Spitting Image

by Patrick LeClerc

  “OK,” I said. “I brought some things she left at my apartment.”

  I opened the box of Sarah’s things. Bob looked them over, picking them up, feeling them, turning them over. Most were simple and practical. A toothbrush. A hairbrush. He stopped, holding up a necklace.

  “She leaves jewelry behind?” he asked.

  “I think she took it off the last time she took a shower,” I said.

  “And forgot to put it back on?”

  I shrugged. The last time she’d been in the shower, she’d been...distracted. But I really didn’t want to tell Bob about that.

  “This is good,” he said. “You’re sure this is hers, right?” He didn’t actually accuse me of having squads of strange women who left things at my place, but there was a cold glint in his one good eye.

  “Absolutely.”

  “OK,” he said. “Then I can work with this. And these.” He pulled a few strands of blonde hair from her brush. He wrapped the hairs around the necklace, just where the chain met the pendant. “Hold this in your left hand and think of her. Think of the necklace on her. How it looked. Imagine the metal warmed by her skin.”

  I did as he asked. I thought back to the first time I met her, how I’d noticed the necklace hanging just above the button of her blouse, almost at the shadow between her breasts.

  “Now hand it to me,” he said. “But keep the image of her wearing this in your mind.”

  He held the chain, let the pendant hang. He concentrated for a moment, then opened a road atlas of New England to the big area map at the front of the book. He began to swing the necklace in small, gentle circles, sweeping it across the map. His eye closed as he slowed his breathing, subtly shifting the motion of the pendant as it swayed over the map.

  After a few minutes, his hand seemed drawn back to one area. He swung the necklace over that section again, but from a different angle. After several more passes, he opened his eye, looked at the area to which the necklace appeared to gravitate. He flipped through the atlas, opening it to the smaller scale map of that region and repeated the process.

  I watched in silence, holding the image of Sarah, and of the necklace against the soft, white skin of her throat, as Bob narrowed his search. Eventually, he went to his computer, pulled up a satellite view of the area and zoomed in further, printing out a section and bringing it to the table.

  He repeated his actions with the necklace, zeroing in on a single point.

  He set down the necklace, let out a long breath and shook himself. Then he peered at the map.

  “There’s a cabin here. Isolated. The only access by a single, long gravel drive about a half mile off a paved road. The kind of thing a rich man builds out in the middle of nowhere when he wants to get away from things. Or when he wants to do things away from prying eyes. If I’m right, she’s there.”

  I nodded. That was the kind of place where she could easily be held captive. Far from any help even if she did escape. Out of range of inconvenient eyes and ears.

  There was also plenty of space to hide a body, but I didn’t dwell on that.

  “How sure are you?” I asked.

  “I’ve never done it this way before, but I know what it feels like when I find something, and I stand by this.”

  “It’s our best lead,” I said. “Unless you can think of a way to confirm it.”

  “Not without boots on the ground, as they say.”

  “That’s never very comforting to the guy wearing the boots.”

  He cracked a grim smile. “It’s the part we’re good at. The smart one is a prisoner right now, so let’s not try to be too clever here.”

  “What do you think?”

  “We can park my truck here.” He pointed to a spot where Route 16 followed the Androscoggin River. “They might know your car, but there’s no reason for them to know my vehicle. People park here all the time to launch canoes, so a truck parked there with nobody around won’t look suspicious. Then we work our way through the woods to the cabin and scout it out. If she’s there, we go get her.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said.

  “You got that cannon of yours in case they don’t like the idea of us going and getting her?”

  “I brought it in case my natural charm wasn’t enough.”

  “I always wondered why you feel like you need such a large caliber pistol,” he replied. “But now I understand.”

  Chapter 8

  I PEERED THROUGH the leaves and studied the two men on the porch. To the casual observer, they were just out enjoying the weather, but they were scanning the long drive a little too methodically. Keeping their drinks in their left hands, their right hands hovering too near a cooler that had the cover open. Unforgivable if they were trying to keep their drinks cold, but good sense if the cooler was just a place to hide a handgun.

  I motioned to Bob to circle around the cabin. We’d see if there was another way in. Not saying we couldn’t have gotten in past the two guards. Just that it would have been messy and complicated. Better to see if there was another choice before we shot our way in.

  We had stopped at a hardware store on the way and filled a small backpack with supplies. I’d bought some long plastic zip ties, some duct tape, a length of rope and some pipe insulation, just so that something in the cart wouldn’t look like kidnapping equipment. Bob already owned some burglar’s tools, but I bought a ridiculously big screwdriver that would double nicely as a prybar if I had to break anything open in a hurry.

  We crept around the cabin, taking it slow. Around the back, our patience was rewarded. There was a second floor window open. Not the best security, but most of these seasonal cabins had no air conditioning, and in late summer, the heat on the top floors could be brutal. It was a good twelve feet high, with nothing nearby to climb on, so it wasn’t an obvious security risk.

  I pointed to the window. “Bingo.”

  “Looks like a job for the little agile guy,” said Bob. “If you can get up there.”

  “Good thing I brought a big strong guy to boost me.”

  “No way I’m going to get in through there. Once you’re in, you’re on your own.”

  I nodded. “Not much we can do about that. I’ll be sneaky. If you hear things go to Hell, do whatever seems best.”

  He nodded. I wasn’t about to ask him to blast his way in and rescue me, but I wasn’t going to patronize him by suggesting he hide and call the cops, either. He’d judge the situation and do all he could.

  We watched the house in silence for a few minutes. Nobody came through the back yard. Nobody moved behind the windows. No lights came on.

  I looked at Bob. He shrugged.

  I stole across the yard, crouched down at the wall, near one of the closed ground floor windows. I heard daytime TV behind it. The window to the upper floor was centered in the wall, not above either of the lower windows. There was nothing close in the yard to climb, nothing that could be dragged over.

  I waved Bob to me. In a moment he was there, moving quickly and quietly for a big man.

  He squatted and made a stirrup with his fingers. I stepped in it and climbed onto his shoulders. With his back to the wall, he straightened up. Good thing he was big. Standing on his shoulders, I could reach up and grab the window sill.

  I tapped my foot on his shoulder. He reached his massive hands up and I stepped into them. With the help of a push, I was able to haul myself through the window without making much noise. Good thing he was strong, too.

  Once I was in, I crouched for a moment, listening and letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior after the bright sunlight.

  I was in a hallway. I could see several doors opening off either side, stairs leading down at the other end. The place was very rustic chic. Log cabin style. Polished wooden walls, hurricane lamps, hunting and skiing prints.

  I pondered my next move. Sarah may be in one of these rooms, but which? And if they locked it, as I’d have to assume, there was no way of kicking these in without making a helli
sh racket. If I started trying them and found somebody else, what then?

  And if I found her, how could I know it really was Sarah without talking to her?

  I started moving toward the nearest door. I’d listen first, then see if it were locked and go from there.

  I heard a creak from the stairs as someone climbed them. I froze, slipped my pistol out and shrank into the shadows in the corner near the window. Maybe, just maybe, the bright window would make it hard to see me in my dark clothing against the dimly lit woodwork until I could get the drop on whomever was coming up the stairs.

  It was a man carrying a tray of food. Fortunately his head was down, watching the steps. I raised my pistol as he reached the top and looked up.

  I had a finger raised to my lips. That and the large caliber handgun got his attention. He didn’t cry out, which is to his credit.

  I nearly did. The face I was looking into was the same one I’d shaved that morning. Less the startled expression.

  I gestured for him to turn around. When he did, I came up close behind him, grabbed his collar and put the barrel of my gun under his right ear. I leaned in very close and spoke low, so my voice wouldn’t carry.

  “You know why I’m here,” I breathed. “Bring me to her and stay quiet and you get to live. Try anything to stop me and we’ll find out what that stolen face would look like with an exit wound where the nose should be.”

  He stiffened a bit.

  “Nod if you understand.”

  He did.

  “Which door?”

  He pointed to one at the end of the hallway.

  “Locked?”

  He nodded.

  “Key.” It was an order, not a question.

  “Left hip pocket,” he said in a voice as quiet as a January snowfall.

  I reached in and found it. “Now, slowly walk to the wall. Put that borrowed face against it and don’t turn around or call out unless you want to be shot.”

  I kept the pistol trained on his back while I unlocked the door with my left hand. I grabbed the man by his collar and moved him back to the door.

  “Open it.”

  You never can be sure if there’s a guard inside. Not likely, but if there was, better to have one of his friends to use as a shield.

  He turned the handle and I pushed into the room, shoving the man ahead of me. I saw Sarah sitting on a bed. She seemed unhurt, was appropriately dressed, not tied up, and looked healthy enough. The only window was shut and the room was stifling, but beyond that I didn’t see any evidence of torture.

  She looked at me with more anger than fear. “What the hell–”

  I held a finger to my lips. “We need to go. Quickly.”

  “What?” she hissed. “You and your friends dragged me here.”

  I spun my prisoner to face her.

  “What’s your point?” she asked.

  I looked at him. Saw a different face, saw him open his mouth to start to plead ignorance, to cloud the issue, to get her to scream or shout so he wouldn’t have to.

  I closed his mouth by shoving the muzzle of my pistol under his jaw and pushing up until his teeth clicked.

  “OK, one way or another,” I said in a low growl, “that face is going to change so she can see what’s going on. You can use your power, or I can use a bullet.”

  I glared into his eyes, seeing the fear grow as the defiance evaporated. After a moment, his features blurred and shifted, swimming in the old familiar face I wore every day.

  “Jesus!” said Sarah.

  “Not even close,” I replied, “but this is what’s going on. I’m me. He isn’t. I don’t know everything that happened, but they took you and I’m getting you out.”

  She stared from one of us to the other. “How...”

  “Dunno,” I said. “More of my distant cousins, I guess. No time to figure it out right now.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “OK,” she said. I could see rage boiling behind her eyes. She was furious and wanted an explanation, but she was bright enough to know we had to be quiet and get out of here first.

  “You,” I said to the prisoner. “On the bed.”

  I took the zip ties I’d bought and secured his wrists to the headboard. Pulled them tight, in case he tried to morph into somebody with thin wrists. I took the napkin from the tray he’d carried, wadded it up, stuffed it in his mouth, duct taped over it and tied a pillowcase around his head.

  “Sooner or later,” I told him, “somebody will find you and let you go. While you wait, just think how nice not being shot is, and the time will fly by.”

  I led Sarah to the window I’d come in through.

  “It’s maybe twelve feet,” I said, looking out, scanning for any wandering guards. “I’ll let you down, then I’ll climb.”

  I took out my rope, looped it under her arms for a sling and took hold of the other end. “Once you’re down, stay quiet and wait for me. If you hear anything bad, Bob is out in the woods, just past that pine with the forked trunk. Get to him and he’ll get you out of here.”

  She nodded.

  “You’re getting good at this,” I said, flashing a smile.

  A faint shadow of a grin flashed over her face and her cheeks colored as she went out the window.

  I braced myself against the wall to lower her. She made it down with grace and didn’t make much of a sound. I looked around for something to tie my rope to.

  I found a heavy bureau and knotted the end of the rope around one of the legs, then hung it out the window. I climbed down and crouched, listening and scanning the area.

  Nothing. My double from upstairs must not have been found yet. I looked at Sarah and raised an eyebrow. She nodded. We got up and made a dash for the woods.

  Once we were safe in the treeline, I turned to face her. “I know this sounds crazy, but I need to be sure you’re you. You should probably do the same for me.”

  “I agree. So how do we do that?” she asked.

  “Ask me something only I’d know. Something obscure. Something nobody would think to research.”

  She thought for a moment and then smiled. “Worst band of all time?”

  “I know you think it’s Nickleback,” I said, “but that’s only because you don’t grasp just how awful the Beach Boys really are.”

  “Ok, if you aren’t Sean that’s so close I’ll never notice the difference,” she said. “Now your turn.”

  I thought for a minute. What question would really tell me it was Sarah and not just a very good imposter. What would they have studied or not studied? “Name the two greatest American poets,” I said.

  Since they knew she was an English professor, they may have learned the answer to that one, but not the answer I was looking for.

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s Frost and Poe. Even though it’s arguably subjective, you don’t get to say Dylan and Springsteen.”

  “Even if we include ‘Tangled up in Blue?’”

  She shook her head. “You could argue Sandburg, or maybe Dickinson. Even Ginsburg or Kerouac if you were tying to get college girls into bed. You’d be wrong, but you could argue them. But no rock stars.”

  “OK,” I said. “You’re you. I’m convinced.”

  Bob appeared, ghosting through the woods. “Hi, girl.” He gave Sarah a hug. “The two guards at the front door haven’t moved,” he said to me. “Don’t know what you did, but you did it quiet. Let’s get a move on.”

  We made our way through the woods to Bob’s truck, piled in and pulled out onto the logging road.

  “Any chance they can track us?” she asked.

  “Track me through the woods?” asked Bob. “None at all. Not even with a jarhead slowing me down. And with this truck, that expensive SUV in the driveway can’t get through the roads I’m taking.”

  “They probably know my car,” I said to Sarah. “But that’s back at the hotel, and we’re not going there. They might stake it out. I doubt they know Bob’s plate numbers.” I had a bad thought. “Unles
s they asked you about him?”

  “No,” she said. “You– they, I guess— did want to talk about my family a lot on the drive up here. It did seem strange for you to ask those questions. I thought you were thinking about potential in- laws. Jesus.” She shivered in the summer heat and drew her arms tightly around herself. I knew she was thinking of what she had said to a stranger, thinking it was me. I understood the feeling of violation, the obscene advantage taken.

  “What are they after?” she asked after a long silence.

  “Me,” I sighed. “More political schemers from the Old Country. “

  “What do they want you to do?”

  “It’s not me per se,” I said. “They want my abilities.”

  “Can they do that? Isn’t that all hereditary?”

  “Yep.”

  “So–oh.”

  “Yeah. They tried to pull a Morgan Le Fay on me.”

  “Who Le What?” asked Bob.

  “Morgan Le Fay was King Arthur’s half sister,” said Sarah, her voice flat. “In the legend, she was a sorceress. She changed her form to look like Guenevere to sleep with Arthur and conceive Mordred.”

  “I thought that was a fairy tale.”

  “Until a minute ago, so did I,” she said. “So did I.”

  She gave me a long, unblinking look

  “I had no idea this was possible either,” I said. “I don’t remember any of these other clans. I got mind wiped. I thought it was a legend, too.” I had thought Morgan and Arthur just had a family scandal and used superstition to cover it up. It wasn’t beyond belief. Mordred was hardly the most inbred noble in the world. Legends come from somewhere, though. Maybe that one came from the ancestors of my latest foes.

  We drove back to Bob’s cabin in silence. When we arrived, he went off to the kitchen to give us some privacy. We sat on the couch and just leaned together, my arm around her shoulders.

  After a while she spoke. “So what happened?” she asked. “With this imposter?”

  “I thought it was you, but you didn’t seem like yourself. Because it wasn’t yourself. But that was a crazy thought, so I figured you were upset, distant, hiding something. Working something out. I thought I might be in trouble. That you were thinking about leaving me.”