The Stalked Girl

by Evan Ronan

  “—and because you have a daughter, so you must appreciate what my family is going through.”

  “I’m very sorry,” I say, meaning it. “But—”

  “You say you’re not a private investigator, but look what you did last year.”

  Oh, that.

  “That was the perfect confluence of events, i.e. luck, on a cold case that nobody wanted reopened.”

  “You saved a boy from life in prison,” Bob says.

  I shrug. Look away.

  Bob leans in. “You can help us.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “My daughter is training for the State Triathlon, which is a qualifying event for the Olympics,” he says. “The Lord blessed her with this gift, and I’d hate to see her miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime because she’s too worried about a stalker.”

  I say nothing.

  Bob grips my forearm. “My wife and I both work, and we have a son who is special needs.”

  I knew about that. Their boy—I forget his name—suffers from some neurological condition that requires a lot of care and attention.

  “Lucy has never needed us for much.” His eyes get watery. “She’s always been a self-starter. Straights As in school, varsity sports, extracurriculars, scholarship to Monroe. We’ve never had to do anything for her except feed her and clothe her. She’s taken care of the rest and she’s helped out with her brother so much and now she needs us. She needs our help. And we’d do anything for her.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask.

  “Her training regimen for the triathlon is intense. She’s well into it already. Once finals are over, that’s all she’ll focus on,” he says. “That’s a lot of running and cycling and swimming. Hours each day. She needs somebody to watch over her.”

  “Doesn’t she have a trainer or a coach for all that?”

  He nods. “But they won’t be out on the road with her at all times. She’ll have hour long stretches where she’s on the bike or just running, all alone. Running a triathlon requires an intense peace of mind. We’re trying to shield her so she can do what she was put on this earth for. But she can’t do that if she’s out on the road, by herself, wondering if that car coming up behind belongs to this guy. We need someone with her, so she can flourish.”

  Before he invokes a god I have trouble believing in, I ponder: “You can’t do that?”

  “We work. We both have to work and we alternate taking care of Julian. My wife and I can be there for her at times but we want to make sure somebody is always there. Someone we can trust.”

  “Bob, you hardly know me. How do you trust me?”

  “We weren’t close in school, but come on, Greg, we know each other. Everybody knows everybody in this town.”

  Everybody does know everybody.

  He goes on. “I saw you stick up for Aric in third grade, and then in eighth grade you intervened when Jason was jumped by—”

  I give him the palm. “Okay, I don’t need you to read me back my resume.”

  “And, when you’re not protecting Lucy, you can help us by looking into Adam.”

  I drink more of my stout but I’ve lost my taste for it.

  Because this is not what I do.

  Because this is not who I am.

  I obtained a PI license because, at one dim-witted point, I planned to open a security firm. I would hire veterans and ex-cops I knew locally, and then I’d manage the company, letting the experts do the substantive work.

  I’m not a PI.

  Nor am I a bodyguard.

  In the Marines, I saw my share of shit but that doesn’t qualify me for this.

  Bob continues. “I’ve researched stalking. These situations tend to go only one way. They escalate. And escalate. Until something happens. Either the woman gets hurt—or worse—or the guy goes to prison. We need to know everything we can about Adam. Especially if the judge doesn’t grant us the restraining order. We need to be ready. You could get us what we need.”

  I don’t want any part of this.

  “Please, Greg,” he says, invoking the magic word. “Please help us.”

  Four

  I want to say no, but I’ve already made up my mind to help him. That’s the problem with having a conscience, I guess. It never fucking listens to reason.

  “This is a long-term engagement,” I say, now turning to Mr. PI. “I’ll have to rearrange some things with my staff at the hall and …” Goddamn, now that I think about it, I kind of have to move heaven, or at the very least earth, to do this. This gig, well paid though it might be, is going to eat up a lot of time.

  “We will pay you for all your time,” Bob insists. Every time the door opens, he looks over his shoulder.

  “Alright,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

  “Oh, Greg.” Bob kind of wells up. Before the dam breaks, I speak up—

  “Let’s go over what you know, then I’ll meet with your daughter later tonight.”

  “Wonderful,” Bob says. “We can discuss the case over dinner. You’ll love my wife’s cooking—”

  Home-cooked meals are few and far between for me, so I’m practically salivating. There’s Thanksgiving, and then there’s … Thanksgiving.

  But I need to do my job.

  “Bob, I’ll have to speak with your daughter one-on-one,” I say.

  He frowns. “Why?”

  “You might be paying the bills, but your daughter is my client here.”

  “What does that mean?” He’s gone from tickled pink to red hot angry.

  I give him my winning smile. “Bob, did you always tell your parents everything? I mean, everything?”

  “Lucy is a wonderful girl, with really strong values. Her faith is very important to her.”

  “I’m sure you’ve raised a great woman,” I say. “But I’ve got to speak to her alone.”

  “She’s been really shaken up by this,” Bob says forcefully. “It’s difficult for her to talk about it. She needs us there for support.”

  “And you’ll be there, before and after I’m done talking to her.”

  “Lucy would never hide anything from us,” he says, not giving up.

  So I go with the nuclear option. “Bob, if I can’t talk to her privately then I’m off the case.”

  I’m expecting him to cave immediately, given how desperate he seems. But he actually ponders the ultimatum for a good long ten seconds.

  Then the door to the bar pops open again, jolting him out of his thoughts. Bob’s head snaps around as if he’s expecting to see Adam strolling in, but then his face falls.

  “Okay,” he says, though doubtfully. “Okay, you can talk to her one-on-one. But it has to be at the house.”

  “That’s a deal.” I stand. “Can you text me your address? I’ll be over around six.”

  He nods, stands. “Thank you, Greg. This really means a lot.”

  “I’ll do everything in my power to make sure your girl is safe, but I want to level set with you, Bob.”

  He holds his breath.

  “I’m one man. There’s only so much I can do. I’ll be with her when she’s training, but I won’t be with her all the time. This is going to be a team effort.”

  “I appreciate that. Believe me.”

  “I’ve got two businesses to run and I’m trying to put together another deal, and I’ve got my own family too. What I mean is, I can’t do this job indefinitely.”

  “How about we retain you until the qualifier? We can reevaluate the need at that point.”

  The problem is, there is always going to be a need so long as this guy is out there.

  When I served, one of my fellow Marines fell hard for a female private. She worked in logistics and before long he found reasons to swing by that part of the base to see her … every day. When she politely declined his many advances, he just laughed it off. A girl being a girl, was his thinking. We all laughed it off too. We didn’t know any better. We didn’t see the signs, until it was too late.

  Th
e memory still haunts me.

  I say, “Stalkers don’t just go away. Something major needs to happen to break the cycle. I would prefer it if Adam was put away for a year or two. But that takes time. The legal system is set up with a bunch of hoops that must be jumped through, and those things move slower than an aircraft carrier. I won’t do anything to jeopardize the legal proceedings you’ve initiated, but what I’m saying is, in the interim, I might have to put the fear of God into this kid. Do you understand what I mean?”

  He wavers a moment. “I won’t ask you to do that.”

  “But you won’t mind if I do,” I challenge.

  “Yes,” he says defiantly. “I will mind. I abhor violence, Greg. I won’t even watch football. I think it’s a sin.”

  “I’m not going to put the kid into the hospital,” I say. “But I’m allowed to talk to him. Pretty forcefully, as a matter of fact.”

  He looks away.

  “Bob.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Would you want your daughter to turn the other cheek? Or would you want her to defend herself?”

  “I know what I should want.”

  “Screw that. What you should want is your daughter to be safe. If you turned the other cheek and let this guy have his way with her, that would be the sin, Bob.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “And besides, the best defense is a good offense. When I’m watching Lucy train, I’ll just be waiting for something to happen. If Adam is going to do something, then he gets to pick the place and the time that’s best for him. I’d rather take the fight—the proverbial fight—to him. Why wait for him to make the first move, when we can take the initiative?”

  “Alright,” he says. “But to be clear I’m not asking you to do anything illegal.”

  “Speaking of illegal, can you give me the name and number of the attorney you’re working with on the restraining order?”

  ***

  Back at the pool hall, Bernie is getting ready to leave. When he sees me coming in, he closes his laptop and jumps out of the chair at the register.

  After another sloppy salute, he says, “All customers present and accounted for, boss. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “How would you feel about overtime tonight?” I say.

  “I’m allergic to overtime, no matter when it is.”

  “Even if that overtime comes with time and a half pay?”

  “That might help cover my medical expenses.”

  “Your medical expenses?”

  “For my allergic reaction to the overtime.”

  “You know what, Bernie—”

  “I’m just kidding,” he says quickly. “I’ll take it, I mean, tonight I can do it. But if this is going to be a regular thing …”

  I’m about to head back into my office to go over the schedule, but I stop short. “I just took on a case, Bernie, and it’s going to eat up a lot of my time. I might need you to work more shifts. Can you do that?”

  He blows out a big breath, like I’ve just asked him to run Microsoft. “Gee, Greg, I don’t know. I’m kind of happy doing what I’m doing right now. I mean … if there were a bump in compensation, maybe it’d be worth it. But the book is really important to me too.”

  “Yeah, what’s it about again?” I ask, now just hoping he’ll finish the damned thing. If he doesn’t then he can’t sell any copies …

  “It’s kind of like …” He thinks real hard. “You know, I hate to put labels on things.”

  Right now everything he’s saying is confirming all the labels the guys hang on him.

  His face brightens. “But if I had to explain what it was, I’d say it’s kind of like … The Road Warrior meets Citizen Kane.”

  I am nonplussed.

  Bernie frowns. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Citizen Kane, Greg? I mean—”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  He breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh good. You had me worried there. So The Road Warrior is known internationally as Mad Max 2, you know, it’s Mel Gib—”

  “I’ve seen The Road Warrior no less than a thousand times, Bernie.”

  “Oh really?” That smile again. “I should have known. I mean, you’ve got taste. You’ve traveled the world. So just put those two movies together and you’ll get the book. I mean, if you take out all the action and violence of Mad Max 2 and the mystery of Kane. You know what I mean?”

  I have no earthly idea what the hell the book could be about.

  “Yep, can’t wait to read it. You can write here while you’re working, as long as the customers are taken care of.”

  As I head back into my office, I’m thinking of how else I can automate this place so I don’t have to rely on the likes of Bernie to attend to paying customers. Maybe one of those vending machines with real food in it, so they can serve themselves?

  I close the door to my office and put my feet up. I’ve got two voicemails. The first from my daughter, Tammy—

  Dad, Mom’s being a bitch. Can you call me back?

  Deep breath, Greg.

  The second from my girlfriend, Denise—

  Hey, Greg. It’s me.

  Oh there’s a devastating pause in the voicemail and I already know—

  Listen, we should talk. I mean, I think we should …

  I should have seen this coming. The signs were all there—

  … I think we should take a break. Nick is struggling at school and I’ve decided to look for a new job so, I’ve just got, a lot of my plate right now.

  I listen to the rest of the message and by the time it’s over, Denise is no longer my girlfriend.

  I should have seen this coming.

  Because in truth, I always felt like I was on borrowed time with Denise. We had an awkward relationship back in high school. There were always feelings between us, but the timing never seemed to work out, or she ended up dating someone else …

  Ah hell.

  I call my daughter, Tammy, back.

  “Dadit’sMomshe’sactinginsanely!”

  I wonder who this pod person is and what she has done with my actual daughter. Tammy has never spoken like this before about her mother, but I remind myself that she is now a teenager.

  Everything’s a phase.

  I tell myself that a lot as a parent.

  “Hi, Tammy, how are you? It’s nice to hear from you.”

  “Hi, Dad.” She takes a deep breath. “Canyoutalktoherforme?”

  “First I’d like to talk to you.” Lorelei, my ex, and I have had our differences over the years, but she’s a great mother and as good an ex-wife as anybody could ask for. “Your mother loves you more than anything, sweetheart, and she always has your best interests at heart. So please keep that in mind when—”

  “ForgetitDadIknewyouwouldn’tunderstand.”

  And she hangs up on me.

  Holy shit.

  I try my ex-wife, Lorelei.

  “Hey, Greg.”

  “Where is our actual daughter and who was that impostor I just spoke to?”

  “Ah.” Lorelei does this funny, quick laugh. “I regret to inform you that that is, in fact, our daughter you just spoke to.”

  “What the …” I’m about to curse, realize Lorelei might take it the wrong way, like I’m blaming her for how Tammy just acted. But now that I’ve been doing this father thing for a lucky thirteen years, I know better. You can be the absolute best parent in the world, and your child still might turn out to be a sociopath. “Do you have a minute to talk about it?”

  Lorelei sighs. “She’s upset because—”

  In the background: “I’M NOT UPSET!”

  Long pause. “She’s upset because I won’t let her go to a co-ed sleepover.”

  “A co-ed sleepover …” I hate to sound this old. “What is the world coming to?”

  “I would have said yes,” Lorelei begins to say.

  “You would have said yes?”

  “Let me finish, Greg. The parents hosting the sleepover are also known for hosting high school parties
where they let the kids drink.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. They clear it with all the other parents first, actually. And they take everybody’s keys, so nobody can leave the house. And, they are with the kids while the party is going so if anybody has too much, they will step in and cut them off so they don’t have to take anybody to the hospital.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Lorelei laughs. “Yes, Greg. This is not as strange as you think it is. A lot of parents are doing this now. It’s called permissive parenting.”

  “I don’t want Tammy going anywhere near that house.”

  She laughs again. “Me neither. She’s not ready for that kind of freedom.”

  My mind is going so fast, I almost miss what she’s saying.

  “Hold on a minute. I wasn’t cool with her going because it was a co-ed sleepover. You’re not cool with it because there will be parented drinking there?”

  “No, Greg. There’s no drinking at this party. I don’t want Tammy going because I remember what thirteen year old boys are like, and she is a woman now. I know you think of Tammy as your little girl, but she is starting to get curious about boys.”

  I want to stick my fingers in my ears and go lah-lah-lah-lah to drown out the words I am hearing, but I manage to resist the immature impulse. Tammy is a teen. Tammy is a teen.

  Tammy is a teen.

  “But,” I come back, “you’d be okay with her going to a drinking party in a few years?”

  “I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea, but only if the no-driving rule is enforced.”

  I feel like I’ve stepped into The Twilight Zone.

  She goes, “I take it from your judgmental silence that you disapprove?”

  “I don’t want our sixteen or seventeen-year-old daughter getting tipsy around a bunch of drunk guys.”

  “Which is exactly what you and I were doing twenty years ago, only we did it secretly. We snuck to the lake at one in the morning to drink and swim and then stumble home in the dark. That sounds pretty dangerous to me. If Tammy went to a hosted party, she’d be under adult supervision. Wouldn’t that be better?”

  “I know, I know. I’m a hypocrite. But …”

  But what, Greg? You drank your fair share in high school.