Copycat

by Alex Lake

  ‘Are you OK?’ Jean said.

  ‘I need to calm down,’ Sarah said. ‘I haven’t had a panic attack for a couple of years, but all this worry is bringing them back. I nearly had one the other day.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘God, this is the last thing I need.’

  ‘I’m not surprised you’re having them again,’ Jean said. ‘I would be. But you should definitely talk to the cops. It’ll make you feel better.’

  Ian Molyneux – Lieutenant in Barrow PD and high-school friend of Sarah’s – arrived shortly after 8 p.m.

  Sarah opened the door and led him into the living room. She pointed to an armchair.

  ‘Take a seat,’ she said. ‘Good to see you. Beer?’

  ‘Since I’m off-duty,’ Ian said. ‘Why not?’

  Ben came into the room. ‘I’ll get them,’ he said. ‘IPA OK, Ian?’

  ‘Perfect.’ He looked at Sarah. ‘So,’ he said. ‘You mentioned there was a problem you wanted to talk about?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s kind of unusual. I was wondering whether you would have any advice.’

  ‘I might,’ Ian said. ‘Try me.’

  Sarah outlined what had happened, from the Facebook posts to the fake emails to Carla. As she was finishing, Ben came in with three bottles of IPA.

  ‘Thanks,’ Ian said, taking a swig from the bottle, then setting it down on the table in front of him. ‘It is pretty unusual,’ he said. ‘I can’t say I’ve ever come across anything quite like it.’ He paused. ‘The closest thing would be a stalker, or an online troll abusing you. We can deal with both of those – it’s not necessarily easy, but there are things we can do. Court orders restricting someone from coming within five hundred feet of you, that kind of thing. If someone’s abusing you online, you can report it to the Internet company, or block them. And mostly cyber abuse turns out to be some keyboard warrior working out his or her frustration at their shitty lives. They’re happy to abuse people behind the safety of their screen, but if they met their target face to face they’d run a mile, although from time to time it can be more serious.’ He paused for another sip. ‘The problem is that this is different. We don’t know who’s doing it.’

  ‘Right,’ Ben replied. ‘The only name we have is Sarah Havenant, which isn’t really much help. It could be anyone doing this, which makes it hard to deal with.’

  Ian looked at Sarah. ‘Do you have any ideas who it might be? Think who would want to do it. And then who would be able to do it.’

  ‘I tried,’ Sarah said. ‘But I can’t think of who would want to do this. And then there’s the practicality. No one was at all of the places in the photos. At least, I don’t think there was anyone.’

  Ben sat forward. ‘One question we should ask is cui bono? Who benefits? Who profits? When there’s not an obvious motive for an action, figuring out who benefits from it might reveal who’s behind it.’

  Sarah thought for a few moments. Who did benefit? No one was getting richer. No one was getting anything, other than her, who was getting freaked out. So the question was, who would want to freak her out?

  And she couldn’t think of anybody.

  ‘Has anything changed recently?’ Ian said. ‘At work? New colleagues?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘Apart from the return of Rachel Little, nothing’s new.’

  Ian frowned. ‘Rachel Little from high school?’

  ‘The same. She was out west, and now she’s back. In fact, it was her who told me about the Facebook profile.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Ian said. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘You think it could be her?’ Ben said. ‘She seemed harmless enough when I met her.’

  ‘She was a bit of an oddball, back in the day,’ Ian said.

  ‘She’s changed,’ Sarah said. ‘Grown up. Like all of us.’

  ‘It could be her,’ Ian said. ‘It’s not obvious why she would suddenly be doing this, twenty years after we last saw her, but it is a coincidence that she happens to return right when this is going on.’ He shrugged. ‘Coincidences happen, though.’

  ‘Is there anything you can do?’

  ‘I can look her up,’ Ian replied. ‘See if there’s anything unusual. I’ll let you know, if there is.’

  ‘And what should we be doing?’ Ben said. ‘Anything specific?’

  ‘Be vigilant,’ Ian said. ‘Sarah – if you go somewhere alone, make sure Ben or someone else knows so they can check you got there. Lock your doors and windows at night.’

  ‘And the kids?’ Sarah said. It was hard to believe she was having to question whether the safety of their children was in any way compromised. ‘Miles and Faye are in camp. Kim’s at day care.’

  ‘You could mention this to the camp leader and ask them to keep an eye on the kids. Likewise at day care. But they should have security practices around supervision and pickup.’

  ‘You don’t think we should pull them out?’ Ben said.

  ‘You could,’ Ian replied. ‘That’s a matter for you.’

  ‘But then what?’ Sarah said. ‘They’re stuck in the house all day while their buddies are out doing stuff. And we have to work. We’d need a small army of babysitters.’

  ‘Who are probably less qualified than the professionals to take care of them,’ Ian said. ‘If there was a threat to your kids, I don’t think they’d be particularly safe in the care of a bored teenager.’

  ‘Then we leave them in,’ Ben said. ‘For now. And you’ll look into Rachel, correct?’

  ‘Correct,’ Ian said, and got to his feet. ‘Thanks for the beer. I’ll inform the station. If you call for some reason, they’ll know there’s been something going on. And good luck.’

  When Ian had left, Ben sat next to Sarah on the couch. He put his arm around her and pulled her close to him. She pressed her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes. She loved Ben in a way which she had not understood was possible until she had met him; she’d had a boyfriend in high school and then a couple in college who she had thought she was in love with – and maybe she was, in a way – but she had felt apart from them, in some important sense. She had liked them, admired them, had great, passionate sex with them, but she had always known she could live without them.

  With Ben it was different. It wasn’t that he was better than them, necessarily – no doubt they were loving, responsible fathers and husbands themselves – but she and Ben fitted. They’d met and clicked, right away. They worked. They were happier together than apart: it was, in many ways, as simple as that.

  And the feeling had never gone away. There was a strange paradox at the heart of it: she felt totally comfortable with him, trusted he loved her whatever she did, yet at the same time she still wanted to impress him, still wanted to show him she was a strong and intelligent and beautiful woman who merited his ongoing love and attention. She didn’t resent the feeling, because she didn’t think she had to do it. He made it clear he loved her whatever – even when she was an exhausted new mom screaming at him because she was scared and tired and lost and he was there so he was the one she was going to take it out on, or when she’d had a bad day and her nasty side – and she did have a nasty side – was on full display – she never felt his love for her was at risk, because she knew he felt the same way she did: they were lucky they had found each other, and when you got lucky you made sure you didn’t waste it.

  And right now she needed the man she loved more than ever.

  ‘We’ll work this out,’ Ben said. He was unsmiling. ‘And when we do, whoever did this will regret it.’

  It was unusual for him to be angry; normally he was more sanguine. When they were younger – it didn’t happen so often now – and other guys chatted her up at bars, or weddings, or parties, he didn’t get mad, didn’t threaten them or glare at them. He left her to deal with it, and, if she mentioned it, he smiled and said other guys could talk to her all they wanted. He was the one going home with her. He was the one who’d be having breakfast with her. He was the one who bought her the sexy underwear she
was wearing and who would be taking it off in the not too distant future. At most – if he felt she was uncomfortable – he would wander over, and introduce himself. Shake the guy’s hand, then apologize for interrupting, and tell her the mother-of-the-bride wanted to talk to her, or he wanted to introduce her to a work colleague who was about to leave, or say their taxi had arrived and it was time to go. She loved his confidence, his assumption that his position was not threatened by these half-drunk sleazeballs on the prowl at parties.

  She’d asked him once, after a glass of wine too many, What if it wasn’t a sleazeball, but some handsome, charming guy? Would you be threatened then?

  He’d laughed. I’d be fine. If you were interested in handsome, charming men you wouldn’t be with me. But you are with me. So I assume you’re interested in guys who are like me. And I’m the person who’s most like me that I know. So – logically – you’re never going to find someone more like me than me, which means I have nothing to worry about.

  She shifted closer to him on the couch.

  ‘How will we find them?’ she said. ‘I have nowhere to start.’

  ‘I was thinking about that. It has to be someone you know. I mean, in theory it could be a complete stranger, but I don’t see how. And if it is someone you know then maybe we can work it out. Or narrow it down.’

  ‘Right,’ Sarah said. ‘I suppose. But I’ve been trying, and getting nowhere.’

  ‘What if you missed someone? What about an ex-boyfriend? One of them might hold a grudge.’

  ‘But why now?’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe they got divorced. Or developed a drug problem. Or decided to fuck with you. What about the guy you dated in college? He was a bit intense, as I recall.’

  ‘Matt?’

  ‘I think so. The one who tried to sabotage our wedding.’

  She’d forgotten about him. She smiled, although it hadn’t been funny at the time. She’d dated a guy from Cape Cod, Matt Landay, for a semester in her sophomore year of college. He was not really her type – a jock with rich parents and a frat boy attitude to match – but there had been some chemistry between them, and in the spirit of youthful experimentation, she had started a relationship with him. He was only the second man she had slept with, and they had a lot of sex, but by the time the semester ended she was bored of him. She didn’t bother breaking it off; she just went home for the summer and, in the days before cell phones and text messages, forgot about him.

  He didn’t forget about her, though. A week into the vacation he showed up in Barrow, in his parents’ convertible BMW, and knocked on her door.

  She was surprised, and not pleased, when she opened it to see him standing there in his khaki shorts, linen shirt and Oakley sunglasses.

  It took her two days – and a fictitious weekend away with her friends, which she told him she wanted to cancel but couldn’t – to get rid of him. It was awkward, and uncomfortable, and they only had sex once, in silence.

  She thought he would get the message, but the next week he called and informed her he was thinking of coming back. She asked him not to; he insisted.

  You’re my girl, he said. I want to see you.

  She wanted to say I’m not anybody’s girl, but instead she told him she was enjoying time alone and planned to go on doing so.

  For how long? he said, a note of desperation in his voice.

  I dunno. All summer, maybe.

  He was silent. No, he said, finally. No way.

  Matt, she said. It’s up to me.

  No, he said. You’re my girl. You are.

  So this time she said it: I’m nobody’s girl, and I don’t want you to come to my house.

  He started to plead, but she hung up.

  Two days later she was coming back from the beach with Jean. They pulled into her street and there was a red BMW convertible in her driveway. Leaning on the hood, his back to them, was Matt.

  She told Jean to keep driving. When she got home in the evening he was gone. Her mom gave her a wry smile.

  Be careful, she said. These young men can get carried away.

  He didn’t show up again. He didn’t even call, and back in college, he avoided her. It was about a month later that Toni suggested they go out for a coffee.

  I think you need to talk to Matt, she said.

  No thanks, Sarah replied. I’ve been enjoying not talking to him.

  Well, you might have to. Toni paused. He’s been saying – well, he’s been telling people the reason you guys broke up is because you’re crazy. He’s saying you stalked him during the summer and you cried if he tried to do anything without you. He’s also spreading a rumor you’re a nymphomaniac, although he’s claiming it could be because he’s so good in bed.

  So Sarah did talk to him. She explained that whatever respect she’d had for him was gone forever. And she asked him to tell everyone that his explanation for their break-up was lies.

  He refused, and it was the last time she had any contact with him.

  Until the week before her wedding, when an email arrived. Matt had learned she was about to get married and, as a result, would be lost to him forever. He had always loved her, he claimed, so, in a last-ditch attempt to salvage their relationship, he was letting her know he loved her.

  I only spread those rumors when we broke up because I was hurt, he added, in his email, as though his being hurt justified anything. I’ll always love you, Sarah, and if you want to change your mind I’ll be waiting.

  She didn’t want to. She let him know this – and not too gently – and suggested he not contact her again. At the time she had been a bit shaken up – she had no idea he still held such an intensely burning candle for her, and she couldn’t believe he thought his plan might work – but looking back, it was quite amusing.

  Unless the candle had not gone out, and he was impersonating her on Facebook and email.

  ‘You think it might be him?’ Sarah said.

  ‘You’d know. From what you told me, he was a bit on the possessive side.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘OK, I’ll ask around. See if anyone knows what he’s up to these days.’

  ‘Good,’ Ben said. ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  17

  She is looking for answers. Trying to think who might be behind this. She is worried; the events themselves are harmless, nothing more than digital information on the Internet or in a message, but it is what lies behind that bothers her.

  What lies behind – what might lie behind – is what causes the fear.

  The fear that this cyber threat will become a real threat. A physical threat. And so she thinks of stalkers and killers and kidnappers.

  But – as so often – she is missing the point.

  What lies behind is not a physical threat.

  It is much worse.

  Why is a man able to kill – with ease – a lion? All lions, if he wishes? Or sharks. Elephants. Dinosaurs, if they still existed.

  It is not because of physical strength. If all we had to go on was physical strength, mankind would be in the middle of the food chain, somewhere around a cow or dog. Mankind would not be close to being the apex predator.

  But mankind has something the others don’t.

  Intelligence. The ability to use tools, to co-opt nature to serve his ends. To make spears and then guns and then missiles.

  And then to use them. To outwit and outthink and out-plan our prey. To lay complicated traps for them. The knife or the gun is merely the tool chosen to finally dispatch the target.

  It is the same here. Facebook, emails, text messages. They are merely digital signals, but the truth – the truth will rip out the very heart of her life.

  And when it comes she will realize there is nothing she can do. There is nowhere she can turn. No safe place she can run to.

  This is everywhere. Always, and everywhere.

  She is about to find out that she is helpless.

  She is about to understand there is a superior intelligence at work. A superior intelligence w
hich has taken an interest in her world. More than an interest: a stake. A controlling stake.

  This is a takeover bid, one company buying another. In this case, against its wishes.

  A hostile takeover, they call it.

  A hostile takeover that has been coming to her for a long time.

  A very long time.

  18

  Sarah looked at her schedule for the day. Her first appointment was with Margaret Bergeron, a retiree who was complaining of dizziness and faint spells. Sarah ran through the potential causes – from the harmless – tiredness and eye strain – to the more worrying – depression, maybe – to the seriously troubling – a brain tumor – and got ready to go and see her.

  ‘Dr Havenant?’ The receptionist, Dora, intercepted her.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We had a cancellation. Mrs Bergeron called and said she feels better. I told her to call back if anything changes.’

  ‘Oh. Is the next patient here?’

  ‘Not until twenty past. But Mr Davies has arrived. He left a message to let him know if a slot opened up. We called and he’s available.’

  Sarah nodded. She felt light-headed; the first fluttering of panic rose in her chest. She took a deep breath. This was simply her body over-reacting, the adrenal glands producing too much adrenaline in response to a perceived threat that was not really there.

  At least, this was what she told her patients about anxiety attacks. But what if the threat was real? What if Mr Davies – ‘call me Derek’ – was the person behind all the emails and Facebook posts?

  Then it was an appropriate response.

  Which made it worse.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Dora said. ‘You look a little pale.’

  ‘Fine. What is Mr Davies here for?’

  ‘Sciatic pain.’

  ‘Did he see the PT?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘OK. Send him in. Thank you, Dora.’