Copycat

by Alex Lake

  She sat in the café and told him what had happened at the house.

  ‘It sounds like a quadcopter,’ Ben said.

  A quadcopter. That made perfect sense: the four helicopter-like rotors. What didn’t make sense was what the hell it was doing in her backyard.

  What the hell it was doing looking at her through the glass panel of her back door.

  He tapped on the screen of his phone then handed it to her.

  ‘Was it like these?’

  It was a page from Amazon showing a selection of quadcopters ranging in price from around thirty dollars up to a few thousand. Some had cameras, some did not.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was exactly like those.’

  ‘Then it was a quadcopter,’ Ben said. ‘Probably with a camera which would have been sending a feed to a phone or tablet. Whoever’s flying it can see whatever it sees. They have good resolution.’

  Sarah’s vision blurred, then started to swim, then narrowed. Her heart began to speed up and her throat constricted. She felt suddenly precarious, unbalanced, as though the wooden chair she was sitting on would collapse underneath her.

  She gripped the edges of the table, squeezing hard in an attempt both to steady herself and to give some kind of focus to her attention. She forced herself to breathe deeply, but it felt like the air was not getting into her lungs.

  I’m dying, she thought, her mind out of control. I can’t do this. I can’t take it. This has to stop.

  She became aware of a pressure on her bicep and someone calling her name, and she looked up to see Ben, his face bending over hers, his expression a mixture of shock and worry.

  ‘Sarah,’ he said. ‘Sarah! Can you hear me? Are you OK?’

  She blinked, and tried to nod. ‘Fresh air,’ she muttered, each word an effort.

  Ben called to Miles, who was playing with the toys the café provided.

  ‘Miles,’ he said. ‘Keep an eye on the girls. I have to take Mum outside for a second.’

  One of the baristas appeared next to him.

  ‘I’ll watch them,’ she said. ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘I think so,’ Ben said. ‘She needs air.’

  ‘Should I bring out a glass of water?’ the barista said.

  Ben nodded. ‘That would be great. Thanks.’ He looked at Sarah. ‘You ready?’

  She let him help her from her seat and guide her outside. She was aware of people watching but she didn’t care. She needed to get outside with a primal urgency and her legs felt too weak to carry her there, so Ben’s assistance was vital.

  He led her to a chair at an unoccupied table, and she slumped into it. A few seconds later, the barista put a tall glass of water in front of her. Hands shaking, she lifted it to her lips and took a sip.

  ‘I think the worst is over,’ she said.

  ‘One too many glasses of wine last night,’ Ben said, in the tone of voice he used when he was feeling uncomfortable and so decided to try and undo the discomfort by cracking a joke. Sarah usually found it endearing.

  But not now.

  ‘Ben,’ she said. ‘Even for you, that’s a crappy joke.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Didn’t know what else to say. Did you have a panic attack?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I know you said you’d had another but I was hoping those were over.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ she replied.

  ‘I’m not disappointed for me,’ he said. ‘I’m disappointed for you.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘Yes. A bit.’ She was, in a way. At least the symptoms had gone. But there was a feeling lodged in her sternum, a feeling of trepidation and fear.

  Because she knew this would not be the last time this happened, and that was the worst thing about it.

  32

  She is starting to understand, now, dimly. Starting to perceive that this is real. This is not an elaborate joke, not an Internet scam, not a mistake.

  This is deliberate. Someone is doing this, and they are doing it for a reason.

  It was written all over her smug, stupid face when she saw the camera, although the smugness did not remain for long. It vanished quickly enough, replaced by fear.

  The stupidity remained, though.

  Of course, she is not stupid by normal measures. She graduated from Middlebury College – obviously, since people like her lack the imagination and curiosity to go to college anywhere other than places like Middlebury – and then went to medical school. Both of those things require intelligence.

  But she is still stupid, and in the most important way.

  She knows lots about lots of things, but she does not know herself. She does not know what she truly is. She is unable to see it. Her fancy education was unable to enlighten her about that.

  But she will find out. Her education will be completed.

  And soon. Everything is in place. It is only a matter of time.

  33

  She called Ian Molyneux when they got home and told him about the quadcopter.

  ‘It’s getting worse,’ she said. ‘That’s what worries me. It was in my backyard, with a camera.’

  ‘The problem,’ Ian said, ‘is that no laws have been broken. People can fly those things more or less wherever they want.’

  ‘On to someone’s property?’ Sarah said. ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, if someone flew one into your house there might be a problem. Or if they used it to take photos of your kids. But buzzing you? I’m not sure what I could charge them with. If I even knew who to charge. But we have no idea who it was. Same as all the other stuff.’

  ‘Don’t those things have a range?’ Sarah asked. ‘Whoever was flying it must have been close by, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Ian said. ‘But they could have been in a car. I’ll ask around. See if anyone saw someone who looked like they were controlling one of those things. I’m guessing whoever did it wasn’t wandering about in plain sight, though.’

  ‘OK,’ Sarah said. ‘Thanks. Let me know if you find anything out.’

  She put the phone down and went into the kitchen. Ben was pouring hot water into the teapot.

  ‘I’m going to stay off work next week,’ she said. ‘I don’t want the kids in camp. I’m going to stay home with them.’

  He looked up at her. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. This is getting out of control, Ben.’

  He nodded. ‘It does seem like that.’ He walked over to her and put his arms around her. ‘Are you feeling better?’

  ‘In a way I am. I’m not having a panic attack, which is a relief. But I’m scared, Ben. And you know what freaks me out the most? When I was talking to Ian Molyneux I asked if those things had a range—’

  ‘They do,’ Ben said. ‘Some are quite a long way. The more expensive ones.’

  ‘Right. But even the expensive ones don’t have that big of a range. Not, say, a hundred miles.’

  ‘No. Not that far.’

  ‘Which means the person who was controlling it was nearby. They were right there. Maybe only a hundred yards from our house. From our kids.’

  Ben stiffened. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Of course. Shit.’

  ‘Someone is after us, Ben. They’re after me, I think. And I don’t know who, or why, or what they plan to do. I don’t have a clue. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Not a goddamn thing.’ She sat on the couch. ‘And it’s sending me fucking nuts.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Ben said. ‘This has come out of nowhere. And there’s no pattern. Someone impersonating you on Facebook is one thing, but then there’s the books and the email to Marla and the quadcopter.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t for the life of me see what anybody gains from this.’

  ‘Which is my point,’ Sarah said. ‘But they want something. And until this is over, I’m not letting the kids out of my sight.’

  ‘I agree,’ Ben said. ‘This has gone too far. The other puzzle is who could actually do all these things. Figure t
hat out, and I think we have the answer.’

  ‘No one could do it, though. No one has access to my photos or Amazon account. Unless it’s some kind of hacker, but I don’t know where to even start with that.’

  ‘Money?’ Ben said. ‘Do you think it might be about money?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Someone creates all this mess and then asks for money to stop it? A kind of digital blackmail?’

  ‘It could be,’ Sarah said. ‘I hope it is. Because if all they want is some money they can have it. Which, right now, seems like the best outcome.’

  Right now, she would have handed over everything she owned to stop this, but somehow she didn’t think it would be that easy.

  34

  ‘I want to go to camp!’ Miles was red-faced, his arms folded, his expression fierce. ‘It’s so boring here and all my friends are there! I don’t see why I can’t go!’

  He had a point. It was only midday on Monday and Sarah had pretty much run out of stuff for the kids to do. Kim was fine; she was happy to follow Sarah around, but Miles and Faye were a different matter. They needed structure and lots of activities. Drawing, playing with Lego, watering the plants: all done, and all rejected as boring. She understood: they wanted to be with their friends.

  But she could not take the risk.

  ‘Miles,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry – I know you’re frustrated, but camp is off for this week. Maybe you can go back next week, but—’

  ‘A week is so long!’ he said. ‘I can’t wait a week!’

  Me too, Sarah thought. Even if he did go back to day camp the next week – which was not guaranteed – the next six days seemed awfully long.

  It turned out they were not so bad, after all. On Tuesday she packed up a lunch and they went for a hike in the woods; Wednesday they went to Splashland, a trip which filled the whole day, and Thursday Sarah took them on the ferry from Portland to Great Diamond Island, where they had an ice cream and a swim on the beach.

  And the best thing was that nothing strange happened: no emails, no books delivered, no spying quadcopters.

  Sarah was starting – no more than starting – to hope it might all be over.

  They got back from Portland shortly after 4 p.m. Ben’s car was in the driveway.

  ‘Oh,’ Sarah said. ‘Dad’s home early.’ It was unusual, but good news: she didn’t feel like cooking dinner, so maybe Ben would be up for going out to eat.

  He was sitting at the kitchen table, his laptop on his knee. Sarah walked over and bent down to kiss him.

  He turned his face away from hers. He looked at her, his expression serious. Stern, even. She felt her throat tighten.

  ‘Ben?’ she said. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  Sarah settled the kids in front of the television and went to join Ben in the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door and took out a bottle of white wine.

  ‘Why don’t you hold on before starting on the booze,’ Ben said. He picked up his work bag from the floor and reached inside. He took out a large envelope. ‘This came to the office today,’ he said. ‘Take a look.’

  The tightness in Sarah’s throat intensified. The hope she had been starting to entertain that whatever had been going on was over evaporated.

  ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘What is it this time?’

  He looked at her. His gaze was, she noticed, skeptical, which was not what she would have expected.

  ‘I’m surprised you have to ask,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like I said. Take a look.’

  She picked up the envelope and opened the flap. It was heavy; a book.

  ‘Before you take it out, look at the address,’ he said.

  She turned the envelope so she could read it. She could not understand what she saw.

  ‘Ben,’ she said. ‘This is – this is—’

  ‘Your handwriting,’ he said. ‘But there’s more. Get the book out.’

  She pulled it out and read the title:

  Dealing with Bereavement: Coping with Parental Suicide.

  She shook her head, then read it again.

  ‘Ben,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what’s going on. I didn’t send this. I promise.’

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Open the book. Front page.’

  ‘Why are you being like this?’ she said. ‘Why are you being so mean?’

  ‘I’m not being anything,’ Ben said. His expression softened. ‘I just want to find out what’s going on. Open the book. There’s an inscription.’

  She turned the cover. There, in her handwriting, was a message.

  Ben, it began, I’m sorry to have to do this by such an unusual method but it’s the only way I can think of. I need help, Ben. I’m drowning. I’m sending you this book because this is what I am worried it may come to, and I don’t want it to. I don’t want the kids to grow up without a mom, and I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life wondering whether you could have or should have done more to help me.

  So help me now, Ben. I love you, and I know you love me, so help me.

  Sarah

  ‘So,’ Ben said. His expression now was pure concern. ‘What’s going on, Sarah?’

  35

  Sarah looked at Ben for a long time. There was a kind of resigned finality in his tone, a tone which said OK, enough is enough. It’s time to come clean. She took a deep breath.

  ‘I don’t understand the question, Ben,’ she said.

  ‘It’s pretty simple. I want to know what’s been happening.’

  ‘And how would I know?’

  Ben massaged his temples; he closed his eyes, as though she was making him frustrated and impatient because of her irrational stubbornness.

  ‘Sarah,’ he said. ‘This is your handwriting.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ she said. ‘It might look like my handwriting, but it isn’t my handwriting. I’d know, because I didn’t write it.’

  ‘Then who did?’

  It was now Sarah’s turn to feel frustrated and impatient.

  ‘I don’t know!’ she said. ‘That’s the whole point! It’s the same person who wrote the email and posted on Facebook and did all the other crazy shit, and if I knew who it was, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

  ‘So you’re asking me to believe that somebody forged your handwriting to send me a book about coping with suicide and ask for my help, a few days after the same person sent you books on how to cope with depression, which came—’

  ‘From my account, I know. I don’t have the answers, Ben, but I’m asking you to believe me. I didn’t send this book or write this message.’

  ‘Sarah,’ Ben said. ‘I am your friend in all of this. I’m the person who can help you. And I will. But I have to know what’s going on.’

  ‘And I told you!’ She was shouting, aware she was losing control both of the conversation and herself. ‘Someone else is doing this!’

  There was a strained patience in Ben’s voice now. ‘This is your handwriting,’ he said. ‘It really is.’

  Sarah sat on the couch. She felt suddenly drained. ‘So what’s your explanation, Ben? What exactly do you want me to admit?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘Which I already told you. But you clearly have something else in mind. So go ahead. Tell me what you think’s going on.’

  Ben nodded. ‘This is only a theory, OK? I’m not saying it’s true. I’m asking you to consider it.’

  ‘Don’t soft-pedal me, Ben. Spit it out.’

  ‘OK.’ He sat on a bar stool, then stood up again. It was like, Sarah thought, he was in court. ‘One possible explanation,’ he began, then stopped. ‘Well, let me take you through the logic, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Take me through the logic.’

  ‘So, whoever did this had the ability to get access to a number of things: our house, your Amazon account, the contact details of your friends. They also were able to get close enough to ta
ke photos of me and you and your friends and our family without being noticed. And they can copy your handwriting.’ He gave a little shrug. ‘One of those things would be tough enough, but all of them? Almost impossible.’

  ‘But not impossible,’ Sarah said. ‘Obviously. Or it wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘Unless it is impossible,’ Ben said. ‘Which would leave only one person who we know has the ability to do all of those things.’

  ‘Who is?’ Sarah said, already pretty sure where this was headed.

  Ben could not look at her. ‘You,’ he said, softly. Even though she had been half-expecting him to say it, it was still a shock when he did. Sarah started to protest, but he raised his hand. ‘Let me finish,’ he said. ‘Please.’

  ‘OK,’ she replied. ‘Finish, and then I’ll tell you what bullshit this is.’

  ‘The other problem here is motive,’ Ben said. ‘Even if someone could do this, why would they?’

  ‘And why would I?’ Sarah said. ‘Your little theory doesn’t answer that, does it?’

  ‘It does,’ Ben said. ‘And like I said, this is only a theory, OK? But let’s say you were struggling in some way. With – I don’t know – depression or anxiety or whatever. And it was worse than you wanted to admit, even to yourself—’

  ‘This is bullshit, Ben,’ Sarah said. He ignored her and carried on talking.

  ‘ —and so you devised a way to bring it to my attention—’

  ‘Stop it, Ben. Stop it now. This is total rubbish.’

  ‘—and that’s what all this is about. It’s a cry for help. I mean, it’s written right there in—’

  ‘I said stop it!’ Sarah shouted. ‘Fucking stop it right now, Ben! This is bullshit, OK! Bullshit!’

  ‘Mom?’ Miles had opened the living room door and was looking at them. ‘Mom? Are you all right?’

  Sarah looked back at him. She wasn’t, she wasn’t at all, but she nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m fine. We’re having a discussion.’

  ‘It sounds like you’re fighting.’

  She glanced at Ben, and held her arms out. He moved toward her and hugged her. It was awkward, but they had made a promise to each other on the day they brought Miles home from the hospital that they would try not to argue in front of him – and any future siblings – and if they did, they would immediately make up.