The Stalked Girl

by Evan Ronan

  “You guys seen Adam?” I say.

  They shake their heads no.

  “Get Brody,” I say. “I’ll talk to him out here.”

  Neither moves.

  “Or do you want the whole campus to know a forty-year-old took you to school?”

  It’s an empty threat. I have no desire to get into another fistfight with these guys. Too old for that.

  But they don’t know that and I put just enough crazy into my voice that they believe me.

  One of them goes in. A minute ticks by, while the other one watches me. He’s got two inches and twenty pounds on me. Oh yeah, and a couple horse shoes in his hands too.

  The door opens and a shirtless Brody come out.

  “What the hell do you want?” he asks.

  “Adam.”

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  “Has he been around?” I ask.

  “No. Now fuck off.”

  “No.” I give him the shit-eating grin. “I’m not in a fucking off mood today.”

  Brody halves the distance between us. His two brothers amble over as well, but don’t get as close. That’s three fraternity brothers, two armed with horse shoes.

  “I’ll call campus security.”

  “I think you want to adopt a more cooperative attitude with me.” I point at him. “Because I know what you did.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  I keep grinning. “You already know.”

  His eyes change a little. His posture lessens. On the defensive. He tries to recover.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m calling campus security now.”

  “Don’t bother,” I say, starting to walk away. “Just keep in mind that I know what happened. So if you see Adam, you be sure to let Jarek know right away. Or else.”

  He’s scared. He doesn’t come back with anything, and he doesn’t move off the lawn. The three fraternity brothers just watch me in silence as I head back to my car.

  ***

  I leave campus for a little bit, grab a bite to eat at nearby burger joint, and make my calls. Bernie surprises me by answering the phone at the pool hall before the second ring. Usually it takes six or seven before he picks up.

  “Hey, Bern. Just checking in.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Greg.”

  “Were you expecting somebody else?”

  “Oh …” He pauses much too long for the next words to be truth. “No. Not really.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry, but I gave this chick the number to the pool hall.”

  “That explains why you picked up after one ring, as opposed to the usual seven.”

  “The answering machine kicks on after six, Greg.”

  This guy doesn’t know how to get out of his own way. “And you know this because you’ve counted?”

  “Uhh, no I wasn’t counting counting. I was, you know, firing up some dogs one day when the phone rang. I had my hands full and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, Bernie, alright. But that begs another question. Why did you give a chick the number to the hall?”

  “My carrier dumped me,” he explains. “They were totally in the wrong. I missed one payment, I mean one, and they shut it down. Can you believe that?”

  “How late were you?”

  “I don’t know, Greg. Maybe five or six months, whatever.”

  So that means he continued to pay his bill, but refused to pay for one month … I manage not to fall down the rabbit hole that is Bernie’s life. I’m maturing and growing wiser in my old age.

  Bernie says, “Sorry, Greg. But as one man to another, I’m sure you can understand. I had a chance to score, I couldn’t pass that up.”

  Hard to argue with that. You only get so many shots with the fairer sex.

  “I appreciate you being honest,” I say.

  “Your,” he says.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you said—”

  “Are you correcting my normally flawless and always eloquent use of the English language?”

  “Who’s the writer here?”

  Neither of us, I almost say.

  “Okay, allow me to repeat, I appreciate your being honest. Now can you tell me what’s going on with my business, or do I have to ask to speak to Wally or Roy?”

  He huffs. “Business is booming, thank you very much. We’ve got thirteen tables running.”

  Incredulity. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I set up an eight ball tournament and told all my friends.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. The pot is up to a thousand! And you and I keep five hundred of that.”

  He has to bullshitting me. Has to.

  “Keep up the good work,” I say.

  “Gotta go, Greg. More customers coming in. Later.”

  He hangs up before I can get more details out of him. Bernie always surprises and almost always, those surprises are bad.

  But as they say, even a blind squirrel finds the occasional acorn.

  I drive back to the edge of campus, park, and hop across the street. The security door to the apartment building is open, which doesn’t inspire much confidence, but I make the most of it and go upstairs and knock on Lori’s door.

  She opens it, wearing two towels. One wrapped around her body, the other over her hair.

  “Hi?” she says.

  “Hi.” I smile. “I never properly thanked you.”

  “For what?”

  “For calling campus security,” I say. “I was wondering if we could talk.”

  She has to think about it. “Alright.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  That makes two of us, but I don’t want to get into comparisons. It’s not healthy. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “How about five?”

  “How about one so I don’t look like a creep trying to pick up a woman half his age?”

  She actually laughs. “Fair enough.”

  “I’m parked outside. See you in a few minutes.”

  ***

  “I’ll take a stout,” I tell the bartender, “and whatever the lady’s having.”

  “Lady?” Lori sits down on the barstool next to me. “I’m not fifty years old.”

  “Would you have preferred chick?”

  “That would get you slapped.”

  “Just a joke.” I hold out a palm. “I know better than to mess with you.”

  Lori smiles at the bartender. “Vodka tonic please.”

  I nod appreciatively. “Very refined.”

  “If you’re buying, I’m getting the good stuff.”

  The bartender goes to make her drink and pour mine carefully.

  “So, do I need to ask what brings you out here?” she asks.

  “You already know,” I say.

  She nods. Somehow she seems out of place in this campus bar. I can’t figure out why.

  “How is Lucy?” she asks.

  “You should ask Lucy yourself.”

  She waits to respond as the bartender brings our drinks over. After sipping her vodka tonic, she turns back to me.

  “I said horrible things to her the last time we spoke.” Shakes her head and gets a distant, brooding look in her eye. “Things I should burn in hell for.”

  “That happens,” I say, “when you love somebody that much. Love brings out the best in us, but it can also bring out the worst.”

  She hasn’t heard me. Lori has warped back in time to her last conversation with Lucy.

  “I’ve never needed anybody before. But when she broke up with me, it was like … I felt so small, so powerless.”

  Young love. I want to tell her she’ll get over it, because she will. I want to tell her there are plenty of other fish in the sea, because there are.

  And I also know that, despite the truth of those words, they’re the last ones she’s capable of appreciating right now.

  I finish my first beer and move onto th
e second. “I’ll make you a deal.”

  She drinks more of the vodka tonic.

  “I need to speak with your parents,” I say. “Can you arrange that?”

  She has to think about it.

  “I think so.”

  “Good.” I put my beer down. “And I’ll talk to Lucy about seeing you.”

  “Will she?”

  “I think so.”

  I don’t tell her what I have planned.

  I head back home, almost used to the long drive back and forth now. As I reach the halfway mark, I pull into a rest stop to fill up the tank. Inside I grab a coffee. On my way back out to the car, Lucy calls.

  “Hey, L—”

  “Adam sent me another email!” She’s hysterical. “He said he’s going to kill me if we’re not together!”

  Twenty-Three

  Adam’s parents, Ted and Toni, live two hours away out in the middle of the state. Lori promises to meet me at her parents’ place at noon to act as referee, but I get to their quiet, very upscale town at ten.

  I don’t know what I’m looking for, if anything. Without a bead on Adam, I have nowhere to start. I’m just hoping that, as I drive through the area he grew up in, something will jump out at me. Or spark some idea about how to find him. Because meeting with his parents? That’s the Hail Mary pass of a desperate private eye who’s down by five with three seconds to play.

  Drifting past the local high school, I size the place up. It reminds me of Apache High back home. Just a big, mostly rectangular brick building that’s not going to win the Pritzker. I keep on going.

  There are basketball courts, playgrounds, and soccer fields. There are ice cream parlors and diners. There is a bookstore and a movie theater. There is a main street and there are developments and this could be home for me. Just typical, mid-sized suburbia.

  The one thing that sticks out is a big athletic complex. It’s so nice, it looks like the Eagles and the Sixers could practice there in the off-season. There’s a gargantuan pool inside, and I walk around trying to get the feel of the place. This is where Adam trained growing up. Right here, inside these walls. Lap after lap after lap. Before school. Six o’clock in the morning swim practice. After school. Before homework. After homework.

  Lap after lap.

  I never swam competitively, but I had buddies back in school who did. They practiced religiously, mercilessly, and compulsively. They swam with a zealot’s passion and a martyr’s masochism.

  Endlessly.

  Over and over.

  And when they got good? When they became very competitive? They chased seconds. Then, tenths of seconds. Less than a second or two would separate the best from the average.

  After all those hours in the water, stroke and kick and kick and stroke, after all that time and slavish devotion, maybe you’d be good enough to swim for a college.

  Maybe.

  Adam was good enough.

  Being the best swimmer for your high school is one thing. Being arguably the best swimmer for a big-time college program is quite another.

  All the self-sacrifice, the unwavering commitment.

  Some would admire that.

  Others might view it as obsession.

  And in Adam’s case, if he’s got only a tenth of the same obsession toward Lucy …

  I stop in a diner and order a Reuben sandwich. It’s out in less than three minutes. The coffee is delicious, the food has that home-cooked feel and taste to it. I drive around some more. This is a great town for a family. Probably no crime, outside of the standard high school-kegger.

  I slide on over to Adam’s development. It’s the nicest one in town I’ve seen. There’s a gas station and one of those mega convenience stores opposite the entrance to the development. I stop for some cash and snacks and sodas.

  Adam’s parents live on a cul-de-sac. I park in front of their house. Three cars in the driveway, two brand new and one looking like it belongs to a college student. I jot the plates down on a piece of paper and leave that on the passenger seat.

  Before I get out of the car, Lori comes out of the house wearing jean shorts and a tank top. Her hair is back in a ponytail.

  “You’re early.”

  “So are you,” I say. “How is this going to go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Fair enough.” I smile. “Thanks for being honest.”

  “You’re about to walk into the house. What’s the point of me lying?”

  Is it me lying? Or my lying? I don’t know. I don’t have Bernie around to correct her.

  “Thanks for setting this up,” I say.

  She smiles. “Come on in.”

  I trail her up the walk and she holds the door and I step into a cool foyer with tile floor that looks brand new. A long mirror hangs over an end table that’s pure decoration. I appraise myself in the mirror: khakis, polo, and loafers. I don’t look like a PI at all.

  Maybe that’s a good thing.

  I hear footsteps coming toward the foyer and brace myself for the social impact of meeting Adam’s parents.

  A woman who’s a foot shorter than me with a distractingly-large bust size comes in. She looks like she’s had some work done. The skin around the eyes is stretched a little bit. A half-second behind her is a fifty-year-old guy who’s remarkably well put-together. He has swimmer shoulders and a narrow waist that middle age has not ravaged yet.

  “I’m Greg Owen.” I offer my hand. Very slowly, Ted shakes it. Then Toni does too. “Thank you for meeting me.”

  “Let’s sit down,” Ted says. “And get down to business.”

  “Fair enough,” I say.

  I follow the pair of them into a den. If they don’t show me around the house, my plan is doomed. They sit next to each other on a long couch, while Lori plants herself on a love seat. I take an armchair.

  Nobody offers me a drink.

  I could use one.

  “So go on,” Ted says. “State your business and let’s get this over with.”

  “You know why I’m here,” I say. “Nobody can find your son.”

  “We don’t know where he is,” Toni jumps in, a little too quickly.

  I hold up a hand. “I want this to end well for everybody.”

  Neither parent says anything. Lori shifts uncomfortably in the love seat.

  “I was a Marine,” I begin, hoping this story works. “I had a buddy, he was … in love with a woman.”

  I look at Ted, then Toni, then back at Ted.

  “He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He grew obsessed with the woman. We didn’t understand what was happening to him, we just thought it was a guy being persistent. I wish I had known better.”

  I let that sentiment hang in the air between us.

  Then, “He almost killed her. Almost.”

  Neither Ted nor Toni ask me what happened to him. They don’t want to know. They want to pretend like the same fate, whatever it is, doesn’t await their son.

  I say, “After a standoff with the police, he let the woman go and he shot himself in the head.”

  Toni puts a hand over her mouth. She’s trying not to cry.

  Ted says, “I’ve heard enough. You can get the hell out of my ho—”

  “Would you like something to drink?” Toni asks suddenly.

  Toni and Ted exchange a look. To my surprise, Ted is the one to relent.

  “A water would be great,” I say. “And I can get it myself.”

  “I could use one too,” Toni says. “Come with me.”

  Ted stays put, shooting me a death stare as I follow his wife into the kitchen. When her back is turned, I plant the first bug in a nook between the refrigerator and the wall. It will pass unnoticed for a few days. Eventually someone will catch it out of the corner of their eye, maybe when the morning light hits the kitchen differently. But beggars can’t be choosers.

  “Here you are,” Toni says, unable to meet my eye.

  I take the glass of water. Among the pair of them, I know Toni is the one I
’m more likely to convince. So as she pours herself an iced tea, I broach the subject.

  “The police think your son is dangerous, Toni.”

  She shakes her head and weakly protests. “He’s not.”

  “They think he attacked Brody,” I say. “And they know he’s threatened to kill Lucy.”

  She won’t look at me. “We don’t know for sure he sent that email.”

  “Come on, Toni. Who else could have sent it?”

  “Somebody. Anybody. Maybe there’s another guy out there.”

  “Sure.” I put the water down. “Maybe. I guess literally anything is possible, right? There could be another guy. Or another dozen guys out there. All of them stalking Lucy. But the police deal in probabilities. And right now, you know exactly what they’re thinking.”

  She won’t admit it, but I can see the yes in her eyes.

  “They think he’s dangerous. You know how the police treat dangerous people.”

  With eyes that can’t widen any further, she looks at me.

  “When they’ve found him, a team of highly-trained officers will go in. Their hands will be on their hips. That’s if they don’t already have their weapons drawn.”

  Her lower lip is trembling.

  “They’re not going to take any chances with your son,” I say. “And you shouldn’t either.”

  Ted appears in the door behind me. “What the hell’s going on out here?”

  “I was just pointing out to your wife that if there was any doubt before, there is no doubt now. The police have to consider your son very dangerous. And they will act accordingly, if they find him.”

  The not-so-subtle hint here is they will shoot him if he tries anything foolish, dangerous, or crazy.

  “Get out of here,” Ted says, straining to control his voice. “Now.”

  Moving backward with my hands out, I keep my eyes on the guy. He’s got a decade on me but I can tell he knows how to handle himself.

  “I came here in good faith,” I say. “I want what’s best for Lucy first and foremost. But that doesn’t mean something bad has to happen to your boy.”

  “Get out.”

  “I’m going.”

  Lori meets me in the foyer. “What’s going on?”

  “Lori, you are not to talk to this man anymore,” Ted says.

  “I’ll talk to him if I want to!” she screams. “Lucy’s my friend.”