Zeke reached behind him for the phone and punched in the code. Then he turned it so she could see the message: Keep your doors locked. There was a prison break not far from your cabin.
8
There is something sexy about a man in uniform. Prison garb does not count. Nor does clothing from the eighties.
Maggie stared at the words on the screen, then at the man holding her phone.
“You need to respond,” Zeke said, matter-of-factly. “Let Cal know you’re safe.”
“Oh? Am I safe, Zeke? Am I really safe?”
He smiled. “I like to hear you say my name, Maggie.”
She stood. “I’ll get my keys and head out, then. You keep the gun and knives. Keep the phone, too. But I’m going to head out now.”
Zeke stayed on the couch while Maggie went to the bedroom to get her purse and keys. She was shaking all over, as if she were the one thawing out this time. All her emotions were on the surface. They’d been set free on the couch and she couldn't screw the lid back down. For one blessed moment she had felt peace, had almost fallen asleep. Now fear was charging the hill again.
When Maggie turned, Zeke filled the doorframe.
“I responded for you.” He held the phone out. “See what you think of this: I’ll keep them locked, Cal. Thanks for loving me enough to let me know! I used an exclamation point. Took me a little bit to figure out how to—”
Rage flared and surged past Maggie’s fear. She slapped at the phone, trying to knock it from his hand, then she slapped at him, trying to move him away from the door. Don’t trap me!
But when he grabbed her arms, she realized her mistake. Zeke obviously wasn’t sane, Maggie shouldn’t have made him mad.
He wrestled her to the bed. He’s going to rape and kill me now. My children will pay for my stupidity.
Zeke pinned her arms with his hands and her ankles with his shins. “You know I can’t let you leave, Maggie. It’s dangerous.”
“More dangerous than being here?” Her face crumbled. Maggie hated being trapped. She could feel the mattress below her and the closeness of his taut body above. Her world was closing in. Are these my final moments? Am I about to die?
Zeke laid the top of his head on her chest and rolled it side to side. Was he weighing his options? The smell of her shampoo on his hair wafted up her nose.
“Dammit, Maggie! Could we just get a good night’s rest and talk about this in the morning? I am so tired.”
The vice grip in his hands and knees didn’t make it seem like he was tired, but Maggie had to admit his blue eyes looked it when he raised his head back up.
“Don’t be foolish,” Zeke said.
“You mind clarifying ‘foolish’?”
“I think you know.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
Maggie breathed in and out, studying Zeke’s face. His sideburns were a little long. Maybe she wasn’t about to die. “And if I promise not to do anything foolish?”
He rolled off her and stood, putting a hand to his leg where she knew his wound was beneath the sweats. “Then we’ll be fine.”
Zeke turned to go.
“Were you the only one?” she asked.
He looked back at her.
“The prison break.” Maggie’s breath was still coming fast. “Were you the only one?”
The line of his lips grew thin. “You don’t have to worry about that other guy. Now get some sleep, Maggie.” Zeke shut the bedroom door behind him. There were no locks on the inside doors. She knew this already.
Maggie lay in the dark, watching the snow outside the window continue to swirl and fall. Hours must have passed as she went back through the events of the last five months, the events of that evening, each word Zeke had uttered, the oddness of his being here. Maggie wove dozens of escape plans in her mind, but lacked confidence in her ability to execute a single one.
Sometime in the night, feeling sorry for herself and more alone than she’d ever been in her life, Maggie’s eyelids grew heavy and she gave in to sleep.
***
Maggie woke with a start. Had she heard a noise? Where was she? Outside the windows snow was still falling.
Zeke! The cabin was as silent as the snow outside. Maggie lay still, her body paralyzed with fear.
She looked at the bedroom door. It was closed. Had the earlier events of the night really happened? It wasn’t Maggie’s habit to close the bedroom door. Her bladder screamed for relief. She wanted to go back to sleep and wake to sunshine, warmth, and the realization that it had only been a nightmare, the Chardonnay gone bad. But her bladder wouldn’t cooperate. If Maggie didn’t go to the bathroom her body would explode.
Easing the covers back, she put her sock feet to the floor. Maggie never slept in socks. She tiptoed to the door and eased it open. As the door swung into the hallway it bumped against something. Maggie’s breath caught.
Zeke sat up and looked at her from a pallet of blankets and a pillow he’d borrowed from the couch. It was true then. Zeke had really happened.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I need to go the bathroom.”
He rolled to the side and let her pass.
She went in and closed the door, knowing he would hear her. Hadn’t there been a moment when her fear of him had completely dissolved? When she felt relief and joy from his words? Maggie wanted that moment back. Having a man in her cabin was as tiring as divorce.
She flushed and washed her hands, wondering if there was anything in the bathroom she could use to win her freedom. Maggie’s shoulders sagged. She decided to wait and figure it out in the morning. Zeke hadn’t killed her yet. Perhaps he wouldn’t tomorrow.
She eased back by him in the hallway, feeling a little sorry for him on his blanket on the floor. “Did I ever give you the Tylenol?” she asked.
“I’m okay. Thanks.”
Maggie didn’t know what happened to it anyway. She couldn’t tell what time it was. Zeke still had her cell phone. The only other clock in the cabin was on the microwave and she couldn’t see it from the hallway. For all the snow and ice outside, the air was surprisingly warm.
“You must have put another log on.”
He grunted in affirmation. She’d been afraid to let the fire keep going through the night. Now, on the coldest evening since she’d been in the cabin, it felt the warmest.
“Would you not be more comfortable on the sofa?” she asked.
“I’ll sleep here until I’ve won your trust, Maggie.”
Was Zeke worried she would escape out the back door if he was on the couch? Or that she’d open one of the bedroom windows? If she did, he would feel the cold air of it pull from under the door here in the hallway.
Maggie wondered if she could raise herself through the cut-out over the head of the bed without him hearing her and get to the front door. But if he’d heard her open the gun case while he was in the bath, Zeke was sure to hear her shimmy up through that cut-out in the wall.
Not knowing what else to say, Maggie went back into the bedroom and closed the door. She didn’t bother with any more escape plans. She simply closed her eyes and prayed for protection. Then Maggie went to sleep.
9
Stephen King said in Secret Windows that writing allows you to step into another world, to “be someplace else for a while.”
When Maggie woke again, the bedroom was flooded in light. A deep snow covered everything outside the window, and though the skies were still overcast, sun streamed through cracks in the clouds. The world was awash in brilliant white.
The bedroom door stood open, letting in the smell of coffee, the sizzle of bacon, and the hum of the washing machine running. Maggie’s first days in the cabin had been so silent it was strange to hear noises originating from someone else…yet oddly comforting. She realized how much she had missed that—noises originating from someone else—a clear indicator you are not alone in the world.
Maggie went to the bathroom, washed her face, and smooth
ed her hair. When she came out, Zeke said, “You’re up! Hungry?” He didn’t look at all like a man who had slept on the floor. He didn’t look like a murderer or prison escapee, either. But things always looked less threatening under a canopy of sunshine.
Why were you in prison, Zeke? Did you hold another woman hostage?
Until now Maggie had only seen him in dim lighting. He was freshly shaved, his hair damp again, like he’d showered. How did the sound of running water not wake her? He was back in his old clothes rather than her things, but still wearing the socks. He had patched the hole in his jeans himself.
She realized now his clothes were reminiscent of the eighties, like his hair. Was that why they seemed ill-fitting? Men wore fashions trimmer now.
A large fire crackled from the living room. Maggie leaned her head in to look. Zeke had brought in more wood.
“How long have you been up?” she asked.
“Long enough to work up an appetite.” He lifted what was left of her baked bread off the counter. “Did you make this? It’s not in a store wrapping.” Had Zeke’s eyes grown bluer in the night?
“I’m not a half-bad cook.”
“I’ll say! You’re going to have to make us some more. I’m in love with it.” He talked like they’d come to the cabin together, a getaway for Zeke and Maggie.
“How do you like your eggs?” he asked, setting a cup of coffee on the counter in front of her. The cream was already added. It was exactly the right color tan.
Maggie stared at the coffee with a crease in her brow. How did he know how much cream she liked? Was he really that observant? What if he had poisoned it?
“Did I not get it right?” he asked softly.
Maggie picked up the mug and drank. “It’s perfect. I’d like to take a shower before I eat.” She’d had a bath last evening, but all that crying left her grimy.
“Alright. I’ll wait and eat with you.” He put the egg carton back in the fridge.
“Omelettes.” She turned toward the bedroom for her clothes. “I like omelettes: mushrooms, spinach, sun-dried tomatoes, and feta.”
Maggie twisted the shower faucet and peeled off her clothes, remembering how she undressed him in this same bathroom the night before. She stepped under the spray feeling every slide of the droplets. Showering suddenly felt more sensual than it had in a long time. There was no lock on the bathroom door. If Zeke opened it and came in, what would Maggie do?
Invite him to join me?
* * *
Canon was the first one into the office. Memories of Rita rode in with him.
Shirley was next in, hauling a crock pot of stew. “Made extra. Knew you’d all be comin’ in half-froze. It’ll be in the kitchen when you’re hungry.”
The office kitchen wasn’t much bigger than a closet, but it had a plug and held a card table. When Shirley came back in the main office she stood in Canon’s doorway with her hands on her hips.
“Lord, look at those bags under your eyes.” Many of Shirley’s pet phrases began with ‘Lord.’ “What time did you get home last night?”
Canon looked down at his notes. “You hear any more on that prison escapee, you let me know.”
“I knew it’d be past midnight.”
Luckily, Becky came in and distracted her.
* * *
What was wrong with Maggie? There was a strange man in her cabin! Shouldn’t she be quaking with fear? Figuring out how she was going to get away from him? Certainly not imagining him in this shower built for two. But somehow, having survived the night and now feeling the sun through the windows, Maggie’s pulse beat stronger.
She turned off the water and stepped out. Dressing in jeans and a sweater, she combed out her hair then blew it dry. Remembering Zeke’s comment about her make-up, she kept it minimal.
When she returned to the kitchen he was reading one of her cookbooks. He looked up from the pages and stared. A slow smile spread over his face as his eyes fell down to her feet and back up to the hair left loose on her shoulders.
“You are a vision, Maggie.”
It was exactly what she had wanted him to say. The whole day, in fact, played out like a dream. Maggie floated through it start to finish in something like a daze. But a daze wasn’t to be confused with a fog. Her mind and body weren’t functioning poorly, quite the opposite. They’d flowered open. But the day still held a dream-like quality.
They stood in the kitchen, Zeke washing the remnants off their breakfast plates and handing them to Maggie to dry, when Robbie texted. He pulled the phone from his pocket and held it up for her to see: You making it okay?
“How do you feel about the word ‘swimmingly’?” he asked.
Maggie nodded her agreement and he punched it in. Robbie texted back: Great! Happy writing.
“So you came here to write.” Zeke washed the coffee mugs next. “What are you writing?”
She shook her head. “I’d rather not say.”
“Maybe I can help.”
Maggie concentrated on drying the mugs as he handed them to her. If Tom had ever helped her wash the dishes, it was so long ago she couldn’t remember it.
“How old are you, Zeke?”
“I forget exactly.”
“What is your profession?”
“You mean other than escaped con?”
Maggie set the mugs in the cabinet then twisted the cotton towel. Zeke pulled it from her hands and snapped it at her playfully. “Let’s go sit by the fire.”
She followed him to the living room where they settled in their chosen spots on the couch. He leaned his head on one hand to study her. “You don’t strike me as a romance writer. Fiction or non-fiction?”
“Fiction.”
“What genre?”
She cocked her head. “You know about genres?”
“Even prisons have libraries, Maggie. I’ve done quite a lot of reading the past few years.”
“Who’s your favorite author?”
Zeke grinned. “Margaret Raines.”
“You don’t know if I’m any good. You don’t even know what I write.”
His eyes fanned over her face and hair. “All fiction is a hero’s journey isn’t it?”
“You know Joseph Campbell?”
“Heard of him. For you, I’m guessing, the hero’s journey is in the form of chick lit. Strong female heroine…beautiful, of course…who wants to be known and loved for who she really is. Everyone’s story when you think about it.”
Maggie squirmed beneath his gaze. “So were you a psycho-therapist before you were a…”
“Psychopath?” Zeke grinned at Maggie’s flush. “That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?”
“Are we going to play mind games, Zeke?”
“Let’s not. But since we’re on the topic of psychoanalysis, I want to raise one question that’s been on my mind.”
“Okay.”
“Do you really not hate Tom for what he did to you?”
The question surprised Maggie. Then again, everything about this man surprised her.
“I was plenty mad when he told me. Do you have any idea what an administrative nightmare it is to get all your accounts separated?”
The question was meant to be hypothetical, so Maggie was surprised again when he said, “I have an appreciation for it, yes.”
“Are you divorced, Zeke?”
“No.”
“But you had to get your accounts separated from someone’s?”
“Divorce is not the only reason for that.”
Zeke was perhaps the most matter-of-fact person Maggie had ever met, and still maddeningly mysterious.
“Why were you in prison?”
“We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you.”
“You said you wanted to raise a question that’s been on your mind, well I’ve got questions, too.”
“I asked mine first.”
“Divorce has involved a lot of things I never thought about before.”
“Such a
s…”
“The legal nightmare. All the paperwork. And…” Maggie stopped.
“What? Say it.”
Maggie didn’t want to be that honest. But she plunged ahead. “Wondering if I can make it on my own financially. That’s the biggest question.”
“And…” he waved his hand for her to go on. “The other questions.”
Maggie looked away from his probing eyes. “Wondering if I’ll ever love anyone again, and if they’ll love me.”
Zeke waited for her to continue.
She took a sip of coffee though it was now lukewarm. Maggie once read you couldn’t cry and drink at the same time. “Wondering if I’ll die alone. My mother has dementia. Is that to be my fate? Will I end up being a burden to my children?”
Maggie felt him studying her. She chanced a look. A grin simmered in the corners of his eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “Prosperity is in your future. So is love—sex, even—good sex. And no, you won’t die alone. You won’t get dementia, either.”
Maggie stared at him. He wasn’t smug, just knowing.
“And you know this how?”
A twinkle jumped in his eye. Maggie looked away again. Why did Zeke remind her so much of Rick Springfield? It’s that silly haircut.
“I know things, Maggie. My vision has become amazingly clear.”
That was no kind of answer. Maggie started to press the point, but sensed it wouldn’t do any good. She decided to go back to the ‘not hating Tom’ part of the conversation.
“I feel sorry for Bethany,” admitted Maggie. “She’s so young. She doesn’t know yet how mad Tom’s going to be when that child wakes him in the middle of the night. Or how bad he is about vacations. He doesn’t even know how to pack. And Tom has to face his grown children with the shame of his betrayal for the rest of his life.”
“Tom’s an idiot, remember?” Zeke pointed his finger at her. “He deserves any inconveniences that come his way.”
“Does he?” A thread of guilt Maggie was well-familiar with crept into her voice. “Did Tom come to his choices all on his own, Zeke? Or did I push him there?”
Alone in a Cabin Page 7