You Don't Want To Know - By Lisa Jackson Page 0,14
he’d tossed his bedroll onto the couch and packed his few clothes into a tiny closet that fit him just fine. His bath consisted of a shower stall, toilet, and chipped pedestal sink tucked behind a bifold door, and his kitchen was a long closet with a functional sink, tiny counter, microwave, and mini-fridge. From the heat stains on the old Formica counter, it seemed that a previous tenant had once owned a hot plate, but it was nowhere to be found in the tiny, single cupboard that housed dish liquid, two plates, two bowls, and an assortment of jelly jars and glasses. A coffeemaker was tucked into a corner, two cups nearby, but no coffee to be found anywhere.
He heard a scratching sound at the door and opened it to find a bedraggled dog—a shepherd mix of some kind, probably Australian crossed with a bit of Border collie, all black with three once-white feet. They were now covered in dirt. “Who the hell are you?” he muttered, then said, “Hold up.” Grabbing one of the two towels from a cupboard beneath the television, he wiped the dog’s feet before the mutt wandered inside, made three circles, and dropped onto the worn rag rug that covered the linoleum in front of the gas stove. Head in his paws, the shepherd stared up at Dern, as if waiting.
“Make yourself at home,” Dern muttered before snagging his still-damp jeans off the stove and turning up the heat. As his new friend watched, Dern carried his Levi’s to the bathroom where he draped them over the shower’s frosted glass door, next to his still-wet shirt.
The dog didn’t move except to thump his tail when Dern snapped the bifolds shut and returned. “I take it from the way you walked in that you’ve been here before, right, buddy?” Dern bent down—he couldn’t resist scratching the dog’s ears—then twisted his collar around and read a long-expired tag. “Rover?” he asked, rocking back on his heels. “Seriously? That’s your name?”
Again, Dern was rewarded with a thump of the dog’s wet tail as he unbuckled Rover’s collar and checked to see that it really was a dog collar and nothing else. He’d already swept the small apartment for any signs of bugs, the electronic kind. He’d found nothing suspicious, no hidden microphones or tiny cameras anywhere. He’d even checked what served as an attic and searched every inch of the flooring, walls, and ceiling. It was a habit, something he’d done ever since his days in the military. And considering his motives for being here, a good idea.
“All clear,” he told the dog as he reattached the collar, then gave Rover another pat before straightening and wishing he’d thought to stock the mini-fridge with a beer or two.
His plan was that tomorrow morning, after taking care of the stock, he would boat across the bay to Anchorville, check out the tone, nose around a bit. If he had the time, he hoped to sift through the local gossip without arousing any suspicion and learn more about Church Island and its inhabitants.
If possible.
Now he walked to the window facing Neptune’s Gate and looked up at the gargantuan house. Lights were still glowing in some of the windows, though he couldn’t spy Ava Garrison’s room from this vantage point. That bothered him a little, especially now, after her surprising dive into the bay a few hours earlier. But he couldn’t make a scene about where he lived, about the fact that he needed a spot where he could keep an eye on her, or he would arouse suspicion. As it was, he had to be careful.
After yanking the blinds closed, he double-checked his hiding spot, one of the holes in the wall covered by a picture of a clipper ship riding angry waves. Earlier, he’d carefully superglued a strong, waterproof pocket to the inside of the paneling, as far down the hole as he could reach. The pocket had a Velcro flap, and inside were several items, including a prepaid cell phone that couldn’t be traced, at least not easily; an Internet connective device that he didn’t want anyone to find; and a small jump drive that held all the information he dared keep on the island. The backup info was tucked far away at a private data backup site on the mainland, one that kept it away from prying eyes. The last item was his gun. A Glock that couldn’t be traced to him.