Vanished

by Karen E. Olson

  Instinct takes over, and I don’t wait for Spencer. I turn and begin to run again, aware that every time my feet hit the ground, whoever is behind me can hear where I’m heading. We should never have stopped; we should have kept going. This is why Spencer and I have to part ways, not only because they’re looking for two of us together. Spencer’s a liability for me.

  I push the thoughts away; they’re distracting me. I don’t even know if Spencer’s following me. I can’t stop to check.

  Is it my stalker? D4rkn!te? Is he the one who’s in the woods behind me? Am I going to escape this time? There have been so many times that I’ve doubted my own survival skills, but I’ve managed to get by on pure luck. The kindness of strangers. Zeke.

  He’s not pulling the strings this time, though. This is all me.

  The adrenaline is pumping through my body, forcing me to keep moving. But I don’t anticipate what happens next – whatever it is that lies in my path – because my foot catches against something, and soon I am tumbling forward, the backpack’s weight not helping my balance. I have the thought that I shouldn’t put my hands out to catch my fall, so I don’t. Instead, I land on my shoulder, and before I can stop myself, I roll, slamming my cheek into the ground, knocking my glasses askew and scraping against something sharp. I force myself to keep rolling onto my back so I am now staring up at the sky, which is bright with the full moon. The wind has been knocked out of me, and I struggle to take a breath as I settle my glasses back on my nose. They seem intact, despite the impact.

  The ground beneath me vibrates slightly as they come closer: Spencer and the unknown person. I take a deep breath, roll back around and jump up, my feet taking purchase against an invisible starting block. I plunge forward. I barely feel the backpack slapping against my body as I pump my arms and push past the stitch in my side, the ache in my legs.

  I hear a cracking sound that I can’t identify at first, but the second one jogs my memory. Someone’s shooting at me.

  I’ve become accustomed to the dark now, and I weave among the trees. There are lights in the distance, possibly houses on the edge of the town Spencer was talking about. I don’t have time to bypass them. I want the light. I want a town. While I’ll be more out in the open, whoever’s shooting at me might not want to make it that public.

  I need to make it there alive.

  I have no idea where Spencer is. I’ve abandoned him. While my body seems to be moving on its own, my thoughts begin to focus. Has Spencer been shot? Is he bleeding somewhere behind me? I can’t risk stopping to find out, as much as I’d like to. And I don’t think my body will let me now. I am on autopilot; this is purely survival of the fittest.

  I come up to the backs of some houses along what looks like a very suburban neighborhood. Street lamps create pools of light in the road. A lone car makes its way down the street. For the first time since I fell, I hesitate. I almost fall over again, but manage to get my balance. Another car comes down the street and pulls into a driveway. The garage door opens, and the car disappears inside.

  I finally look behind me. I don’t see Spencer – or anyone else, for that matter. Real worry creeps into my thoughts. Maybe he really did get shot. Maybe he’s out there somewhere, needing my help.

  I reach around and shrug off one strap of the backpack, unzipping the front pocket. My fingers find the cellphone. I stop myself before calling 9-1-1. I can’t call. If Spencer’s out there, even if he’s bleeding on the ground, the police mustn’t find him. I’m not technically a fugitive, but he most definitely is.

  I hear rustling. My whole body stiffens, and then I begin to run again, toward the street, toward the houses.

  ‘Tina!’

  I think I’ve imagined it, but there it is again: ‘Tina!’

  I pivot around, the pack slapping against me. Spencer’s coming toward me, his breathing labored and loud. Relief floods through me to see him alive. He stops short when he reaches me and doubles over, trying to catch his breath.

  ‘You OK?’ I ask. ‘I heard a noise. Like a shot.’

  He straightens back up and holds up his arm. He’s clutching something in his hand and I see it. The gun.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ I ask.

  ‘Never leave home without it.’

  He’d had a gun when I was in Miami last fall, but I had no idea he’d brought it with him. I hadn’t seen it when I unpacked his carry-on and packed his backpack. ‘Where was it?’

  ‘You’re not the only one who has secret hiding places.’

  I realize I’m fixating on the gun itself, forgetting about the shots I heard. ‘Did you kill someone?’

  He shrugs, waves the gun around a little. ‘I don’t think so. I just scared him off. I couldn’t run anymore.’ He pauses. ‘Not everyone is in good shape like you.’ He says it like it’s a bad thing.

  I try to focus. ‘Did you recognize him? Was it the guy from the train?’

  Spencer shakes his head. ‘I only saw his shadow. No way could I recognize him in a lineup. Anyway, he kept coming toward me, like he thought the gun was a toy or something. I fired it to scare him. It worked. He ran.’ He’s still waving the gun around, and I take a step back, afraid that it’s going to go off again and I’ll be in the crosshairs. He notices and chuckles. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  I’m not so sure. ‘So where is he now?’ I scan the darkness, worried that the mysterious stalker is going to surprise us because he’s not done with us yet, despite Spencer’s threat to shoot him.

  ‘I don’t know. He took off,’ Spencer says. He reaches around and sticks the gun in his backpack. ‘Let’s go.’

  I’m not going to argue. I don’t think we’re totally out of the woods yet, and I won’t feel safe until we’re far away from this place. But where, exactly, are we?

  We’re approaching the houses from behind. Lights are on inside; we can see people moving around. We’re trespassing, and I’m not sure our presence would be welcome.

  A dark shadow looms ahead of us, and the closer we get, I can make out its shape. It’s one of those large wooden playscapes, with a slide and swings and even something that looks like a fort.

  ‘It’s larger than that train compartment,’ I mutter to myself, but notice now that Spencer is looking behind us. He grabs my hand and pulls me along. ‘What’s up?’ I ask, turning to see what’s got his attention.

  Just as I do so, a bright light flashes and it’s as bright as day.

  SEVENTEEN

  It’s a motion sensor light, and we have walked right into its path. Problem is, we are exposed, but we can’t see beyond the immediate area.

  ‘Who’s out there?’

  The voice startles me, and all my muscles freeze. Spencer’s expression must mirror my own, the fear etched in his eyes, his clenched jaw. For all our efforts, we are still discovered.

  I don’t see beyond the shotgun that appears out of nowhere, pointing in our direction.

  ‘I said, who are you?’ He steps into the light then, the large man behind his gun. He’s wearing pajama pants and a plain white T-shirt.

  ‘We were hiking,’ I hear myself say. ‘We got lost. We didn’t mean to trespass.’

  The gun remains leveled at my chest, and then it swings slightly so it’s aimed at Spencer. ‘Hikers?’ He’s dubious, as I would be, too, but we have to make it look good.

  I’m glad again that I didn’t give into Spencer’s plea that I abandon my tattered backpack, and it’s dark enough that his might not look quite so new. Our jeans and T-shirts and sneakers aren’t exactly hiker couture, not to mention how sweaty we are from running. I’m also covered in dirt from my tumble, and Spencer doesn’t look much better.

  ‘We got lost,’ I repeat.

  Spencer does speak then. ‘We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her.’ He pulls away and stares at me. ‘It’s your fault.’ The edge in his tone is unmistakable, and I’m thrown for a second, until I see him give me a wink. I stand up a little straighter, now aware of what he�
��s up to.

  ‘It is not my fault.’ My tone matches his.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the gun barrel lower slightly. This guy doesn’t want to get caught in the middle of a couple’s dispute, despite the fact that our story is completely ridiculous.

  ‘I don’t want to spend one more night with you.’ Spencer’s ratcheted up the game, and he pointedly stares at the man with the gun. ‘Can you get me a cab? She can walk home.’

  The gun barrel is now pointed at the ground. The man looks a little befuddled, clearly wanting to stay out of it. ‘There aren’t any cabs out here.’

  ‘There must be an Uber,’ Spencer says. ‘Anything to get me away from her.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about Uber,’ he says. ‘But there’s a place up by the highway where you could stay the night.’

  ‘What about me?’ I ask. ‘You can’t leave me here.’

  Spencer shakes his head at me. ‘Just watch me.’

  A door squeaks, and a woman is peering outside. The man waves the shotgun in her direction. ‘Go back inside. I’ll be back.’ He turns to Spencer. ‘Come on.’

  Spencer gives me a shrug as he follows the man around the side of the house. I’m uncertain what to do. This was not my plan. Do I have to walk to this ‘place up by the highway’?

  ‘Come on in, dear.’ The voice comes from the door, which opens a little further. I hear the roar of an engine and watch as a pickup truck careens down the driveway and up the street.

  He really did leave me here.

  ‘It’s OK now. You can come in.’ The woman stands in the doorway. She’s wrapped in a plush pink bathrobe, her hair mussed. ‘He shouldn’t have left you like that.’

  No kidding. I follow her inside.

  The house is warm and cozy, and she leads me into the kitchen, which is old fashioned, with wooden cabinets and laminate flooring that has seen better days. She indicates I should sit at the table next to the wall. ‘Tea?’

  I nod. I have no idea how I’m going to get out of here.

  ‘I’m Joan,’ she tells me. Then adds, ‘He’ll take your man to the bar for a drink.’

  I am momentarily thrown by her referring to Spencer as ‘my man’ before taking in the rest of what she’s saying. ‘The bar’ isn’t exactly Spencer’s scene, and it might be interesting to see how he does there.

  ‘Why don’t we have a cup of tea? Would you like to clean up a little first?’ Joan is bustling around the kitchen, filling a kettle and setting out china teacups.

  Where am I? It feels like an alternate universe.

  I think again about the man Spencer scared away with gunshots. Is he really gone, or did he see us in that spotlight? Does he know that Spencer’s gone off with someone? Does he know I’m in this house?

  ‘I think I will take you up on the offer to clean up,’ I say.

  Joan smiles kindly and, despite the shotgun, I am taken by these strangers. ‘Down the hall to your left.’

  I scoop up my backpack and head for the bathroom. It’s small, with pale yellow tile on the walls and a black-and-white checkered tiled floor. It’s straight out of the fifties or sixties. I drop the pack on the floor and, when I look in the mirror, I’m horrified. There’s a long red scrape across my cheek, just below my glasses, and a bruise is starting to form within it. I remember now that I landed on my face, but the adrenaline rush was so strong. That’s probably why it didn’t faze me that much.

  As I wash my face, I gently touch the wound and consider that this might be why Joan is being so kind. She probably thinks that Spencer did this to me.

  I shed my dirty jeans and T-shirt, take clean ones out of my backpack and put them on. It feels good to wear clean clothes again.

  I hear a buzzing inside the backpack, and I realize it’s my cellphone. I dig it out, recognize the number and hold it to my ear. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Are you OK?’ Spencer’s voice is soft, as though he doesn’t want anyone to hear.

  ‘Yeah. I think she thinks you beat me.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. He does, too. We’re at some dive bar. He bought me a beer and told me that violence isn’t the answer.’

  I resist the urge to laugh. The idea of Spencer Cross being violent – despite the gun – is too funny. With all of the weed he smokes, he’s probably the most mellow person I’ve ever met. Except when he’s paranoid.

  ‘How long will you be there?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m in the men’s room. I tried to get online but my router’s out of juice. I wanted to see what d4rkn!te is up to.’

  I stare at the backpack at my feet. ‘Hold on.’ I close the toilet seat and settle in, pulling the laptop out of the pack. I leave the water running, so Joan doesn’t wonder why I’m in here so long. I boot the laptop up, and see that they’ve got an open network with no password protection. Maybe I can repay Joan for her kindness by securing her Internet connection.

  While I don’t have access to the remote access Trojan and d4rkn!te’s computer, I can check out the chat room and see if he’s here. A scan of the threads of conversations tells me that he is nowhere to be found.

  ‘He’s not in the chat,’ I whisper.

  ‘Do a search. See if you can find out the last time he was there.’ Spencer’s voice is even more hushed. I wonder how long he’ll be able to hide out in the men’s room before Joan’s husband discovers he’s missing. Or how long I can hide out here before Joan starts knocking on the door.

  I maneuver through the chat room and find a list of screen names. I spot the last one I used, but I don’t see d4rkn!te’s name here anywhere. Something’s not right about that. He was here. Spencer and I both saw him, and he’s the one who put out the message with the French phrase in it. He posted that photograph of me.

  And then he erased his presence. There’s no sign of him.

  I am so engrossed in what I’m doing that the knock on the door makes me jump.

  ‘Are you all right in there, dear?’

  I realize I never told her my name. ‘Yes,’ I say. My voice sounds too loud, and it bounces off the walls in the small room. ‘I’ll be right out.’

  ‘Tea’s ready when you are. Take your time.’

  Despite her assurance that I can sequester myself in here as long as I’d like, that’s not realistic. She will, at some point, demand that I emerge. And it’s probably best to do it before it gets to that point. So I should get this done quickly. As I have already looked for d4rkn!te and not seen him, it shouldn’t take much longer before I give up. I have only one more card up my sleeve.

  I manage to get into the private chat log. I scan the screen names. Again, I don’t see d4rkn!te.

  But I do see a name I recognize.

  Tracker.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Spencer,’ I whisper. ‘Are you still there?’

  Silence on the other end tells me that he’s long gone. I tuck the phone back in the front pocket of the backpack while still staring at the screen, unbelieving. Zeke’s been here and, from looking at the time stamp, he was here only an hour ago.

  An hour ago.

  I am able to get into the archive of the chat, and when I see what transpired here, my hands begin to shake. There is no conversation; there are merely photographs. I see the familiar one of me boarding the train, but there are others. Me riding my bike at Folly Beach, coming out of Randy’s gallery, sitting at the bar having a drink.

  My heart is pounding, and the blood pulses through my ears. The photographs were posted by d4rkn!te, who seems to have a bird’s-eye view of my life, even though I’ve taken so many pains to stay hidden.

  The thought of that is enough to give me a panic attack.

  I force the fear down as I concentrate on what’s transpired. D4rkn!te lured Tracker to the private chat with the French phrase, just as he lured me earlier. Since they’re no longer here, I don’t have much hope of tracing IP addresses for locations, although they both have most likely used Tor and VPNs so I might not have had any luck anyw
ay.

  Another knock on the door startles me. That’s right. Joan.

  I shut the laptop cover and quickly shove it into the backpack. I turn off the water and flush the toilet, the pack over my arm as I open the door. Joan’s expression is curious and I don’t blame her, but I try to pretend that nothing’s wrong.

  ‘I’m sorry I took so long,’ I say, touching my face where I’ve got the bruise.

  Joan gives me a kind smile, and I am really sorry for the ruse. ‘Do you want me to run a load of laundry for you?’ she asks.

  ‘No, you’ve done too much already.’ I hesitate a second before adding, ‘I’m Nicole.’

  She doesn’t ask for a last name, just says, ‘Come on.’

  I follow her to the kitchen, where she’s set the teacups and some sort of baked loaf on the table. She cuts me a slice. ‘Banana bread,’ she explains.

  I haven’t had anything to eat in hours, and I take three slices. As I chew, I glance toward the window. Whoever followed us is out there somewhere. I may be safer here than anywhere else right now. Whoever he is might not risk trying to get to me.

  Spencer is still out there, though, with Joan’s husband. But he’s got a shotgun, and it seemed like he knew how to use it, so Spencer’s probably safe, too.

  ‘Does he do that often?’ Joan is asking.

  I force myself to focus. She means does Spencer hit me. I shake my head. ‘No. Never before.’ I hate that I lie, but it seems the safest thing to do.

  She gives me a sidelong look as though she doesn’t quite believe me. ‘Where were you two heading?’

  I shrug. I still don’t really know where we are. ‘We followed the train tracks,’ I say.

  She looks at my tattered bag and then stares at my bruise a little too long. ‘You don’t have anywhere to go, do you?’ she asks softly.

  All of the stress of the last twenty-four hours finally hits me and I realize that I actually don’t have anywhere to go. Tears begin to slip down my cheeks before I can stop them. I put my hands over my face as I try to regain some composure, but the more I do, the more I cry.

  Joan reaches over and puts her hand on my forearm. I take a few deep breaths and finally the tears diminish.