Kill Switch

by Gordon Bonnet

  “If you do that, I’ll be dead before nightfall. I’ll put it that bluntly. You may as well get Reverend Joe to take his hunting rifle and put a bullet in my head. It’ll amount to the same thing.”

  For the first time, an uncertain expression came into her eyes. She looked at her husband and didn’t say anything further.

  Reverend Joe cleared his throat. “Look, son, it’s just if there was some kind of proof...”

  “I don’t have any. There’s only one other thing I can show you as evidence, and it’s pretty thin.” Chris signed into his Gmail account. “This may be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. They were tracking me by my emails before. But maybe if you only read the emails between Elisa and me, it’ll be all right. I suspect that they found me when I sent an email. Maybe it’ll be okay if you just read them.” There was a new, unread message from Elisa, but there was no telling what the content was, so he ignored that one. He decided that if he could convince the Harpers he was innocent, he could go back and read it later. And if he couldn’t, it was better that they get as little information about her as possible. He clicked on the last message he’d sent to Elisa, and scrolled down to the bottom, where the previous messages back-and-forth were arrayed. He turned the laptop around so that they could both see the screen. “There. If that doesn’t convince you, then you’ll have to call the number on the poster.”

  The next few minutes were spent with first Reverend Joe, and then Mrs. Harper, slowly reading through the emails from bottom to top, Mrs. Harper peering at them nearsightedly through reading glasses.

  “Well,” she said, finally, “that’s something.”

  “Do you believe me now?”

  Reverend Joe leaned back in his chair. “You have to admit, Dolores, it’d be hard to see how he could make all that up.”

  “They had a warrant out for her arrest, too,” Mrs. Harper pointed out.

  “Now, look—”

  Mrs. Harper put up one hand. “Now, don’t mistake me. I have to say, of all the things I’ve seen, that bunch of emails is the most convincing. Hard to see how you’d have had the foresight to fake that. But even if you’re telling the truth about it all, I’m not a bit sure what to do about you.”

  Reverend Joe objected. “The Lord commands us to look after those in need.”

  “That he does, Joe. But you got a lot of people here in this town that need looking after, too. They depend on you. This fellow here, he may need help. Begging his pardon for accusing him of being a criminal, and all, although I will say I think I had sufficient justification for doing so. It’s still to be figured how much risk we can take on his behalf. Joe, you’re the leader of this community of Christ, here. You have to put that into your calculations, if you take my meaning.”

  “I do. But I have to point out that it’s mighty easy, in these kinds of circumstances, to be afraid or selfish or lazy, and to attribute your decisions made from that kind of sin to God’s will.”

  Chris let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Whatever you decide to do, it’s nice to be believed.”

  “I can see how it would be.” Mrs. Harper turned to her husband. “But you see, don’t you, that if we accept that he is telling the truth, and I must admit I can’t see any other explanation, that these people who are chasing him, they’re murderers, evil men right from the pit of hell. They won’t be stopped by you or by me.”

  “That is the risk you take for doing God’s will.” An authoritative tone entering Reverend Joe’s voice. “If we cannot stand up to the enemies of God in times of danger, what good was our faith in the first place?”

  There was a knock on the front door, and Baxter gave a single woof. The Harpers’ dogs, out in the back yard, barked with considerably more force. Chris felt his heart give a painful jump in his ribcage.

  Shit!

  They had found him. Could they have homed in on the Harpers’ computer that fast?

  Mrs. Harper recognized the danger before her husband did. She gave a tug on Chris’s arm. “You go back into the bedroom, now. Take your dog. I’ll give a yell if it’s safe.” Her dark eyes glittered dangerously, and she leaned in toward him. “There’s a hunting knife in the top drawer of the dresser in there. You use it if you need to.”

  Reverend Joe’s eyebrows flew upwards when he suddenly realized what his wife was implying. Chris stood, snapped his fingers for Baxter, trotted back down the hall to the bedroom, and shut the door behind him.

  There was the sound of the front door opening, and closing, and then muffled conversation of which he could not make out any words.

  How long could someone live in constant fear?

  Probably a long time, but what did it do to the psyche over the long term? People in war zones lived in a perpetual state of fear. So did the survivors of concentration camps and prisoner-of-war camps. So, to a lesser extent, did people in prisons. Some came out of those situations damaged for life. Others survived and went on to live relatively normal lives.

  It dawned on him that if he somehow survived this shit, he might have post-traumatic stress syndrome and spend the rest of his life jumping every time the doorbell rang or someone called his name.

  At least Mrs. Harper believed him. That woman was capable of changing her mind in a flash. A half hour ago, she’d been ready to let her husband shoot him. Now, she was arming him and telling him to defend himself if he had to.

  Must be nice to see the world so black-and-white.

  Despite her directions, he didn’t go to the dresser. The thought of finding the knife, taking it out of its sheath, evoked a superstitious fear that if he did so, a confrontation was inevitable. He crouched by the door, listening. The conversation going on in the living room was quiet. There was no indication that there was anything alarming about the Harpers’ visitor.

  Ten minutes passed, and finally there was the sound of a door opening, then closing. A short time later, there was the coughing rasp of an old engine catching, followed by movement outside his door.

  “Chris, you can come out.”

  He opened the door. Reverend Joe was standing there, a sheepish half-smile on his face. “It was nothing. Just Chase Ballengee. He’s the one who called yesterday about odd jobs. I set him to mowing the lawn. Best to give that boy’s hands some work to do.” He turned and walked back down the hall. Chris followed. “I tell you, though, son, after your story, and especially how Mrs. Harper reacted, I halfway thought we’d open the door and find a couple of guys from the Mafia or whatnot. When I saw it was Chase, I about laughed right in his face. Of course, he wouldn’t have known why, he’d probably have thought I’d lost my mind.”

  “It’s how I’ve been living for three weeks. I suspect everyone I meet.”

  “You trusted me.”

  “Yes, and I’m not sure why. No offense, but you see what I mean.”

  “Of course, I take your meaning. And I have to say, that by itself counted a lot. Something about your manner makes it hard to imagine you’re a mass murderer, like those people claim. Mrs. Harper’s to be excused for not believing you for longer. She didn’t see you, sitting in the church like that. And maybe, she didn’t hear God’s voice, the way I did.”

  Chris looked at him curiously. On a fundamental level, he really didn’t understand these people. It was a completely different way of figuring out the universe than the one he’d always bought into. But even so, he’d accept their help as long as they were willing to give it.

  A shadow passed across the living room window, along with a crescendo of the noise from the lawn mower engine. Chris got a glimpse of a narrow, olive-complexioned face, and curious brown eyes that glanced into the room and met Chris’s in a quizzical glance that lasted only a fraction of a second. Then the noise receded.

  —

  Mrs. Harper, once she was convinced that Chris was telling the truth and that it was her duty before God to protect him, approached the situation with down-to-earth pragmatism. Over lunch—grilled cheese sand
wiches—she talked to Chris about what he intended to do next. Reverend Joe was in his study, working on his sermon for the next day’s services. Mrs. Harper brought her husband his sandwich and a glass of milk, and then set out lunch for herself and Chris in the dining room.

  “What are your plans?”

  Chris shrugged and took a bite. “Well, up to now, I haven’t really had any, other than trying not to get killed.”

  “Why’d you head west?”

  “I’m not sure. At first, it was random. I was running, anywhere, trying to get somewhere safe. No reason.”

  “There’s a reason for everything.” Her voice held such certainty he found himself half believing it despite his rationalism. “Out there—out west—is where it started, you said. God is leading you back. You think you could have survived everything you have without the Lord Jesus placing his hands over you?”

  He hedged, not wanting to offend her. “I don’t know.”

  Mrs. Harper nodded. “It’s hard work, faith. I know that all too well. But even if the Lord leads, you got to move your own feet. Are you going to continue on west?”

  “I suppose. But I’m not sure how I’ll get any further along. I was lucky enough to get picked up by a trucker, before, and he took me from Missouri all the way here. I’m not likely to have something like that happen again.”

  “If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen.” Again with the certainty.

  He decided it was time to exit the conversation in the most graceful way possible. “I wonder if I could use Reverend Joe’s laptop again. There was an email from my friend, Elisa, that I’d like to read. I can’t respond to it, there’s too great a chance that they could find me that way. But I don’t see how there’s a danger simply from reading it. If it’s okay.”

  “No harm I can see.” The laptop had been left on the table after breakfast. She unfolded it and slid it toward him

  He signed back into his email account and clicked on the message from Elisa. As he did so, the front door opened, and the man Chris had seen mowing the lawn came in. He was about twenty-five years old, small, slender, and dark, with straight black hair that was in need of a haircut.

  “Just wonderin’ if I could use your bathroom, Mrs. Harper.”

  “Of course, Chase. You know where it is.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Harper put her hands on her hips and regarded the newcomer sternly. “You must be hungry. Would you like me to put a sandwich on for you?”

  “That’s awful kind of you.” He gave her a shy smile. “I’d very much appreciate it, Mrs. Harper.”

  Chase vanished down the hallway, and Mrs. Harper stood, picked up the plates, put them in the sink, and set to work making another grilled cheese sandwich.

  Chris turned his attention back to the laptop.

  Chris,

  No news here. Everything is quiet, and I am fine. I hope you’re still safe. I worry pretty much constantly, but I know you can’t write to me over and over just saying, “Everything’s okay,” so I have to be patient and trust that all will be well.

  I do want to let you know where I am, though. Now that we have a way to communicate that no one else can figure out, it should be safe. I don’t know why that’s important to me; it feels like I’m more connected to you if you know where I am. Since I’m safe—for now—maybe if you can get here, you can be safe, too.

  So, here goes. I’m staying with a friend who’s the bird specialist for a wildlife refuge—kind of ironic, isn’t it? She has a big house and plenty of room. She’d invited me to visit before all of this crazy stuff started. Fortunately for me.

  So, once you know the town I’m in, it shouldn’t be hard to find me. So here’s the clue: Remember when we were having to memorize the scientific names of animals, and there was one that you found really funny? I still remember, sitting there in the coffee shop, laughing, because you said that it sounded like the name of an ancient Greek stripper. It kept coming up, and we thought it was hilarious. And it worked—I still remember when we got our quizzes back, and none of us missed that one! Deirdre said, “Well, chalk one up for the stripper!”

  So take that name, and if you write out the letters numbered 1, 12, 14, 15, 5, and 10, you’ll get the first part of the town I’m in. It’s not the complete name, but it’s the best I can do, and you’ll be able to figure it out from there.

  I hope I’ll see you soon. Let me know if you figured out the message, and if you might be able to get here. Until then, be safe.

  Love,

  Elisa

  Chris stifled a surprised smile at her signing off “Love,” and picked up a pen that was sitting on the table, and began to write on his hand.

  He remembered the incident well. The animal in question was the Night Snake, Hypsiglena torquata. For some reason, the scientific name had struck him as slinky and sexy, and the hilarious image of an exotic dancer in ancient Greece had forever been attached to it.

  He hurriedly numbered the letters, and counted off, his heart pounding with an inexplicable excitement.

  H-O-Q-U-I-A.

  He spoke without thinking. “My God, she’s in Hoquiam!”

  Chris looked up. Mrs. Harper had stopped in the act of handing a plate with a sandwich to Chase Ballengee. Both of them turned and looked at him with expressions that could have meant almost anything.

  Chapter 14

  The moment hung, suspended, between the three of them. Everything stopped. There was no sound but the whistling of the wind outside the house. Chris realized he was holding his breath only when it became painful, and let the air out in a rush.

  And all at once, it was over.

  Mrs. Harper turned back to the stove. “Sandwich got toasted a little dark on one side, Chase, hope you don’t mind.”

  The young man grinned, shook his head. “’Course not, Mrs. Harper, it’s fine. Nice of you to feed me lunch.” He turned to Chris. “Is that Hoquiam, Washington? I got a buddy lives right nearby there.”

  He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. “Uh— Yeah.” His voice sounded thin and hoarse even in his own ears. “It’s that—I just—got an email that mentioned it.”

  Chase sat down at the dinner table, and took a bite of his sandwich. “You probably know the fellow, too, Mrs. Harper.” His tone seemed to indicate that he was completely unconcerned with Chris or his email, and was still pursuing his own train of thought. “Van Spaulding.”

  Mrs. Harper nodded. “Van. Of course I remember him. He went up that way, what was it, five years ago?”

  “Somethin’ like that.” He turned back to Chris. “Van worked for the BIA, out o’ Winnebago.”

  “BIA?”

  “Bureau of Indian Affairs. I used to see him every few weeks or so. My grandpa always had him up for dinner whenever he was in this part o’ the state. My pa’s pa was full-blood Arapaho. I’m half, ’cause my ma’s ma was Cheyenne. Van’s the one who got my sister the scholarship to the University of Nebraska. But he got a little fed up with all the drivin’. They were sendin’ him all over the state, seems like. He took a job for the BIA out in western Washington. Lives in Aberdeen. That’s right next to Hoquiam, isn’t it?”

  Chris studied his face, taking his time to answer. “I think so.”

  Chase nodded. “We still get Christmas cards from him every year. He got married out there, already has a couple o’ kids.”

  Mrs. Harper put a hand on the other man’s arm. “That’s nice, Chase, but I’m sure Mr. Lake here doesn’t need to hear all about folks he’s never met.”

  “Well, he said ‘Hoquiam,’ and it got me to thinkin’.”

  Obviously, they weren’t dealing with the brightest bulb in the box here.

  “Be that as it may.”

  “Sorry.” Meekly, the boy returned to eating his sandwich.

  He looked back down at the email, trying to fight down a rising sense of panic. Had he just, with one careless slip of the tongue, given Elisa’s location away?

  No.
Mrs. Harper had been ready to arm him against whoever was at the door. Nothing she had said had given him any reason to think she was not who she claimed to be.

  And Chase? The Harpers had known him for years. He couldn’t be part of the conspiracy. If the Harpers were okay, so was Chase.

  And indeed, once Mrs. Harper got him to stop talking about his friend from the Bureau of Indian Affairs, he turned to chattering about other things—the weather, his sister, his grandparents, local politics. It came out that Chase and Mrs. Harper were second cousins, and that Mrs. Harper’s grandfather and Chase’s grandmother were siblings who had lived their entire lives on a reservation down in Concho, Oklahoma.

  Finally, his sandwich was finished, Chase thanked Mrs. Harper profusely, and went back outside to finish mowing the lawn.

  There was silence for a while, largely because Chris’s mind was only occupied with one thing. He now knew where Elisa was, and he felt a sudden, overwhelming need to be with her, to not be alone in this terrible situation any longer. Everything else—the Harpers, Chase Ballengee, the memories of his former life—faded into obscurity compared with the desperate desire to be with the only other person in the world facing this terror.

  Mrs. Harper stood at the sink, her back to Chris, washing the dishes. When she spoke again, Chris jumped.

  “Whatever it was you said a moment ago must have been important.”

  Chris cleared his throat. “Yes.”

  “I thought so. You looked like you’d bitten into a thistle.”

  “I felt that way.”

  “You needn’t fear speaking plainly in front of us.” She still hadn’t turned around. “It’s safe here. We have no desire to harm you.”