The Stalked Girl

by Evan Ronan

  And she talks at length about all the bullshit reasons her client’s offer isn’t a lowball. I half-listen while my mind drifts inevitably back to the case.

  I need to find Adam.

  I have to.

  It’s the only way to get Lucy some peace-of-mind. She needs it before the qualifier. No amount of pep talk from me will put her in as good a state mentally as a handcuffed Adam will.

  But how?

  “What do you think, Greg?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll get back to you.”

  Twenty-Six

  Bob Hale waves at me from the bar. Tuesday night, a couple hours after dinner, and Hurley’s is quiet. The ballgame is playing on the TVs. It’s the Phillies but nobody cares because they’re going nowhere.

  I sit next to Bob, give the bartender the nod. Without asking he pours me a pint of the black stuff. Bob sips his water and I sip my beer. There’s nothing to say and our words are full of it.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Good. You?”

  “Good.”

  “Any news?”

  “No news.”

  With a stoic nod, Bob’s eyes drift back to the TV he wasn’t really watching. We nurse our drinks.

  I owe him more of an explanation than that, but he’s probably tired of hearing the same old, same old, again and again. Nobody knows where Adam is.

  “Lucy’s putting on a brave face,” Bob says. “But that idiot driver the other day knocked her back into that hole she was living in at the end of the school year.”

  It’s true. Lucy finished her ride but halfway through what had been a slog of a run, she just stopped. She wasn’t breathing hard. She was just done.

  Done.

  “We’ve still got time,” I say. “She can do this.”

  With a fierce paternal pride, Bob says, “I know she can. That girl of mine can do anything she wants. But right now, I don’t think she wants this anymore.”

  “She just wants life to go back to the way it was,” I say.

  Don’t we all, sometimes.

  “But it’ll never go back, will it?” Bob turns to face me on the barstool. “This guy has changed her. You know how you have Before and After moments in your life?”

  I nod.

  “This is one of hers.” He shakes his head, looks like he’s ready to throw his glass of water across the bar. “You think she’ll ever be able to fully trust a man again?”

  “She’s tough,” I say, wondering if Bob has any idea that his daughter is … bisexual? I realize I don’t even know. It doesn’t seem like a thing you ask somebody politely. “It’ll take time but she’ll come out the other side of this even stronger. Lucy is a world-class athlete. That means she’s not only physically tough, but mentally also.”

  “It’s hard when it’s your kid.”

  “It is.”

  “You want them to experience some hardships so they can grow of course, but you don’t want …”

  Bob puts his water down.

  “No, you don’t want this,” I say. “It seems like more than a person should be forced to endure.”

  Bob shakes his head. “I have to remind myself that God has a plan for everything, and this is part of it. There’s a reason—”

  “Respectfully, Bob, I don’t want to hear that crap right now.”

  His eyes bulge.

  I’ve crossed the line. I should walk that last comment back, but I’m tired, on edge, pissed off, and frustrated too. And I’m disappointed in myself. I can’t find Adam. So right now I don’t feel like listening to any religious platitudes.

  “Do you think God is worth praying to if he intended for Adam to stalk Lucy?”

  I just can’t help myself.

  Bob’s face has turned bright red. Slowly he gets up and even more slowly he leans toward me and for a fraction of a millisecond, I wonder if he’s going to hit me.

  But that’s not Bob. He would never raise a hand against anyone. Maybe not even Adam.

  Instead, he does something much worse. In a low, mean voice, he hisses: “If you had found him already, this would be over.”

  Bob pushes away from the bar and the small, petty man that’s inside of me wants to yell back. If I found Adam, things wouldn’t necessarily be better. We’d just know where he is. In that scenario, we’d be slightly better off. But, honestly, not by much.

  No.

  We need Adam scared shitless or in prison.

  By the time I push off the barstool and make up my mind to apologize to my client, Bob is already out the door. I hurry out, looking like I have no intention of paying my tab. When I get outside, I can’t find Bob, then I see car lights come on and I hear an engine start, and he’s pulling out and away before I can flag him down.

  Way to go, Greg.

  You’ve attacked the deeply-held religious beliefs of your client, possibly the only things providing him a modicum of solace in the most harrowing time of his life as a father. His daughter is in constant danger. And he can’t change that. So what if he has to believe there’s a reason for all this suffering? If that’s what gets him through the day, then so be it.

  “You’re an asshole sometimes, Greg.”

  I’m talking to myself, but somebody agrees.

  “Yeah, you are, Greg.”

  The drunk hiccups laughter as he meanders his way to his car to drive while intoxicated.

  In vino est veritas, as they say.

  “You alright, buddy?”

  “Fuck you,” he says.

  That about sums it up.

  Twenty-Seven

  “Not today,” Lucy says.

  Even through the phone, I can hear the defeat in her voice.

  “You skipped yesterday.”

  “I’m tapering.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?” I ask.

  “I’m not quitting,” she says. “I just don’t want to go out today.”

  “Okay,” I give in. I’m not her coach or her trainer or her mentor. I’m just protection. That’s all. And if I was worth a damn, I would have found Adam by now. “If you want to take another day, that’s up to you.”

  “Don’t even start,” she says. “You don’t know what this is like.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “But I’d hate to see you throw all this work away.”

  “Fine,” she says. “Come pick me up.”

  I’m not expecting this response from her, but I don’t argue. I get in the car and hurry over before she can change her mind. Lucy’s on her bike, waiting for me in the driveway.

  “Mom and Dad are taking Julian out,” she says. “They won’t be here when we get back.”

  “That’s fine,” I say. “Don’t worry about that. You just focus on what you have to do.”

  She looks down. “Thanks for the push.”

  “Sometimes we need a nudge,” I say. “I’m no different. Let’s get going.”

  She rides out ahead of me. Today she tops out at a leisurely twenty miles per hour. Despite her impressive speed, it looks like she’s hardly pedaling.

  Lucy leads me along an unusual route, and I realize halfway through that she’s making it up as she goes. Fine by me. I just settle into that space about forty feet behind her with my hazards on.

  Eventually she leads me to the pool hall. We drop her stuff inside. Bernie comes to his full height at the sight of his athletic goddess.

  “Need water?” he asks.

  “Thanks, Bernie, that’d be awesome.”

  He hops to. I wait by the door as she takes a water bottle and thanks him again, then we’re back outside. I get on her bike, and she breaks into a jog.

  We go the usual route this time. She heads into the nearby development and begins her long loop back and forth. Three miles in and my legs are aching from pedaling, even though I’m moving slowly. These days, I’m built for comfort as opposed to speed. But I stick with her, determined to keep her safe, determined to keep the demons at bay for one more run.

  As she completes h
er second loop, her legs are gone. Breathing heavily, she walks it out and puts her hands on top her head to open up her lungs. Without a word, we return to the pool hall. Bernie is Johnny-on-the-spot with another water bottle.

  “You must be tired.” He winks, smiles, winks again and it’s only slightly creepy. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks, Bernie.”

  She downs the whole bottle in one long chug, wipes her mouth, then takes her gym bag into my office to get changed.

  “How’s she doing?” Wally asks. Roy looks like he’s in the middle of one long run in their ceaseless game of straight pool. “She okay?”

  “She’s okay,” I say, which is about as much as I can spin it. “She’ll be ready for race day.”

  “And you?” Wally asks.

  I wait for the inevitable wisecrack, but none comes. “I need to find that kid. It’s the only way she’ll have any peace.”

  Wally nods. “You’ll figure it out.”

  Again I wait for the knife in the gut. But Wally’s avuncular look doesn’t change one iota.

  “Thanks.”

  He nods again. “If you need help, you know you can always ask us.”

  “I know that, Wally.”

  “Your Pop raised you right.”

  “So did Mom.”

  “Her too.”

  Wally gives me a toothless grin, marking the end of our rare sentimental moment. “Your mother was a real nice woman.”

  “Okay, that’s enough.”

  “Greg, your momma’s so fat,” Bernie says, coming over, “I took a picture of her at Christmas and it’s still printing.”

  Wally looks away.

  I decide to lay it on Bernie. “My mother’s dead, Bernie.”

  Bernie shifts uncomfortably, looks to Wally for help, gets none. So he tries, “Your momma’s so dead, they can’t even carbon date her.”

  I shrug. “Not bad for an on-the-spot joke.”

  Lucy comes out of the office in different shorts and a fresh t-shirt. Bernie tries not to drool. I banish him back to the register, and I drive Lucy home.

  “Thanks again,” she says.

  “You don’t have to thank me.”

  “I know I don’t have to.” She glances over while I drive. “But I needed a push today.”

  “It was a gentle nudge to get you going, but that was all. Everything else was you.”

  She takes a deep breath. “I think I’m ready.”

  “That means you are.”

  “You think?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. It only matters what you think.”

  She smiles. “I think I’m ready.”

  “Then you are.”

  Both our spirits lifted, she cranks the radio and we blast alt rock the rest of the way. We come home to a dark house. Her parents must still be out with Julian.

  “Order out?” I ask.

  “I could use some carbs.”

  “My Achilles’ heel,” I say.

  We get out of the car and there’s something in the air that I notice but can’t place. Some fragrance.

  Lucy stops dead in her tracks in the driveway. “What is that?”

  Out of habit, I move in front of her. It takes me a moment to see what she’s noticed. There’s a package between the storm door and front door. It’s small enough to fit between the two without forcing the storm door open. Wedged in there.

  “What. Is. That?”

  Lucy is moving away from me, back toward the car.

  “Get in.” I throw her the keys. “Start the engine.”

  She catches the keys with shaky hands. I do a quick three-sixty and don’t see anybody about. Her neighbors are out on their porch across the street, watching us with more than casual interest.

  I stride forward and pull open the storm door. It’s a long, rectangular box.

  A box of flowers.

  Red roses.

  There’s a note too.

  See you soon

  Twenty-Eight

  Lori walks into the pool hall.

  It’s one of Bernie’s rare days off, so I’m working the register. Wally and Roy have switched to one pocket this afternoon. The rest of the place is empty.

  I meet Lori by the door.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say.

  “I almost didn’t.”

  “And I wouldn’t have blamed you,” I say. “I put you in a bad position.”

  “My parents thought I helped you plant the bug in the kitchen.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She nods, looks around. “This is your place?”

  “For now,” I say.

  “Are you selling it or something?”

  Deep exhale. “That remains to be seen.”

  “It’s … nice.”

  “It’s a pool hall. It serves its purpose.”

  I show her in, introduce her to Wally and Roy, take her back to the office.

  “Do you have anything to drink back here?” she asks.

  The last woman who asked me that I started dating. The two situations couldn’t be any more different.

  “Sure do, but don’t tell anybody especially those two old-timers out there.”

  She laughs. “Okay.”

  I take out the vodka and the whisky. I haven’t touched either since Denise and I had some mixed drinks about a year ago, while a nine-ball tournament raged in the hall.

  I hold both bottles up. “Preference?”

  “Vodka.”

  “Want me to cut it?”

  “No. Yes. I mean, you better.”

  She’s all jittery.

  “It’ll be okay.”

  “She knows I’m here?” Lori asks.

  I nod. “She knows.”

  “You’re not lying?”

  “No. I promised you I’d set this up, so thank you for allowing me to make it up to you.”

  She smiles.

  I grab two sodas and bring them back to the office. She’s looking at my photographs of Tammy.

  “Is this your daughter?” she asks.

  “One and only.”

  “She must take after her mother.”

  “Ouch.”

  She laughs again. “Or the milkman.”

  “She takes after her mother.”

  “But have you ever seen her milkman?”

  “I’ve never seen a milkman.”

  “You got me there.”

  I pour her a vodka, cut it with diet soda, swirl it around in a little plastic cup and hand it off. “Bottoms up.”

  She almost finishes it.

  “When’s the race?” Lori asks, before an uncomfortable silence grows.

  “Three days,” I say.

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Good,” I lie. And she sees right through it.

  Lori looks down at the drink she nearly inhaled. “What’s her time like?”

  Time for honesty. “Close enough.”

  Lori finishes the drink. Pours herself another. “I want to kill him.”

  “Your brother.”

  “Who else?”

  “And you feel bad about that feeling.”

  She nods as she finishes pouring. This time it’s more vodka and much less soda. “I could do it too.”

  “I know it feels like that, but he’s your brother.”

  She shrugs, tips her head back, and gulps. “And I’m so angry at her.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “And I feel bad about that too.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  She drinks more.

  “Where do you think your brother is?” I ask.

  “Don’t.” She shakes her head and looks away. “Just don’t. I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “Lori.” I sit on the edge of my desk and fold my hands and try to look as helpless as I feel. “I need to find him. He’s threatened to kill her, and the other night he had roses delivered to her house. This is real. This is happening. How do I find him? How do I get in touch with him?”

 
; “I don’t know.”

  “How much money did he have in his savings account?” I ask. “He’s gotta be low by now.”

  She shakes her head no. “Adam has saved every penny he’s ever made. He’s on an athletic scholarship so everything at school is taken care of. He probably had twenty thousand dollars just sitting around.”

  Not bad for a twenty-one-year-old.

  Or a forty-year-old.

  “So he’s not running out of money any time soon,” she concludes.

  “He will eventually.”

  “But not before the qualifier,” she points out.

  “Yeah.” I look away. “So if I can’t find him, how can I get him to come to me?”

  “He’s smart. He won’t come to you,” she says. “You know he’s probably followed you around, right? I’ll bet he has her exercise routes all committed to memory. He’s very smart.”

  “There has to be a way to flush him out.”

  Lori finishes her second drink of the last five minutes. “My parents don’t know where he is.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I confronted Mom about it today.”

  “Where would he go? What would he do? How would he fill his days?”

  “I don’t want to think about it.”

  I know this is painful for her, but I also know that Lucy is hanging by a thread right now. She hasn’t trained at all since she got the flowers and the note. At this point, I’ll be surprised if she even shows up at the qualifier, never mind actually compete.

  “How would he fill his days?” I ask.

  “You know how.” She gives me a pained look. “By hacking into her phone or email, or trying to hack into her Facebook account, or by driving by her house when you weren’t around. Who knows? Maybe he’s planning his next murder attempt on Brody.”

  “World would be better off.”

  This gets a chuckle. “He is probably doing all of those things. And more. He’s probably mapping out how he’s going to watch her at the qualifier.”

  “The world would be better off without Brody,” I say again, the kernel of an idea forming in the back of my mind. “Wouldn’t it?”

  She looks at me sideways, but I don’t want to explain right now. And I don’t have to. Out in the hall, the door opens and I hear Roy and Wally saying hello to Lucy.