Anna paced the worn carpet of her apartment's living room, waiting for the police to arrive. It had been twenty minutes already, and Peter had ducked into the shower to rinse off the remaining blood. At last, there came a knock at the door. It was barely audible above the rattle of the bathroom fan.
"Seattle Police Department," said a deep, female voice. Anna peered through the security peephole at the walleyed face of a tall woman with tanned skin and black hair up in a bun. She wore the blue-black uniform of a patrol officer, embroidered nametag on the right, badge on the left, radio mic clipped to the lapel above.
"Can you show me your badge?" Anna shouted through the door.
She angled her badge toward the peephole. "Officer Regan, shield number 8621."
Releasing the chain and deadbolt, Anna opened the door to a lean and broad-shouldered officer. "Are you alone?" she asked.
"No. Whyâ"
She strode past Anna into the apartment, pausing in the entryway before drawing her gun. Dropping into a half-crouch, she tiptoed down the hallway and passed out of view.
Anna stood petrified. She heard the bathroom fan grow suddenly louder as the bathroom door was opened. Then came the unmistakable sound of a shower curtain being ripped aside. Then a muffled curse.
The officer came sprinting back, barely noticing Anna as she flew out the still-open front door. She paused on the stoop, head on a swivel. She called into the radio mic on her left lapel. "Target is out the south window. Repeat, south window." Then she leaped down the steps.
Anna slammed the door, bolted it, and set the chain. Sprinting down the hallway, she burst into the bathroom. Wet towels littered the floor. Above the sink, the Boy Hatch had been left wide open. Something dangled over the sill, caught on a nail it seemedâPeter's bloody shirt.
"Sorry about the mess." Peter stepped into the bathroom buttoning up a blue Oxford shirt.
Anna shrieked and fell back against the pedestal sink.
He looked up. "Whoa. What's wrong?"
"Jesus!"
"What?"
She removed Peter's shirt from the sill, closed the window then latched it. "I thought you went out the Boy Hatch. I thought you ran."
Peter switched off the bathroom fan. "Why would I run?"
"The police are looking for you," she whispered.
"What? Wait, the police were here?"
She began to shake, and Peter helped her to the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed with the blood-stained shirt in her lap. He closed the door and stood with his back against it. "What happened? Tell me!"
She explained, nervously folding and unfolding the shirt in her lap. When she had finished, she looked up, her hazel eyes bleary and unfocused. "Peter, what's going on?"
"I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that wasn't the police."
"Then who was it?"
He shook his head.
"Should we go to the police station? It's just a few blocks away."
Peter rubbed the stubble on his chin. "I don't know. Davila thought it was a bad idea."
"Do you actually trust that woman?"
"No, I don't. But she seemed to know what she was talking about."
Anna clutched the shirt to her chest. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. I don't know!" He rubbed his face with his hands, the shirt's unbuttoned cuffs slipping down to his elbows. He needed to run. He needed to hide. But where? Old Saul's house came to mind, way up on that mountain in the middle of nowhere. Peter uncovered his face and let out a long sigh. "I think I just need to get out of town and lie low for a while." He rolled up the sleeves of the Oxford shirt. "Whose is this anyways?"
"Corbett's."
Peter chuckled grimly. "Not only does he look just like me, but he's my size too?"
She scoffed.
Peter nodded toward Anna's closet. "There's a lot of his stuff in there."
"It's not what you think."
"What am I thinking?"
"Look, if you have to know, I let him store a bunch of clothes here when he was in Europe last month. He was between places."
Europe. An idea flickered at the back of Peter's mind. "Is he in town now?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"I think he can help me."
It was late in the evening before Anna returned. When she knocked on the door, Peter jumped up from the couch and peered through the security peephole just to be sure. She was alone. Releasing the chain and the deadbolt, Peter let her in. "Are you OK?"
She stumbled in and kicked off her shoes. Peter ducked outside and scanned the darkened alleyway. Then he closed the door and re-secured the chain and deadbolt. "Do you think you were followed?"
She lay on the couch and set her glasses on the side table along with something else, a U.S. passport. Peter picked it up and flipped through the pages. It belonged of course to Anna's boyfriend, Corbett Christensen, age twenty-nine. His resemblance to Peter was not as close as Anna had made it sound, but it was close enough, especially around the eyes. "Christensen? I thought you said he was Jewish?"
"Half. His mother's Jewish."
Tucked into the passport were Corbett's credit cards and driver's license. "Shit. He let you take these?"
Anna sat up and drew her knees to her chest, dirty white socks perched on edge of the couch. "Not really."
"Wait. You stole them?"
When she did not answer, he returned the passport to the side table and sat beside her, to her left. "What's wrong? There's something else, isn't there?"
She stared at the dingy carpet.
Peter reached out to touch her shoulder, and she batted at his hand, missing by a mile. She tried again, but her left arm seemed to flail uselessly at her side. Then all it once, it went straight and rigid, wrist cocked back, fingers curled into talons.
"Anna!"
She reached across her body and took Peter's arm in her right hand. "Wait. It will pass," she said through clenched teeth.
It was over in a matter of seconds. She released Peter's arm, picked up her own limp hand, and calmly set it in her lap.
"Oh my God. That was a seizure, wasn't it?"
Her face was blank. "It's not the first time."
"Jesus, why didn't you say something?"
She looked down at her wilted left arm. "I thought they'd stop on their own. But they're coming more often now."
"I'm taking you to the ER right now."
"No." She looked up, her eyes still unfocused. "I have an appointment early tomorrow morning."
"With who?"
"Dr. Brisling."
"Brisling? I thought you hated him."
"I do. But he's the doctor I need to see."
"He's not even a neurologist."
"Don't you think I know that?" She turned away.
Peter wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She smelled like sweat. "I'm staying here with you. Forget my stupid plan."
She wriggled free, planted her right palm in the center of Peter's chest, and pushed him away, her expression now resentful. "No. If you really want to help me, you'll leave."
"What?"
"Look. I don't know what kind of shit you've gotten yourself into, but the only reason I'm in any danger at all is because of you and that fucking Israeli woman."
The initial sting of her words gave way to a cold chill. How could he have been so stupid, so selfish, running straight to her apartment like that, dragging the Israeli with him?
Anna glared at the passport and cards lying on the side table. "Corbett will know it was me who took it."
"Ah, Jesus. I'm sorry. I didn't thinkâ"
"Just go."
"Anna."
"Go!" She grabbed the passport and shoved it into Peter's hand.
Standing, Peter slipped the passport into his jeans pocket next to his own wallet. He tied his shoes and put on his jacket. Then taking the little roller suitcase he had packed while Anna was out, he stood by the front door.
Anna remained on the couch, gaze downcast.
"As soon as I'm gone, call an ambulance or a cab and get to the emergency room. Forget Brisling." Peter wanted to scoop her up and carry her to the hospital himself. Instead, he took the cold metal of the doorknob in his hand. She was right. The farther away he was, the safer she would be.
The life was returning to Anna's left hand. She could wiggle her fingers now. "I'll be fine. Go."
"I'll get ahold of you, somehow. I promise."
The chain jangled loose. The deadbolt turned with a heavy clunk. The door opened, and Peter stepped out into the dark.
______________________
Author's note:
Thank you for reading Chapter 12!
Now we know what's been eating Anna.
Where will Peter run?
-Frode