamptons either.

  Now it’s time for plan B.

  Granted, it isn’t much of a plan. It’s more of a last resort, but the way I see it, a last resort is better than no resort.

  Madeleine might be hiding in one of the hotels, but someone of her caliber is more likely to own property, so Sammy and I are going to do a lot of walking, what with my plan to knock on every door and ring every bell.

  I peer at Sammy and her short legs.

  Well, I’m going to do the walking because my dog isn’t particularly fond of any sort of long-distance exercise. She prefers being carried. But on the bright side, I’ve been meaning to get fit for a while and never found the time. Tomorrow’s going to be the day to kick-start my new fitness regime.

  I order pizza and pack an overnight bag while I wait for its delivery. This is going to be the last one in a long time because obviously you can’t get fit while eating junk. I’m going to change my eating habits as well, right after I’ve eaten all of my tuna melt with lots of cheese (I remember reading somewhere you need to load up on carbs before any sort of grueling exercise. Let’s hope it wasn’t the same magazine that did the dog research).

  By 10 p.m. sharp I’m in bed, beseeching my body to fall asleep in spite of years of conditioning it that binge-watching TV shows is more important than sleep. It takes me several YouTube searches and countless clicks on hits that promise to make you fall asleep in no time. You know you’re desperate when you look at the second page of YouTube, but I need to be on the first train out.

  I think of those delta waves with binaural beats and isochronic tones (which sort of sounds like a five-year-old playing with the GarageBand app on his dad’s computer) which eventually does the trick or maybe I just pass out from sheer boredom and the beginning of a headache.

  My laptop has long gone into sleep mode (I could definitely learn a thing or two from it) and Sammy’s usual snoring has quietened to a string of soft, blissful sighs. The usual noise of the night is carrying over from outside, but it’s not enough to mask the sudden awareness that I’m not alone. It cuts through the curtain of sleep like a knife.

  I wake up with a jolt, my heart beating frantically against my chest as my eyes try to adjust to the disturbing darkness. I hold my breath as I strain to listen for any unusual sounds.

  Nothing stirs.

  And yet I sense that someone’s here.

  I sit up in my bed, all sleepiness gone in an instant.

  Maybe Shane’s come back and we’ll have a great dinner date. I can almost picture him sitting in the corner, waiting for me to wake up so he can tell me just that. The thought is so absurd it makes me snort at myself.

  For the life of me, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. No woman should be happy when the guy she likes breaks into her apartment and seems to have a secret life that is as hush-hush as an FBI file.

  Maybe I’m having a déjà vu or something because Shane isn’t here and he’s most certainly not coming back.

  I’m about to snuggle back under the covers when I hear a soft thud. Without a doubt, someone is here.

  “Don’t scream or I’ll kill you,” the intruder says.

  It’s not Shane’s voice.

  I freeze, unsure whether I heard right or whether my mind’s playing tricks on me. My gaze snaps toward the door. It’s open. Behind it stretches complete darkness that seems to aide anyone who would choose to hide in it. I’m pretty sure I closed it before going to bed.

  I squint to focus and see the silhouette of a man. His arm is outstretched, holding something up which points right at me. It takes me a moment to realize—

  It’s a gun.

  My heart skips a beat, then another, and I think I forget to breathe. Or maybe my breath gets stuck in my throat as a million thoughts compete for a center spot in my mind.

  Am I being burgled?

  Is he going to kill me?

  Why didn’t I insist that Shane tell me how he even got in here because, apparently, if he could so can everyone else?

  And most importantly, how could my landlord not think of his tenants’ safety and invest in better locks, preferably ones that can’t be picked by literally everyone?

  I shift in my bed, ready to jump to my feet and run—but run where when he’s blocking the only
exit?

  I peer around me for some sort of weapon I could use to defend myself. But in the darkness, all I spy is my cell phone, which is one of those sleek models that probably break on direct impact with any sort of surface.

  Oh, how I wish they still weighed four pounds like those from my early childhood when you could actually use them for more than just uploading pictures of your breakfast on Instagram.

  In my muddled thinking, I remember my mother’s phone, well mostly because she had it for years after everyone else traded it in. In fact, she was probably the last person on earth to part with it, and only after much persuasion from her doctor who realized her chronic back pain came from the heavy weight in her handbag. I bet that could have knocked any intruder unconscious.

  My trembling fingers clutch at the thin device, unsure what to do with it. If I switch it on to call for help, the screen will light up and the intruder will immediately know I have a phone and take it away. I would also see his face and then he’ll most certainly feel compelled to kill me to avoid his identification.

  “Stay calm, don’t call for help, and nothing will happen to you,” the voice says as though reading my mind.

  I nod even though he can’t see me. “Okay.”

  You have nothing to fear.

  Sammy will wake up any second now and she’ll defend me. She’ll bite him or start her shrill barking that gives anyone who isn’t used to it a heart attack.

  I peer at my sleeping dog.

  Any second now. It’s only a matter of time.

  I stare at her.

  Seriously?

  She keeps on sleeping, and may I say soundly, completely oblivious to what’s going on around her.

  I make a mental reminder to get my dog checked into a sleep clinic in case she has a sleep disorder or something.

  As my eyes finally adjust to the darkness and the intruder steps into the room, I begin to see the silhouette more clearly.

  He’s of moderate height and bulky build. His features are hidden behind what I think is a mask. Then again, it could just be the pitch black around us that makes it impossible to pick up on any facial characteristics.

  “I’m only here to talk. All you have to do is answer a few questions and I’ll be gone,” he says.

  That’s what they all say, right before they bump you off.

  I could immediately kick myself for fueling my fear when I’m already shaking so hard I’m on the verge of passing out. My entire body feels as though it’s made of glass, ready to scatter into a multitude of tiny fragments at any moment.

  Petrified and frozen to the mattress, I stare at the intruder as he moves toward me, his weapon still aimed at me. He reaches the end of the bed and sits down on the edge of it, seemingly confident that I’ll be playing along.

  “Sammy,” I hiss.

  Nothing.

  “Sammy,” I say, a little louder.

  My pup makes some dog sound in response that tells me she’s probably running across a beautiful meadow, chasing a hot dog or huge slice of cheese, but the cheese is faster.

  “Samantha Powell?”

  My breath catches in my throat.

  Oh my goodness. The guy knows my name. This isn’t some random burglary. It’s premeditated. I was targeted. I was—

  Madeleine Albright.

  That’s the first name that comes to mind. Maybe she sent him to inquire about the manuscript. Maybe she sent him to collect it. Like companies send debt collectors, she could have hired him. Then I remember my dear mother delivered the manuscript for me so Madeleine would have no need to send a thug over unless she hired him a while ago and forgot to call him off before heading for the Hamptons.

  I’m really starting to dislike her.

  “Call your employer,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster. “You’ll find she has what she sent you to get.”

  “What?” The guy’s confusion is evident.

  “The manuscript,” I explain patiently, confident that this is all a huge mistake and everything will be cleared in no time. “I’ve already sent it to her. Call her. She’ll confirm it. She probably forgot to call you off.” I clear my throat, waiting for him to pull out his cell phone and check up with his employer. “It happens,” I add, good-humoredly, to show him I won’t be holding a grudge. In fact, once this is over I might even offer him a cup of coffee. I mean, his job can’t be easy, what with seeing misery every day and not being able to do anything about it.

  I peer at him, waiting for him to call her. In the darkness, I realize he’s not wearing a mask, but the room’s too dark to make out more than dark eyes that appear almost black and a wide, pronounced nose.

  “Lady, I don’t know what you’re on. I have no idea what you’re talking about. And in all honesty, I don’t care. All I need you to do is tell me where Shane Logan is.”

  Shane Logan.

  Hearing his name does strange things to me. For a second or two, my mind goes blank, right before it conjures up his image and our last, pretty odd encounter.

  “We have reason to believe you two are acquainted,” the guy adds, his tone conversational, as though we’re two strangers talking about the apple variety at the local farmers’ market.

  “Are you sure Madeleine didn’t put you up to this?” I ask to ensure we’re on the same page. I really wouldn’t put it past her. Then again, why would he be needing a weapon to retrieve a manuscript?

  “I don’t know any Madeleine.”

  I nod as I realize I’m not in trouble, but Shane seems to be. It certainly explains his unexpected take off in the middle of the night. He probably owes people money and now they’ve come to collect, only he’s nowhere to be found, and the next best conclusion is that the neighbor might know where he is.

  My fear returns full force.

  The guy might seem jovial and all, but it could all be a ruse to get me to talk.

  “I don’t—”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know him when we have photos of you two together,” the guy interrupts.

  He watched us? Good gracious, how much money does Shane owe that people would waste precious time watching me going about my mundane life?

  “I was going to say I don’t know where he is.” I decide to stick to the truth, mostly because I’ve inherited my mother’s bad liar gene. And then there’s also the tiny fact that I can’t really keep my cool with a gun pointed at me. “He told me a few days ago that he was going to return to England, and I haven’t heard from him since. And before you ask, no, I don’t know where he went. Home, he said, but I’ve no idea where home is. We weren’t friends. He was more like my dog-walker.”

  “Shane Logan was your dog-walker?”

  I can sense the guy’s smile.

  “Yes. What’s so funny about that?” I narrow my eyes at him and realize I’ve just told him I have a dog.

  Me and my big mouth!

  “If you hurt my dog, I’m going to destroy you. I’m going to annihilate you,” I hiss. “I warned you. Be prepared. I’ll hunt you down, tie you up, and pull out your nails which I’ve heard causes agonizing pain. And—” I’m really on a roll as pictures of all those late-night movies I watched instead of sleeping like a normal person begin to flood my mind. Movies that gave me nightmares at the time but come in handy when you need to convey that they’re not going to be an easy victim.

  “Now there’s a thought.” The guy laughs quietly. “Don’t worry. I’m not interested in the rug at your feet. All I want is Shane Logan’s whereabouts.”

  I let the rug remark slide.

  “You promise?” I peer over the edge of the bed.

  Talking about my dog, I can’t believe Sammy’s sleeping like a stone. Isn’t protection one of the reasons why people get a dog in the first place? Apparently, my pup forgot to get the memo when the good Lord created her.

  “I promise,” the guy says.

  I smirk. Come to think of it, he’s a criminal so I have my doubts regarding the value of his promise and
the reliance that may be placed upon his word.

  Taking a deep breath, I consider my options. I could try to run or I could just tell him all I know, which isn’t much to begin with. Every movie buff will tell you running is never a good idea. You’ll just make your pursuer angry and end up tortured and killed anyway. But if he sees that I’m cooperative he might keep true to his word and let me go.

  I clear my throat as I consider my words. “I moved in not too long ago. Like I said he was my dog-walker. We barely talked. I don’t really know him.”

  “See, I’d like to believe you but Shane doesn’t strike me as the dog-walking type. There’s more to the story.”

  “He did walk my dog!” I say indignantly. “I thought you watched us. Shouldn’t you know that?”

  “Hm.” He makes an unbelieving sound. Exasperation replaces my fear. I don’t know what kind of photos the guy took, but he’s obviously not very good at his job. “I believe you two were something else.”

  “You mean like an item?” I laugh. That is flattering, but he probably has me confused with the blonde. “That would be Stacy.” I pause. Sensing his confusion, I add, “The blonde. The one in the jogging pants. She wears them all the time.” I sigh and throw up my hands. “I thought you said you did your research.”

  I shouldn’t be telling him all of this and getting more people involved. But the way I see it, Shane is thousands of miles away, cocooned in safety, while I’m left to pick up the pieces of whatever mess he’s in. He should have told me. He should have been upfront instead of involving me in his mess and risking my life.

  “I did my research, and so I know the blonde is his undercover contact.”

  “Oh.” My mind begins to spin around the words “undercover contact”. What is that? Instead of watching all those slasher movies I should have switched over to Law and Order. “So, why are you looking for Shane?”

  I know I shouldn’t ask questions. Those who know too much always die first, but I can’t help my curiosity. Shane seemed like such a nice guy, albeit a bit strange. Even though I always sensed there was something odd about him, I never realized he might be involved with the wrong kind of crowd.