No Hope for Gomez!

by Graham Parke

  21.

  Blog entry: Stood behind a tree in the bushes across the road. It was dark and the new distance didn’t allow me to make out Dr. Hargrove clearly when she peered through her blinds. From time to time a flash of light would shoot from a small crack, but I had no idea if she still waved to me.

  I gave a small wave anyway. The flash disappeared.

  That night I was disguised as a jogger, and beginning to regret it. Without the appropriate corresponding activity the attire failed to keep me warm. I blew on my hands and hopped from foot to foot. Again I had this prickly sensation of being watched. I’d turned round several times already, only to feel foolish for staring guiltily at nothing. No one was there. When the feeling intensified once again, I did my best to ignore it.

  “What are you doing there?” a voice demanded. It sounded shrill and angry. I whirled round to find a young woman staring at me. She had a small dog on a leash and she shot me an accusatory look. “You’re not supposed to be in there!” she said. “You’ll ruin the bushes!”

  I put up my hands in what I hoped was a defensive and non-threatening manner. I said, “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I’m a stalker.”

  That failed to put her at ease. She grimaced and pulled hard on the dog’s leash, as if barely able to control it. The dog sniffed in my direction halfheartedly.

  “Better get out of here,” she warned, “or the police won’t know what to do with what’s left of you!”

  I’d spotted my error in judgment. I said, “Look, there’s no need to be scared, I’m not your stalker. You’re perfectly safe.” Which also didn’t sound right. “Not that you wouldn’t be safe if I were your stalker,” I added quickly. “You would still be safe, very safe in fact. But I just meant to say that I’m not here for you.”

  The young woman dug out her cell and started dialing, even though my final explanation had been near perfect. Perhaps I’d overlooked her female sensitivity.

  “I’m not suggesting you’re not stalker-worthy of course, it’s just that I’m stalking someone else right now. And, in fact, I’m not even stalking her, I’m stalking her stalker, which was her idea to begin with, so I basically have permission.”

  The woman glared at me while waiting for the police to pick up. “Anyway,” I said, “I should probably be going. If you could excuse me?” I pushed past her and her little dog and circled the block, hearing her shout various threats after me.

  When I returned half an hour later, she’d disappeared. I took up stalker-stalker position again, careful this time not to be visible from the sidewalk.

  Blog entry: Long and cold night. Not a waste though. Spotted movement in Dr. Hargrove’s garden just after midnight. Strained to see, all I could make out was a dark shape moving around in her bushes.

  My heart raced. I’d finally done it, I’d finally graduated from ‘skulking moron’ to ‘stalker-stalker’. Moreover, Dr. Hargrove had been right, and now I had my way in!

  I tried my best to contain my excitement and wait it out. I wanted to find out what this guy was up to, follow him home, get his address. Armed with his information, I’d go and collect eternal gratitude from Dr. Hargrove.

  I waited for a long, long time.

  At some point the cold began to win out over my excitement and I started shivering again. That’s when I realized I hadn’t seen any movement for a while. Suddenly I was no longer sure that the shape I was watching was actually the stalker. What if he’d moved behind a bush and I was now keeping an eye on that bush?

  Decided to wait a little longer. If there wasn’t any movement in the next minute or so, I’d move in for a closer look.

  Blog entry: Counted to 60. No movement. Decided I’d probably counted too fast, did another 30 count. Still nothing. Took a deep breath, scanned around for onlookers, did another 10 count, then crawled from my hiding place. I shot across the street in silent mode and ducked behind Dr. Hargrove’s bushes, curb side. Now I was no longer invisible to passersby, but I should be invisible to the stalker. My plan was to round the house on the outside of the garden, locating the stalker within. I had to be fast, the street wouldn’t remain empty forever.

  Took me a few minutes to round the house – found nothing. To be absolutely sure, I proceeded to step through Dr. Hargrove’s hedge into her garden, and run another round.

  There really was no one there.

  I’d lost him!

  Blog entry: Returned home angry and disillusioned. Only had one more night before our next meeting.

  22.

  Blog entry: Next morning. Ran into Warren in the stairwell on my way to the store. He asked where I was going. I told him.

  “I’ll walk down with you,” Warren said. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  There was nothing I could do to stop him, so I shrugged and picked up the pace. As he started talking, I increased my pace further. At one point I tried taking two steps at a time, but that apparently only works well on the way up.

  Blog entry: “Have you read my new manuscript?”

  “Some of it,” I said. “I’m quite a busy guy, as it turns out.”

  “Not to worry.” Warren did a fair job of keeping up. “I was just wondering if you had any comments yet. Anything I could do to improve it?”

  I was surprised. “You actually think your manuscript needs improving?”

  Maybe this guy wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he still had a tiny grasp on reality.

  Warren nodded gravely. “I agree,” he said, “it’s unlikely. But, you never know…”

  He was an idiot after all.

  “Okay,” I said. “If you really want to know, your manuscript might lack a bit of a theme.”

  “A theme?” Warren gave me a look. “How do you mean, a theme?”

  “You know, something that it’s about.”

  Warren seemed stricken. “There’s a lot going on in my manuscript,” he said, still running perfectly alongside me. “In fact, there’s more happening on one page of my manuscript than there is in most entire novels!”

  This was actually true. “Yes,” I said, “but it’s still not really about anything. It’s more like a bunch of more or less unrelated scenes involving unrelated characters.”

  Warren started to pant slightly. “I thought you understood what I was trying to do,” he said. “I thought you liked it.”

  I couldn’t recall mentioning anything of the sort. I decided to let it slide though. “You might just need to add a few connections between the scenes,” I offered. “And have the characters go through some changes. And have a few twists and turns in the story. And, at a pinch, have an actual story. That way you could add something we readers like to call ‘An Ending’. But, really, that’s about it.”

  Warren rolled his eyes dramatically. A daring feat at our current speed. “You don’t get it at all!” he huffed.

  “Well, you’re probably right. You obviously know more about writing than I do. You’re the writer, after all, I’m only a reader. Maybe I’m not the right person to review your work.”

  “Let me explain,” Warren said, ignoring my cry for freedom. “Take a brilliant movie like, say, The Sixth Sense. It’s a great movie because of all the suspense, the twists, the eventual revelation.”

  “Exactly.” I was beginning to feel winded myself, but wasn’t going to slow before Warren did. I’d pass out before I’d give in (a scenario which was beginning to seem increasingly likely).

  “But it’s not a movie you can watch time and again,” Warren said. “Once you know the revelation, there’s no more suspense. The twists lose their strength because you see them coming.”

  I could agree with that.

  “Now, take a movie like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” he heaved. “You can watch that movie over and over because there isn’t much of a story, and what little there is, isn’t of great importance. It’s all about the myriad of interesting things happening to the characters. Things you have no hope of remembering.
You could watch that movie once a year and enjoy it for the rest of your life.”

  I was stumped. Not only did Warren get a great deal of words out in only a few winded breaths, he also seemed to be making some sense.

  “What I’m trying to do here,” Warren continued, wiping perspiration from his brow, “is write about real characters in real situations. Create a work of longevity. Something worth the paper it’s printed on because it’ll be read over and over again. It won’t be shelved after the initial mystery is uncovered.”

  He almost had me going there. “Ah,” I said, taking a deep breath before continuing. “But your manuscript has elves bopping mermaids in the ears in a surprisingly large number of chapters, that hardly constitutes real characters in real situations!”

  We finally hit the ground floor. Warren was about to object, but then passed out. I was delighted that my evil plan had worked (if somewhat belatedly). I left the building and collapsed on the sidewalk.

  Blog entry: Regained consciousness several minutes later and continued my way to the store. There were still some dark spots dancing before my eyes, and a high-pitched whine rendered my ears effectively useless, but I managed to ignore it all.

  Made a mental note to start working out sometime.

  Blog entry: Slow morning at the store. Hicks did some sweeping and I updated my blogs. For a while it looked like I might actually get some customers (they window-shopped for a while), but then, just when I thought Hicks’ display of ancient plastic glove holders was going to draw them in, it started to rain and they disappeared.

  Blog entry: Called Detective Moran. Thought I’d have to remind him who I was and what I wanted, but he recognized my voice and updated me on his investigation.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “Detective Norton has definitely disappeared. According to his neighbors, he hasn’t been home since last Wednesday. His parents are sure he didn’t go on holiday, so we’ve issued a missing person report. As of yesterday afternoon, Dietrich Norton is officially missing.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  A sigh came down the line. “Wish there was, Gomez, I really wish there was. You can do what we’re doing: keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “What about the bruise on Joseph’s neck? Did Norton follow up on that? Could it have something to do with this case?”

  Detective Moran made a noncommittal sound. “I’m not sure he ever got round to that. It certainly wasn’t in his notes. According to the coroner’s report, the bruising was caused by pressure applied ante-mortem. It’s something we’re looking into. I’m not convinced it’s linked to Norton’s disappearance, though.”

  That didn’t put me at ease at all. I asked Moran if there were any other clues I could follow up on. He told me to just hold on and let them do their jobs, he’d be in touch if anything came up. I promised to keep in touch also.

  Blog entry: Tried to get the conversation out of my mind but didn’t manage. Spent the remainder of the morning browsing the net for clues. I looked for anything to do with Norton, Joseph, or any other people that might have gone missing recently.

  Found nothing interesting.

  Talked it over with Hicks, but we didn’t come to any satisfactory conclusions.

  Blog entry: Near closing a guy came in looking for a mirror. He seemed particularly interested in one of my cracked oak mirrors. He asked me what it cost and I asked him how much he thought it cost. When he told me his number I laughed in his face and doubled it. He bought the mirror.

  Might have to up the stakes next time. At least I seem to be getting the hang of this antiques business. More than about any intrinsic physical value, this trade appears to be about how smug you can look.

  Should investigate this further.

  Blog entry: Closed up and headed home. Had some snacks and donned a new disguise (newspaper boy with arm in sling). Made my way to Dr. Hargrove’s place. This time I didn’t hide out in the bushes across the street, at least, not right away. I spent a few hours circling the block. I watched Dr. Hargrove come home. I watched it grow dark. Then, when I was sure a stationary position would be safe, I slipped into hiding.

  Things didn’t become interesting until well after midnight, much like the previous night. I’d considered not turning up so early but, with my luck, the night I turned up late would be the very night a crazy stalker came early and scared the crap out of Dr. Hargrove (“Where were you, Gomez? He was right there, staring at me from my own garden! Luckily the police caught him, thanks for nothing!”)

  I wasn’t going to risk it. I put in the hours and felt good about it.

  Blog entry: At about twenty past twelve a dark shape crept into Dr. Hargrove’s garden. I couldn’t make out any details, but its general size and way of moving seemed to confirm it was the guy from the previous night. I sat tight, waited for the right time to act.

  I needed to be sure this really was a stalker, and not some random person hiding out in Dr. Hargrove’s bushes for a totally innocent reason. When too much time had passed for him to be tying his shoes or checking the ground for undiscovered kinds of soil – and too much time had passed for him to be accidentally stalking the wrong person – I knew I had my man.

  Didn’t want to risk losing him again, so I wouldn’t try to follow him home. I’d just end it right here, right now. Quick and painless. Make this guy my Tuesday afternoon monkey-poop scooper!

  23.

  Blog entry: Shows how much I know. I stood up and yelled, “Hey, man! I can see you over there!”

  For some reason I’d gotten it into my head that this would startle the stalker, make him turn and bow his head in shame. He’d say something like, “Oh man, you got me!” And that would be it.

  I have no idea why I thought this. We weren’t playing hide and seek here. I hadn’t outwitted the guy. There wasn’t going to be a mad dash for the finish line at which point he’d concede his loss and leave it at that.

  This was the real world, the realm of grownups. The land of violence. The dark shape did turn, but in a slow and menacing manner. And no part of it bowed in shame. Still not clearly visible, an outline of an arm detached itself and moved to take something from a pocket. An angry spark flared up from an object that moved toward the figure’s face. As the light intensified, I made out some features. They were strangely mangled.

  I suddenly realized the mistake I’d made. I had no idea what kind of subculture I was meddling with. Now I was caught up in the middle of a potentially dangerous situation.

  The spark lit a cigarette and the stalker took a long, deliberating drag. Then he started toward me.

  “Better get out of here,” I heard myself say. It was an unexpected sound, as if part of me hadn’t been notified I was actually getting ready to run away. It said the words out loud but couldn’t get the conviction-muscles of my larynx to back it up. The warning ended up sounding like a question.

  The stalker, meanwhile, stepped into the road. Didn’t even check for traffic. There wasn’t any, but something told me this was lucky for traffic rather than the stalker. A distant streetlight caught his face for a second and I could see his gaze locking onto me with fierce intensity.

  He reached the curb.

  “Better not come any closer,” I warned. “You don’t want to mess with me, man. You really don’t…”

  I must’ve been getting nervous. I must’ve been trying to bluff my way out. Shock and fearful curiosity, however, kept me transfixed. The paralyzing emotions intensified at the sight of the stalker stepping right into the giant rosebushes that separated us.

  I could hear his jacket rip, his jeans getting shredded. I could see needle sharp thorns slice deep, red lines across his face.

  He didn’t even flinch.

  Blog entry: At about a thumbnail’s distance from my face, he stopped. I could now easily make out what was wrong with his features; his nose was too long and was slightly bent, his eyebrows were dyed
different colors, and a ragged old scar ran down his temple. Separately, these features would make anybody worthy of pity. Together, they created an oddly fearsome appearance. And combined with a menacingly cold stare and a single thorn still piercing his skin just below his eye, it completely justified my discomfort.

  “So you’re the guy…” he said. “You’re the rat bastard who’s been stalking my girl!”

  His voice was cold. The kind of cold you’d associate with the ability to rip people apart with bare hands, just to have something to do.

  “At least I had her permission,” I said, fighting to keep my voice level.

  His expression grew colder.

  “I wasn’t actually stalking any girl,” I continued, wanting to keep the misguided notion that Dr. Hargrove was in any way related to the concept of ‘his girl’, out of the discussion. “I was stalking you. I’m Dr. Hargrove’s stalker-stalker. I have her permission to stalk her stalker!”

  I decided it was time to stop talking. The more I said, the more the stalker seemed to make up his mind to hurt me now rather than later.

  “You don’t know her,” he growled. “You have no idea what she’s capable of, what kind of research she’s involved in.”

  “I do, as a matter of fact.” I tried to look smug, pressing my shoulders back, lifting my head. “I know all about that. I’m part of the trial, as it happens.”

  The stalker inched up an eyebrow. “Really…” he said. “And do you also know she’s already killed one of her test subjects?” He gazed back at the house, took another slow drag of his cigarette. “I’m not stalking her,” he said, “I’m gathering evidence. She’ll keep on killing until she gets the results she needs for that big company of hers. She’ll make it all look like harmless little accidents. Every last one of you if needed.” He shook his head, dropped his cigarette and stomped it out. “That woman’s got to be stopped,” he said. He turned his gaze back on me. “And I’m gonna be the one to stop her.”