Copycat

by Alex Lake

‘So, Mr Davies. You’re still having the pain in your leg?’

  ‘Derek, please. And yes. It’s getting worse.’

  ‘I see. Did you visit the physical therapist?’

  He nodded. ‘She gave me some exercises to do. Stretches. They don’t work.’

  ‘Did you follow her instructions?’ Sarah said.

  ‘Yes. But it didn’t help.’

  ‘You might need to give it more time.’

  ‘My ankles hurt as well,’ he said. ‘They tingle.’

  ‘Both of them? Or only the left?’

  ‘Both. But the left more.’

  Sarah stood up and moved toward the bed. She felt him watching her. She swallowed, fighting the feeling of panic. ‘Could you hop on here for me and remove your shoes and socks?’

  Derek Davies perched on the bed. He took off his shoes – scuffed leather walking shoes – and pulled the stained white exercise socks off his feet. They gave off a rotten smell; Sarah snapped on a pair of surgical gloves.

  She sat on a stool and took his left foot in her hand. The toenails were thick and yellow; up close the smell was even worse. Some athlete’s foot between the toes, dry skin on the top of the foot. She paused, and looked at his ankle. It was slightly swollen, and there was a dark, mottled spread of veins covering it.

  Sarah took a metal pin from a tray on the table. She pressed it into his swollen flesh.

  ‘Does this hurt?’ she said. She did it again.

  ‘A bit. Should it?’

  ‘Mr Davies,’ Sarah said. ‘Have you been tested for diabetes?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Do I have it?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. Often diabetes can cause swelling or bruising in the foot, along with loss of sensation. I’m going to have you do some bloodwork.’

  He looked at her, a little startled.

  ‘I didn’t expect that,’ he said.

  ‘What did you expect?’

  For a moment he looked puzzled, almost caught out, then he shrugged. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Is it serious? Will I have to come to see you often?’

  His expression grew intense, hungry almost, and her heart began to speed up.

  ‘Properly managed, it should be fine,’ she said, her words coming quickly. ‘We can work with you on how to deal with it.’

  She was breathless, and her face felt hot. Derek Davies leaned forward.

  ‘Is everything OK, Dr Havenant?’ he said. ‘You seem upset?’

  He reached out his hand as though about to touch her forearm and she shrank back.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’ She got to her feet. ‘See the receptionist on the way out,’ she said. ‘She’ll arrange the bloodwork.’

  19

  For once, Sarah was early for camp pickup. After Derek Davies had left she had moved the last appointment of the day, anxious to get home.

  She pulled into the gravel car park of Mitchell Field, the oceanside location of Faye’s Nature Discovery Camp, and squinted; the sun was reflecting off the water of the Harpswell Sound and she had left her sunglasses at work. She grabbed a baseball cap from the passenger seat – an old green John Deere one they had picked up somewhere, which said ‘Owners’ Edition’ on it, a fact which Ben claimed won him friendly and respectful nods from farmers and other owners of John Deere farm equipment – and got out of the car.

  She was the first parent there, and the kids had recently returned from their activities. They were all changing into their normal shoes – they’d been on a beach – under a canvas awning.

  Sarah headed for Marla, the camp leader. She wanted to let her know to be extra-vigilant when it came to Faye. She wasn’t sure how she would broach the subject – she didn’t want to sound over-dramatic in case Marla got spooked and asked her to remove Faye from the camp entirely, but at the same time she had to say something.

  ‘Hey, Marla,’ she said. ‘How’s camp?’

  Marla was bent over a trestle table, working her way down a list. It was a second or two before she looked up.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Sarah. I wasn’t expecting to see you.’

  Sarah frowned. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I thought you were out of town.’

  ‘Out of town? Why would I be out of town?’

  ‘Because of your dad.’

  ‘What about my dad?’

  Sarah’s throat tightened. It was happening again. She rested her hands on the table to steady herself.

  ‘His illness.’

  ‘My dad’s dead,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Oh,’ Marla said. ‘I’m sorry. It must have been a shock. So sudden.’

  ‘He passed away four years ago,’ Sarah said.

  A shadow crossed Marla’s face. She was new to Barrow, a recent transplant from Boston looking for a slower-paced existence for her kids. As a result she did not know the ins and outs of the lives of other Barrow residents; most people would have known that Sarah’s dad – a former mayor – was no longer around.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Marla said. ‘Your email—’

  ‘Could I see the email?’ Sarah said.

  Marla passed her a phone. ‘There,’ she said. ‘See?’

  There was, as Sarah knew there would be, an email from Sarah Havenant. Gmail, not Outlook.

  Hi Marla, it read. Sorry to do this so late but my dad had a bad fall and broke his hip. I need to go visit with him. My mom needs help. Can you send Faye home with her uncle? He’s called Tim, and he’ll be coming to pick her up after camp. Any problem, give me a call. You have my cell, right? S.

  Sarah fought the urge to throw up. She glanced up at the entrance to the field, half-expecting to see a car pull up and stop, a man looking out at her and realizing his plan had failed, then driving off. What would she do? Give chase? No – she’d call the cops and tell them to stop him, somehow. Stop Uncle Tim, the man who was going to abduct her daughter.

  Thank God she’d been early. If she’d been late, as usual … she pushed the thought away.

  ‘Sarah?’ Marla said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sarah said. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘Is this email a fake?’ Marla said.

  Sarah nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is.’

  ‘Someone was impersonating you? Saying Faye’s uncle would be coming to get her?’

  ‘She doesn’t have an uncle,’ Sarah said. ‘There is no uncle. Whoever was coming was nothing to do with her or her family.’

  Marla – who was tanned from the weeks outside – went totally pale. She clapped her hand to her mouth.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  This kind of thing doesn’t happen here, she was thinking. Sarah could see it in her expression; there was a look in her eyes that was both shocked and disillusioned. This kind of thing doesn’t happen here. We moved here for that reason.

  Except this kind of thing did happen here, clearly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said.

  ‘No!’ Marla replied. ‘Don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.’

  ‘I know, but you don’t need this at your camp.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Marla said, even though it wasn’t. ‘We should call the cops. Whoever it is may still show up.’

  Sarah nodded, but she was pretty sure that, even if they did come, they would turn away as soon as they saw her. Marla reached for her phone; Sarah listened as she explained what had happened.

  ‘They’re going to send someone,’ Marla said.

  ‘I think I’d like to take Faye now,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t want her to be here when the cops show up. Could you ask them to come to the house? I can talk to them there.’

  ‘Of course,’ Marla said. ‘I’ll go and get her.’

  ‘It’s fine. I will.’

  ‘OK,’ Marla said. ‘And – will you be bringing her tomorrow?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘I don’t think I will,’ she said.

  Marla, Sarah saw, wa
s more relieved than anything. She didn’t blame her.

  20

  Ben was already back – with Miles and Kim – when Sarah got home. She opened the rear door of the car and followed Faye into the house.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, the brightness in her voice and the smile on her face entirely and obviously forced, a fact which caused Ben to look at her with a frown. ‘Who wants to watch a TV show? And have pizza for dinner?’

  Miles stared at her. ‘Really? On a weeknight?’

  Miles loved watching TV to the point of obsession. Sarah, like most parents, looked for clues in her children about the adults they would grow into. Whether they were relaxed, or quick to feel and show emotion; whether they were happier in company or alone; whether they were naturally considerate of others or whether they were self-centered. And then, if she saw a trait emerging she didn’t like, she would seek to correct it, by modeling the behavior she wanted to encourage. It was useful for her also; on a number of occasions she had seen Miles get unreasonably anxious about being late for school or a birthday party, and had mentioned it to Ben.

  Gets it from his mum, he said.

  Really? she replied, although she knew it was true. She hated being late, with an almost physical intensity, and always arrived on time. A 7 p.m. party invite meant, for her, a 7 p.m. arrival. Likewise, if she invited people over to eat lunch at 1 p.m., the lunch – hot and delicious and rapidly losing both qualities – would be ready at 1 p.m. She hated watching the clock tick from five after to ten after to quarter after, the food getting colder and colder and her mood worse and worse.

  So she had forced herself to relax – if you could force yourself to relax – and she thought she was a bit better these days. Not much, but better.

  However pleased she was to be modeling this more relaxed behavior to Miles, she was less keen to accept the other trait she saw developing in her son: he was a TV and computer game addict. He would, if allowed, sit for hours staring at the screen, and so they limited screen time to weekends. She was sure he would spend most of his college days batting aliens or driving stolen race cars, but while she could she was going to limit it.

  So the offer of a TV show on a weeknight was a big deal.

  ‘Yep,’ Sarah said. ‘You can watch a show tonight.’

  ‘Anything we want?’ Miles said.

  ‘Anything appropriate for Kim,’ she replied.

  ‘Aww,’ Miles said. ‘But those are baby shows.’

  ‘Do what you always do, Miles,’ Ben said. ‘Watch five minutes of Daniel Tiger and then turn on some violent cartoon when Mum and I aren’t paying attention.’

  ‘Oh,’ Miles said. ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ll call for pizza,’ Sarah said. ‘You guys go and settle on the couch.’

  ‘Well,’ Ben said, when the kids were gone. ‘Very unusual. What’s going on?’

  Sarah pulled a chair from under the dining table and sat down. Her legs were suddenly weak; now the kids were out of the room there was nothing to keep her occupied and stop her emotions from taking control. Nothing to stop the feeling of sheer terror that gripped her every time she thought of what had happened.

  ‘Sarah?’ Ben said. He crouched next to her. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She gestured for him to sit.

  ‘Marla got an email,’ she said, her voice strained. ‘At camp. It said Faye’s uncle was coming to pick her up.’

  ‘What uncle? She doesn’t have one, at least not here. My brother’s in London.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Sarah swallowed. Her throat was dry. ‘Would you mind getting me a drink?’

  Ben stood up. ‘Of course. Water? Tea?’

  ‘Maybe a real drink.’

  ‘Wine. We have some white open.’

  ‘Do we have gin and tonic?’ Sarah said.

  ‘No tonic. We have seltzer, though.’

  ‘That’ll do.’

  He poured her a drink, then sat down again. ‘So. This uncle?’

  ‘Someone using my name – it was the Sarah Havenant Gmail account – emailed Marla and told her Faye’s uncle would be coming to camp to pick her up since I had gone to see my dad.’

  ‘Your dad’s dead.’

  ‘Marla didn’t know. The email said this fictitious uncle would be there a bit early, and could she have Faye ready.’ Sarah’s lip started to quiver and she blinked back tears. ‘I happened,’ she said, her voice breaking, ‘I happened, by chance, Ben, by dumb luck, to be there early, so it was me who picked up Faye, and not someone else.’

  Ben stared at her. ‘Are you serious?’ he said.

  Sarah nodded. She covered her mouth with her hand. ‘She could have been taken,’ she said. ‘Our little girl. She could have been taken.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Ben said, his face pale. ‘Fuck. What do we do?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘Talk to the cops. We need help.’

  The pizza arrived shortly after Ian Molyneux showed up, this time in uniform. He refused a slice and patted his stomach.

  ‘Might as well strap it to my waist,’ he said. ‘Older I get, easier it is to put it on and harder it is to take it off.’

  ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice,’ Sarah said.

  ‘No problem. So, what happened?’

  ‘This was sent to Faye’s camp counselor.’ Sarah handed him her phone and showed him the email Marla had forwarded to her.

  Ian read it. ‘I thought your old man was— I thought he passed away?’

  ‘He did. The email isn’t from me.’

  ‘It’s another fake email,’ Ben said. ‘This doesn’t feel like a prank anymore. If it ever did.’

  Ian passed the phone back to Sarah. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It sure doesn’t.’

  ‘So,’ Sarah said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think I need to talk to some folks,’ Ian said. ‘Find out if this has happened anywhere else. It’s possible there might have been similar situations in other places. Attempted abductions that follow this pattern.’ He paused. ‘Although I don’t see why anyone would bother with the Facebook stuff. All it does is draw attention. But then, who knows with these people?’

  These people, Sarah thought. The way he said it made clear that in his mind these people were the crazies, the psychopaths, the murderers and rapists. And now these people were in her and her family’s lives.

  ‘And if there aren’t other cases like this?’ Ben said.

  ‘I dunno,’ Ian said. ‘We may be able to trace something. The Internet companies have a lot of data. They don’t always like to share it, but if there’s a threat to a kid involved – well, they might be more willing. They’re parents, too. Some of ’em, at least.’ He took out a notebook. ‘Old school way,’ he said. ‘Can’t break the habit. What was the name of the woman who got the email?’

  ‘Marla Niles,’ Sarah said. ‘I can give you her details. Are you planning to talk to her?’

  ‘Someone will. They’ll want to see the original email.’

  ‘OK,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ll let her know the cops will be in touch.’

  ‘Actually,’ Ian said. ‘It would be better if you didn’t.’

  ‘You think she’s a suspect?’ Sarah said. It was hard to imagine that Marla would have sent herself the email; after all, she could hardly pick up Faye from her own camp.

  Unless, of course, she was working with someone, and the email was cover. Sarah pictured her talking to the cops, Faye long gone.

  I didn’t know her dad was dead. I’m new in town. I thought it was really her uncle.

  She stopped herself. It was ridiculous. Marla wasn’t involved.

  Unless she was. That was the thing with this situation: since there were no suspects, everyone was a suspect.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I won’t say anything.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Ian said. He paused. ‘I shouldn’t share this, but I looked into Rachel Little.’ He glanced at Ben; clearly the presence of a lawyer was unsettling him. ‘We’re friends, though, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Sara
h said. ‘And I get it. You never said nothin’. Did you find anything out?’

  Ian shook his head. ‘Nothing striking. She has no criminal record. Seems to have been living in San Diego until she moved back here. She was married, for a couple of years. Got divorced six months ago.’

  ‘Maybe she moved back because of the divorce,’ Sarah said. ‘Although she didn’t mention it.’

  ‘No kids?’ Ben said.

  ‘No,’ Ian said. ‘Not that I know of, anyway. She changed her name back to Little. She was Landay, Rachel Landay. Her husband was from this side of the country. Connecticut.’

  Sarah tensed. She leaned forward.

  ‘Not Matt Landay?’ she said.

  Ian looked up at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I knew a Matt Landay from Connecticut. Our age. It’s an unusual name.’ She glanced at Ben. ‘I dated him in college. He was – he was a little obsessive.’

  ‘You think this is the same guy?’ Ian said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ll give you his details.’

  Molyneux nodded. ‘OK. I’ll look into it.’ He frowned. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything out. In the meantime, be in touch immediately if anything happens. You can call 911 or the station, but you have my cell phone if you need it. It’s always on and I live close by. Hopefully there’s no need, but just in case.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sarah said. ‘That’s very reassuring.’

  ‘All part of the job,’ Ian said. ‘You guys take care.’

  21

  Sarah didn’t want to be in work, and in all honesty she probably shouldn’t have been. She was hardly her best self; she’d been distracted all morning. But she’d had no choice. The practice couldn’t get a replacement until the afternoon, so Ben was home with the kids and she was here for half a day. But her mind was not on her work.

  It was on the person who was masquerading as her. Who had been sending emails in her name. Who had been taking photos of her and her family.

  Who had been planning to kidnap her daughter.

  It was a struggle to stop the panic – the tightness in her throat, the shortness of breath, the waves of dizziness – from overwhelming her. She knew it was, in part, her body over-reacting; she’d learned that as a doctor, but also from her own experience of anxiety attacks, when her mind would run riot at the most ridiculous things – once, she had ended up sitting on a park bench deep-breathing to get herself under control because she had been worried an airplane might fall out of the empty blue sky and kill her and the kids.