My Own Worst Enemy

Since that day on the lake with my family on Sunday, wherever I go, he comes for me. Sometimes it happens quickly and other times it might take a while, but he always comes for me. And he looks just like me.

Well, that’s not exactly right. He looks very much like me, distinctly and undeniably like me, but each time he is always somewhat different.

The first time I saw him was at a gas station just north of Tempe, Arizona on Monday morning as I was heading out of town. He was wearing a greasy set of blue coveralls and carrying a tire iron, so I just assumed he was one of the mechanics going about his business at first. But as he drew closer to me I noticed the obvious similarities in our appearance. I generally keep my hair short but his was almost shoulder-length, tucked back in the Castrol trucker’s cap he was wearing. He seemed a little shorter and stockier than me, but not by much. Overall, the resemblance was striking.

I had just finished filling up my tank and I was about to get back on the road when I realized he was coming straight towards me so I paused for a moment to see what he wanted. At first I just thought that maybe he was going to ask to take a picture with me or something like that, but he wasn’t smiling and I felt a sudden sense of caution rise up within me.

When he was about ten feet away he broke into a run, hoisting the tire iron in his left hand, and I dropped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut just as he smashed the side-view mirror off its mount. I cranked the engine and threw it in gear as he cocked back and took a second swing that blew out my driver’s side window. I saw this coming and ducked away, managing to avoid impact, then I was driving as fast as I could out onto the road and away from the gas station, my heart pounding and my brain racing. I pulled onto Route 93 and drove north for three hours, trying to make sense of what had just happened, hoping I wouldn’t get pulled over for my busted window and missing side-view mirror before I made it up to Kingman.

It was almost noon when I got there and I found an auto body shop just down the street from a cheap motel. I dropped off the car, told them to replace the driver’s side window and mount any kind of new or used side-view mirror that will fit as long as it's done by the morning. I took a walk and found an ATM, where I withdrew my daily limit of $1500 to add to my cash bankroll. Then I found a diner and had a cheeseburger and fries for lunch. Trust me, you want to keep it simple when dining out in Kingman, Arizona.

Afterwards, I bought a six-pack of Corona at 7-11, walked down to the motel and got a room for the night. I kicked off my shoes, stretched out on the bed and watched the Diamondbacks get their asses handed to them by the Dodgers. Not much of a game. When it was over I thought about ordering a pizza for dinner and as I was looking up the local options on my iPhone - tragically, Domino’s seemed to be the best - there was a knock on my door. Naturally, I wasn’t expecting anyone so I was a bit startled.

I crept over to the door as quietly as possible and looked through the peephole. On the other side I saw myself, or rather some close facsimile of me. My visitor appeared to be my same height and weight, but he was a little older with greying hair and he was wearing the same uniform the front desk clerk at the motel was wearing when I checked in earlier. I didn’t reach for the doorknob. I just remained there and silently watched him.

He knocked again, a bit louder this time, and then I saw him reach into his pocket to remove a box-cutter that he held discreetly with his left hand pressed up against his thigh. I was a lefty too.

I reached over and picked up an empty Corona bottle, clutching it tightly by the neck, waiting to see how this would go. He knocked once more, but then I heard the sounds of other voices approaching - guests of the motel returning to their room right next door - and my visitor smiled and waved at them as he walked back towards the office. I picked up my phone and found a nearby sporting goods store, then I ordered a cab to pick me up two blocks away. I left the lights and the TV on in my motel room but I took my things with me when I exited discreetly through the rear of the parking lot. I wasn’t going back there that night.

There was a McDonald’s next to the sporting goods store so afterwards I grabbed some dinner to go, and on my way to another cheap motel down the road I stopped into a hardware store to pick up a saw, some sandpaper and a roll of black electrical tape. When I got to my new motel room I ate very little and I lodged a chair up against the door and perched one of the wall mirrors on top of it as a make-shift alarm system in the event that someone came in while I was sleeping.

This proved unnecessary, as I didn’t sleep a wink that night anyway. Third night in a row. I used the handsaw with the carbon steel blade to take the stock and barrel off of the Remington Model 870 shotgun I purchased at the sporting goods store, then I sanded down the rough edges and wrapped the butt in electrical tape. It was about two feet long when I was finished.

The next morning I called the repair shop and they told me that my car would be ready for pickup in two hours. I took my things, walked back to McDonald’s for some breakfast, mostly just nursing my coffee for a while, and then I called a cab to drive me back to the repair shop. I was on the road heading north, pointed towards Las Vegas, a short time later. I listened to the radio and scanned the regional news reports on my phone, but there was nothing of any concern to me. It had been two days now, and I wondered how much more time I had. I was in Vegas about two hours later. I really needed sleep.

I was waiting in the line for the registration desk at The Mirage when I saw a man walking past an open door to the back room glance at me briefly. I only saw a flash of his profile but he seemed to look very much like me, and I immediately returned to my car and drove down to Fremont Street where I took a room at the Four Queens. I don’t know why I thought this would be any better, but at least I was able to check in and make it up to my room without incident. I stopped at an ATM on my way to the elevator to take out another $1500 in cash.

I took a shower and turned on the TV, tuning it to one of the local stations. The evening news would be starting soon. I was planning to just stay in my room all night. Order in a steak via room service and then get some sleep after putting some ad-hoc security measures in place around the door. I was hungry and tired. It was hard to relax but the body has its needs. I called downstairs to place my dinner order and waited for the news to start.

Once it did, it was not long before I saw my own face on the TV, and this time it was not a facsimile. It was me.

State and local police throughout the southwest are currently looking for this man, Michael Jacob Hunter, who is wanted in connection with the disappearance of his wife and children this past weekend. On Sunday night, his mother-in-law, Mrs. Marlene Shaw, reported her fears that something was wrong when the family did not meet up for dinner as planned that night to celebrate her daughter’s 40th birthday. Traffic light video cameras and security video from neighboring homes show Hunter leaving his house alone carrying a packed duffel bag the following morning. Police say he never showed up at his workplace that day.

The image on the screen switched to some fairly recent photos of my wife and two daughters.

On Monday morning when Hunter’s wife, Maggie, failed to show up for work at the daycare center that she owns and operates, and their two daughters, Kelsey and Courtney, did not arrive at school, Phoenix police issued an all-points bulletin for Arizona and all surrounding states. At this time authorities are still classifying Mister Hunter as a person-of-interest, but they are asking anyone with information related to his whereabouts to contact-

There was a knock on the door. Room service. I was no longer hungry, at all. I should have just ordered a bottle of bourbon. My head was spinning with questions, calculating how much time I had left to run for the hills while I still could. I went to the door and I was just about to open it when I paused to look through the peephole. What I saw gave me no cause for concern.

There was an older man in a hotel uniform who looked nothing at all like me standing there with a delivery cart, so I began to reach for the doorknob when the door to the room directly across the hall from mine opened and a man in a dark blue suit walked out, tapped the room service waiter on the shoulder, said something to him quietly and handed him some cash. The older man nodded and walked off down the hall and the man in the dark blue suit who looked just like me - with the exception of his jet black hair - moved the cart away from the door.

I took a few steps away and called out to him, “Sorry, I’m just stepping out of the shower here. You can just leave it there at the door and add a ten dollar gratuity to the room charge. Thanks!”

There was a brief pause. I looked out through the peephole again. His face was turned away now.

“I’m sorry sir. I’m afraid I need you to sign. Take your time. I can wait.”

My blood was racing and I instinctively went to the drawer where I had stashed the cut-down Remington, but before I got there I knew I couldn’t open fire in a Las Vegas hotel and expect to make it out the front door.

The other two items that I purchased in that sporting goods store back in Kingman were there beside the shotgun. I left the K-Bar knife and grabbed the can of bear repellent spray. Then I stopped and grabbed the knife as well, hoping I wouldn’t have to use it. I put on my sunglasses and, lastly, I quickly stuffed the shotgun and the rest of my things into my duffel bag and took that with me.

The bathroom was right next to the door leading into the room. I stepped in there, set my bag on the counter and tied a small towel around the lower half of my face to block my nose and mouth, then I got ready with the bear spray and said, “Okay, sorry for the wait,” trying to sound natural, presumably failing. Not that it mattered.

I pulled the lever on the door and ducked back into the bathroom. As soon as it opened just a crack he charged in, and I got him on the side of his face with the bear spray from the bathroom doorway. He instinctively swung out towards me and that’s when I saw he was holding the steak knife from my serving tray, but his eyes were already filling with tears and he lost the blade when his forearm smashed into the doorjamb. I released another long blast of the bear repellent into his face and he fell to his knees as I grabbed my bag and left him coughing and rubbing his eyes while gasping for air on the bathroom floor as I fled the hotel.

When I reached the parking lot a few minutes later I tossed my bag onto the passenger seat of my car and got behind the wheel, but when I cranked the ignition nothing happened. I tried again, but the Toyota was dead. None of the dashboard lights fired up.

Then I noticed the hood of my car was not fully closed.

I was about to go and cautiously check this out when I saw him out of my peripheral vision, walking towards me from the shadows, wearing a dirty old Metallica t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and carrying an old aluminium baseball bat by his left thigh.

Despite his shaved head and goatee, there was no mistaking the similarity of our faces, but he was at least ten years younger than me, three inches taller, and he had hard and wiry muscles in his arms, which were scrawled with black prison tattoos. I saw that he was missing two of his front teeth when he smiled at me and made a friendly little “get out of the car” gesture by motioning me forward with his right hand. I reached into my bag as he drew closer. Why did I bother replacing that driver’s side window?

Once he was just a few steps away he cocked the bat back over his shoulder and increased his pace and when he was close enough that there was no way to miss, I raised my shotgun and pointed it at him, then I closed my eyes and ducked my head and pulled the trigger. The report was mind numbing inside the car and the window glass went flying everywhere. When I opened my eyes he was no longer standing there, but I could hear the wet gasps coming from the ground below. I kept the shotgun in hand as I opened the car door, but I didn’t need it. He was laying there on his side, a dark semi-circle of blood pooling up beneath him.

I lifted the hood, and found that he had cut the battery cables. I wasn’t going anywhere in that vehicle and I had to leave immediately. All of those casino parking lots are under constant video surveillance. The police were already looking for me and when the security staff found his body they would also find the Toyota registered in my name, and then my location would be known. I didn’t dare use a credit card for a car rental and while I had almost six thousand in cash, there was certainly no used car dealership still open at that time of night. I grabbed my bag and ran to the closest stairwell and down to the street, where I hopped in the first cab I could find and told the driver to take me to Henderson.

I considered my options on the ride there, and came up with nothing. I could wander the streets and wait until the next morning until the dealerships opened up, buy a used car and then try to get out of town before the dragnet got too tight. But then what?

But then what?

I thought things through for a while and reached a conclusion. I was exhausted. I needed sleep. I wasn’t going to be able to outrun this, or even get too far if I tried. My bank account would presumably be frozen soon. When we reached the outskirts of Henderson the cab driver asked me where I wanted to be dropped off. I told him to take me to the police station. I was going to end up there soon enough anyway.

I gave the desk sergeant on duty my name and told him that I was wanted in Phoenix for the disappearance of my wife and two children and I was there to turn myself in. I was now what the true crime books and documentaries and podcasts refer to as a “family annihilator" and I expected no mercy from the courts. I had my reasons but they didn't matter any longer. I just wanted to get some sleep and then face the music later. I could barely keep my eyes open at that point. I knew it was over.

The desk sergeant quickly called in two more officers and they put me in handcuffs, booked me and took me into custody. When it was done they led me down to a large holding cell. The “drunk tank”, as it is often called. The place where those who have been arrested for DUI wake up with the most painful and expensive hangovers of their lives. I was relieved to see that there was only one other guy in the cell on that Tuesday night, sleeping on one of the benches with his face turned towards the wall, away from the overhead lights. I could smell the booze on him from ten feet away.

They removed my cuffs and locked me in the cell, promising me that a gourmet breakfast would be served in the morning, snickering softly and whispering a few words among themselves as they walked away. I heard the door to the holding cell corridor slam shut.

I laid down on one of the benches and exhaled deeply. Just as I was about to roll over and bury my face in the crook of my elbow to block out the light and get some sleep, my cellmate stood up.

I recognized his face immediately.

THE END