Alez Kava - One False Move

"You'd see what I mean if you'd just give fishing a chance."

"Yeah, right."

Tommy picked up the cooler, and Andrew led the way to the cabin, trying not to flinch from the pain, though his back was to his best friend and he wouldn't notice.

"So, what did the doctor have to say? How many more weeks you stuck in that fucking slingshot?" Tommy asked.

"At least three," he managed to say without sounding out of breath.

"Holy crap, that's a bitch. How can you even write?"

"Very slowly." He put down the load outside the cabin so he could open the screen door for Tommy. That courtesy, Tommy allowed, and he squeezed in past him.

"That's partly why I'm so far behind deadline," Andrew found himself repeating anytime someone mentioned his writing, the subject tripping some kind of automatic guilt response. Truth was, his injury was only a small part of the manuscript's delay. He didn't want to admit the real reason, as if the simple admission would seal his fate. Andrew Kane didn't believe in fate or luck. Then he realized that Tommy didn't care, probably hadn't even heard Andrew's lame excuse. Instead, he was checking out the four-room cabin.

"This place is pretty cool," he said before ducking into one of the back bedrooms.

"Yeah, I love it," And he did. It wasn't as rustic as it looked. Though the walls were lined in knotty pine and the ceiling made up of rafters, there was also a skylight of small paneled windows, a modern bathroom and shower, a furnace and A/C unit. The kitchenette featured a full-size refrigerator, an electric range and a microwave that had been added since Andrew's last visit. The screened-in porch that overlooked the lake and the treetops was where he'd be spending the majority of his time, hopefully working late into the night as he had in the past, writing by the flame of a lantern.

This had been his retreat, his sanctuary, and it had never failed him…yet. He had penned his first book here, but he hadn't been back for several years, too busy to afford himself the luxury of its solitude, its isolation. Instead, he usually ended up writing bits and pieces in airports, waiting for his next flight, or in hotel rooms over cold, mediocre room service. Who would have thought being a writer would include so many hours on the road and in the air? In a strange way the broken collarbone had been a godsend, a painful sign for him to slow down and reassess his priorities. A reminder of why he had wanted to do this in the first place.

"Where's the TV?" Tommy was back after an inspection of the bathroom.

"There is none."

"No TV?"

"Nope. No TV, no radio, no phone, no Internet. Can't even get good reception for my cell phone."

"Holy crap. How long did you say you're staying out here?"

"Two weeks."

"This is why you have no life, buddy. How can you handle being out here by yourself for two fucking weeks?"

"I need to get away from the day-to-day distractions. Besides, I brought a nine-inch portable TV-if that makes you feel better. You know I can't be away from the news for too long."

"Day-to-day distractions? I hate to tell you, but that's just life." Tommy picked up the case of Bud Light and started putting the bottles carefully in the refrigerator. "So it sounds like you have the same philosophy about writing as you do about fishing," he said from behind the refrigerator door.

"How's that?"

"Fishing isn't about catching fish, right? Sounds to me like writing about life isn't about living life."

"Very funny," Andrew said. But he was annoyed enough to realize that Tommy could be right.

2:30 p.m.

Melanie shoved the overstuffed laundry basket into the closet. She'd get to it tomorrow when things returned to normal. Though somewhere in the back of her mind she knew, she just knew that after today, things would never be normal again. It was only a feeling, the kind of feeling that gnaws at your gut. Something about this job of Jared's didn't feel right. Maybe she was simply disappointed that Jared and Charlie had been planning this without her. Maybe it was nothing, too much coffee at the restaurant when she had been trying so hard to do without. How had she ever expected to give up coffee and her smokes at the same time? Too much, too soon. Who did she think she was? Her gut instinct, she realized, had never been wrong before. In the past it had stopped her from doing some pretty stupid things. She reached for the Pepto-Bismol, screwed off the child-protective cap and took a swig from the bottle.

She loaded her own backpack with a change of clothes and some other necessities. She stopped at the mirror, tucking a strand of hair up under the baseball cap. It had been an effort to contain her thick, shoulder-length hair, first making a ponytail and then stacking it on top of her head. If she had had more warning she would have had it cut. More warning-how much trouble would that have been? There it was again, her anger. Wow! When had she decided it was anger instead of disappointment?

Melanie turned away from the mirror and added a couple of granola bars to the backpack. Jared promised they'd be home before nightfall, and he would say the backpack wasn't necessary. He was probably right. Maybe, like Charlie, she needed her own security blanket this time.

She heard a car pull in to the driveway and glanced at her wristwatch. Right on time. But when she looked out the window, she didn't recognize the dark blue sedan. She did, however, recognize the car's emblem. Another fucking Saturn. What was it with that boy and Saturns?

She opened the front door, holding it for Charlie while she stood on the porch scanning the surrounding houses, catching a glimpse of curtains swinging back into place in the brick bungalow across the street. Old Mrs. Clancy noticed everything in the neighborhood, but thankfully, she kept her mouth shut, whether out of respect or fear Melanie didn't much care. She didn't need some busybody reporting her every time a strange car appeared in her driveway. But, as Melanie watched Charlie, she couldn't help wondering what old Mrs. Clancy was thinking, because she knew the woman was watching from somewhere in her house.

Charlie's usual T-shirt and baggy jeans had been replaced by dark coveralls, the zip-up kind with long sleeves. The coveralls looked out of place in the ninety-degree heat. What looked odder was his bright white high-top Nikes peeking out from under the pant cuffs. That boy took better care of his shoes than his hygiene, which didn't matter much today. He'd be a sweaty mess within a few hours of wearing those coveralls. He had a red bandana tied around his neck, the knot loose and hanging into the collar of the coveralls. Melanie wanted to laugh. Jesus! They weren't seriously thinking of pulling the kerchiefs around their faces like some Wild West bank robbers, were they?

Already she could see lines of sweat running down Charlie's forehead, trailing along his jawline, white lines through the instant-suntan cream he must have applied just before coming over. She wondered, if and when his head started sweating, would the black hair dye leave streaks of red down his neck? His entire disguise could be ruined by perspiration. But Charlie seemed totally unaware of any possible problems.

He walked up the sidewalk with his usual easy stroll, whistling. It wasn't until he was on the porch that she recognized the tune from "Green Acres," the old TV show. The boy could be a walking commercial for "Nick at Nite" programming.

She waited until he was inside the house, the door closed behind them before she said, "That's your idea of a getaway car?"

"What? It's a 2004. Has less than five thousand miles on it. And the windows are tinted. Ain't nobody gonna see inside that son of a bitch unless they have their eyes plastered up against the window."