Stalker Page 10

  Jerry pictured himself shushing down powdery snow-covered hills, lined with tall evergreens. “How long of a drive is it?”

  “Depends on the weather, but if it’s a good day, you can do it in around three hours.”

  “That’s not bad,” Jerry said, the idea of winter fun sounding better and better as he sat in the hot office draining his Coke. Christmas break would afford him some quality time to vacation, something he wasn’t used to in the breakneck world of television. He’d have to look into renting a cabin or time-sharing a condo with a group of colleagues.

  He signed the lease and slid it across the table to the beaming manager.

  “Thank you very much, Professor Stevens,” he said, handing Jerry the keys to his new apartment. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy living here.”

  Professor Stevens… How strange… I never really heard it said before…

  “Thank you,” Jerry replied, happy and relieved to have found a place. His next task was trying to fit into his new environment.

  *8*

  Tommy Phillips came in the house dripping sweat from mowing the lawn. It was humid out, rain lingering in the clouds. He was a sprite boy, age twelve, just beginning to realize that those fascinating creatures known as girls were more than targets for snowballs and spit wads. His body had begun its growth spurt, but the growth was so accelerated his body didn’t have a chance to keep up in bulk, giving him the appearance of frailty. In a year or two he would fill out, his father assured, but that wasn’t enough for Tommy. He was very self-conscious of his thinness. So much, in fact, that on this hot, humid, late summer day he mowed the lawn in jeans and a T-shirt. Now finished, he was parched, and all but ran to the refrigerator for a Mountain Dew, which he gulped down until the pain from carbonation in his throat overwhelmed him.

  Once refreshed, he looked around the house for his mother. Hearing her puttering around in her bedroom, he went back to the kitchen and grabbed the phone, dialing his friend Dave’s number.

  He was glad when Dave answered the phone, and not his nosy sister.

  “Are we still on for tonight?” he asked in a whisper.

  “I’m planning on it,” Dave replied.

  “What if it rains?”

  “It won’t.”

  “Midnight?”

  “Midnight.”

  “Okay. See you then,” Tommy said, hanging up the phone.

  *9*

  Dan got home late and was hungry. He found a can of SpaghettiOs and looking at the label felt his disappointment over Melissa’s rejection of his dinner proposal all over again. He felt kind of stupid that such an innocent invitation was causing him so much grief. Aren’t I supposed to be going out with someone named Janet? he asked himself, spooning the cold pasta into a saucepan.

  He tried to remember the last time he had fun in their relationship. He couldn’t. He wanted, once and for all, to know where he stood with her. If she wasn’t interested in him anymore—fine, so be it. He’d then be free to pursue Melissa without guilt. He was brought up to be faithful. Again he wondered if Janet felt that way as thoughts of another man invaded his head.

  He needed to know. His hand snatched for the phone, yanking it off the cradle. He pounded her number in fiercely, lifted the receiver to his ear, and waited for Janet to answer.

  *10*

  Melissa barely knew the man across from her. It couldn’t be classified as a blind date, for she had met him before, albeit briefly.

  His name was Parker Flint, a phony sounding name that fit his personality perfectly. He was a handsome man in his early thirties with thinning black hair. Earlier in the evening he had told Melissa about his strategy for fighting his baldness: the tonics he rigorously applied, the scalp massages he performed on himself daily, the special brushes he used… He truly believed that they worked, and he asked Melissa if she thought so. Since she had only seen him once before, and that only three days ago, it was hard for her to make a judgment.

  It was difficult to believe this was the same man she profiled earlier in the week. Then he appeared to be a model citizen: concerned with the homeless problem, helping to set up a food shelter, and often sleeping on the street with what he called his “misunderstood friends.” He had said that these people were no different from scores of viewers, except that they had been dealt a cruel hand. If circumstances were different, “You could have found yourself on the street instead,” he said gravely into the camera, ending Melissa’s report.

  Afterwards, he asked if she would like to have dinner with him sometime. Charmed then, she said yes. How she wished she could retract those words…

  “Try the garlic shrimp,” he said, offering her a forkful, waving it in her face.

  “No, thank you,” she refused as politely as possible.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing. You must have some,” he insisted. By now the utensil hovered only inches away, the smell about to make her heave. And the thought of eating off his fork made her shudder.

  “Just put it on the side of the plate,” she said with a smile. He did so, obligingly.

  As inconspicuously as possible, she stole a glance at her watch: 9:30. That meant at least another hour, more likely two, with this clown. She might be able to cut the evening short by saying she had to be at work early the next morning. He seemed awed that she worked in TV, and he might relinquish the reins of control if it had something to do with her TV job. The thought of a goodnight kiss was out of the question, as she imagined his garlicky tongue trying to probe her mouth…

  Why couldn’t I be here with Dan instead? she wished, watching Parker Flint suck in another saucy strand of linguine.

  *11*

  He found himself standing on her street corner, meshing with the shadows, watching the yellow glow of her window, waiting to do what he never thought he would. He tried to get a glimpse inside the apartment and felt ashamed. But he didn’t leave.

  He had planned it carefully—this was no spur of the moment caper. Although it was hot, he replaced his shorts with dark jeans and black sneakers so he would blend better with the darkness. He wore a navy blue T-shirt inside out, so that the white Nike logo couldn’t be seen. His costume was perfect.

  The phone conversation that brought him over here was brief, like every call lately. After the usual greetings, in which they both paced back and forth, clearly uncomfortable with being on the phone, Dan jumped in with both feet.

  “Is there anything left between us?” he asked.

  Janet stopped pacing. That was a curveball. Dan was usually not that direct. There was a long pause before she answered.

  “To be honest? I don’t think so,” she said, surprising herself with her cold candor.

  Now he paused for a moment before continuing. “How long have you felt this way?”

  “I think it’s pretty obvious that we’ve grown apart lately. We haven’t gone out in weeks except for that one dinner, and look what that turned into.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that we’re through.”

  “Basically, yes,” she said, finding it easier to brush him off as she went. “Look, I don’t have time to go into all of this. I have to go somewhere in a little while, and I haven’t begun to get ready. I’m going to have to jog there. If you want, I’ll call you tomorrow. But there’s really nothing left to discuss.”

  “No. There’s not, is there?” he said, banging down the phone, hoping her ears were ringing from the impact.

  He circled the kitchen, hands clenched into fists, spouting every foul expression about women known to man and inventing a few of his own.

  (“I have to go somewhere in a little while, and I haven’t begun to get ready.”)

  Her words hung in his memory. He envisioned himself following her, seeing where she was going that had her in such a rush, wondering what could be so important that she couldn’t stay and discuss the end of their long-lasting relationship. One more time to satisfy his curiosity…that would be it. He would have his answers, and all
loose ends would be tied, closure achieved.

  His heart stopped when he saw a dark shape flash by the open window inside her apartment. He ducked into a doorway quickly, causing some stares in his direction. He bent down and pretended to tie his shoe, obscuring his face to passersby.

  Slowly, he raised his head again and peered at the window. The movement behind the slightly billowing curtains was gone. He couldn’t even be sure he saw it the first time. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, chasing shadows in its deepest recesses. He didn’t know.

  Then he saw her again. She walked by with a light coat folded over one arm, looking down at her watch, and then moved out of sight. Seconds later, her light winked out and her apartment engulfed in darkness. His line of sight moved down to the steps leading from her brownstone to the street. Given the time it would take to lock her door, walk down the hallway and go down the stairs, he figured she should be out any moment. He backed into his tiny alcove as far as it would allow.

  The moment of truth was coming.

  The door leading into her building swung open and a figure stepped out. The light issuing from the entryway backlit the shape, but it was plain that it was a woman. Dan squinted, wanting to be sure, and saw the coat draped over her arm like a waiter with his towel in a fine restaurant. His heart beat louder and he swallowed dryly. It was unmistakably Janet.

  She walked down the steps and looked both ways, appearing indecisive, before moving on. Dan rubbed his hands against his thighs in anticipation. No matter how many times he wiped, he couldn’t seem to get his hands dry. There was a constant, irritating stickiness to them.

  When she did go, she moved away from the parking lot. Like she said, she was going to jog, or at least walk, wherever she was going. Dan took a final deep breath, and set out after her.

  *12*

  She was in a fog, balanced in a state between conscious and unconscious thoughts, trying to recall what had happened to her when her eyes snapped open. Blinking at the blackness, she tried to pierce the opacity, both in her head and in the candlelit room she found herself. She lay there for a moment, trying to get her bearings, when suddenly she sensed she wasn’t alone. Her instinct was to bolt upright, but when her muscles tried, they were held taut by strong leather bonds. She tried to scream, and only then realized she was gagged, the cloth dry and stale in her mouth.

  Her eyes darted about, a wild panic behind the lids. Amidst the flickering light she could make out dim figures, dressed in white robes, circling her. They moved dreamily in and out of the shadows, seeming to float, disembodied, like thoughts wisping through her memory, leaving her just when she started to grasp them.

  She heard a voice whisper, “She’s awake.” Those two words held a chilling finality to her. Moments later she was being lifted by two of the robed figures. She hadn’t the strength to fight back, lying limply in their arms, drugged.

  This had to be a crazy dream. She had a foggy recollection of leaving her apartment to walk to a friend’s house. They were going to have a girls’ night of video watching, starting with Beaches, and for the second feature, the more risqué G-Men in G-Strings. It had become a Wednesday night tradition with them: popping up a big bowl of popcorn, guiltlessly smothering it in butter, dimming the lights, and engaging in girl talk while the movies played—a fun way to break up the week.

  She remembered locking her door and stepping outside. Beyond that, nothing.

  They placed her in a large cistern, and then backed away. She was utterly naked, her breasts heaving as she gulped in terrified breaths. When did they take my clothes off? What’s happening to me? She tried to roll over, attempting to conceal herself. It was too difficult with her arms bound behind her back. As she squirmed, the bedding beneath her shifted, her body grinding deeper. She felt sharp pangs in her skin. Whenever she moved, it was accompanied by the painful pricks, and also a sound—a sound she connected with her brother. It was a sound from childhood, if only she could remember…

  Then, as she twisted again, it came to her. He loved to play marbles. Often, just before going into battle, he would hold a handful—cat’s eyes, peeries, steelies—and grind them together in his palm. It made a grating sound almost identical to the one she heard now. She grit her teeth thinking about it. Looking down, in the flickering candlelight, she realized she was right. She was lying in a bed of stones.

  Movement again. The robed figures came closer. There were at least thirty of them, probably more hidden behind the others. In a whisper, they recited some sort of incantation.

  One by one, figures began to separate themselves from the others, coming up to her. She looked pleadingly into faces that were as inconspicuous to her as the next, faces she would never associate with this type of ritual—if that’s what it was. They looked like doctors, lawyers, civil servants, clerical workers, corner grocers, housewives, mothers, fathers—sane, rational people. She hitched in her breath whenever one came close, arm extended. Then a fist would open, and a small glistening stone would fall from the outstretched fingers into the cistern, mixing with the others she was lying on. She could tell they were more than stones; they were crystals of some sort. As silently as they stepped forward, each person slipped back into the fold before another would approach. This process repeated itself until they all made the pilgrimage.

  Her senses started to return as the drug wore off. The bed of crystals became uncomfortable as they dug into her back and buttocks. Fearing what might be next, she wished to God that the drug would kick back in.

  She wouldn’t be so fortunate.

  *13*

  Tommy Phillips rode his brand new blue Schwinn mountain bike into McAlester Park. The studded tires maneuvered through the gravel lanes of the park, biting into the loose stones with an awesome edge. It was his pride and joy.

  He got it last week for his twelfth birthday. He was finally free of the baby bike he’d been saddled with forever—its fire red paint only a memory now. Tommy worried that the sleek blue job he was straddling might be a memory as well if he got caught out after-hours and was grounded from it. But that was part of the excitement, the enticement.

  He veered onto the baseball diamond and sliced across it toward home plate, imagining he was in a race toward home against a throw from left field. If he scored, his team would win the pennant! He crossed home plate in a flurry, beating the imaginary ball by inches. Gripping the handlebars until his knuckles flushed white, he applied the hand brakes with all his might. He skidded to a stop, putting out a foot to keep from falling. He sent a hail of stones scurrying into the chain link backstop, the screaming pings echoing into the quiet night.

  Tommy stayed at home plate for a brief instant, bowing to the cheers he heard in his head while Britney Spears ran out onto the field to congratulate him, giving him a big kiss. Sighing, his fantasy over, he dismounted his bike and walked it toward the wooden bleachers squatting along the third base line. He leaned the bike against them and climbed up, perching at the top.

  It was only quarter to twelve. He was a little early. He lay back on a warped plank, looking up at the stars and storm clouds gathering to the west, and waited for Dave.

  *14*

  Janet’s eyes opened wide as the first knife plunged down.

  There was a muffled scream as the sharp point of the knife pierced skin. Just as quickly, it was withdrawn. Blood dripped from the blade onto the girl’s bare belly in red splotches. The next cut was more visceral, slicing through her lower body cavity. She twisted and turned, trying to squirm away from the pain, unknowingly aiding the dagger’s gruesome work. One by one, as they had done with the crystals, they took turns mutilating her body. In no time it was a red canvas, riddled with punctures and slash marks. Ravaged flesh hung limply like torn paper, exposing the white gleam of bone. Tendons frayed and snapped like twine. When her heart was finally hit, it burst like a balloon fraught with tension, spilling blood out of her chest in a cascade of gore. They seemed to revel in it, each one trying to gratuitous
ly upstage the last. Soon she was unrecognizable, just a lifeless carcass heaped into a cistern, soaking in her own fluids. The crystals were also covered; smeared dark red with freshly let blood, shiny in the candlelight.

  Janet watched this orgy in a detached manner. Though she knew what to expect, the actuality of it left her dazed. Initially she was mortified, but as it continued, she grew used to it, though still a little faint. Her legs felt wobbly, and she thought she was going to fall, until a sturdy hand to her back braced her up. It felt strong, solid, sure. She looked up into reassuring eyes.

  When she tried to speak he put a finger over her lips, hushing her gently. Trusting his every instinct, she became silent.

  Something cold and hard was placed in her hand. It had a familiar weight to it, comfortable in her grip. She flexed her wrist a few times, giving this new object a test drive.

  She looked down, and of course, it was a dagger in her hand: highly polished eight-inch steel, brand new, without a nick or scratch or bloodstain. The grip was a smooth mahogany, reddish brown, firm. It seemed to be molded especially for her hand. It felt as though it belonged there all her life.

  Next thing she knew she was standing over the sacrificial victim. Janet had no memory of being led there, but one look into the cistern, coated with sticky blood beginning to coagulate, proved that she had.

  Instinctively, she started to turn away. Firm hands grabbed her by the shoulders, biting deep into her muscle, and slowly spun her back around.

  He leaned close, his warm breath on her neck. She could feel his chin resting on the nape of her neck, lips brushing her earlobe. He whispered something ever so softly.

  “But…but she’s dead already.”

  “It’s not her life from which we draw our strength,” he coaxed. “It’s her blood.”

  He closed his hand in a fist over hers. He pinched her fingers against the hard wood of the hilt of the knife, on the brink of causing pain. Then he released his grip, smiling with his lips, yet his eyes burned with an intensity. Janet’s fingers tingled as the blood flowed back into them.