Spitting Image by Patrick LeClerc

porch. To the casual observer, they were just out enjoying the weather, but they were scanning the long drive a little too methodically. Keeping their drinks in their left hands, their right hands hovering too near a cooler that had the cover open. Unforgivable if they were trying to keep their drinks cold, but good sense if the cooler was just a place to hide a handgun.
    I motioned to Bob to circle around the cabin. We’d see if there was another way in. Not saying we couldn’t have gotten in past the two guards. Just that it would have been messy and complicated. Better to see if there was another choice before we shot our way in.
    We had stopped at a hardware store on the way and filled a small backpack with supplies. I’d bought some long plastic zip ties, some duct tape, a length of rope and some pipe insulation, just so that something in the cart wouldn’t look like kidnapping equipment. Bob already owned some burglar’s tools, but I bought a ridiculously big screwdriver that would double nicely as a prybar if I had to break anything open in a hurry.
    We crept around the cabin, taking it slow. Around the back, our patience was rewarded. There was a second floor window open. Not the best security, but most of these seasonal cabins had no air conditioning, and in late summer, the heat on the top floors could be brutal. It was a good twelve feet high, with nothing nearby to climb on, so it wasn’t an obvious security risk.
    I pointed to the window. “Bingo.”
    “Looks like a job for the little agile guy,” said Bob. “If you can get up there.”
    “Good thing I brought a big strong guy to boost me.”
    “No way I’m going to get in through there. Once you’re in, you’re on your own.”
    I nodded. “Not much we can do about that. I’ll be sneaky. If you hear things go to Hell, do whatever seems best.”
    He nodded. I wasn’t about to ask him to blast his way in and rescue me, but I wasn’t going to patronize him by suggesting he hide and call the cops, either. He’d judge the situation and do all he could.
    We watched the house in silence for a few minutes. Nobody came through the back yard. Nobody moved behind the windows. No lights came on.
    I looked at Bob. He shrugged.
    I stole across the yard, crouched down at the wall, near one of the closed ground floor windows. I heard daytime TV behind it. The window to the upper floor was centered in the wall, not above either of the lower windows. There was nothing close in the yard to climb, nothing that could be dragged over.
    I waved Bob to me. In a moment he was there, moving quickly and quietly for a big man.
    He squatted and made a stirrup with his fingers. I stepped in it and climbed onto his shoulders. With his back to the wall, he straightened up. Good thing he was big. Standing on his shoulders, I could reach up and grab the window sill.
    I tapped my foot on his shoulder. He reached his massive hands up and I stepped into them. With the help of a push, I was able to haul myself through the window without making much noise. Good thing he was strong, too.
    Once I was in, I crouched for a moment, listening and letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior after the bright sunlight.
    I was in a hallway. I could see several doors opening off either side, stairs leading down at the other end. The place was very rustic chic. Log cabin style. Polished wooden walls, hurricane lamps, hunting and skiing prints.
    I pondered my next move. Sarah may be in one of these rooms, but which? And if they locked it, as I’d have to assume, there was no way of kicking these in without making a hellish racket. If I started trying them and found somebody else, what then?
    And if I found her, how could I know it really was Sarah without talking to her?
    I started moving toward the nearest door. I’d listen first, then see if it were locked and go from there.
    I heard a creak from the stairs as someone climbed them. I froze, slipped my pistol out and shrank into the shadows in