The Alignment (5 page)

“What?” I blurt, caught off guard by a question fired my way.

“It would be nice to have some background music.”

Too consumed with my discomfort, I don’t bother answering. Her loud, disgusted sigh in return almost runs me off the road, murder-suicide style.

“Fine.” I pound the stereo knob with my fist. It comes on to pure static. I punch each preset until something comes in.

“That wasn’t too hard, now was it?” I can sense her snotty expression. I don’t need to see it to know it’s there.

The music does nothing but apply another layer of agony onto my hell. I wonder how it would feel to kill an innocent person. A helpless woman. There are so many ways I could do it, right now. I wouldn’t have to stop the truck for some. My buried conscience whispers a warning that I would regret it once I was removed from this situation. Being here now, regret is hard to imagine. When we enter the Missoula city limits, I can already taste the relief I will have when she’s out of my truck and my life.

My mechanic is his usual talkative self, and I nod and agree to everything he says while eyeing Liv as she looks her car up and down. If she makes one complaint, I will surely snap. I can’t expect her to notice the four new tires she got out of the deal—tires she should have bought a long time ago. She returns to us, visibly pleased, so I go inside the office to pay. The bill is brutal. I’m paying for my sins with both my sanity
and
my wallet. Some of them at least.

When I go back outside she’s waiting for me. She opens her car door and glances over at me, unsure. I give a short wave and drop eye contact. There’s no need for any more words. She gets in her car and pulls away.

The whole trip home I’m not far behind her. I’m not trying to follow her, but it seems as soon as I think she’s lost me, I turn a curve or go over a hill and there she is again, her red car throwing the sun’s reflection like a beacon. Alone in my truck the time passes quickly and soon we’re back within Black River city limits. If I don’t pick up the Ninja now, I might have to face her again tomorrow and ruin another perfectly good day. It will take me five minutes to load it into my truck and I’ll be out of there.

I trail her up her driveway and to the house, and park behind her as she gets out of her car. I’m sure she’s already figured out why I’m here. She heads straight for the house, so I sit in my truck to let her get inside. Out of nowhere, her dog darts in front of her legs. She stumbles a few steps before steadying herself. Her irritated curse carries across the yard to me. Poor dog doesn’t know she’s been in a bad mood all day. The dog continues criss-crossing in front of her in an obvious attempt to impede her path, and I can’t help but chuckle. She stops.

I follow her gaze to her wide-open front door.

I’m out of the truck before I can think, defenses up. She turns around, and I’m already across the yard grabbing her shoulders.

“Did you leave your door open this morning?” I try to keep my voice low.

“No…” she says, in slow motion.

“Get in the truck.” I push her between the shoulder blades toward the truck and slip up to the house.

With my senses in overdrive, I remove my boots to silence my tread—there’s an audience out there, and whatever happens inside must be quiet and clean. I move around the house, checking every room, noting the destruction they’ve left behind. Every box is emptied, every drawer upturned. The guilt is a plastic bag over my face. My truck has been here too much, overnight even. They don’t know the situation. They thought I was staying here, with her. Do they think I’m that fucking stupid?

It doesn’t matter what they think. I’ve carelessly drawn an innocent person into my purgatory due to my own negligence. I thought my apathy would be the death of me, but I was wrong. It will be the death of her.

Chapter 5

Liv

H
e materializes at
the front door and crosses the yard toward me in his socks. As he gets close, I notice his green eyes, intense, fierce, and a strange rigid poise to his body. He pulls on his boots without tying them, yanks open the driver’s side door, and slides inside.

“I’m taking you to my house.”

“No! Why?”

“It’s not safe for you here. They think I’m here. They’re after
me
. If I leave you here they will come back.” He grips the steering wheel but stares straight ahead, not meeting my eyes. His jaw muscle tenses and rolls like he’s grinding his teeth. The steering wheel looks like a toy in his fists.

“Who?” I laugh. “I can’t just leave. I live here. I’ll be fine.” I pull the door release to get out. He’s crazy.

He grabs my wrist. “Please. Listen.” His eyes struggle to convince me. This violent change in him compared to the expression he wore all day is like a plunge in an icy lake.

I twist out of his grasp and he returns his hands to the steering wheel. If he crushed it in his fists I wouldn’t be surprised. A primal fear builds inside me. His alarm is contagious. I have to see what he saw inside.

“Can I at least get some stuff from the house?” I’m startled by the sound of my own words. I can’t really be going along with this.

He shoves open his door, jumps out, and walks around the truck to open my door. He leads me to the house but at the last minute, he turns. His face is close to mine. My adrenaline must be working to calm the sickness—it’s hardly noticeable now.

“Are you sure you want to see this?”

“Yes.”

He pulls me inside behind him and I gasp, covering my mouth with both hands. My belongings litter the floor as if a cyclone had raged through the house. Every drawer, closet and unpacked box ransacked and their contents scattered. Shock numbs me and empties my mind, every thought flushing down a massive storm drain.

He looks at me. “Get what you need quickly. We need to go.”

I nod. I step into the middle of the room and glass crunches under my shoes. Trey and I both look up to see an empty hole where the skylight used to be.

“They came in through the skylight.” He points out the obvious.

“Why not the door?” I hear myself ask.

“They were trying to ambush us.”

With this knowledge, I get to work sorting through my things, throwing what I need into a plastic trash bag. On my way out I grab a pillow and blanket. With tears clouding my vision I look at Trey, catching his arm to stop him.

“What if it rains?”

He puts me in the truck and slams the door closed. I hear him rummaging around in the back of the truck as I stare at the house, unable to process the scene stamped in my memory. I see him dart toward the house with a piece of heavy plastic and a hammer. He disappears around the side of the house and re-emerges on the roof, where he nails the plastic over the hole and disappears again. Then he’s at my door. “Will you be okay driving if I lead you on the Ninja?”

I swallow my tears. “Yes.” I scoot over to the driver’s seat and start the engine. The motorcycle fires up behind me and advances ahead, skidding in the gravel. I put the truck in gear and follow.

My mind is void of thought and emotion during the drive toward town, over the bridge, down a winding road to a gravel driveway. I go through the motions without thinking. I park the truck behind him and turn off the engine. When I look up, he’s already at my window.

His voice reaches me through the glass. “Stay in the truck until I come back.”

I sit and stare until he returns, a dog on his heels. He pushes the motorcycle into the garage and walks back toward me. Halfway, he stops and looks straight up into the sky for a drawn-out moment. He seems to mold into the scene. I find myself holding my breath until he moves again. He opens my door. “Everything is okay here, but you have to stay right behind me. There’s only one path into the house, and you have to stay on it. Got it?”

I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I follow him anyway. He zigzags his way to the front door and closes it behind us. I stand in the entry clutching my pillow to my chest as he carries my things into the house. He returns with some wadded up sheets and takes them to the other side of the house where I hear the washing machine start up.

When I see him coming back I blurt out, “My car is back there. Is it okay to leave my car there?”

His shoulders slump. “Yes. Your car needs to be there.”

He grips the back of the couch with both hands and leans over it, head bowed. “Do you know, if I hadn’t let you come with me today…” He sounds like he’s talking more to himself than me. His eyes meet mine. “You only have to stay here until I have a plan. I’ll come up with a plan. The long-term plan is I leave, but I can’t leave until we have steered them away from you. Do you want a drink?”

I follow him into the kitchen and take a seat at the table. He removes two glasses from the cabinet and pours a few inches of amber liquor into one.

“Just water for me.” It comes out in a whisper.

He fills the other glass with water and drops it on the table in front of me. I take a sip and look up. His glass is already empty.

“I’m going to be sick every day I’m here.” My voice has no emotion.

“It can’t be helped.”

I stare into my glass. My life has somehow spiraled into a new form of turmoil ever since he ran into me a few days ago.

“Are you in the witness protection program or something?” I sound accusatory without meaning to.

He searches my face and replies, dragging out the word, “Yes.”

“What’s your real name?” I try to make it come out softer.

“I didn’t change my name.”

“You can’t be in the witness protection program and not change your name.” My shrill voice doesn’t sound like it’s coming from me.

His face morphs back into the face I sat next to during our drive together this morning. His eyes narrow and his mouth sets into a harsh line beside a tense jaw, settling the permanent scowl back into its natural position. He pours more liquor into his glass and drinks it in one swig.

My stomach turns, and I stand suddenly, shoving the chair backward with my legs. “Can I go outside?”

“No.”

“So I’m a hostage?”

He exhales loudly. “Yes.”

I stare at him.

“But please, make yourself at home.”

I need to get out of this room. I turn to fix the chair and notice he has a back porch similar to mine. “What about the porch? Is the porch okay?”

He looks at me as if he’s surprised I’m still talking. “The porch is okay.”

My thoughts clear. “So, everything outside is booby-trapped except for the porch.”

He addresses the ceiling instead of me. “Yes. Just don’t get too close to the railing.”

I escape outside into the early evening air. The land here is lower in elevation, close enough to the river for me to hear the gurgle of water over rock, even though it’s mostly drowned out by the cacophony of chatty birds in the trees looming over the house. Unlike my cabin which is high on its own slope, this cabin lies deep in the elements—hunkered under pine trees, sidling next to the river. The only view is coniferous forest rising up on all sides.

A vegetable garden spans most of the gentle slope behind the house until it drops away and changes from trimmed lawn to overgrown grass to forest bursting skyward. Flat wooden boxes with slanted glass covers are built into the earth past the farthest row of plants, some of their lids propped open with wooden blocks at the corners. They look like miniature greenhouses. This guy is dedicated to whatever he’s growing.

A wide trail is worn in the grass along the length of the garden, and at the far end rests a huge tractor tire on its side. I’ve seen rural yards with abandoned farm equipment, but usually nature is trying to reclaim the metal and rubber. This tire is clear of all weeds and plants, like it dropped straight out of the sky then skidded down the grass on its side, exposing a path of dirt. I peer over the railing to see that the trail ends at a pile of sandbags at the house. I can’t imagine the river would flood all the way here. But if it does, a dozen sandbags aren’t going to save much. Maybe he uses them for his booby traps. Trip a wire, get a sandbag on the head.

I sink into a chair, roll my pant leg up over my knee and unwind the bandage from around my calf. Scabs are beginning to form, but the skin still feels tender. More noticeable are the dark purple bruises mottling my leg from ankle to knee. I wonder when I’m going to think about why I’m here, what just happened, and who did that to my house, but it just feels like a bad dream. There’s no reason to dwell on a bad dream.

The twisting in my stomach has eased in a way I know is only temporary, so I sit and enjoy the breeze until I start feeling restless. I suppose I could unpack my things so I can get ready for work easily tomorrow. And I need to do something about dinner. He can’t expect me to eat dinner with him. I stand and turn back to the door. Dried flowers and herbs hang in the eaves along the entire length of the house. I’m surprised I didn’t notice that before.

I slide the glass door closed behind me, sealing the sounds of nature outside. He’s standing in the silence, in the same position I left him, his back against the sink with his hands gripping the counter and his head bowed. I can tell he’s grinding his teeth again.

His eyes rise and center on my unbandaged leg.

“I’m airing it out,” I mutter, making my way in front of him into the other room before my stomach has a chance to protest. I wander into the only bedroom and find a bed stripped of its sheets crowding the whole room. A small dresser is crammed next to it, my bags perched on top. The floor is bare, but the window has a heavy curtain. The room hardly looks lived in.

I press my nose to the mattress and notice no discernible smell, so I lift it to view the underside. Nothing hiding under there either. Although it doesn’t remove my disgust—I have to sleep in his bed. Fortunately, the mattress itself doesn’t nauseate me. So far at least. I hope he doesn’t mind the couch, but do I care if he does? He should be sleeping on a bed of nails for the grief he’s given me.

I unpack my things, filling the two bottom empty dresser drawers and unloading my bath items on top of the dresser. I stare at my handiwork, wondering when I’ll be able to go home, wondering why I’m complying with any of this madness in the first place. Suddenly I’m aware of every sore muscle in my body. I’d kill for a hot bath.

The bathroom is the next door down the hall. It’s barely big enough to turn around in. There is a tub, but not one I’m getting into. I find some bathroom cleaner under the sink and spray the entire tub including the tile walls. I also spray the sink and the outside of the toilet. I grab a rag from under the sink and go to work. Having a task to occupy my hands offers an excuse to not think about what I’m trying not to think about.

Once finished, I spray the entire floor and scrub it on my hands and knees. Everything sparkles like a TV commercial for bathroom cleaner. I wish I had worn gloves. Too bad they’d never protect me from contracting his toxic disposition. That’s what I seem to be trying to scrub out.

Back in the bedroom, I pick out some clean clothes and gather my bath stuff. I hesitate in the doorway, unsure of proper etiquette between captor and hostage. But he did say to make myself at home. I can hear him moving around in the kitchen, so I shuffle within hearing range. It doesn’t take much in this tiny house, so sparsely furnished there’s little to absorb the sound.

“Is it okay if I take a bath?” My voice cracks.

No answer. The floor creaks, and he appears in the doorway throwing a bath towel at me. It lands on my shoulder but I grab it before it hits the floor. It’s still warm from the dryer.

I return to the bathroom and close the door. I stare at the doorknob. No lock. This can’t get any better. I stuff the wet rag I used to clean under the door, hoping it will act as some kind of obstacle. The tub faucet squeaks loudly as I turn it on. I undress, throwing my clothes against the door as well. I let my hair down and study the person in the mirror, a face too pale and eyes too bright. It’s the look pasted on faces of family members of the trauma victims I treat at work. I try to relax my face. What is wrong with me? I’m in a strange man’s house, preparing to take a bath in his tub after scrubbing his entire bathroom without asking. I must be in shock.

An electric jolt rips through my body as a knock sounds on the door. I press my palm against the crack of the door, holding it closed. “What?!”

“Something out here to soak your leg.”

I hold the door until my breathing returns to normal. I turn off the tub faucet and listen. There’s no way to know if he’s still out there. I wrap a towel around me, shove the pile of clothes aside with my foot, and crack the door. Seeing no immediate threat, I open it some more and find a shallow tray filled with a dark liquid on the floor. I grab the tray and push the door closed with my elbow. The hot tray threatens to burn my hands, so I set it on the floor. The rising steam smells sweet, like apples. And something else. Mint?

There are two possibilities. One, he’s trying to poison me. Or two, he’s actually trying to be nice. If option one is true, I am a sitting duck. I’m stuck in his house, and he’s going to get me one way or another. But it’s hard to believe he would poison me with an herbal bath when he could have easily let those people kill me today. Unless that was all a setup to lure me here, and he wants the satisfaction of killing me himself. But he’s had so many other opportunities. There’s no need to go to this trouble.

As for option two, maybe he feels guilty about ruining my life and he’s trying to redeem himself. If I don’t use the herbal bath, his feelings might be hurt. Do I care about his feelings? Hardly. Maybe it’s a test. If I pass, he doesn’t kill me. If I fail, he kills me. I’m not offended at his disregard for my medical knowledge to heal my own leg. He let me treat his brow, so he must think my experience is good for something. I could dump it in the toilet and pretend I used it. But why bother lying?