The Alignment (6 page)

Holy shit I’m neurotic.

I get in the tub. The herbal liquid sits there demanding my attention.

Surely something that smells like a mixture of sweet herbs must be harmless. The drying flowers and herbs hanging on the eaves on the back porch pop into my mind. Modern medicine began with folk remedies such as these.

I lie in the tub and soak but it doesn’t last. The brew’s heady smell has permeated the room and won me over. His intentions make no difference. If he poisons me, so be it. No one will miss me.

I drain the tub and set the tray inside. I dip my shin into the tray until the water covers my entire leg. The warmth of the water itself offers instant relief since I’m soaking wet and cold. Although it might be a placebo effect, the soreness in my leg seems to ease. I let it soak for as long as I can stay in position before I dump and rinse the tray.

It’s hard to deny my leg feels better, but it’s impossible to know if it was the herbal bath and not just the warm water. Regardless, I tried. He can’t expect any more than that, and I don’t really care if he does.

I dry off and get dressed in a flannel shirt and cotton pants. Putting weight on my leg seems easier, but it still could be my imagination. I take my things back to the bedroom. The bed has been made up with clean sheets and an old quilt. Everything smells fresh from the laundry.

Hearing no sign of him in the house, I follow the smell of food into the kitchen. I let out my breath, relieved to find him absent from the room. A pot of rice sits steaming on the stove next to a pan full of mixed vegetables. I open the lid of a third pan. Scrambled eggs, bright yellow and fluffy. A clean plate and silverware wait beside the stove. My attention zones in on my hollow stomach. It seems like weeks since I’ve eaten a real dinner. I said I didn’t want him doing me any more favors, but I already ruined that pledge with the herbal bath. This meal is impossible to turn down, and much easier to accept if I don’t have to eat it with him.

I help myself and sit down at the table shoved against the wall with no better place to go in this small room. The vegetables taste so fresh they must have just been picked from the garden outside. I’m too caught up savoring the food to hear him come in but suddenly he’s here, shrinking the room even smaller. Either he needs to go, or the refrigerator. These are quarters too close for strangers to be comfortable. Riding in the truck with him was bad enough.

“If I make you some tea for your stomach, will you drink it?” His face seems sheepish. Or is he hiding something?

My stomach twists in reply. “Yes,” I hear myself say around a mouthful of rice. My hunger won’t let me escape this cramped room, or say no to the provider of these perfect veggies.

He sets a bucket on the counter and pulls a cutting board from a drawer. When I’ve cleaned my plate, he removes it and sets a mug of steaming tea, a bag of sugar, and a spoon in front of me.

“Sugar will make it taste better.”

“Does it taste bad?” I peer into the dark liquid in the mug.

“Hell yes.” He turns away. Was that a smile? Sadistic bastard.

I put in two spoonfuls of sugar, stir, and take a sip. Bad, but not too bad, considering I’ve consumed how many bottles of Pepto-Bismol in the last few days?

Chapter 6

Trey

I
feel a little
guilty about spiking her tea, but the relief to see her drinking it is enough to make up for the guilt. It
will
soothe her stomach, so there’s really no harm done. Once she has it in her bloodstream, she’ll be more agreeable to what I have to tell her.

“Is your leg better?”

“Yes. What was that you gave me?”

“An old recipe of my mother’s.”

I don’t want to go there, so I turn and start on the dishes. Knowing I have some time to kill before I can drop the news, I take my time cleaning up. I stow the ingredients from the tea and take my bucket back outside. She stays at the table, sipping
away. This is too easy. I thought she’d put up more of a fight.

On my way back into the kitchen, I pause. Nothing about this situation should remind me of the second woman whose memory I avoid, but somehow, it does. Thinking about my mother is one thing. Thinking of the other woman is strictly off limits. The pain tempts me. Her face starts to come into focus.

The sound of Liv setting her mug on the table pulls me back. She stands. Her chair grates against the floor. Ah, she still irritates me to no end.

“You shouldn’t grind your teeth,” she says.

“I don’t grind my teeth.” What the fuck does she know? A resonating hum fills my ears. I need to hit something. “Did you finish it?” I open the cabinet for my scotch and take a long drink from the bottle.

“Yeah, it wasn’t so bad.” She starts to leave the room.

“Wait, do you want more?”

“No thanks.” She sways and clutches the table. “I knew it. I knew you were poisoning me.” She starts to smile then catches herself.

It’s time.

“Can you sit? We need to talk.”

“I’d rather not.” She sits anyway.

“I changed my mind. I’m going to walk over to your place and bring your car back. You need your car to drive it to work.”

“Sounds good to me.” She looks at the splattered blood on the wall. Guess I should have been more attentive with my cleanup.

“You can’t tell anyone you’re staying here. You can’t tell anyone about what happened at your house. No matter what happens. You can’t say anything about any of this.”

“Oh I can’t? I think I can.”

“No, you can’t.” I sit in the chair across from her.

She looks away. “God. What did you put in that stuff?” She blinks several times as if to clear her vision.

“Nothing. Listen. If you say anything to anybody, you’re putting yourself in more danger. We’ll sort all this out. Just give me some time. You can blab all you want after this is all over.” I look at her hard, trying to convey the magnitude of what I’m telling her.

“Blab?” She giggles. “That’s funny.”

“Promise me.”

“Okay I promise. Jeez. Can I go now?”

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone about what happened with me, or your house. Say it.”

“I promise not to tell anyone about what happened with you or my house.” She can hardly keep a straight face.

“Will you be okay until I get back? I’ll give you my number. Call me if anything out of the ordinary happens.”

“Mmm…okay.” She looks at the wall again, takes a clump of her hair, and twists it in her fingers.

“Listen. Are you listening? If you hear a doorbell, you need to hide. There’s a trap door in the closet of the bedroom. Close the closet door behind you and hide inside the compartment until I come back.”

“They’re polite enough to ring the doorbell?”

“It’s rigged. It’s a proximity alarm. If they get within—”

She reaches toward me and plucks a piece of grass off my shirt near my shoulder. “How did that get there?” She furrows her brow.

“Do you understand everything I just told you?”

“Yes!” she says in a huff. She stands, steadies herself on the table, and wanders into the living room. I follow her. She drops onto the couch, leans her head back and closes her eyes, a contented smile on her face.

After jotting my number on a piece of paper on the table, I grab my phone and dig her keys out of her bag. I jog outside to the shore and all the way to the footbridge where River catches up to me.

“Go home. Guard the house.”

She makes a U-turn and bolts toward the house.

I jog the entire way there, and by the time I reach the cabin my endorphins are rushing. It would make my day if one of them was here. A high like this can only be satisfied by a good messy fight.

Too bad it looks like I’m out of luck. I survey the back yard and head up the side. The front yard is clear too, and I can’t see any sign anyone’s been here since my last visit.

Suddenly feeling I’m being watched, I whip around to survey the forest. The wind picks up, tossing branches. I close my eyes and listen. I hear my heartbeat in my ears.

“Come on…” Bring it on. I open my eyes, combing the land, hungry for some action. The wind settles. Everything remains still. Damn.

Inside the house I grab a duffle bag from the debris and pack it with an assortment of books and magazines and more clothes. I go into the bathroom and grab whatever is in my reach. In the kitchen, I find some wadded grocery bags and fill them with all her food. I’m thankful it isn’t much. I set everything near the front door and go to work at my next task.

It would be a lot easier if they hadn’t trashed the place. I wonder why they did. There’s no point. Once they knew we weren’t here, they could’ve simply left with no trace to make another ambush possible. Maybe they had already made a mess of the skylight and knew their presence couldn’t be concealed. They could have been looking for
something, just like I am right now. But they have no reason to care about her besides her connection to me.

My purpose is different. I’m trying to help myself make a decision. I need to see what effect it would have if she weren’t around anymore. I sort through the clutter trying to find anything that could give me a clue: a photo album, a bank statement, a checkbook. Evidence of elderly parents or grandparents who rely on her for money. Children, maybe living with their father. Any family at all.

Frustrated, I come up with nothing. It’s a little unusual not to have any family pictures around the house. But look who’s talking. I dump a pitcher of water in each of her flower pots on the front porch and the half-dead one out back. I’ve been gone too long, so I take one last look around and lock the front door behind me.

When I get back home, I pull Liv’s car up to the garage which should fit two cars but has so much junk inside it doesn’t fit one. Her car needs to stay hidden while it’s here. I rearrange one side to make room for her car, pull it in, and lock the door. Inside the house, I drop the duffle bag in the entry hall and put the perishable groceries in the fridge. In the living room I find her curled up on the couch, her knees tucked practically up to her chin. I could leave her on the couch and sleep in the bedroom, but I need to be out here to be on guard.

Praying she doesn’t wake up, I slide my arms under her shoulders and knees and lift her up. Her head flops and her arm dangles toward the floor. Halfway to the bedroom, she stirs. I hasten my steps to get her on the bed before she wakes up, but when her head rolls I see the waste of my effort.

Her eyelids flutter. “Umm…You? You stink.”

As I lay her in the bed she turns over, hugging the pillow. I jerk the sheet over her, then the quilt, and pull the door closed. I take a quick shower because, apparently, I stink, then I fall onto the couch. Still high from my jog, I stare at the ceiling. My brain won’t quit. It’s working too hard trying to plan. I just don’t know how I could have been so careless, how I couldn’t have seen what it looked like to them. They think I’m seeing her. So now they aren’t just going to be after me. They will be after her too.

I should tell them the truth, but they won’t likely believe me. They’ll think I’m trying to lead them off her. They won’t listen to the details if I try to explain. They believe too much in their foresight. They’ll think it’s finally happening.

It would be so much easier to let them kill her. I’ll give it a week. If I don’t have a plan in a week, they can have her.

Chapter 7

Liv

A
concert of chirping
birds outside makes it impossible to go back to sleep. Not that I even want to. I’d rather lie here in this bliss as long as possible. An infinity has passed since I’ve felt this healthy, this vibrant. My whole body hums with such contentment that it’s hard to imagine being mad at him for drugging me. Especially since his drugs are so much better than mine.

If I get up now, I can get ready and leave before I have to encounter him. It’s worth sacrificing this relaxation. I throw the covers aside.

My legs are bare. I didn’t take off my pants last night. I spot them on the floor, but my reaching hand freezes in midair. I didn’t get in bed last night either. I fell asleep on the couch. I vaguely remember him moving me to the bedroom, but the hazy memory feels like a dream.

He took off my pants. He’s out of his mind. I have good reason to storm in there right now and chew him out. Who does he think he is? But if I do that now, it will ruin my day. With so much recent turmoil, the temptation to savor this small pleasure is impossible to deny.

I get up, and for the first time in months I feel well enough to brave some long overdue stretching. My muscles ache to move again, to return to their normal strength and agility. Feeling satisfied with this small amount of work, I put on some scrubs and finger-comb my hair. I pull it back in a low loose ponytail, put on my shoes, and grab my bag. Tiptoeing into the hall, I’m bewildered by my ability to put full weight on my leg, especially after my little workout.

The sound of heavy, even breathing grows louder as I move toward the front door. I can’t avoid seeing him lying on the couch on his back, his feet hanging off the end, arms splayed. He looks as if he just fell backward on the couch and stayed that way all night. My temper flares. I bite my lip and head for the door, almost tripping over a lump in the path. I recognize my purple duffle bag so I unzip it slowly to keep the zipper from making too much noise. It’s packed full of my belongings from the house.

I’ll deal with that later. I ease open the door and step outside, but as I take a deep breath, my mood quickly crashes and burns. I can’t leave! I have no idea how to get to my car without falling in a pit of snakes or stepping on a land mine. And I don’t even see my car. He was supposed to get my car! I drag myself back inside my prison and sit on the bed, numbed to the bone.

All of this, from the moment our cars collided, is his fault. The people after me—his problem. Yet I’m the one suffering. He’s peacefully sleeping on his own couch. Nothing in his life has been disrupted, while mine has been shaken until the already broken pieces have shattered into rubble. It seemed impossible to repair before. Now, it’s hopeless.

I force myself up and over to the window to pull the curtain open and let in some light. As soon as I see the bars on the windows I almost laugh out loud. This can’t get any worse. My threat of laughter chokes in my throat when I hear a raised voice, coming from outside. It’s him. I wonder who he’s talking to. He must be on the back porch. I strain to see him but it’s impossible from this angle. I crack the window, hoping it doesn’t make a noise. It slides easily.

“…can’t explain the situation? It’s not what it looks like…so what if they don’t care, I’m just trying to save them some trouble…I
know
they can see everything. Can they see my middle finger?”

I strain to detect a response but hear no other voice. He must be on the phone. He makes an exasperated sigh, obviously listening to the person on the other end.

“Just do me this one favor, I’m sure you owe me for something…I don’t fucking know, but there’s got to be a way to explain…God, you know I don’t care about their prophecy crap.”

He’s silent for a while until a burst of laughter surprises me. It’s such a strange sound from him, maybe there is someone else out there whose laugh I can hear but whose voice I can’t.

“For real? Well they can suck it. Oh, and tell them their guys are getting worse and worse. It’s hardly a challenge anymore…Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t complain. The practice is good. My dad must be eating this up. Maybe it’s some sick way for him to keep me in training.”

He pauses again. Another laugh. I press my cheek against the screen, hoping he’ll walk into view, hungry for proof that the sound is coming from him. “Okay yeah. Call me either way… You’re sick…yeah you wish. Okay. Later.”

I slide the window closed and sit down to digest what I just heard. I’m involved in something, and I’m not sure I want to know what. A sharp knock on the door propels me to my feet.

“You up?” he asks through the door.

Trying to clear my expression, I open the door.

“I pulled your car out of the garage. If you’re ready, I can walk you—what?” An innocuous sentence transformed into an accusation complete with narrowed eyes and a bitter scowl.

I guess I wasn’t successful with my attempt at a blank look. “I’m ready.” I grab my bag and squeeze past him and go out the front door.

He catches up and leads me across the yard in the same zigzag pattern as before. I try to memorize the route, but it’s hard to concentrate while trying to bridle my impatient tongue. When we reach my car, I spin to face him. My day is ruined anyway.

“Did you enjoy undressing me?”

“What?” He straightens up in surprise.

“You didn’t think I would notice? That you took off my pants?”

He leans into my face. “I did
not
take off your pants.”

“Well they were off. And it only could have been you.” I glare back at him, holding my ground, even though he’s uncomfortably close. He expects me to recoil from his aggressive stance, but I won’t. We can stand here like this forever.

He makes a lightning-fast movement to grab my shoulders but catches himself.

“Try it.” I will scream bloody murder and aim for the groin.

He stares at me through narrowed eyes, his chest heaving. There’s a scar running into his upper lip and another across his cheekbone. Old scars. Like something very large and sharp skipped across his face. His attitude must be a source of trouble with people much bigger and less civilized than me. It’s bad news to be face to face with someone like him, but I refuse to break eye contact. I watch him struggle to recover. His mass looms over me. He obviously has the physical advantage, but I know the human nervous system. And where to strike to cause the most pain.

“You don’t have to believe me. But I would not do that.” He holds my eye to drive his point. He turns and stomps away, his boots making huge prints in the wet grass.

He’s a grown man, trying to intimidate someone smaller than him like a bully in grade school. When he’s not doing that, he’s drinking like an alcoholic. He has the scars to prove he hangs with losers just like him.

So much for this morning’s brief bout of optimism.

The front door of the house slams. I get in my car, doubling over in pain as my stomach catches up with the hours I seemed free of the sickness. I don’t even care. I’m just not going to talk to him, ever. I’ll give him until Monday to figure a way out of this. If I’m still stuck here Tuesday, I’m going to the police.

I start the engine and floor it, putting distance between my stomach and him as fast as possible.

Walking into the clinic is like walking into another world where everything is bright and cheerful, where people talk pleasantly, laugh often, and smile for no real reason. I feel like an imposter trying to conform to some other dimension. People ask me questions and I answer, I fall into routine. I go out to lunch with Jennifer and Rachel, or at least my body does. The rest of me is still immersed in the disorder of Trey Bevan’s world. I ask around offering to work someone’s weekend shift, but no one accepts.

Driving home, I wonder what could be stopping me from going to the police. I could drive to the station right now, ask for a chaperone, and go home to my own bed. Instead I pick up some groceries and drive straight back to my prison in some hypnotic coma.

There’s no sign of him or his truck when I arrive. I park and turn off the car. I don’t know how I didn’t notice the note stuck under my wiper blade. I open the door and pluck out the note.

Liv,

Front yard is clear. It’s safe to go straight inside.

Trey

I feel like I just won the lottery.

The hearty aroma of food hits me as soon as I step inside. As savory as it smells, I refuse to eat anything he cooks, and I’m sticking to it this time. I check the kitchen anyway and find a crock pot full of thick stew. Steam rises when I open the lid, carrying the tang of tomato, carrot, onion, black pepper. A clean bowl, spoon, and ladle are set out beside it.

Damn him and his stew. His teeming vegetable garden. His soothing herbal bath soak. If this domestic shit gets any more profound I might have a problem. Funny that I’m okay with the blood-sprayed kitchen wall but if he starts making scented candles and potpourri I’m out of here. The ingredients for a cold sandwich in my grocery bag are no match for this home-cooked meal, but I willfully throw one together, resisting the seduction of the stew by trying not to breathe in.

I return to my bedroom, yanking my duffle bag along with me. I shove bites of my sandwich into my mouth, barely chewing. Yes I’m stubborn, and proud of it. I put my hands to work unpacking the contents of my bag, a collection of random things from the house—books, CDs, magazines, my mp3 player, miscellaneous clothes, and stuff from the bathroom. As I start organizing the room, something sticking out from under the bed catches my eye. On my knees, I pull out a piece of white gauze.

Realization hits, forcing me to swallow a lump in my throat. Sometime during the night I woke up, determined to re-bandage my leg. I must have given up and gone back to sleep. But not before I removed my pants. This crucial memory was missing this morning, but now it’s there in full shaming color. A sickness burns in my stomach in a completely new way. Being wrong is one thing, but after accusing him of something like that, I can’t face him again. Any normal person would apologize, but it’s useless. Perhaps it’s better just to leave things the way they are. We aren’t ever going to get along.

Boredom catches up to me when I find nothing else to busy myself with in this little room, even with his attempt to entertain me by bringing some of my things. It’s not fair I’m cooped up in here while he’s free to go where he pleases. And now I know he’s home because I can hear him out there, stomping and banging around like some rogue giraffe. Screw him. If he wants to keep me here I’m going to make it as difficult for him as it is for me.

I change out of my scrubs, grab my nail kit and go into the kitchen. He’s at the table, eating. My unused bowl and spoon sit untouched on the counter. I help myself to a glass of water. He doesn’t look up, but I know he notices me from the severity of the tension in the air. After a deliberately slow consumption of my water, I wander back into the living room and start filing my nails, trying very hard to relax and put myself in the mental state I would be in at home. After a while I hear him cleaning up in the kitchen. A few minutes later, his footsteps close in on me.

“Do you want some food?”

“I’m fine.” I refuse to look at him. The apology wedges in my throat. I think of different ways I could phrase it as he hovers.

“You’re not hungry?”

“I already ate.” Although twisted in a million knots, my stomach still longs for that stew. Maybe I should just give in and eat. I have nothing to prove to him. He’s an asshole and he knows it. He’s made it a career.

“Would you like some more tea for your stomach?”

His audacity doesn’t surprise me in the least. I’m learning to expect it. “You mean your special roofie tea?”

“Yes.”

I can’t help but laugh. He isn’t even ashamed. I look up at him to read his face.

“It did help your stomach. You have to admit that.”

“Yes but it also made me drunk! High! Whatever.”

“That can be a side effect.”

“Thanks for telling me that beforehand.” My tone is sharper than it needs to be.

He’s scowling again. “Maybe you should be more careful the next time a stranger offers you a drink.”

I stare up at him. What a creep. I’ve never met anyone so unapologetically crude. “Maybe I should call the police to check up on what kind of illegal substances you’re growing out there.” I go back to filing my nails.

“Look. We don’t get along. Fine. You don’t have to talk to me. But there’s no reason for you to suffer. I’ll make some tea, for both of us. I drink a mug and you drink a mug. It will be ready in five minutes.” He goes back into the kitchen.

I sit frozen, staring straight ahead. But the thought of putting the mug to my lips wins, and like a drug addict, I drop my nail file and follow him into the kitchen. He’s busy at the counter, so I take a seat at the table. All I can think about is that mug in my hands and the warm liquid flowing down my throat.

He gets the mugs out of the cabinet and sets them on the counter. I can’t tear my eyes away from them. He puts the tea leaves in to steep and leans back against the counter. Folding his arms across his chest, he shoots me a condescending look.

I can’t hold back. “You’re a goddamn psycho.”

“As I’m aware.”

My fingers drum on the table. Has it been five minutes yet? He ladles some stew into the bowl still waiting for me on the counter.