Hunted

“We’re going to play a game.”

And just like that, I find myself in my own episode of I Was Prey. Except instead of a wild animal like a bear or a mountain lion staring me down, I’m faced with a much more dangerous predator.

My former husband. 

Or current rather….Or….What do you call a spouse who is supposed to be dead?

~*~

“Hello, Alice.” 

It’s a beautiful fall day, the leaves just starting to dress in their warmer tones in place of summer greens. Wrapping my wool coat around me tighter, I find the chill sweeping through me has nothing to do with the crisp weather. 

That face - eyes searching, calculating, a sardonic smile playing at his lips - that face is making my blood run cold, my legs spasm as if they might give out at any moment. I had seen him about a block away, and absolute shock coursed through me enough to keep me immobile as he approached.

My mind numb, all I can keep thinking is dead. He’s supposed to be dead. Why is he not dead?

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost my darling. Here, let’s step into this warm cafe.” 

To any onlooker, he looked like a friend meeting up for lunch. I alone knew the meaning behind his growing smile, his eyes taking on a familiar malicious glint. How many times had I seen this look right before…

Shaking myself out of my comatose state, I look around frantically. The street is crowded, he can’t do anything to me out here, not in broad daylight. Scanning his ensemble - stylish peacoat, relaxed scarf, expensive dress shoes - he looks just like he did when I first met him. Handsome, wealthy, well dressed. He may be hiding a gun in his coat. But that wouldn’t be his style, would it? Maybe for coercion but not murder. No, if he wanted to harm me it wouldn’t be right here on the street or in the cafe. It would be when the city was sleeping when no one would hear my cries for help.

For a split second, I consider running. But he must have sensed this because I suddenly feel an iron grip on my wrist, his face too close for comfort.

“Come along my dear, it’s more comfortable in here.” With his other hand, he opens the door to the cafe and pulls me inside after him.

“What’ll we have today loves?” The plump waitress sidles up to our table, notepad in hand. 

“Two cups of coffee for now thank you.” The waitress blushes at his charming smile and scurries off. He’s always had that effect on women. 

Leaning back in the booth the mask of charm is removed as his eyes once again settle on me. 

Evil.

The face of evil incarnate.

“I thought you were dead.” It’s the first time I’ve managed to get a word out, finally swallowing down the fear and panic lodged in my throat. 

“Ah yes. I imagine that would be your first inquiry. Considering you murdered me. Or thought you did rather.” He picks up his menu with an air of indifference. 

Swallowing hard, my hand instinctively goes to the cutlery set on the table, slowly closing around the butter knife. If Rachel McAdams was able to slow down her attacker with a pen to the neck in Red Eye, I could certainly do some damage with a butter knife. But just before I’m about to slip it under the table his hand snakes out and grasps mine.

“Tsk tsk,” he admonishes, eyes of granite boring into mine. “Let’s not do anything rash. You know where that got you last time. A bonafide murderer.”

Free, I think to myself. I thought I was getting free. 

The waitress appears with our coffees, and he releases my hand, the butter knife clattering on the table. 

“Any food loves? We have a freshly baked apple pie that’s to die for.”

“That sounds superb, but we’ll stay with coffee for now.” The mask is back on for a moment as he addresses our waitress. 

My eyes follow her as she makes her way back to the kitchen. There has to be a rear entrance. But even if I manage to slip out where would I go? Home? If he was able to find me on the street he probably knows where I live now. I’d ruled out the police ages ago, he owns the whole lot of them. I could go to Elise’s but she has the same apartment she’s always had, he knows her address.

Once when things got very bad, and I had finally mustered the courage to leave, I went home. After two years of barely speaking to my parents, I was so grateful when they welcomed me with open arms. But that was when Daddy was still alive, and he and his shotgun didn’t move from that front porch while we slept. Now it’s just Mama. So going home isn’t an option, I can’t risk putting her in danger. 

Taking a sip of his coffee, he places it back down carefully, wiping the small drip on the side of the cup with his napkin. This minuscule but familiar routine places me right back to every morning at breakfast while we were married. Consequently, my hands clam up, small beads of sweat break out on my forehead. 

“I’ve come to a decision. What to do with you.” Leaning closer, resting his forearms on the table, he lowers his voice like we’re co-conspirators. “I have to hand it to you, Alice. I didn’t think you had it in you. Your stunt showed me you’re more like me than I thought. In that moment before - the look on your face - gone was my meek little Alice, and in her place was a fierce adversary. I applaud you.”

My insides churn at his words, images of what happened flash in my mind. “But how did you-”

“Doesn’t matter.” He cuts me off, taking another sip of coffee, repeating the same routine with his coffee cup as before. I had gotten so used to his routines during our marriage that I could anticipate what he needed before he asked. Except of course when he was feeling cruel. When he would purposefully change course, leaving me without a compass, shipwrecked. He’d leave me bruised and battered upon the rocks. 

Closing my eyes against the memories I ask, “What do you want? You’re alive. Isn’t that enough?”

“Oh, Alice you’re smarter than that my darling.” His eyes take on an excitable gleam, manic even. “So!” he clasps his hands together, smiling, “We’re going to play a game. You’ll have five days to survive. One for each month you thought me dead. Five months I had to slowly recover and put my life back together. I think that’s fair don’t you?” Without waiting for a reply he continues, “If you’re able to elude me for those five days, well then we’ll go our separate ways, all is forgiven.”

“And if I don’t agree? If I leave here and go straight to the police?”

“Alice, I’m beginning to think this is going to be a very dull game. I’m expecting much more from you now. You’ve proven yourself. I understand you’re probably still in shock, so I’ll give you an hour’s head start. How does that sound?”

“If you want me dead, if you want revenge, why don’t you just kill me?! Right here!” I feel some of my fear and dread subsiding, anger seeping into its place. 

“Now where would the fun in that be? I can’t help but be curious if you’ll outsmart me this time. I doubt it of course, but I’m an optimist!” He grins. “But I do have a foolproof method of making you comply.” Reaching into his coat pocket he pulls out his phone and slides it across the table. “Take a look at the photos please.”

Eyes wide, for the second time today I’m shocked into silence. There on his screen is Mama, tied up in a dimly lit room. NO! Tears gather behind my eyes, but I swallow them back. I have to be strong. For her. 

“These could be photoshopped for all I know,” pushing the phone away, I arrange my face into one of derision, hoping he’ll buy it.

“Hmmm, well there’s a video. If you want to watch swipe right. Oh and turn up the volume, it’s much better with audio.”

Bastard! Sick bastard! I can’t stop the tears this time as I hear my Mama crying out with fear, confused and disoriented. 

“I swear if you hurt her!” 

“I thought this would be effective. She’s not hurt, yet. Play by my rules and I swear I won’t harm a single white hair on her head.” Licking his dry lips he continues, “Now I just have a few more ground rules before we began-”

“Ok loves, I know ya’ll said just coffee, but we have a whole leftover pie that we aren’t selling before closing. So I’m sharing it with our patrons. Well, the ones that are left.” Our waitress interrupts, placing two steaming plates of apple pie before us with a smile. “And here’s your bill, pie on the house of course. And take your time, no rush.”

The juxtaposition of our kind waitress offering us something as wholesome as apple pie with my Mother tied up in a warehouse somewhere is too much. I feel my mind start to unravel, laughter, mad insane laughter starts to bubble up, but I stifle it with a hand over my mouth.

“Might as well,” he says as he slices a piece of the warm pie with his fork, bringing it to his mouth. “Oh, that is good. Not as good as the ones you used to make. But still - you should try it.” He gestures towards my plate with his fork.

I watch him, hate and disgust tasting bitter in my mouth. I imagine the fork piercing his jugular, him bleeding out on the table before me. 

Suddenly he starts to cough. Surprised I watch as his coughing fit becomes increasingly more violent. Coughing and wheezing, he loosens the top button of his shirt, scratching at his neck. Assuming he’s choked on something he swallowed wrong I watch him from across the table, arms crossed. I am not performing the Heimlich. 

His skin turns a nasty splotchy mess in a matter of minutes, his handsome features distorted as his eyes bulge. Still wheezing, he collapses over his coat next to him in the booth, fumbling unsuccessfully for something. 

Running through his medical history in my head, it dawns on me he’s searching for his EpiPen. Nut allergy. This never happened when we were together, but I know of his severe allergy. Coming to terms with what’s happening, I get up and reach my hand over the table and pluck his coat from the seat. “Allow me.” Searching inside his pockets I locate the EpiPen, but leave it for the time being, settling the coat on my lap.

Wheezing, he lunges at me across the table but instead of reaching me he fully collapses, knocking the coffee cups over, and then falling to the floor. 

“Oh, my heavens!” Our waitress rushes over, leaning down beside him. “I don’t think he’s breathing!” she screams.

Jumping to my feet, I make like I’m fumbling in his coat. “He’s in anaphylactic shock!” I yell, “He’s allergic to nuts. Cashews specifically. Does your pie contain nuts?!”

Her face blanches, “Oh lord I don’t know! Oh mercy, I think it might! It’s a gluten-free recipe!” She starts to cry. 

“Here! Found it!” I hold up the EpiPen, and shoving her out of the way, lean down on the floor. “Call 911! Hurry! This should hold him over till the ambulance arrives!”

When she leaves I bend down further so I can make eye contact. Holding the EpiPen in front of his face, I whisper, “Tell me where she is and I will save your life.”

Unable to speak, his fingers weekly motion for his phone I’m holding. I slide it on the floor next to him. He taps on the screen, and when I take it back, I’m staring at a familiar address on Google Maps. Our old home, our flat here in the city. Of course! The basement!

I suddenly realize a couple of nearby patrons have now gotten out of their seats to gather around. 

“Ma’am, is he ok?” One elderly man asks with concern.

“He’s in Anaphylactic shock. But I’m his wife, and I’ve already administered his EpiPen, he’ll be up again before the ambulance even arrives.” I smile and rub his back for good measure.

Hesitantly they move back to their seats. When they’re gone I slip the EpiPen into my purse, unused. Then I sit on the floor and watch my husband die for the second time. He’s barely breathing now, his breath slow and labored. 

Leaning down I whisper in his ear, “There are two types of people in this world. The Hunter, and the Hunted. You taught me that.”

I swear I see a slight smile on his lips before he shuts his eyes.