Serge stuck the key in the knob, went inside and double-bolted the door. Safe and snug. His own space capsule. Microwave, coffeemaker, fridge, stove, dark paneling and a dark-wood kitchen table bought at some place with a name like “The Wagon Wheel.” There was a single small painting on the wall of a lionfish made with the bold, instinctive brush strokes of a state prison art class. Then more impressionism, a clashing 1963 avocado sofa covered with sunflowers, marigolds and violets like Van Gogh’s bitter, less-talented half-brother worked in upholstery. Serge jammed the window AC unit up all the way, closed his eyes and stuck his face in the freezing vent. Good ol’ number five.
It was a busy hour. Serge scurried around the cabin, stowing all his paraphernalia in The Special Places. Finally, he was done, the cottage in perfect order. Serge unfolded a scrap of paper from his pocket and committed a task list to memory. He ran out the door, cutting between other units. There were no fences, just one big feral lawn with pockets of standing water that connected all the cottages and homes behind the camp like an abandoned par-three golf course. Serge ran past a car parked behind cottage number three, which he couldn’t tell was a metallic green Trans Am because it was hidden under a tarp.
The curtains parted a slit on a back window of number three. Eyes watched Serge jog across the grass and disappear up the road. The curtains closed. The petite woman went back to the couch and sat bolt upright at the very edge. Full ashtray, nearly empty bottle of vodka, baggy eyes. She stared at the cell phone on the coffee table and was frustrated she didn’t feel the least bit drunk. Adrenaline.
Her name was Anna Sebring. She’d been up most of the night, glands on battle stations, constantly peeking out the curtains for a white Mercedes with tinted windows. Then back to the windows again at every random sound. Toads, raccoons rattling garbage cans, dragonflies bumping into porch lights, the people four cottages up with their midnight fish fry and campfire songs. That was the problem hiding out at the Old Wooden Bridge. It was so quiet it was noisy.
A tap on the window.
Anna screamed and found herself standing on the couch.
Another tap. At least it wasn’t gunfire or someone kicking in the door. And what if it was
Anna slowly lowered a leg off the sofa. She made it to the window and parted the curtains….
Her heart seized. Face to face. The beady eyes and narrow beak of the great white heron that the previous tenants had been feeding. Dinnertime.
In the background, fishermen returned to the dock, and two guys carried a green kayak over their heads.
Anna closed the curtains. “Get a grip!”
She returned to the couch and drank the end of the vodka. She stared again at the silent cell phone on the coffee table. A fast pulse throbbed in her forehead, which was running a horrible, round-the-clock slide show. Always blood.
Anna didn’t want to turn on the TV in case it blocked out a warning sound. But this was getting ridiculous. She needed distraction.
Anna picked up the remote control and pointed it at the TV. She paused a moment and studied her own reflection in the black picture tube. She clicked the power button and was then looking at a photo of herself on the local news. The remote crashed to the floor; batteries rolled under the couch.
The multiple killings were all over TV, and now her photo, asking the public’s help. The picture switched to a live shot, rows of evenly spaced volunteers combing a field for her body. Anna curled up on the couch and pulled her knees tight to her body.
The cell phone rang.
Her head snapped toward the sound, and she curled tighter. Three rings.
“Hello?…”
SERGE OPENED A thick, leather-bound book in his lap, the journal he wrote in at the end of each day. He tapped his chin with a pen and stared out the window at the fading light over Bogie Channel. He hunched over and started writing:
