Hidden Away (KGI 3)

Demons past and present haunted her dreams until she was exhausted and worn thin. On the eighth day of her self-imposed solitude, she’d risen at dawn and watched the first fingers of the sun spread over the deep blue water. Watched as the waves gently foamed onto the sand, reaching and then retreating.

Drawn to the peace it seemingly offered, she’d walked barefoot onto the sand and stood at the water’s edge, face turned up into the sun. Here, her past didn’t matter. It was a chance to be reborn. She just had to take it. She had to believe in it.

Though the sun warmed her skin, she was still cold on the inside. She was in survival mode. Everything was locked down. She didn’t feel. She couldn’t feel.

Gradually she ventured out to buy groceries, figuring she’d gain more suspicion by never leaving her cottage than if she mingled with the locals. The island was a fascinating mix of cultures, and people from all over the globe seemed to have traveled to this place for a new beginning.

Tourists hadn’t yet found the island. It was inhabited largely by year-rounders, corporate people who’d left the rat race, artists seeking inspiration and loners like herself who sought refuge in a sparsely populated island where everyone pretty much kept to themselves.

Today she left her cottage wearing a tank top and casual trousers. Flip-flops and slides were the shoes of choice and she’d purchased a few pair days earlier in her attempt to blend in with the local scenery. Her destination was the coffee shop perched haphazardly on a beach overlook a mile from the cottage. It was a popular haunt. The coffee was good and they served a variety of sandwiches and croissants. It also had free Wi-Fi.

She tucked her laptop into her bag and then felt inside the pocket of her pants for the paper with the instructions on how to check the email account she communicated with Marcus from. Even though it had been her and Marcus’s primary method of communication for a few years now, she hadn’t yet committed the intricate steps to memory. Marcus had despaired of her, exasperated by the fact she made lists and notes for everything. He preached to her about paper trails, but she’d never considered his grumblings. Never considered that she’d be in a position to actually worry about such a thing.

She’d made a mistake already. She’d used her real name. Her passport. Like an idiot. She’d left Boston in such a rush that she hadn’t really thought about the potential pitfalls of the very thing Marcus feared. A paper trail. Even her destination hadn’t been planned. At the ticket counter in the airport, she’d plunked down her credit card and asked for the first available flight out of Boston. It just happened to be going to Miami. On the plane, she’d sat by an elderly couple whose final destination was Isle de Bijoux. It sounded perfect. By the time she landed in Miami, she’d had time to actually think about what she was doing, so from there, she chartered a private Cessna to the island, used a fake name and paid via wire transfer from the account Marcus has set up for her. The pilot probably thought she was a drug dealer, but he hadn’t turned down the money she offered.

Then she’d booked another commercial flight to Los Angeles, though if anyone really looked hard, they’d know she never got on that flight. And it wasn’t as if she’d made it difficult for anyone to track her to Miami. Still, she felt some sense of satisfaction that with as little experience as she had with subterfuge, she’d managed to get to the island and not stick out like a sore thumb. But the stress of not knowing if she was being hunted—by the authorities or Stanley Cross—had worn away at her already frayed mental state.

So one of the first things she’d done was to weigh her options and plan an escape route. It amused her that she was acting like a character in some ridiculous spy movie. She’d flown here, and flying back out in a hurry simply wasn’t an option. If she ever had to bolt, her best avenue of escape would be by sea.

Instead of looking up the two larger charter services, she’d instead opted for a small, hole-in-the wall, one-boat operation that looked as though it was usually passed over for the two other services. She gave the owner a ridiculous story about how she was an author doing research and writing a crime novel and that she wanted to arrange for him to be on call to pick her up on the western tip of the island and take her to the neighboring island.

To his further amusement, she made him do a test run. He probably couldn’t care less about why she was acting so ridiculous as long as she paid him, and she made sure it was worth his while, but she remained in character, even bringing a notebook where she pretended to take copious notes while they rode the two hours to the next island.

To her delight, there were a few charter services to choose from there, but she nearly did a victory dance when she found out that one of them made routine flights to Mexico to deliver goods to a retail store. After again spinning a yarn about researching a thriller, she convinced the pilot to allow her to hitch a ride when she got ready. She didn’t bother to tell him that she preferred never to be ready, but at least she had a viable and somewhat secure escape route from her island should the need arise.

All the way back to the island aboard the small boat, she’d patted herself on the back and asserted that while she was a decided amateur at matters of deception, she wasn’t a complete idiot. Then she’d spent an afternoon in the coffee shop researching her options in Mexico.

She’d come a long way from the spineless coward she’d been after Allen Cross raped her. So she’d changed one hiding place for another, but she was far more in control of her destiny here than she’d been in Boston. And she wasn’t about to let go of the reins again.

After three weeks on the island, she settled into a routine, but she didn’t dare let her guard down. Mistakes could get her killed. Only a fool became complacent. But she did allow herself a few simple pleasures. Such as coffee at the shop in town and occasional trips to the market to see what struck her fancy.

She barely remembered the walk to the coffee shop, so deep was her concentration on her circumstances. She stayed on the narrow beach path rather than take the winding, pothole-riddled main road that that ended just a few hundred yards beyond her cottage. When she reached the crumbling stone steps that led up to the ramshackle hut, she paused to look around. Satisfied that nothing seemed amiss, she hurried up the path to the rear entrance of the shop.

Once inside, the aroma of coffee surrounded her and filled her nostrils. She breathed in and then took a seat in the far corner, where her back was to the wall. Marie, the regular waitress with a soft French accent brought her a cup of the local brew, offered a smile and then faded away as quickly as she’d come.

Sarah liked that. Loved that everyone didn’t want to be her friend, find out her life’s story or pry into her circumstances. She opened her laptop after savoring the first sips of her coffee, then carefully pulled out the folded-up instructions.

She glanced up to make sure no one was nearby and then quickly went through the series of steps to access the secure server. She held her breath waiting for the page to load and then she saw that she had not one but several messages. Nearly a dozen. All from Marcus. Most saying the same thing with little variation.

Damn it, Sarah, where are you?

Sarah, contact me immediately. I’ll come for you.

I’m worried. You shouldn’t have gone off on your own. Tell me where you are.

And then the last.

Demons past and present haunted her dreams until she was exhausted and worn thin. On the eighth day of her self-imposed solitude, she’d risen at dawn and watched the first fingers of the sun spread over the deep blue water. Watched as the waves gently foamed onto the sand, reaching and then retreating.

Drawn to the peace it seemingly offered, she’d walked barefoot onto the sand and stood at the water’s edge, face turned up into the sun. Here, her past didn’t matter. It was a chance to be reborn. She just had to take it. She had to believe in it.

Though the sun warmed her skin, she was still cold on the inside. She was in survival mode. Everything was locked down. She didn’t feel. She couldn’t feel.

Gradually she ventured out to buy groceries, figuring she’d gain more suspicion by never leaving her cottage than if she mingled with the locals. The island was a fascinating mix of cultures, and people from all over the globe seemed to have traveled to this place for a new beginning.

Tourists hadn’t yet found the island. It was inhabited largely by year-rounders, corporate people who’d left the rat race, artists seeking inspiration and loners like herself who sought refuge in a sparsely populated island where everyone pretty much kept to themselves.

Today she left her cottage wearing a tank top and casual trousers. Flip-flops and slides were the shoes of choice and she’d purchased a few pair days earlier in her attempt to blend in with the local scenery. Her destination was the coffee shop perched haphazardly on a beach overlook a mile from the cottage. It was a popular haunt. The coffee was good and they served a variety of sandwiches and croissants. It also had free Wi-Fi.

She tucked her laptop into her bag and then felt inside the pocket of her pants for the paper with the instructions on how to check the email account she communicated with Marcus from. Even though it had been her and Marcus’s primary method of communication for a few years now, she hadn’t yet committed the intricate steps to memory. Marcus had despaired of her, exasperated by the fact she made lists and notes for everything. He preached to her about paper trails, but she’d never considered his grumblings. Never considered that she’d be in a position to actually worry about such a thing.

She’d made a mistake already. She’d used her real name. Her passport. Like an idiot. She’d left Boston in such a rush that she hadn’t really thought about the potential pitfalls of the very thing Marcus feared. A paper trail. Even her destination hadn’t been planned. At the ticket counter in the airport, she’d plunked down her credit card and asked for the first available flight out of Boston. It just happened to be going to Miami. On the plane, she’d sat by an elderly couple whose final destination was Isle de Bijoux. It sounded perfect. By the time she landed in Miami, she’d had time to actually think about what she was doing, so from there, she chartered a private Cessna to the island, used a fake name and paid via wire transfer from the account Marcus has set up for her. The pilot probably thought she was a drug dealer, but he hadn’t turned down the money she offered.

Then she’d booked another commercial flight to Los Angeles, though if anyone really looked hard, they’d know she never got on that flight. And it wasn’t as if she’d made it difficult for anyone to track her to Miami. Still, she felt some sense of satisfaction that with as little experience as she had with subterfuge, she’d managed to get to the island and not stick out like a sore thumb. But the stress of not knowing if she was being hunted—by the authorities or Stanley Cross—had worn away at her already frayed mental state.

So one of the first things she’d done was to weigh her options and plan an escape route. It amused her that she was acting like a character in some ridiculous spy movie. She’d flown here, and flying back out in a hurry simply wasn’t an option. If she ever had to bolt, her best avenue of escape would be by sea.

Instead of looking up the two larger charter services, she’d instead opted for a small, hole-in-the wall, one-boat operation that looked as though it was usually passed over for the two other services. She gave the owner a ridiculous story about how she was an author doing research and writing a crime novel and that she wanted to arrange for him to be on call to pick her up on the western tip of the island and take her to the neighboring island.

To his further amusement, she made him do a test run. He probably couldn’t care less about why she was acting so ridiculous as long as she paid him, and she made sure it was worth his while, but she remained in character, even bringing a notebook where she pretended to take copious notes while they rode the two hours to the next island.

To her delight, there were a few charter services to choose from there, but she nearly did a victory dance when she found out that one of them made routine flights to Mexico to deliver goods to a retail store. After again spinning a yarn about researching a thriller, she convinced the pilot to allow her to hitch a ride when she got ready. She didn’t bother to tell him that she preferred never to be ready, but at least she had a viable and somewhat secure escape route from her island should the need arise.

All the way back to the island aboard the small boat, she’d patted herself on the back and asserted that while she was a decided amateur at matters of deception, she wasn’t a complete idiot. Then she’d spent an afternoon in the coffee shop researching her options in Mexico.

She’d come a long way from the spineless coward she’d been after Allen Cross raped her. So she’d changed one hiding place for another, but she was far more in control of her destiny here than she’d been in Boston. And she wasn’t about to let go of the reins again.

After three weeks on the island, she settled into a routine, but she didn’t dare let her guard down. Mistakes could get her killed. Only a fool became complacent. But she did allow herself a few simple pleasures. Such as coffee at the shop in town and occasional trips to the market to see what struck her fancy.

She barely remembered the walk to the coffee shop, so deep was her concentration on her circumstances. She stayed on the narrow beach path rather than take the winding, pothole-riddled main road that that ended just a few hundred yards beyond her cottage. When she reached the crumbling stone steps that led up to the ramshackle hut, she paused to look around. Satisfied that nothing seemed amiss, she hurried up the path to the rear entrance of the shop.

Once inside, the aroma of coffee surrounded her and filled her nostrils. She breathed in and then took a seat in the far corner, where her back was to the wall. Marie, the regular waitress with a soft French accent brought her a cup of the local brew, offered a smile and then faded away as quickly as she’d come.

Sarah liked that. Loved that everyone didn’t want to be her friend, find out her life’s story or pry into her circumstances. She opened her laptop after savoring the first sips of her coffee, then carefully pulled out the folded-up instructions.

She glanced up to make sure no one was nearby and then quickly went through the series of steps to access the secure server. She held her breath waiting for the page to load and then she saw that she had not one but several messages. Nearly a dozen. All from Marcus. Most saying the same thing with little variation.

Damn it, Sarah, where are you?

Sarah, contact me immediately. I’ll come for you.

I’m worried. You shouldn’t have gone off on your own. Tell me where you are.

And then the last.

Sarah, I’m sorry you had to see that. I didn’t want you anywhere near. It had to be done. I don’t regret it. I don’t want you to be afraid of me. Never of me. People will be looking for you. Because of me. I need you to tell me where you are so I can make arrangements.

With shaking fingers she typed a response to the last email.

I’m okay. I’m safe. It’s better if you don’t know where I am. I don’t want to be used against you. I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid for you. You’re the only one who’s ever stood up for me. It’s time I stood up for myself. I promise to contact you if I need you. Let me know when things are safe for you.

Then she hurriedly shut the laptop. She closed her eyes against the ache in her throat. There was so many “if only”s. They ran through her mind like an out-of-control merry-go-round. But it was time to put the “if only”s behind her. Move forward. New life. New resolve.

A sound jerked her from sleep. Sarah came fully awake, sitting up in bed, hands shaking and nausea welling in her stomach. For a moment she was paralyzed with fear, and then she realized the room was steeped in darkness. Her gaze swung frantically to the lamp she always left on. She rolled, reaching for it and nearly knocking it off the nightstand in her haste to turn it back on. She twisted the knob but nothing happened. Had the bulb burned out? It had to have gone off after she’d fallen asleep. Her shoulder brushed against the book she’d been reading, and she shoved it under her pillow.

She listened, straining for the sound. Had she imagined it?

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet hitting the old wooden floor. It creaked in protest when she rose and she reached down for the only means of self-defense she had—an old pipe she’d found lying outside the cottage.

Her fingers curled around it and she pulled it up to her chest as she peered through her open doorway into the hall. Her vision blurred and her head swam before she realized she was holding her breath. She let it out slow but it stuttered across her lips and she clamped then shut so she didn’t make any sound.

She crept down the hall, so terrified and yet determined not to be a powerless victim again. If only she could have that moment back. She’d replayed it so many times in her mind. She could have fought harder. She could have defended herself better. But no matter how many times she went back, the result was always the same. She’d failed.

She wouldn’t fail again.

With renewed determination and courage, she gripped the pipe and increased her pace down the hall. At the end, she hesitated, surveying the small living room. The night-light plugged into the wall cast a glow over the area, and nothing looked out of place.

A faint rustle from the kitchen sent her pulse soaring. She leaned against the wall and pondered her options. She could run out the front door, but to where? The beach? She was a mile from town and at least two hundred yards from the closest cottage, which was currently vacant.

Still, outside was away from whatever was in her kitchen, and avoidance was always preferable to confrontation.

She swallowed, closed her eyes and then reopened them, her sights on the front door. There were two dead bolts, a chain and the regular lock to contend with. She’d need to be fast because as soon as she started fumbling with the door, the intruder would be alerted.

Before she could overthink it, she lunged for the front door, her fingers reaching for the first dead bolt. She had it undone, when she heard a very distinct meow.

She froze. A cat?

She whirled around to see a scruffy calico cat standing in the doorway to the kitchen. The cat looked at her, then meowed again and proceeded to pad across the floor to rub against Sarah’s leg.

Her relief was so staggering that she sagged to the floor still clutching the pipe. She leaned her head forward onto her knees, eyes closed and laughed. She laughed until tears ran down her cheeks and then she gave up and sobbed.

Warm fur rubbed against her arm and the low rumble of a purr reached her ears. She raised her head to see the cat up on its hind legs, paws on her thigh as she rubbed her head against Sarah’s skin.

“You scared me to death,” Sarah said hoarsely. “How did you get in here?”

The cat meowed and dipped her head, obviously wanting Sarah to pet her. Sarah laid the pipe on the floor and reached to scratch the cat’s ears. The cat responded with an even louder purr and a ripply sound of pleasure. She began kneading Sarah’s arm and Sarah gently removed the claws from her skin.

Pitifully grateful for the affection of the cat, she gathered the animal closer, putting her against her chest. The cat nudged at Sarah’s chin and repeatedly bumped her head over Sarah’s jaw.

“Are you hungry? Is that what you were doing in the kitchen?”

Had she been so lost in her thoughts when she’d returned from town that she hadn’t seen the cat come in? Or had she left the door ajar earlier? The thought worried her. She was going to have to be more careful. She couldn’t afford any lapse in attention.

The cat responded with more purring and Sarah smiled as she wiped the tears from her cheek. Gathering the cat under one arm, she got to her feet and walked into the kitchen. She flipped on the light and grimaced. The cat had knocked a glass off the counter and it lay in pieces on the floor, the edges gleaming in the light.

Sarah sighed and put the cat up on the counter so she wouldn’t cut her paws. “You were a very naughty cat,” she chided. “Stay there while I clean the mess up and I’ll find you something to eat.”

The cat settled on its haunches and began licking her paw and wiping it over her jowls. Sarah collected the dustpan and the broom from the pantry and cleaned up the shards. Afterward she perused the contents of the small refrigerator and decided that leftover chicken breast was the most suitable meal until she could buy dry food from the market.