Hidden

by Karen E. Olson

  Steve raises his eyebrows at me as if to say, OK, I understand now why you might not want to go out with this guy. He has no idea he’s helping my cause.

  But he takes this as an invitation and pulls another chair up to our table, getting comfortable. He waves Abby over and orders another round.

  ‘I don’t have time,’ I start to say, and he holds his hand up.

  ‘Where does a pretty lady like you have to go on a Friday night? Just one more.’ He is coming on too strong, but I don’t want to cause a scene.

  ‘OK,’ I agree.

  ‘You’re hard to track down,’ he says then, ignoring Steve. ‘But I asked around, and folks said you’d be here tonight. You come here every Friday.’

  ‘You were asking about me?’ A bubble of panic rises in my throat. ‘Why?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  Steve clears his throat and moves his head in a way so I know he’s indicating he thinks we should leave. I am about to tell him that we have to go, but then he jumps down off his stool. He flashes a grin at Steve. ‘My turn,’ he says, and disappears toward the men’s room.

  Steve waits until he’s safely out of earshot. ‘Wow, he’s pushy, isn’t he?’

  ‘Now do you understand why I don’t want to go out with him?’

  ‘He’s borderline stalker.’

  ‘It’s certainly looking that way.’ This is easy now. Steve’s protective instincts are taking over, and he will help me escape.

  Steve is already on his feet. He has left a pile of bills for Abby on the table. ‘Let’s go,’ he says, and he waves at Abby as we leave. Steve lifts my bike into the back of the Explorer, and we jump in. We are down the hill before we know it. I don’t even look back to see if he has followed us.

  ‘Thanks, Steve,’ I say, putting my hand briefly over his, which is on the steering wheel. ‘I didn’t want to deal with him.’

  ‘No problem.’

  We are silent the rest of the way to my house, which is dark. Only the light over the back door is on.

  ‘You’ll be OK?’ Steve asks. ‘Want me to come in?’

  I don’t want Steve here when he comes. I shake my head, open the door. ‘I’ll be fine. He doesn’t know where I live.’ The white lie trips off my tongue, and I feel bad lying to Steve. The irony of that strikes me as funny, and I stifle a nervous chuckle.

  ‘Call me tomorrow,’ he says. ‘Maybe another game of Scrabble?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, slamming the door shut and making my way around the front of the SUV to the house. I lift my hand in a wave as Steve drives away.

  I put the key in the lock, step out of my shoes in the mudroom. I go into the kitchen and flip the light on above the stove. I take the bottle of cognac down from on top of the refrigerator and pour myself a short one, taking it into the living room, where I sit in the dark, waiting for him.

  SIX

  When I met him, I knew. I knew I would never fall for anyone else ever again. It was one of those take-no-prisoners types of feelings, the kind that wraps itself around you like a straitjacket and you can’t breathe for days, weeks, maybe even years, as long as he’s in the same room.

  I am not sure I have the same feeling now, while I sit in my living room with a glass in my hand. Because it has been over an hour, and he has not shown up. He is playing games with me, just as I did when I took off with Steve. This is not unusual for us. It was cat and mouse for a long time, a power play to see who would crack first. Only that first time had it been completely equal between us.

  I am not used to this anymore. I am out of practice. I have forgotten how to play the game. I panicked in the bar. I should’ve stayed, continued the banter, stayed in control. Instead, I ran. Just like I ran fifteen years ago.

  I feel bits of myself melting away – the self that I’ve created. I am afraid of that other self, the other person I used to be. Him showing up here has brought her back. Even though the reports of my demise, as they say, were premature, I have in fact died and been reborn as Nicole. But now, sitting here, drinking my cognac in the dark, I know that no matter what name I’ve chosen for myself, no matter what existence I’ve managed to carve out, I am still that other person when it comes to him. I am twenty-five again, despite my aging eyes, the lines in my face, the gray hairs.

  I try to distract myself, going into the kitchen and washing out my glass. I don’t need another drink. I put the glass in the dish drainer to dry, wiping my hands on a towel. I look around my kitchen and it feels strange to me, as if I’ve never been here before. Where did that crack in the wall come from? Has it always been there? The light is too dim; maybe I should use regular light bulbs again.

  I am standing there, studying the coils on the electric stove, when the knock makes me jump.

  Eyes peer through the back door window at me. He backs away slightly, and I can see him clearly now in the light I’ve left on outside. I undo the lock and let him in.

  ‘I’ve been worried about you.’ Steve is wearing sweatpants and a fleece pullover. ‘I wanted to make sure you were OK.’

  ‘Come on in. Want a drink?’

  Steve follows me into the house. ‘How about some of that brandy you’ve always got here?’

  I take another glass out of the cupboard and the one I’ve just washed out of the drainer. I pour us each a glass, and we take them into the living room. I turn on one of the table lamps, just enough light emanating to make it cozy. We settle in, me on the couch and Steve in the rocker across from me.

  ‘I thought he’d find you,’ he says.

  ‘Me, too,’ I admit. ‘He has been very persistent. But so far, no sign of him.’

  ‘I stopped back at Club Soda and peeked in. He’s not there. Do you know where he’s staying?’

  I shrug. ‘No idea. He didn’t say when I saw him at the gallery.’ The light does not allow me to see outside, only the reflections in the window, our silhouettes. We look relaxed, drinks in our hands, as if we are having a regular evening together and not waiting for the boogeyman to show. ‘You know,’ I say, ‘I can take care of myself.’ But even as I say it, I know I’m wrong.

  Steve suspects, too, and he says nothing. Just drinks his cognac and smiles sadly at me.

  Finally I stand up. ‘He’s not going to show up here,’ I say. It has been twenty minutes. ‘I think you can go home. I’ll just lock the doors, OK?’ I am feeling claustrophobic suddenly; I need to be alone. I am afraid that if he stays, I’ll tell him everything. It’s on the tip of my tongue. I cannot risk it.

  We go into the kitchen, and I take Steve’s glass. He leans over and kisses me on the cheek, his beard scratching my face, but not in a bad way. I hold onto his shoulder for a moment, letting his concern wash over me, knowing he is just being a friend. I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, Steve pulls away.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ he says gruffly. ‘Lock up.’ And then he is gone, out the back door, letting in the crisp night breeze. It sweeps through the mudroom and clasps my legs, wrapping itself around me, spinning upward until I feel it on the back of my neck. I shiver. I close the door and lock it, turning out the light when I see Steve’s Explorer heading down the driveway.

  The morning is bright, the sun peeking through my curtains. I roll over, not sure just when I went to sleep, but I feel refreshed. I don’t allow myself to wonder why he didn’t come. It’s no longer my problem, I think, tying my bathrobe around me, shuffling out toward the kitchen in my socks.

  I stop in the doorway. On the table is a box. A cardboard box that I know was not there last night. It is about the size of a shirt box, but deeper. Its seams are covered in duct tape, which makes its way in a circle around the top and the bottom. There is writing on the top. I slowly make my way over to the table, put a finger on the corner of the box and turn it slightly.

  ‘Open me,’ it invites.

  I pull my finger away as if I’ve gotten a shock. I don’t want to open it. I listen carefully but hear nothing inside. Of course, bombs ins
ide packages might only tick in movies, not in real life.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, in the same spot, my heart pounding, but the phone’s ring crashes into my head and bounces off the wall, making me jump. I rush across the room and grab the handset, as if the sound of it will set off whatever’s in the mysterious box.

  ‘Open the fucking box,’ I hear, and then a click. He’s hung up.

  I forget about the box as I realize he’s watching me. I shrink back against the kitchen counter, wishing I could disappear inside it, change colors like a chameleon. For the first time I wish I did not have as many windows, because I cannot figure out which one he might be on the other side of.

  Just as suddenly as the fear shot through me, however, I am no longer afraid. It is as if a switch has been flipped, and the anger sweeps through me. I take a step toward the box, and with only a second of hesitation I pick it up. It is fairly light, but something jostles inside it. Instead of ripping the tape off, I take it to the mudroom and open the back door, heaving the box out. It rolls across the grass before I slam the door shut again.

  I wait for the phone to ring, for movement outside. I stand statue-like, my muscles frozen, the fear replacing the anger that had replaced the fear. I have not had so many quick emotions one after the other in a long time. I am not sure my body can handle it. I begin to shake with the realization of what I’ve just done. I sink down to the floor, my head against my knees, and tears slip down my cheeks. I don’t know how long I stay like this, waiting for something but unsure of what.

  After an hour, I unfold my legs and stand. My feet are partially asleep, and pins and needles prick them as I head to the bathroom. I turn the hot water on, making sure to lock both the window and the door, even though I know locks won’t keep him out if he wants to come in, before stepping under the stream. The heat rushes through me, scalding me, but I barely notice.

  The big towel covers me completely, and I tiptoe into the bedroom, pulling on my clothes while trying not to expose my bare skin. I should get mini-blinds, something I can pull shut and no one can see through.

  My old, worn jeans are comfortable, the soft T-shirt smooth against my skin. I am feeling more like myself again, more like Nicole. I wear thick wool socks as I venture to the mudroom and look out the window. The box is out there, upside down and on its side, where it landed when I threw it. Curiosity tickles my brain, and I try to think logically. If it did not blow up when I threw it, perhaps there isn’t anything like a bomb inside. Maybe he had just left me a present – something he found on the island and wanted me to have.

  I know I am rationalizing, but I’ve begun to really want to know what’s in that box. I open the door slowly and put my foot out on the step. The chill of the stone seeps up through my sock, but I ignore it as I take another step. I am soon standing in the yard, the dew on the grass saturating my feet. I cannot feel it. My eyes are glued to the box.

  I take a deep breath and don’t let myself think. In one movement, I pick up the box and run back inside, the door slamming behind me.

  I grab a sharp knife out of the drawer and slice through the duct tape, pulling up the flaps of the box.

  There is a lot of paper inside – packing paper – and something that’s Styrofoam. I have to hold the box just-so and let it slide out.

  It’s a laptop computer.

  SEVEN

  I run my hand across its smooth surface, feeling its skin, hypnotized by its pureness. I lift the lid to expose the pristine keyboard, the dark screen. My fingers dance across the letters, the numbers. They bounce slightly under my touch, as if cringing. Like they know.

  I rummage around in the box and find a power cord. There is no manual. I can’t stop touching it. I cannot help myself.

  I am sitting at the table, staring at the blank screen, when he comes in. He doesn’t knock; he doesn’t ring the bell. I hear the door creak open, then slam. Heavy footsteps in the mudroom.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asks from behind me, his breath tickling the back of my neck.

  I do not turn around. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say.

  ‘Turn it on.’

  ‘No.’

  He laughs, comes around the side of the table and sits across from me, the laptop between us. ‘It’s not going to bite.’

  ‘You have no idea.’ I am clutching the power cord in my hand so tightly it’s made an indentation in my palm. I have been struggling with this for an hour. I need a twelve-step program.

  ‘It’s like riding a bike.’

  ‘I fell off that bike, remember?’

  He leans back in his chair and stares at me. ‘You have to get back on.’

  This is what I expected when I first saw him here on the island. When he first told me his name.

  ‘I’ve got a job for you.’ His voice is low, curling around each word like a snake.

  I have not heard those words in a long time, and something moves through me: revulsion followed by a clammy fear, and then the adrenaline of desire sticks in my throat. Not desire for him – the desire to do what he wants, to get that rush again, to feel that power. I force it down, force myself to lift my hand and put the power adapter on the table, close the laptop. I get up and push my chair in.

  ‘No,’ I say simply, going to the kitchen. I can’t let him see my face. I know he’ll see it there. I pour myself a brandy, my hand shaking slightly, spilling a few drops on the counter.

  His hand reaches around me, takes Steve’s glass from last night out of the dish drainer and sets it down next to mine. ‘I’ll take one, too.’

  I pour it, and we drink.

  ‘Good stuff,’ he says, draining his glass.

  I nod, trying to ignore his hand that’s settled on my back, his fingers that are gently rubbing my spine. I wriggle away from his touch and back up against the counter.

  ‘I’m done with all that. Anyway, I haven’t touched a computer in fifteen years.’

  ‘Excuses, excuses.’

  ‘I don’t have an Internet connection.’ I am grabbing at straws, but he’s right about making excuses. An Internet connection is as easy as sitting in a coffee shop with wireless. I may not have owned a computer in fifteen years, but I do know about wireless. ‘Even if I did, how do I know it would be secure?’

  He leans back in his chair and gives me a long, slow smile. ‘There are ways.’

  I know. But I let him tell me anyway. I am leading him on. Despite everything in me that’s saying no, I want to know what the job is.

  ‘Virtual private network. It’s not the way it used to be, when we had dial-up. It wasn’t as secure then – you know that. But it’s changed, like everything about the Internet. Now it’s usually for companies to let their employees work remotely, but anyone can use it, too, and be virtually invisible. It’s how the Chinese can get on Facebook.’ He sees my expression. ‘Social media. You hook up with old high school friends—’

  ‘I saw the movie,’ I say curtly, but I’m still thinking about VPN. How it reroutes the IP address so no one can trace where you are and logs are cleared every twenty-four hours. ‘What about subpoenas?’ I know about how the law works. How someone can get caught.

  ‘There’s no data retention law here in the States.’ There is something in his expression, though, that I can’t read.

  ‘What?’

  He sighs. ‘Some surveillance. Some server raids.’

  That’s how it happened before. He knows what I’m thinking.

  ‘It’s not the same. It’s safer,’ he says again. ‘You were doing your thing during the dark ages, and see what you were able to do. It’s easier now, you won’t believe it.’

  ‘If it’s so easy, why do you need me? Why don’t you do it yourself?’

  He snorts. ‘You know I can’t. Besides, you don’t exist, remember? No one can trace it to you. Anyway, you used to be good at figuring out how to keep from being traced.’

  ‘Until I wasn’t.’ The words hang between us.

&nb
sp; ‘It took a long time to find you. You’re pretty good at disappearing.’

  I wonder exactly what he’s referring to and think about the implications of what he’s saying. It also reminds me of something else. ‘I don’t want to be that missing person who’s discovered dead,’ I say softly.

  His face clouds. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, but the way he says it makes me worry. We are both remembering.

  He cups my chin, stares into my eyes, and for a second I am transported back.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say, moving away from him. ‘Not again. I have a life here, a good life.’

  ‘A lonely life,’ he says flatly.

  I shake my head. I have friends, I have a job, I have a house. I chose this. I didn’t choose him.

  ‘But if all this is really what you want, then maybe you should think about it. This’ – he waves his hand around in the air, indicating my house – ‘can disappear as quickly as you can. So think seriously about it.’ He again diminishes the distance between us. His eyes are dark, and a chill travels down my back as I hear the threat beneath the seduction. This is what he planned all along.

  ‘OK. I’ll think about it,’ I say, putting my hand on his chest to keep him from coming closer. I am lying, though. I can’t think about it, despite his threat. But it is the best way to get rid of him.

  He smiles; his eyes twinkle. ‘That’s a good girl.’

  I want to slap him for that, but I keep my face neutral. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Blue something—’

  ‘Blue Dory Inn,’ I say. ‘Beautiful place. You can afford it?’

  ‘I get by. Same as you. I doubt you can make ends meet just on those paintings and bike tours.’

  I let him think what he likes. ‘So he told you?’

  ‘Who told me what?’

  ‘You know. Where I was.’

  He looks around my kitchen, at the brass colander hanging on the wall, the backsplash tiles with the little rosebuds painted on them, the white lace curtain over the window. ‘This is a nice place,’ he remarks, ignoring me, looking up toward a shelf near the back door. ‘What’s in the jars?’ He goes over to them and picks one up, shakes it. ‘Rocks?’