The Enemy We Know

by Donna White Glaser

  As expected, the cheap thing died halfway to the cabin. Banging it viciously against an oak tree did nothing to convince it to return to life. Crying didn’t create miraculous illumination either, but after a few minutes, my eyes adjusted to the night, letting me stumble between the dark roadway and the slightly-darker-than dark edges of grass. I cursed my shoes all over again.

  It took so long to reach the cabin that Marshall could have cycled through all five sleep stages twice and gotten up for a middle-of-the-night snack to boot. Even though navigating the driveway had taken a lot longer than I’d anticipated, I took some time to rest on the porch steps. I just wanted to go home. Nerves and unrequited hormones had used up all my energy reserves. Got my butt wet on the frosty wood.

  Teeth chattering, I stood and tiptoed to the nearest window. Marshall had left a nightlight on in the kitchen, comforting but only slightly brighter than my now defunct mini-flashlight.

  It would’ve been smart to do some kind of reconnaissance around the cabin, maybe peeking in the windows and verifying Marshall’s exact whereabouts, but I no longer gave a crap. I decided if Marshall woke up and caught me, I’d jump him. It remained to be seen whether that would end as a booty call or a beat down.

  Chanting “please be locked, please be locked,” I turned the knob. Of course, it opened. The fire had died down to embers, leaving warmth and orange, glowing ashes. It was quiet.

  I debated calling a soft “halloo” to add verisimilitude to my “I come in peace” story, but fell back on the jump-Marshall-first, explain-later plan. I could always make up a cover story mid-straddle. As if he’d notice.

  The first thing I did was tiptoe up the stairs to listen at Marshall’s door. Soft, not-quite-snores drifted rhythmically through the partially opened door. I eased it shut. Then down to the kitchen, where I began pawing through the junk drawer. Luckily, I found one of those skinny pen-lights that all the real cat burglars on TV use. Moving to Marshall’s desk, I clamped the pen-light between my teeth like a Bond girl, pulling out the top drawer. Two drawers down, my jaws ached, and I realized cat burglars must have crappy dental health. A person could break a tooth doing this stuff.

  But no buck knife.

  I slid over to the bookshelves. As remembered, the shelves held a scattering of English lit, a wider assortment of Clancy and Grisham novels, and some old psych texts. I pulled a few out, checking to make sure the knife hadn’t been thrust behind them. Since I already knew that Marshall had studied Shakespeare, I only briefly examined his copies, making sure the sonnets that had been sent to me weren’t in some way singled out. On the other hand, if I found a term paper analyzing Sonnets 57, 147, 35, and 129, specifically, I’d stuff a pillow over Marshall’s sleeping face. Or, at the very least, I’d turn the paper over to Blodgett, although that lacked the keen resonance of pillow justice.

  Every few minutes, I eased over to the foot of the stairs, listening. Finding nothing more dangerous than a sticky note, I shifted to the closet. As before, it held only closet stuff. Even the axe was gone.

  Further exploration of the cabin uncovered a small laundry area. A load of jeans, slightly damp and musty smelling, had been left too long in the washer. I resisted running them through the wash cycle again. I couldn’t help noting that one minute I wanted to asphyxiate and the next domesticate the same man. Worrisome dichotomy.

  After sliding and shifting every object and peering under and into every orifice on the main level of the cabin, I was reasonably certain the buck knife wasn’t there. Marshall’s bedroom, specifically the gun cabinet, was all that remained.

  My legs were shaking uncontrollably before I even made it to the stair landing. I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm down, but almost hyperventilated myself. Just as I forced my knees to unlock and climb the next riser, Marshall coughed. I almost wet myself. Then he coughed again.

  Time to go.

  By the time I’d made it back through the hellish darkness and gained the safety of my car, I’d convinced myself that the gun cabinet would, of course, be the first place searched by law enforcement and so presumably the last place a killer would hide a murder weapon. Alcoholics, even those in recovery, can work up excuses and rationalizations faster than almost anybody. Except politicians. They still got us beat.

  I’d search Marshall’s office at the clinic tomorrow.

  Neither Hannah nor I had remembered to get the keys; we ended up having to call Lisa in to open up. She was not amused. When she finally showed up, her hair, flat on one side and snarled into a froth on the other, told the same story as the bright orange pajama pants emblazoned with red “kissy” lips. As if we didn’t get the point, she clutched a large, gas station-logoed cup of coffee like she intended to mainline the brew. Hannah stood a prudent five feet away, eyeing her warily.

  I gave the sleep-deprived diva much therapeutic space, expecting her to bolt as soon as the locks snapped open. She surprised me by following us into the front office and plopping down at her desk. Hannah raised an eyebrow and continued toward her own office.

  Lisa waited until Hannah’s door shut before turning to me with an evil grin and a drawn out, “Well?”

  “That’s a deep subject,” I said.

  She frowned in confusion, a state Lisa did not tolerate with grace. “What?”

  “Wells? They’re deep. Get it?”

  “If you make my head hurt worse than it already does, I will peel the skin off your body with my staple remover.” She brandished the metal pincers menacingly, clicking them like malevolent castanets. They looked like they could do some damage. “Tell me everything, babe. I want the dirt.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about”—the blush spreading over my face gave away the lie—“and even if I did, I don’t do ‘dirt.’”

  “Well, I do. Okay, just tell me this…” Reaching into her drawer, she pulled out the magazine and held it up, pointing a shapely, manicured nail at the Marshall look-alike. “Huh? Huh?”

  The flare from first- to third-degree blush almost ignited my eyebrows. Lisa laughed so uproariously, it drew Hannah back to the front. I tried grabbing the sleazy magazine, but Lisa fended me off with the staple remover.

  “What’s going on?” Hannah asked.

  Lisa tossed her the magazine. Hannah’s naturally placid features broke into a slight grin. “Oh, my,” she said.

  “No, no, no. That’s not the best part. Check out the dude up in the little basket thing.”

  “It’s a crow’s nest,” I said. I don’t know why.

  Holding the magazine at arm’s length, Hannah shifted it back and forth, trying to focus on the Marshall-pirate without putting her reading glasses on. “Oh, my!” She got it.

  “Is that…? Do you think…?”

  I snatched the magazine away. “No, of course not. It’s just some guy who bears a slight…” I broke off, eyeing the naked buccaneer. Could it be?

  Lisa leaned over my shoulder. “I don’t care who you are, that ain’t ‘slight.’”

  Hannah leaned over the other. “Maybe he needed money in college or something. Because, look!” She pointed at a spot on the pirate’s neck. “Doesn’t Marshall have a mole right there?”

  “That’s just a water spot,” I said. “Probably from Lisa drooling over it.”

  “I never drool. That’s a mole! I need a magnifying glass.” Lisa started to rummage through her desk drawer. While she was distracted, I grabbed my car keys, sprinting for the door.

  “Hey!” Lisa protested. Ignoring her, I made for my car, tossed the magazine in the trunk, slammed it shut. Damn thing had my name on it anyway.

  When I got back inside, Lisa sat slumped in her chair, a thwarted frown pursing her lips. “I’ll get it back.”

  Unimpressed, I leaned a hip against her desk. “How? You gonna tell Marshall I took back the porn magazine that you think he posed for?” Her eyes narrowed to slits, darting back and forth as she mentally scanned her choices.

  She didn’t ha
ve any. Yet. Sniffing, she stood, smoothing down the wrinkles in her pajama top. “Well, have fun working all day, ladies. I’m going back to bed.”

  “Leave the keys unless you want us to call you back to lock up.”

  She didn’t bother with an answer. Instead, she dropped the keys on her desk, little pinky extended to show royal disdain. Then she sashayed out the door, letting quiet descend on the clinic.

  Almost too quiet. I looked around. “Isn’t Mary Kate supposed to be here?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  “Don’t ask me. Maybe she overslept,” Hannah said.

  “Mary Kate? I’ve never known her to be late. Besides, she’s bringing the donuts.” This was a very important point.

  “She must be exhausted with finals and helping out here. She was looking pretty tired last night, but all I got was a glare when I suggested she sleep in this morning. Anyway, let’s get started. We can get a lot of this cleared away if we hustle.”

  I agreed, but my mind wasn’t on filing. I was obsessed with getting into Marshall’s office undetected. Humming a John Denver tune, Hannah disappeared into the file room to track down those files we’d need for Monday’s clients.

  “Oh, I forgot. I have a phone call to make. Shouldn’t take long.” My voice sounded phony to me, but Hannah was deep into sunshine and mountains and re-establishing order to her world. She didn’t care what I did.

  Trying not to jingle the keys, I slipped down the hall and into Marshall’s office. Not wanting Hannah to spy a band of light under the door, I left the overhead off. Of course, she’d have to turn off all the lights and lie on the carpet to see under the door, but I was more than a little freaked out. Besides, there was enough sun seeping through the blinds for what I needed to do.

  The file cabinet was locked, but the desk wasn’t. I started there. It contained the usual administrator’s office crap—nothing surprising. No vodka flasks or baggies of white powder or pornography. Unfortunately for me, also no file cabinet keys and nary a sign of the knife. The bottom right drawer was one of those deep ones, probably another file cabinet, and unlike the other drawers, locked. I wished that I could have stolen Marshall’s keys when I searched his place, but I’d been sure he’d have a duplicate set of the tiny, easy-to-lose cabinet keys somewhere close by.

  Not knowing how to pick locks—they don’t teach such useful skills in grad school—I was nevertheless determined to get in, one way or another. It made sense that if the knife was here, it would be locked up, so the cabinets were especially tantalizing. While I pondered the problem, I rifled through the book shelves, neither expecting nor finding anything suspicious.

  Other than the locked cabinets, there was really no other hiding place. I sat in Marshall’s chair, trying to get a feel for his space. Yanked open the top right drawer, stuffed with pens, pencils, and other miscellaneous supplies, and rummaged through it a second time even though I’d been meticulous the first search.

  Nothing.

  I checked my watch. I’d already used up twelve minutes, and even easygoing Hannah would start to question my continued absence. The office felt hot and stuffy, sweat beading my upper lip in a most annoying way.

  With a burst of inspiration, I picked up the potted plant that Marshall had tipped over when Lisa had walked in on our “awkward” moment. Nothing but dust and a milky-white water stain.

  Time to admit defeat.

  Standing, I wiped sweaty hands on my jeans. A flash of silver caught my eye. Not the keys, but a small container of paperclips next to the phone console. I rattled it back and forth. Aha!

  One silver mini-key and one bronze ditto.

  I started on the big cabinet, which was full of boring paperwork that I neither understood nor cared about. I slid a hand under and behind the rows of hanging files, looking for the telltale gap that a solid object stuck in the middle of a file would make.

  I repeated the routine in the desk drawer. This drawer held personnel records and I had to fight the urge to peek. My good angel was winning until I spied Mary Kate’s name.

  After all, I had promised Mary Kate that I would look into the matter of her progress report, and it would be kind of awkward to bring it up to Hannah. I wouldn’t want Hannah to think I didn’t trust her judgment. That would be rude. And Marshall might not let me check Hannah’s section anyway. And I did promise.

  I tweaked the file out. The progress report was right on top, so I was hardly trespassing at all. Skipping over the sections I’d filled in, I focused on Hannah’s pristine handwriting. I read it through once.

  Then a second time.

  Mary Kate must have misunderstood. Hannah had written a very even-handed evaluation. She did note that they’d had difficulty bonding, pointing out the unusual circumstances of the transfer. She praised Mary Kate’s willingness and dedication, gave her high marks for her ability to empathize with her clients. It was a good evaluation.

  Forgetting that I was only going to peek at the progress report, I paged absently through the rest of the file. Mary Kate had never gotten along with Hannah, but I’d just assumed it was because of the abrupt transition. I pulled out her resume—a stunning list of career stops and starts. I smiled at the wide variety of enthusiasms that had led Mary Kate to explore culinary arts, accounting, day care administration, and horticulture before settling on counseling. I flipped the page. Her education history reflected the same scatter-gun approach. Botany, psychiatric nursing, literature, geology.

  Wait. Literature? I paged through until I came to her college transcripts—three separate schools, which didn’t help. I found it on the second transcript. She’d come within three credits of graduating with a bachelor’s degree in Renaissance literature. Three credits shy, and then she’d switched to psychology, basically starting all over.

  Mary Kate?

  I shoved the papers back in the file, leaping to my feet. Clutching it tightly, I ran to the front office. Hannah sat at Lisa’s desk separating the files we’d need tomorrow. She looked up in startled surprise at my hurry.

  “What…?”

  “Where’s Mary Kate?” My voice sounded thin and squished, coming via breathless lungs.

  “She’s not here yet. Are you okay?”

  I stood clutching the file to my chest, trying to sort through the crazy idea that bounced around my brain like a bunny on crack. I’d never considered Mary Kate. I’d never seriously considered a woman.

  I sank into a chair, ignoring Hannah’s worried noises, focusing inward, looking for a hole in the theory. Looking for the mistake. A wave of dizziness swept over me. Hannah squawked louder, and I dimly sensed her kneeling next to me, rubbing my back. When the word “ambulance” penetrated, I roused myself.

  “No! I don’t need an ambulance.”

  “What on earth is going on? Do you want me to call someone?”

  “No. No, that’s okay. I’m just…” No way to explain. I could barely even wrap my own mind around the possibility that Mary Kate might be the one responsible for the sonnets, the doll, the… killings.

  My heart thudded erratically. The killings. The killing of two men who—for good or bad—showed interest in me. The two men who captured my attention, who made the sonnet-giver “question with jealous thought where [I] may be, or [my] affairs suppose.”

  And what about the third man?

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Once I cleared town, I pushed my little Focus up to eighty, figuring if a cop tried to pull me over, I’d let him chase me clear to the cabin. A cop would also come in handy if I slammed into a wayward deer, making hamburger out of both of us. I ached for a cigarette.

  I considered calling Blodgett but was too scared to let go of the steering wheel; besides, what could I say? Mary Kate studied literature from the same era that the stalker’s sonnets derived from? So did Marshall. And, logically speaking, Paul had the more compelling motive for murder than either Mary Kate or Marshall.

  But my gut knew it was Mary Kate, knew it with a certa
inty that I’d never had with either of the two men. Her whimsical devotion concealed deeper passions; her difficulty with letting go, a rage-filled fear of abandonment.

  I sucked as a supervisor.

  Tires churned a dust cloud going up Marshall’s dirt road, gravel pinging off the tree trunks. Marshall’s Saab, the only vehicle in the clearing besides my own, sat parked in the same spot as when I’d left last night. I got out and stood next to my car, listening. The engine ticked loudly, but otherwise silence blanketed the property. Too quiet?

  The crank of the hinge as I shut the door exploded into the hushed clearing like a shot.

  I made for the cabin and was halfway to the door before remembering the killer’s habit of ambushing his prey from behind bushes and shrubs. Her prey. Might as well get in the habit of saying that. I darted from side to side in an approximation of evasive moves that I’d seen on TV. If Marshall wasn’t in trouble and happened to look out his window, he’d probably assume I was psychotic.

  Nobody shot at me. I made it to the porch feeling like an imbecile and checked the doorknob. Unlocked, as always. Feeling like a storybook character, I poked my head around the corner, calling out a neighborly “yoo-hoo!”

  The cabin was dusky and quiet. The same eerie silence as the clearing—ominous, watchful, not at all peaceful. Goldilocks must have had balls of steel, because I could barely force myself across the threshold. Marshall was obviously not in the kitchen or living room, and a quick scan of the laundry room didn’t uncover anybody either. Or any body. I shuddered, hating my imagination, and checked the washer and drier, just in case. Same musty jeans, but nothing scarier.