"Leave everything, Jen. I’ll get it done."
"Right." Of course. He didn’t want her going inside. "As you wish. Spooky?" She knocked over her chair as she quickly stood. Agitated now, she looked around and found the pup chomping on Mitch’s steak bone.
She tried to keep her voice nonchalant. "I thought you didn’t like little dogs."
"I don’t, and this one is the puniest I ever saw. I wish you had a larger one for protection."
"I need protection?"
"You know what I mean... out here in the boondocks. It’s too isolated for a woman alone. Look at the trouble you ran into already with your scummy neighbor." He grinned, but the cheeriness didn’t reach his eyes.
"You’re right." She couldn’t get away fast enough.
By the time Jen reached her cabin, her pulse was pounding in her ears. Why was she always so slow to catch signs of danger? They had been in front of her since she’d made that unscheduled trip to the sleazy bar. Mitch may already know who I am. Damn. I shouldn’t have given him my name. But what was the real reason he had introduced her to Bull, with a false one? It didn’t make sense. She lay on the bed trying to analyze it, yet came up blank. Should she take off now? Where could she run without money? The few hundred dollars she had left wouldn’t carry her much farther than a couple of provincial borders. Not far enough. She was stuck--caught in a quagmire she couldn’t escape quickly. Disgusted with her lot in life, Jen jumped out of bed. There was no one to advise her, unless...
The glare of light from the computer’s screen hurt her eyes; eyes that already burned with worry. She turned on the lamp and slipped into the chair, clicking feverishly to get to the chat room. Once there, she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Nightspook listed as an occupant. She watched the room’s conversation and noticed he was not taking part. Was he chatting in private? His greeting suddenly appeared in the dialogue box:
Hello, there.
Hello, back, she answered.
The last time we met on here you said you had problems.
And it’s just as true now as it was then, only more so.
Talking about them might help, Nightspook replied.
I have a neighbor that spells trouble.
Jen adjusted the lamp to a better angle. Then hurried to read his answer.
We all have that problem. Why do you think your neighbor is trouble?
He could be a member of a motorcycle gang.
Oops, maybe she shouldn’t have said that. She knew nothing about this guy, for all she knew he could be one too, or a cop in computer surveillance waiting for key words to be punched in having to do with bikers. God, she could land herself in bigger trouble.
And there’s a possibility he’s not?
Well, yes. That’s possible.
Hadn’t you better find out before jumping to conclusions?
Jen sat back in her chair. Was she jumping to conclusions? All she had to go on was Mitch’s appearance, his bike, his mysterious trips at night, and his crummy friend.
Are you still there? Nightspook asked.
Sorry, I was thinking over what you asked. The evidence is strong that he’s a biker, but it’s not conclusive. I have to go. Bye.
Jen shut down her computer before the word, wait! could appear on her screen. "I need evidence, Spooky. Then I’ll know better what to do. When Mitch takes one of his trips tonight, I’m going to do some investigating of my own." Jen checked from her porch steps and saw a light burning in his cottage. She turned off her own lights and lay on her bed fully dressed. Waiting.
Six
"Damn! Why did she disconnect like that?" Mitch scowled at the screen’s blank spot where Jen’s identification picture had roosted. What was going through her mind? He peered out his side window, but there was no light shining through the trees. Had she gone to bed or was she sneaking about his cottage? His skin crawled with the notion that she could be outside his walls, lurking in the dark, waiting for him to make his nightly journey to the city. What would possess her to venture out and spy on a law-abiding citizen? That he’d done the same had no bearing on the matter as far as he was concerned. After all, he was a cop. Well, I can’t stay here. Bull may have news on her whereabouts.
He didn’t think she would dare break in, but just to be sure there was nothing visible to arouse her suspicions, he inspected the interior. The computer might be incriminating so he quickly shoved it into the closet. Now, not one thing she could see showed he was anything other than what he portrayed: a biker living on his own. Mitch looked in the mirror. Yep, he had painted himself exactly as he intended. Trouble was, he didn’t want her to see him in that light.
Mitch eased off the gas when he rode past her hovel, suspecting she was awake. He doubted she’d be bold enough to sneak over to his place. He’d double-checked the locks on the doors and windows just in case, though. "Short of breaking a pane of glass," he mumbled, "she’ll never get in. Let her have her suspicions, I’ll deal with them when I fix her door." He was looking forward to that, too. It would mean closer contact and hopefully this time he would score. His mind dwelled on her figure. He sure had liked her in that tight sweater.
Perhaps he could find out himself why she didn’t press that buzzer when she was in danger at the women’s shelter. His impression of her was that she was sharp on the uptake and definitely not so dumb she’d overlook the only means of protection the transition house had. Something didn’t fit. He expelled a breath of pent up steam. She’d been an inconvenience--now she was a fascination drawing on his detective’s inquisitiveness. His personal involvement couldn’t end until he got the answer.
~ * ~
"Glad you made it in tonight, Mitch. We gotta shoot some serious shit." Bull’s eyes squinted and cut through the smoky air, scanning past the women draped over men at the bar. "Where’s your old lady?"
"I left her at home. I needed a break. She wears me out always wanting to screw around."
"Wow." Bull rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You want us to feel sorry for you, Mr. Stud?"
Mitch grinned. "Not really. I’ll live. What’s up?"
"We ain’t been able to find that social worker bitch yet. Seems she’s taken off. Jake is royally pissed. Even the cops are clueless."
"How do you know they don’t have her stashed away for safe keeping?" Mitch asked. He raised his hand to signal the waitress for a beer.
Bull smiled grimly. "We know. Trust me. The cops don’t like the fact that she’s disappeared. They’re afraid somebody’s gonna squash her like a bug. Somebody like you. And rightly so, I’d say."
"Well, that doesn’t make my job any easier. You’ve tied my hands, Bull. I can’t help you out until you locate her." He pressed a few bills into the waitress’s hand. "Bring Bull another drink, too." He turned back to his table companion and guzzled his beer.
"We’ll find her. The rest’ll be up to you." Bull glanced behind Mitch and nodded slightly. "Something else, Mitch, what did you say was the name of that gal you’ve been seeing?"
Mitch didn’t hesitate with his answer, "Jan Harding. Why?" In the mirror facing him, he watched the reflection of the punk called Spike, taking Bull’s nod as an order. He knew the guy well. He was trouble. Spike turned and left the bar.
"Mitch, I wanted you and me to meet earlier tonight, but I couldn’t find her listed in the phone book."
"We like our privacy. And it’s gonna stay that way."
"Maybe you should give me the address in case we want to get in touch with you."
"Nope..." Mitch swilled down the rest of his drink and winked at the waitress passing by them. "Speaking of babes, it’s time I get back to mine. I like to keep her satisfied."
Bull’s smirk indicated he was peeved at not having his finger on Mitch’s pulse and maybe a tad envious, but he didn’t appear to have any inclination to make an issue of it. Bull still needed him to get rid of Jen, and as long as he was useful to the gang, he was safe.
"Same time, same place tomorrow ni
ght," Bull muttered. "We’ll have her in our sights by then. Our source is on it as we speak."
"You’re source seems a little slow these days." The more Mitch heard about the "source," the more unnerved he became. It was time Don got back to him. He needed to know who else was involved in the case.
"That’s all right. The dirt he gives us is always dead on." Bull winked. "It’s good to have friends in high places."
"You’re right about that. Well, I’d better head on out of here, take care." Mitch sauntered outside and climbed onto his bike. Sometimes he hated this job. The quick decisions he had to make were taking a toll. Maybe he was just feeling old tonight, but when Bull zeroed in on where his girlfriend lived, his heart leaped to his throat. He hoped his answer satisfied Bull, but he wasn’t sure it had.
As he roared away on his Harley, deep in thought, a shadow moved into a black sedan.
~ * ~
The full moon’s silvery light cast eerie shadows as Jen worked her way through the trees. Her flashlight batteries were running low, but she wasn’t going back to change them. If she did, she knew she’d give up this pathetic quest. The scurry of small nightlife in the undergrowth added to the knot in her stomach. She was alone, and although there was no reason to be secretive out here in the wilds, her guilt kept a tight rein on her enthusiasm.
Dampness coated the night air. She hoped it didn’t rain before she got away from Mitch’s cottage. She hated thunder and lightning and already the atmosphere seemed charged. Or was it her nerves? Spooky’s mournful whimpers at being left behind didn’t help. She breathed a sigh of relief when he settled down. She could concentrate on listening for the sound of Mitch’s return. If he held true to form that wouldn’t be for several hours. More than enough time to peer through his windows.
She circled the structure and peeked in through the panes of glass. With the sky clouded over, all she saw was darkness and the light from her flashlight didn’t reveal much. Out of curiosity she tried both doors and found they were locked. It was a stupid idea coming over; even a biker is entitled to privacy. She skipped down the steps and started back toward her haven. Still, if he’s a member of The Misfits, he’d likely have a connection to that creep I shot. There might be some kind of visible confirmation inside and I can’t let the chance to find out slide by so easily. Jen retraced her steps to his veranda door.
She ran her finger along the top of the doorframe. "Ouch!" All she got for her nosiness was a splinter that had to be scraped at several times before the hurt stopped. Looking around, her next place to examine was beneath the small mat. Nothing. Some people are gracious enough to hide their key under a mat on the doorstep. I see Mitch isn’t a trusting soul.
She reached up and felt along the top of the window closest to the door. Again coming up empty she shone the flashlight around the veranda. If there is a key here, the damn thing could be anywhere.
Half-turned, she glanced at the two steps. She sprang to action and walked her fingers up under the riser. Bingo! Metal dangled from a nail. A sudden hoot from the neighborhood owl joined the chorus of calls from the loons and frogs. Across the lake a dog’s alarmed bark sent jitters into her knees. The slight breeze, slapping branches together, added to the tension. Were these signs warning that she should run? She couldn’t, not when her life might lie on the line. She turned the key and, leaving the door open, entered the cabin. If worse came to worst and he did return, she’d hear the motorcycle and rush out before he turned into the yard.
Jen waved her flashlight around the kitchen, then opened cupboards and drawers. There was nothing unusual to grab her attention, so she closed them and slipped to the living room.
"Dammit." She’d stumbled over a misplaced chair. When she circled her flashlight around the room, she could see the furniture had been rearranged. The only spot to search in here was the closet and the couch blocked her way. Odd place for a couch to be. It wasn’t there earlier. Careful not to strain her back because of problems she’d had in the past, she tugged at one end, moving it away from the door. She struggled to pull out the other end. That done, she squeezed behind and opened the closet door. Her mouth dropped!
Taking up most of the closet space was a computer on a table with wheels. That’s strange. Mitch questioned my use of computers and didn’t say a word about his. Jen reached for the cord and looked for a plug in the wall. The only one in the room was some distance away, which meant table and all would have to be hauled out. She had plenty of time. She pushed the couch out more, then pulled the table until she had the cord within reach of the wall socket. When she bent down to plug it in, her back creaked its rebellion; a sharp pain sucked the air from her lungs. Oh no! Not again! She hadn’t been cursed with her back problem in some time. Why now?
Jen groaned, and holding back tears, leaned against the wall. She stifled the urge to swear and flattened her hands against her stomach when a wave of nausea threatened the contents. Perspiration beaded her forehead as she fought the impulse to sink to the floor. If she caved, she’d never be able to get up again.
Torn between the need to rush home and hit the aspirins and the hankering to see what she could glean from his computer, her curiosity triumphed over common sense and pain. Jen pressed one hand tight against the muscle that hurt. With her free hand she plugged in his computer. Crouched on the floor, she reached up, uttered a small moan, then turned on the computer and peered at the screen. Since she didn’t know his password, there was no way she could get into the guts of the machine, but she could study his desktop arrangement.
Mitch had numerous shortcut icons to the programs he used. She scrutinized each one. Some were for games, some for music players and e-mail, one marked My Documents--she wished she could get into that one. In the top corner was an icon for her favorite chat program. Her jaw tightened. What were the odds he should have that particular program accessible when there were many others? In any case, she couldn’t spend more time on it. Setting things back in place was a monumental task; frequent groans and oaths punctuated her efforts.
Jen shone the flashlight up the stairs, wondering if she dared tackle the steep steps. She ought to get out of here. Still, she needed to know if he were a gang member; there was no need for her to rush away, leaving the lake if he weren’t. This might be the only chance she got to find out.
It wouldn’t do to get caught upstairs with the door open, though. If Mitch arrived unexpectedly and found the door wide, he’d immediately be on guard. Jen shivered thinking what a frightening scene that would be. He wouldn’t take kindly to her sleuthing amongst his personal things. She closed the door, flipped the lock, then inched up the spiral staircase. Each step brought another grimace and moan. Although she couldn’t restrain her curiosity, she’d lost the fortitude she had when she barged in the door. Sweat trickled from her temples, yet she forced herself upward. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
With no furniture in the loft except the mattress and box spring, her only option to explore was the space tucked beneath the eaves. Each opening of a hinged door brought squeaks of resistance. She thumbed through the hangers securing his shirts, then moved to the boxes stacked on the floor. The flashlight died. She shook it but received no satisfaction. Left in darkness and in pain, she figured matters couldn’t get worse. Only then did she hear the Harley’s engine as it pulled up to the veranda steps.
What to do? No chance to make it out the door. With the stabbing pain in her back, she couldn’t make it down the stairs in a hurry even if her life depended on it. That left the storage space where she stood, as the only hiding place. A flash of lightning lit up the loft. Jen braced against the pain and carefully scrunching low, closeted herself. She peeked through the partly open door just as light filtered up from the first floor. She could see the unmade bed with clothes strung over it. Across a discarded tee shirt shouted the words: THE MISFITS.
The sound of dishes clattering in the kitchen rose to the loft. Now she had time to consider the gross stupidity of her
break-and-enter. She hadn’t broken anything, but she doubted the lack of it would be a saving grace. Spiders and cobwebs were the least of her worries when lightning struck somewhere close, immediately followed by the loudest roll of thunder she’d ever heard. At that moment, something bony, dragging a long tail skedaddled across her foot. She clamped down hard on the inside of her cheek, slapping her hand over her mouth. Thunder boomed again, almost as loud as the pound of her heartbeat in her ears. She was about to try a fast exit and pray for the best when the wall lamp beside the mattress flashed on. Thuds on the stairs reinforced her dismay. She pulled the door closed, shrinking as far back to the wall as she could get.
The off-key hum of the Garth Brooks’ song Friends In Low Places sifted through cracks in the pine boards. Jen maneuvered herself and saw Mitch whip off his shirt and toss it on the floor. His jeans followed suit, leaving him standing in his tight briefs. She blinked to clear her vision, holding her breath for fear he’d want pajamas from the shelf near her head. That would be the final straw. On any other occasion she’d be delighted to see the physique she’d admired earlier. Please not tonight, she prayed. Then she saw him flop on the mattress and draw up his feet and legs. She thanked her lucky stars that he scooted them under the covers.
Mitch turned out the lamp. Jen eased out the breath imprisoned in her lungs, slunk back to her wall position and slipped cautiously to the floor. She rested her chin on her bent knees and struggled to clarify her thinking. The hour was late; he’d be tired. Surely I can hold out long enough for him to fall asleep. After a few minutes of chaotic thoughts mulling around in her head, the rain stopped; the thunder gave one last rumble and rolled on its way. Someone was listening to her prayers tonight.
The ticking of a clock resounded into her nook as she waited. All else was calm. Just when she thought she might risk leaving her uncomfortable nest, the bedcovers rustled. She listened. Mitch groaned, and punched his pillow. Jen’s hopes went down in flames. A switch clicked. She could hear a soft slide accompanied by a breath of nose-tingling night air. Her mind skipped from its concentration on him when she pressed her finger on the nerve near the bridge of her nose to deflect a sneeze. The room was silent. "Achooooooooooo!"
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