Betrayed

by Wodke Hawkinson

  “Ellen had been right when she said I was selfish. My family doesn’t even know where I am. My parents tried so hard to understand when I told them I was leaving. My little brother, Dave, had just joined the service and now I was going, too. It was hard on my folks. But still, I left. I pursued my own path without regard for the feelings of others. So, I admit I am a self-centered man in many ways. I am hopelessly flawed.” He was teasing, but only partly.

  “They must be frantic, Lance,” Brook said gently.

  “No, no.” Lance rubbed a spot on the table with his finger. “They don't know exactly where I live, but I call them regularly and let them know I’m alright. Plus, I have a box in Haylieville. We write, and I send them pictures. My dad was amazed at the fireplace. I don’t think he really believes I built it. Anyway, they know I’m okay. But they can't accept or understand why I changed my name.”

  “Why did you change your name? I don’t understand that either.”

  “I was sick of people knowing so much about me. At least, that’s what I told myself at the time,” he answered. “I wanted a completely fresh start. And, I was grieving so hard, it was an effort just to breathe. I also was struggling with a bit of remorse for the way I had handled Ellen’s last days, you know, refusing to honor her wishes and all that. Which, by the way, I still don’t agree with. But, all that aside, I knew I had done things that she wouldn’t like in trying to keep her with me and refusing to accept her condition. I felt bad about it, but nothing I could do would change it. So, I decided to bury Sullivan Proctor, in a sense.” He looked upward as he pulled the old memories up in his mind.

  “On the last day of work, a half-hearted going away party kept me at the office longer than I wanted. I was itching to get my most recent acquisitions out to the cabin. I had cashed in my retirement, and I collected a check for all my vacation and sick pay. I still needed to clean out my personal savings and checking accounts, and I knew when I did, I would be disappearing with a tidy sum. I had the money from selling the house and the insurance money from Ellen’s death. And I wasn’t finished yet. I still planned to max out my credit cards; and my faithful monthly payments on Ellen’s medical bills would mysteriously stop. It still rankled every time I wrote checks to the hospital and that arrogant ass of a doctor who had killed Ellen. I’m telling you, Brooklyn, I just smiled with satisfaction at the thought that those butchers had gotten the last penny they would ever receive from me. Let them just try and track me down!”

  “So you ran up a bunch of debt on your cards before you left?” Brook asked, not even trying to hide her surprise and disappointment.

  “No, in the end I couldn’t do it. All the further I got was thinking about doing it. I’m a victim of my upbringing, I guess. My conscience interfered and I ended up paying all my bills and closing out the accounts.” Lance laughed. “But for just a little while, I toyed with the idea. Made me feel reckless, like a rebel.”

  Brook was strangely relieved to hear it. Why she should even care, she didn’t know. But, she didn’t like to think this man, this man she was becoming fond of, could be a thief, a common criminal.

  She returned her attention to Lance’s words.

  Lance told Brook about those days, his plan, and his subsequent actions. He explained how, with a touch of resentment, he had remembered the computer store clerk and all the details the man knew about his private life. He was determined he would leave no further trail for anyone to follow, not that anyone would. It was just the principle of the matter.

  He began withdrawing money from his bank accounts, hauling the cash in his briefcase like a secret agent or drug dealer. When he got it home, he laid it out on the table and began dividing it up and wrapping it for burial up at the cabin. He would have plenty of cash to fall back on, should he ever need it.

  Sullivan had purchased, with cash, a battered old pick-up truck. He spent some quality time with it in his dad’s garage. Although it still looked like a heap when he was done with it, the engine purred like a tiger and sported a set of new snow tires. He never did file the title with the state, nor did he insure the vehicle. He lifted a tag off a derelict car on a side-street, one that was last tagged five years before and designed stickers to look like the real thing. He would have to drive carefully from now on, and as little as possible.

  He sold Ellen’s SUV shortly before he listed the house. He didn’t want to see it in the drive or the garage and go through that split-second of thinking she was home, before reality caught up with his brain and reminded him she would never be home again. His own old car was paid off, and he donated it to a local charity that provides transportation for veterans to and from doctor's appointments. He then spent the most enjoyable evening he’d had since before Ellen’s death.

  Walking the streets as Sullivan Proctor for the last time, he visited several classless watering holes. In each one, he ‘accidentally’ dropped one of his credit cards on the floor of the restroom. Then he sat at the bar nursing a beer, keeping a watchful eye on the men’s room door. It wasn’t concern for his credit card, but merely curiosity. He wondered if there were any Honest Abes left in the world that would trot up front and turn in the credit card. In each establishment, several men went into and out of the bathroom, but not one man brought his lost credit card to the bartender. Before leaving each tavern, Sullivan would revisit the toilet to make sure his card had been picked up. Without exception, it had. Even though he had closed the accounts he knew the unscrupulous could use the cards for the information that could be gleaned from them. He hoped someone would claim his identity, erasing his existence completely.

  Why it made him feel so good to discard his identity, he could not say. But it did. It didn’t seem like a foolish action. It seemed more like small mischief, humorous even, to confound anyone who thought they had a handle on Sullivan Proctor. Each person who had taken one of his credit cards could knock themselves out trying to use them. If someone wanted to steal his identity, as far as he was concerned, they were welcome to it. He would be long gone.

  He got rid of them all, nearly emptied his wallet. Library card, insurance cards, shopper’s discount cards, store credit cards, CPR certification, gym membership card, and even his driver’s license. He imagined all the new Sullivan Proctors running around the city in the days to come.

  He was now Lance Matthew, an anonymous individual, who for all intents and purposes did not exist. He was now an entirely new man, one who lived in nobody’s data banks, unnumbered and uncounted. Just the way he wanted to be. He’d thought about actually buying a new identity but he would be right back where he had started, just as someone else. No, he had to be someone who never existed for his plan to work.

  “I made a new identity and created the paperwork on a computer,” he told Brook. “Of course, the IDs I have now are all faked, but they look real enough. And no one knows. No one, that is, except my parents, my brother, and now, you.”

  “Wow,” Brook exclaimed. “That’s crazy wild. What if you want to go back to your old life?”

  “I can’t,” he said simply. “I fixed it so I can’t. I have no idea what kind of trouble Sullivan Proctor has gotten himself into since I’ve been gone. Sullivan Proctor could be a wanted criminal for all I know.”

  “Wouldn’t your mom and dad know if someone was using your name illegally? Wouldn’t someone contact them? “

  “Maybe,” Lance said. “But they haven’t so far. And my parents would be telling the truth when they say they don’t know where I am.”

  Brook gazed at him for a long moment. She took in his dark tousled hair, tanned face, deep brown eyes with their occasional sparkle, his rugged but trim beard, his wide shoulders stretching the flannel shirt to its limit, his strong capable hands and muscular arms.

  “You don’t look like a Sullivan Proctor,” she pronounced. “You look like your new name. It suits you.”

  His eyes met hers. “Thanks,” he said softly.

  “But, Lance,” she asked. “W
hat if something happened to you up here? What if you got injured or sick? How would you get help?”

  “Those are questions with no good answers. I guess, if something too terrible happened, I’d just be out of luck. But then, if I were in a bad car wreck I’d probably face the same fate. Or if I were mountain climbing and had a slip. Accidents happen everywhere; and more often then not, they happen in inconvenient places.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But, I take vitamins religiously. I’m very careful with my tools, more so than most people, I would guess. I know one slip could cause a fatal injury or infection. I haven’t seen a doctor in more than three years, or a dentist.” His eyes twinkled. “Your dad would most likely disapprove. But, anyway, I know I’ve been living dangerously in a way. But I’m so careful, Brooklyn. Even with little things like making sure I floss my teeth, and using generous amounts of peroxide and rubbing alcohol even when they are probably unnecessary. This caution extends to the very water I drink. I filter the river water I use, and melt snow in the winter, but never the first snowfall. And I even filter that!”

  “I have an extensive supply of bandages and medication. I took everything from our medicine cabinet at home before I left. There are the pain pills and tranquilizers you’ve been taking. Plus I have some antibiotics. Expired yes, but hopefully still potent enough to be of some help. To top it off, I hit the drugstore and stocked up an everything I could think of.”

  He looked thoughtful. “No, I just have to be diligent, extremely careful, think things through before carrying them out. Of course, I guess anything could do me in. A bad tooth, an accident with a tool, a rusty nail, or a fall. So far, I’ve been lucky.”

  “Living like this; it’s so risky. You should at least have a cell phone,” Brook said. “At least that.”

  “Well, I don’t want anyone to know where I am, or even who I am. And anyone I want to call I can call from a payphone, just like I do my parents. Besides, there aren't any towers up here, no service.”

  “Bet you hated to see me out there in the woods,” Brook ventured.

  “I did,” Lance admitted. “I’m not going to lie about it. I felt resentment. It’s that selfish part of me rearing its ugly head again. I thought you were going to be nothing but trouble and I feared what you would do to my life, without meaning to, of course.”

  “You could have just left me there, walked away.”

  “No, Brooklyn,” he said, meeting her eyes with his steady gaze. “I could never have done that, would never have. And now that I've gotten to know you…"

  Chapter 35

  The moment stretched out. Brook’s pulse picked up. Lance’s eyes held a tenderness she hadn’t noticed before. Clearing his throat, he got up, and the spell was broken.

  “Let me finish these dishes. Then I’ve got to tend to the ladies,” he said, “and check on Gilbert.”

  “What ladies?” Brook asked. "Are there other people out here? I thought you lived alone."

  “Oops! Sorry about that,” he chuckled. “That’s what I call my chickens. I thought it was a tad more respectful than calling them ‘the girls’. But only a tad.”

  Brook smiled at the thought. “You wouldn’t want to offend your chickens, that’s for sure. They might start hiding their eggs from you.”

  Lance laughed. “No, I definitely don’t want to go on an egg hunt, not in this snow anyway.” He finished clearing the dishes, and then turned to Brook. “Now, let me help you into the bathroom and then get you settled before I take off. I have quite a few chores to take care of and I’ll be gone for a spell.”

  When she was finished and seated back on the bed, he looked down at her.

  “Bet you’re getting a little bored. Got cabin fever yet?” he asked kindly.

  “No, not really,” she said. “I still get tired pretty fast. And I can always read." She gestured at the stack of books on the bed. "But, I was wondering if you had a needle and some thread. Oh, and maybe a nail file; I lost mine somewhere out there.” She gestured widely.

  “Sure.” He went behind the curtain and returned with a manicure set and a well-appointed sewing kit. “What do you plan to sew?”

  “Oh, you’ll see,” she answered, a mischievous gleam in her eye.

  Later when he returned, he found her wearing a modified version of his clothes. They fit her quite well.

  “I ruined your things,” she said, standing on still-painful feet to model her alterations. She had cut and sewn, taking up places here, trimming them away there. The seams were whip-stitched, the best she could do with the tools at hand.

  “If that’s ruining them,” he said, his voice husky with some unnamed emotion, “maybe I should give you some more to wreck. Seriously, though, they look nice on you. In fact, I didn’t know those clothes could ever look so good.”

  She blushed at the compliment. “Well, now that you mention it, I wouldn’t mind having at least one other set of clothes. You know, wash one and wear one.”

  “I think that can be arranged.”

  He went quickly to the kitchen where he began pulling food from the cold pantry and busying himself with the old cook stove. She lowered herself back onto the bed, feeling strangely pleased with herself.

  The rest of the day passed in quiet pursuits for Brook; reading, napping, thinking. Lance disappeared behind the curtain for long periods, coming out once in a while to check on her, and once to set some more clothes by her bedside. He noticed as he did so that her nails were now short and even, all the jagged edges tamed by the file.

  Outside the windows, the snow fell, deepening its blanket over earth and tree, its soft cold embrace locking them away from the world.

  That evening, after a supper of browned potatoes and carrots steeped in the juices of a succulent roast, Lance got up from the table and stood by the outside door. “Come here,” he said.

  Brook stood tentatively. Lance waited patiently at the door, but made no move to help her. He wanted to see how well her feet were healing by watching her walk. She stepped gingerly, but did better than he'd expected. It’s time she has a pair of shoes. I’ll have to see what I can come up with. As she drew near, he opened the door.

  Brook shivered as the cold wind raced through the cabin, slicing through the heat from the roaring cook stove. She pulled her shirt tighter around her body and moved to his side.

  “Look.” He turned her to face the open doorway and gently tilted her head slightly. The snowfall was in a temporary lull and the clouds had parted, revealing a large black patch of sky. Distant heavenly lights shone and flickered with cold brilliance against the inky blackness. Brook inhaled sharply at the sight.

  “It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed. “There are so many stars. They look almost as if I could reach out and touch them with my fingers.”

  “I think it’s because we’re closer to them up here on the mountain,” Lance said, a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s my own little piece of heaven. Some nights, in good weather, I take a blanket out, lie on the ground, and just look up into the starry space. During meteor showers it looks like fireworks in the sky.”

  Brook shifted her attention to his profile; his strong jaw line covered with a soft dark beard, the wisp of black hair that curled just slightly in front of his ear, the lashes too long for a man, his straight even brow over mercurial brown eyes that could shift from passion to tenderness in a second. Something rolled inside her, a warm spreading sensation.

  He felt her gaze and turned to face her. When their eyes met, she thought she perceived a glimmer that told her he, too, felt the connection. He placed a hand on her shoulder and Brook wondered if he planned to kiss her, but he only guided her back into the house and closed the door.

  She shivered, wondering if she would have let him kiss her if he had tried. She didn’t know. She was confused and needed to decipher her feelings.

  “You’d better get back in bed and cover up. It’s cold.” His voice was throaty, revealing that she was not the only one affected by their closene
ss. He eased an arm around her waist and helped her across the floor. She leaned against him and breathed in the clean scent of his skin. Her feet ached, but not as much as her heart. Tears threatened, but the reason for it was beyond her understanding .

  Once Brook was restored to bed, Lance arranged the blankets over her. He appeared reluctant to meet her eyes, distant, although his body radiated warmth like a fever. He seemed to be struggling with his emotions; she could feel it and it made her feel sad, somehow.

  Lance went to the kitchen and busied himself with trivial tasks as Brook relaxed into the mattress. She wanted to examine that moment, that wordless exchange at the door. Delicious warmth stole over her at the mere thought, followed quickly by a surge of guilt, and then sudden panic. How could she possibly feel affection for a man after what those men, those devils, did to her? And, what about Clark? She loved Clark. Didn’t she? She needed to redefine her feelings for her husband, too. There was something there. Something just beyond reach, some niggling thought that she needed to remember. But it was slippery right now. Her thoughts moved to her attackers.

  Brook fought against remembering those life-altering days. Three days, and her life was irrefutably changed forever. Squaring her shoulders, she shook the thoughts away. She would forget those horrible days. She'd even forget Clark for the time being; he seemed part of a different life, a past life. She would focus instead on the feelings that had passed between her and Lance. Warm feelings.

  But, much as she wished to analyze and dissect these new feelings, her body had other ideas. Weariness, along with the warm bed, won, and she drifted into a sleep filled with vague but sensuous dreams. That night, anyway, memories of terror did not intrude on her rest.

  Lance, however, lay awake a long time, staring into the darkness of his room, trying to remember Ellen’s face, and wrestling with guilt for he couldn't stop thinking of Brooklyn. He played the moment at the door over and over in his mind, and found himself resisting an urge to wake her from slumber, and take her in his arms. He had only known this woman for six short days, and under bizarre circumstances. He couldn’t understand the workings of his own mind. Finally, he punched his pillow a few times to fluff it, rolled over, and closed his eyes. Sleep was slow to come.