Eyes of a Stalker (6 page)

“So, if he's not from school, where do you… hey! Maybe it's that guy who works at The Korner Store!”

“Betts…”

“You know — the one with the crooked smile! That would be cool. He's
cute
!”

“Don't be ridiculous. It's not The Korner Store guy, and anyway, who
cares
if the stalker is cute or not?” I asked, exasperated. “He's turning my life into a nightmare. The phone rings and I jump. Every time I walk down the street I wonder if he's watching me. This isn't some kind of game, Betts. It's real. And it's
scaring
me.”

She finally seemed to get it. At least, she stopped talking about it like it was a romantic movie or something, and started taking it seriously.

We went around a few different ideas, and I made notes. I've always found it helps to write things down, but there hardly seemed to be any point in writing this stuff. None of it was likely to point to the culprit. I did it anyway, probably from force of habit, and this is what I ended up with:

1. Plant
   . White calla lily. Delivered around five p.m. on November 27th. Note said, “You will always be mine.” Delivery had been arranged by mail by a person unknown.
   
2. Phone call
   . Said things like he was going to make me his queen and that I belong to him and I was his for all time. Spoke in a creepy whisper.
   
3. Followed me home from theatre
   . Person wore
   jeans and dark blue sweatshirt with hood pulled up. Average build. Probably between 5' 9” and 6' tall. Ran off when spotted.
   

“Well,” Betts said when I'd finished, “at least you know you'll have other chances, unless he decides to just give up.”

Other chances. I knew she meant to cheer me, but her words had the opposite effect. The worst thing was, she was right. I didn't know much about stalkers, but I did know this: they hardly ever give up.

I'd almost certainly hear from this guy again. The question was, would I
see
him too, and if I did, would I be in danger?

The next morning I felt about as rested as if I'd spent the night doing aerobics. A shower helped a little, but I was still somewhat groggy when I made my way to the kitchen. Maybe breakfast would help.

Mom and Dad were at the table, coffee cups in front of them. They both looked as tired as I felt.

“Hey, sunshine,” Dad said. “You sleep okay?” His voice sounded cheerful and he smiled, but the smile stopped before it got to his eyes.

“I guess. Any sign of Betts?” I glanced around, as if they might be hiding her in the cupboards or something.

“Not yet,” Mom said. “But she's not really an early riser, as I recall.”

“True.” I smiled at the thought of how grumpy Betts can be if you wake her before ten o'clock (at the earliest) on a Saturday. She'll make these weird, growling noises
that sound like there's a bear in the bed, and cling to her blanket as if it's the most valuable thing in the whole world. Honestly, I don't know how she manages to get up for school through the week.

“I caught Ernie trying to sneak into her room this morning,” Mom told me. “She hadn't shut the spare room door tightly and he was pushing it open with his head when I spotted him.”

“Could have been the end of him,” Dad said.

“Yeah, she probably wouldn't have given him the warmest possible welcome,” I agreed. Ernie isn't exactly subtle when he wants to wake someone up. I couldn't picture Betts taking kindly to his cold nose, tickly whiskers, and rough tongue on her face — and that's just when he's getting started.

“Speaking of Ernie, Mr. Stanley is visiting today,” Mom said.

I'd completely forgotten that this was one of the weekends when Mr. Stanley spends part of the day with our family. He comes every second week, usually right after lunch, and stays through dinner, returning to his nursing home around seven or eight in the evening.

He isn't a relative or anything, and we've only known Mr. Stanley for a few months, so it might seem strange that we have him over so often if you don't know that he's Ernie's original owner. I first met him a while back when I was trying frantically to find out what had happened to
a co-worker who'd disappeared. Our paths crossed again later on when I was passing his apartment building and I saw him on a stretcher being taken to an ambulance. I offered to babysit Ernie while he was in the hospital, an arrangement that became permanent when he moved into a nursing home.

“We're having Malcolm and Greg for dinner tonight as well,” Mom added as she went to the counter and brought over the coffee pot to refill her cup.

This was news to me, but I was more than happy to hear it. Greg and I hadn't talked about plans for the evening, though it was understood we'd be getting together. With so few things for teens to do in Little River, we often just walked around, rented movies, browsed through the stores at the mall, or hung out with friends.

Late fall and winter are the worst months for us. We're both big on nature and in the summer we spend a lot of time exploring through the woods and along the river. We've even found a few secret spots that you could walk right by and not see if you don't know they're there.

But there isn't much to do there this time of year. A lot of the animals disappear for the winter. Beavers and muskrats go into their dens while skunks, raccoons, and bears spend the season hibernating. Deer and moose disappear into the deeper woods, so the chance of spotting any wildlife at the year's end isn't great.

Those that
are
still around aren't usually easy to spot. Mostly, they're predators like mink, otter, bobcat, and fox. Of course, there are always rabbits around, but they're fast and cautious and we rarely see them at any time of year.

It's not just the lack of wildlife that makes the woods less appealing at the end of November. By then, the deciduous trees are bare, the wildflowers are gone, and the whole place feels kind of deserted. Sometimes it's even spooky.

Anyway, with so little to do around here, especially in the cold months, it was kind of nice to have plans with our parents. Of course, Greg and I could just hang out and listen to music or rent a movie or whatever after dinner, but this gave us another option. If we wanted to, we could talk our parents into playing a game with us.

Picking a game can take a while. Mom always tries to talk us into Scattergories (which Dad hates because he gets confused and uses the wrong letters) or Balderdash, while Dr. Taylor likes Mad Gab even though, quite frankly, he's terrible at it.

Before I got any further with these thoughts, Betts appeared in the kitchen. She said good morning to all of us, slid into the empty chair at the table, and looked around hopefully.

“Betts, honey, what would you like for breakfast?” Mom asked at once. Betts always makes a big deal of Mom's cooking, which gets her special treatment
whenever she's over at mealtime.

“I wouldn't want you to go to any trouble,” Betts lied.

“Don't be silly, dear. It's no trouble at all.”

“Well, if you're sure.… I was just thinking of the awesome omelette you made the last time I stayed over. If it's honestly not a bother.”

By the time she'd said “bother,” Mom was already at the fridge getting out the eggs and other ingredients. She makes these fantastic spicy omelettes with tomatoes and cheese and cayenne pepper and whatever else strikes her as a good idea to toss in at the time.

“Did you want one too, Shelby?”

“I think I'll just have cereal,” I said. “Thanks, though.”

“You forgot to ask me,” Dad said.

“I didn't forget, Randall,” Mom told him sternly. “You had eggs a few days ago, and you know you're supposed to be watching your cholesterol. Besides, you already had your breakfast.”

“If you can call that breakfast,” Dad sulked. (He'd just finished yogurt, a banana, and a slice of toast with apricot preserves.) “I must say, this is a fine way to treat a man in his own house.”

“Yeah, that's too bad,” Betts said without the slightest trace of sympathy.

Dad sighed and looked mournful. Mom told him to
stop putting on the dog, whatever that means, and he gave up, finished his coffee, and went off to the other room.

I poured a bowl of Apple Cinnamon Cheerios and munched on them while Betts ate her omelette. As she chewed, she made a lot of enthusiastic “Mmm” sounds so it was probably just as well that Dad wasn't there.

After we finished eating we helped Mom with the dishes. Betts had plans to go shopping with her cousin after lunch, so she headed home not long afterward. I did my chores, worked on some homework, and grated some carrots for a cake Mom was making.

Dad went and fetched Mr. Stanley just after one o'clock. I met them at the back door, hugged Mr. Stanley, and took him into the living room where he settled into Dad's favourite chair. Mom or I would get chased out, but Dad lets Mr. Stanley sit there every week.

“I don't suppose the little rascal is around,” our guest said as soon as he was comfortable.

“Ernie!” I couldn't believe I hadn't thought to round him up, like I do every time Mr. Stanley is coming. “I'll go find him right now.”

I hunted through the house calling his name, but there was no sign of him. He was either hiding or outside.

“I might have let him out earlier,” Mom said when I asked if she'd seen him.

Great! If he'd gone wandering around the community it might take hours to find him, and I knew how
important spending time with Ernie was to Mr. Stanley.

“I think he might be outside,” I reported, before I threw on my jacket and went to look. “I'm sure it will just take a minute to find him.”

“You're a good girl,” Mr. Stanley said. He tells me that almost every time I see him.

I searched the yard quickly and then, when he didn't appear, started down the street, calling his name and telling him he had a special visitor. Mr. Stanley once told me that Ernie could understand what you were saying to him and even though I doubted it, there seemed no harm in trying.

I'd made two passes up and down our street and was almost right in front of my house again when I heard Ernie kind of yowl, which is his peculiar way of letting you know he is displeased with something.

“Ernie?” The sound seemed to have come from a hedge along the back of our yard.

Sure enough, when I got near the hedge, he suddenly burst out, streaking across the yard to the back step and pacing frantically until I crossed the yard and opened the door for him.

I scooped him up and carried him through to the other room, where his former owner sat, anxiously waiting to see him. The second we came into view, Mr. Stanley's eyes lit up and his face was kind of transformed. It was almost like he looked younger.

“He was hiding,” I reported, passing Ernie to him. “Out in the hedge. I found him after I wasted a good fifteen minutes looking up and down the street.”

“By yourself?” Dad looked at me with alarm.

“Oh.” I'd forgotten all about not going anywhere alone. “Sorry. Anyway, it was okay. No one was around.”

“Now, what have you been into?” Mr. Stanley asked Ernie as he snuggled him, his face pressed against Ernie's head. “You smell kind of funny.”

“Goodness knows what he's been up to out there,” I said. “Does he smell like a cedar hedge?”

“No, it's more… I don't know, exactly. Perfume maybe.”

I leaned over and sniffed Ernie, who responded by purring loudly and rubbing his face against my nose. He did have a scent clinging to him, but I didn't know what it was.

“Who knows what he got into,” I said, giving him a little cheek rub. “Anyway, he's sure glad to see you.”

“I'm glad to see him, too,” Mr. Stanley said fondly. Then, chuckling a little with embarrassment, he added that he was also glad to see the rest of us.

The remainder of his visit passed uneventfully, with Ernie sticking around and behaving reasonably well. Mr. Stanley seemed to enjoy meeting Greg and Dr. Taylor, and I could tell they took to him too. As for me, I was just happy there'd been no sign of the stalker.

“What you
need
,” Webster was saying, “is a
passion
for your work. If the reader is to
feel
the words you must first
live
them,
breathe
them,
become
them.”

I wasn't sure how you'd go about “becoming” words, but I kept myself from asking. Lately, it seemed if you asked Webster a question about something he'd said, he took it as a challenge of some sort and launched into a lengthy, defensive spiel that didn't actually give you an answer.

The others must have caught on as well, because no one ever had questions for him anymore, though there'd been lots the first couple of months we'd been meeting. Back then he'd listen thoughtfully and give answers that made sense. The last few meetings, though, he'd seemed unfocused and, well, kind of
off
, if you know what I mean. He'd rave, and what he'd say wouldn't make a
whole lot of sense. And it was usually unconnected to whatever we were talking about at the time.

On this day, we sat quietly and waited for him to finish talking, which was the way we'd become accustomed to responding lately. Sitting next to me, Greg ventured a glance in my direction and I saw his eyebrows go up slightly, but he was as silent as everyone else.

Mr. Grimes was the one who broke in, offering a weak comment about how he was sure that what Webster was saying was very helpful, but perhaps we should get back to the book.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” Webster said. It was an odd thing to say, but even more peculiar than that was the fact that he never opened his mouth again for the rest of the evening. He just sat, looking around from person to person with a strangely intense look on his face.