No Place to Hide

by Opa Hysea Wise

  “I take it then that rent has climbed for current tenants as well, even if their units have not been renovated, perhaps forcing some of them out.”

  The property manager’s blue eyes narrowed slightly. “Well, it’s what the market can bear.”

  “Perhaps, it is what the market can bear, but we aren’t talking about the market. It may not be what people can bear, hence the number of units now available.” Artie’s last statement was a cool indictment.

  She understood the need for a business to make a profit, but she also remembered Smythe’s explanation of why she moved into the complex to begin with. The complex was centrally located and reasonably priced. Yet, the most persuasive selling point for Smythe was the number of elderly people who resided there. The elderly, she thought, were not well-known for partying. They were mostly quiet and more considerate of their neighbors. They were also in the habit of following the rules, which Smythe appreciated.

  Yet, in recent months, Smythe and Artie had watched a mass exodus of neighbors from the complex. The reason was always the same. The current owners hiked the rental prices up a couple hundred dollars, added additional maintenance fees, and changed some of the amenities, including pool hours, with no explanation. Many decided the complex was just not worth the price anymore, while others on fixed incomes were now priced out of their home.

  Artie noted the silence between them, shook her head, and smiled. “So, when will renovations in this area begin?”

  “We start next week,” the manager said coolly.

  “Well, I would love to live close to my friend. She’s in building five, across the way. Will you have units in that building available?”

  Sensing a sale, the managers’ face lit up. “That building has some of the best sun exposure. Unfortunately, there aren’t any units available at the moment. The building is full and has been for quite some time. However, we will have a tenant that is scheduled to vacate in the next two months. She is moving overseas. It will be taken off of the market for tenancy for roughly two months while renovations are completed and then become available.”

  “What’s the unit number?” Artie asked.

  “Unit 554. It’s a two-bedroom. Once the tenant has vacated, we will schedule it for renovation. I would suspect that it would be ready by October at the earliest.” The manager paused, thinking about the construction team hired to complete the renovations. “I’m thinking that, given our contractors are a bit behind, probably November. In time for the holidays, if you can wait that long.”

  “That time frame may just work out for me. May I place that unit on hold?”

  “Of course.”

  After returning to the office, the manager walked Artie through the application process and the deposit that would be required. She agreed to the terms, including the nonrefundable fees, completed the necessary paperwork, and paid the deposit. Another tax write-off, she thought. She typed a note into her phone, reminding herself to call the office manager in a couple of months to cancel her tentative tenant agreement, losing the nonrefundable fees.

  Her team sat in a parking spot out front, surprising Artie as she left the office. Curious, she hopped in her vehicle. Her driver pulled up to the closed gate and used the remote to open it. It was only then that she remembered the remote control to the gate which would have allowed her access past the office was not in her possession.

  “Thanks, guys. Wasn’t in the mood to hop the gate.”

  “We figured, boss. You weren’t at the client’s residence. Thought we would assist,” her driver said with a smile.

  She later met with Dennis to discuss her conversation with the rental manager and outlined next steps during the renovation of the soon-to-be-vacated unit.

  “That’s a wrinkle, boss.”

  “We have some time. Run down the list of contracted companies and get me a complete list of employees.”

  “It’s going to take a while.”

  “So, we better get started, then. Contractors in and out of the unit that sits right next door to Smythe. The renovations will become too much of a perfect storm, and soon that storm is going to be sitting right next door.”

  Artie stood at the front door to Smythe’s unit. She changed the expression on her face, sensing concern written all over it. She entered, expecting to find Smythe hard at work in the dining room. Surprised she was not there, she quietly closed the front door and listened. She could hear faint tapping coming from Smythe’s bedroom.

  She removed her jacket, hung it up in the dining room closet, and ambled to the refrigerator to grab a bottled water. She could see Smythe against the far wall, sitting in her recliner with her tablet on her lap. She moved hesitantly toward Smythe’s bedroom, softly tapping the bedroom door before leaning against the door frame. Smythe was deep in thought, typing quickly. She glanced up slowly as though she were coming back down from another world.

  “Hmmm.”

  “Earth to Smythe.”

  “Oh, hey. Give me a minute, I need to finish this thought.”

  Artie remained standing at the door. Smythe took another minute, lightly tapping her fingers onto her keyboard. She paused every few seconds, as if allowing her thoughts to complete their work before entering them onto the screen. When she finally looked up, Artie was reviewing a text message.

  “I’m sorry. I was just in the middle of a storyline and needed to write it down before I forgot it. What time is it?”

  She looked toward the onyx wall clock hanging on her wall. “Oh, wow, 4:30. Late. How are you?”

  “I’d be better if you weren’t sitting there. There are security measures in place, but still, it’s a bit of risk, Smythe.”

  “That would require that I reconfigure the entire room if I wanted to sit in the recliner. I like the feel of it just the way it is. Besides, the curtains are always closed.”

  Artie sighed loudly.

  “Plus, I’ve been increasing my mileage and speed, and my legs are wiped out. Keeping them elevated helps in the recovery.”

  “When was the last time you drank water? That helps recovery as well.”

  “True. Thanks for the reminder.”

  “Can you come out here? We need to chat for a bit.”

  Smythe nodded and rose from her seat, standing slightly hunched over. Her legs and lower back felt stiff and achy. She slowly bent over further and stretched her hamstrings and calf muscles before stiffly walking into the living room. Artie took a seat at the far end of the sofa. Smythe regarded Artie momentarily before taking a seat next to her, sensing an energy from her that she had not felt before.

  “I met with the FBI agent in charge of your case today. They’re still trying to move the case up. She expressed concern about the amount of traveling you are scheduling over the next few months. I need to ask again, is there any chance you can curtail some of it until after the trial?”

  “No, there really isn’t, Artie. I’ve already canceled a lot of traveling as it is. I wanted to make some weekend trips, but I’m remaining here. I’m not giving up my best friend’s daughter’s wedding, nor am I cancelling the ten days for the second conference. It’s the last conference for this year-long class, and my presence is required if I want to be certified.”

  “So, you’ve decided against the weekend trips?” Artie asked, a bit surprised at Smythe’s sudden change of heart.

  “Yeah, I have. I thought about it and decided that after this case is over, I’m taking myself on a very, very long vacation. At least three to four weeks along the upper coast. I want to just get lost for a while, maybe even go to Hawaii if I can swing it.”

  Observing her client, it was then that Artie began to understand the change in behavior—the reason she sat in her bedroom to work. She leaned toward Smythe.

  “Smythe, we’re working hard to end this case quickly. The justice system is slow when it comes to cases like this. They really want to make sure that their case is tight. You’re the main witness, baby.”

  “Yeah,
I know. It’s just not what I expected. I thought not going into witness protection would give me more freedom. I had hoped that all I had to do was keep a fairly low profile; I would testify, and that would be the end of it. It hit me last night that this case seems to hinge completely on my testimony. I mean, I’ve known it, but I’m becoming more aware of it. I can barely drive my own new car, I don’t go out, I barely see a movie without having you guys all but stealthily surround my mom and me!”

  “You have very few friends, Smythe,” Artie said gently.

  “That’s not the point. I can’t even cultivate any new relationships, and what few friends that I do have, I have to lie to, feigning illness or work. I’m just restless, I guess.”

  “Is that why you’re working in your bedroom today?”

  Smythe reflected on the question. She knew her energy was low. It had been a struggle to get through a paltry three-mile run, reducing her speed steadily until she walked the last half mile. Earlier in the day, she attempted to sit in the dining room to study but could not bring herself to remain in the open space. Eventually, she found her way to her bedroom and, for most of the day, sat and wrote.

  “I’ve been feeling a bit depressed, that’s all, and I’ve just felt more secure in there. I think I just needed to nest a bit, if that makes sense. Plus, I was hoping that your team could come in and get out of the heat.”

  Artie nodded her head in understanding. “They have to maintain perimeter surveillance, but it’s a sweet offer. Is there anything you need from me or my team?”

  “No, not unless you can finish this seminar I am writing, complete my mentor’s course, pass the written exam and essays with flying colors, conduct my presentations at his conference, and testify on my behalf.”

  Smythe glanced toward the door. She wondered what it would feel like once the case was over. She had become increasingly honest with herself over the last 24 hours and admitted that her “crush” on Artie was deeper than she thought. The idea of her leaving at some point was more than she thought she could bear. That was the real truth, but one she was unwilling to share with Artie.

  “You really like the Pacific Northwest and Oahu, don’t you?”

  “I really do. I visualize moving to one of those locations in the next few years. My mentor teaches that we can be, do, and have most anything—the trick is to focus on it every day, make it a goal, and create a vision board.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s just a tool that can be used to concentrate, help with clarity, and maintain focus on a specific goal in life. If you do visualizations every day, a vision board helps with that. For example, let’s say I have a goal to live along the Northern California coast. I might use any kind of board and pin up pictures of what I want my house to look like, the furnishings I want within the house, the scenery I want to see, and any other pertinent details as a representation of living along the Northern California coast. That board serves as a representation of the future I want. Then, I would place that board in a place that I would see every day.”

  Smythe pointed to the board hanging on a wall next to her printer. “When we see that board every day and visualize the feeling of having attained that goal, our brains will work nonstop to achieve the images or statements by activating our subconscious mind.”

  Artie nodded her head. She thought about her own company. In many ways, she had done exactly what Smythe described. She decided how many clients she wanted, what types of cases she would take, and the type of team she wanted to assemble. Law enforcement background would be a must for everyone on her team, and their record had to be exemplary. Over a couple of years, as she gained clarity, the company she now runs was the company she envisioned.

  Smythe broke into Artie’s thoughts. “What about you? Have you always wanted to stay in the valley?”

  “No. I was assigned here when I worked with the FBI. My fantasy is Switzerland. But that will have to wait until after Davey goes to college. I don’t want to leave the country until he is an adult.”

  Smythe made no response.

  “Listen, I’ve got an idea,” Artie said, breaking Smythe’s long silence.

  “I’ve been at this all day, and I know you have, too. If you are at a stopping point, let me spring for an on-demand movie. I can send the guys out for popcorn and candy, we can darken the living room, and we’ll hang out in this makeshift movie theater. Use the sofa as movie seats.”

  “I’d like that a lot, Artie. I can be at a stopping point.”

  “Perfect, I’ll radio it in so that when their food is delivered, the movie junk food can be delivered as well. Any preferences for a movie?”

  “I’m partial to anything that does not involve gratuitous violence, gore, or horror.”

  “So, if I recall correctly, you like sci-fi, comedy, and love stories.”

  “You make me sound like such a girl. I also like adventure and disaster films,” Smythe teased.

  “Ha! You’re on.”

  Smythe smiled. She left the living room to put her work away and fold down her bed. As she headed out of her bedroom, tears began to fill her eyes. Tears of joy that she could spend an enjoyable evening doing something other than reading in bed before lights out a few hours later. She wiped away her tears and headed into the kitchen, opening up her refrigerator. There was a bottle of white wine, two bottles of beer, and a half bottle of Sangria.

  “What do you want for dinner?” Smythe asked.

  “My favorite, pizza. Canadian bacon on one side for me and mushrooms on the other side for you.”

  “Hmmm. Just thinking about the type of wine.”

  “There’s a bottle of red in the cabinet, no?”

  “Is there? Let me check.” Smythe took a few steps to the dining room cabinet. She scanned the top shelf. “Indeed. Red it is.”

  “Pizza will be here in about an hour. Popcorn and candy, too.”

  “An hour? Let me guess, The Joint.”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s a thirty-minute drive without traffic. He’ll deliver?”

  “Good to know the owner. I know I’m picky about where I get food, but in my line of work, I have to be. There are certain places I trust, others, not so much.”

  “I’m not complaining, trust me. I love his pizza, especially the crust. It’s so light with just a hint of sweetness to it. Let’s figure out what to watch together.”

  They decided on a mega-disaster film before tending to minor tasks around the apartment. Artie made a couple of phone calls while Smythe decided to tidy up her already spotless apartment.

  Retrograde

  THE NEXT MORNING, SMYTHE WOKE UP IN A SOMBER MOOD. Contemplating the day ahead, she could barely hold back the tears as she lay in her bed. Her heart ached as memories of an old wound she called the nemesis emerged into her consciousness. The thought of moving through the business tasks she set up for the day seemed insurmountable. After rummaging around in her thoughts, she finally coaxed herself up and into the kitchen to start coffee. To her consternation, Artie was already moving around the kitchen and had prepared hot water for the French press.

  “Good morning.”

  “Morning,” Smythe replied softly.

  “How did you sleep?”

  “Not well.” Smythe wandered into the living room, choosing a book as she walked by the book cabinet and settled into a corner on her sofa.

  Artie lowered her head slightly, concealing a slight furrow of concern. She moved about the kitchen with deliberate ease, removing the whistling tea kettle from the stovetop and poured the hot water into the French press. She casually stirred the coffee grounds and hot water together before placing the lid over the press, covering it with a tea cozy. With the coffee steeping, she quietly entered the living room where Smythe sat reading. Artie turned up the light to the torchiere lamp which stood across from the sofa and sat next to Smythe.

  “Hey. What’s going on, baby?”

  Laying her book gently on her lap, Smythe looked dow
n at her hands, which rested atop her book. “Today is my father’s birthday. Just remembering his death and life, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  With a tone of forced indifference, Smythe replied, “Not sure there is anything to be sorry for. It was, in many ways, a complicated relationship. His death was quick in some respects and slow in others. There’s just so much emotion to process through. I’m a bit surprised at my reaction.”

  “I’ll listen if you want to share.”

  With an abandoned gaze, Smythe shifted her eyes from her hands to the front door and took in a breath. In almost hushed silence, she recalled the events to Artie in minute detail. As if they happened yesterday, her body relived every painful moment, tensing and contracting with each recollection.

  She recounted the sexual abuse as a child, at the hands of her father, and a mother who would not believe her, who years later asked her to seek “professional help.” She remembered stuffing her emotions into the deepest parts of herself and convincing herself that the abuse didn’t happen. It took years of stuffing until it had created a monster inside of her; a monster she kept at bay with cigarettes by the pack and an occasional drink.

  She endured years of separation from her family as the outcast member until a series of events brought her back into her family. However, she would never again bring up the abuse again to her mother.

  She recounted to Artie that years later, she would move to the valley. By that time, her father would have been diagnosed with a degenerative brain disorder. She was bone-weary during the slow dying of her father at the beginning of the year, her mind mostly on autopilot. His physical and psychological health deteriorated at a rapid pace over just a few months. Hallucinations, severe mood swings, and an inability to walk without assistance had become the norm. He had fallen nine times over a five-week period, and the stress of the next emergency had brought her mother to the brink of despair. She had also grown very resentful of her father.