by Mark Lukens
“It’s nothing to worry about,” Cathy said. “I think the guy was just trying to scare us.”
Phil gulped down the rest of his drink, the liquid warming his throat and then his belly. He poured another half glass and sipped this one. Cathy was right—it had been a long time since he’d had a drink, and he’d forgotten that warm, soothing feeling that alcohol could bring to him.
“How was your night?” Cathy asked Megan like she was trying to change the subject.
“Fine. I talked to Arianna for a while. She wants me to go to the movies with her this Tuesday for my birthday. And then she wants me to spend the night.” Megan glanced at Phil, then looked at Cathy. “Can I go? Please.”
Phil and Cathy locked eyes for a brief moment, and then Cathy looked at Megan and gave her a “we’ll see” smile. “We’ll talk about it later,” she told Megan.
His wife and daughter left the kitchen, Cathy’s arm around Megan’s shoulders. He figured Cathy was probably telling Megan that she would make sure Phil okayed it, but Phil still wanted to talk about it. He was definitely rattled from what had happened tonight, but he was also a little disappointed in Megan. She was going to be fifteen years old in a few days, and she still hadn’t learned enough responsibility to stay inside the house until they got home. He shuddered to think of what could’ve happened. What if that guy would’ve had a gun?
But he knew in the end that he would probably give in. Megan would be with her friend and most likely chaperoned by Arianna’s mother. He took another sip of his drink and left the kitchen, catching up to them in the living room. He wanted to apologize to his daughter a little more sincerely. He had overreacted; he had let his emotions get the best of him, and he was trained not to do that.
He saw the two of them whispering conspiratorially, and he was about to make some kind of joke to lighten everyone’s mood.
The doorbell rang.
Cathy jumped, stifling a scream. Megan’s eyes were wide with alarm again.
“I got it,” Phil said, setting his drink down on a side table. “It’s probably the cops.”
Cathy followed Phil to the front door. The security alarm was off if Megan had gone outside, and he was sure she hadn’t remembered to turn it back on, but he checked anyway before opening the front door.
An African-American officer stood underneath the front porch lights, dressed in uniform. “Mr. Stanton. I’m Officer Wells. 911 received a call that someone followed you home tonight.”
“Yes,” Phil said. He looked back at Cathy and Megan who stood together, staring at the police officer.
Phil stepped out onto the front porch and closed the door. The front porch ran nearly half the front of the home. The wide floor was covered with smooth paver stones. The columns of the porch were stacked stone. Three wide steps led down to the concrete path that ran from the porch to their driveway. Tropical landscaping decorated the space between the front porch and the path. They had some porch furniture out here that they never used.
“Thank you for coming by so quickly,” Phil said.
“The person who followed you home,” Officer Wells said. “He’s not here now?”
“No.”
“So, he left,” Officer Wells said like he was making sure. He pulled out a small leather bound notepad and a pen to take some notes.
“He was right behind us out there on the street,” Phil said, pointing at the road in front of their home with the empty lots beyond it. The line of dark woods in the distance could barely be seen at night. “We were coming home from a dinner with friends and this guy in a pickup truck started following us home. I lost him for a while when I drove through a neighborhood. Everything seemed fine, but when we turned onto our street, he was right behind us, shining his bright lights at us. We stopped in front of our home. Our daughter, Megan, she’s fourteen, almost fifteen; she came outside on the front porch to see what was going on. I got out of the car, and then the pickup truck just backed up and turned around. And then he left.”
Officer Wells nodded, just staring at Phil. “So you’re saying this person followed you all the way home.”
“Well, yeah. He followed us halfway home. He pulled out in front of us from a side road. I didn’t even see him until the last minute. I had to slam on the brakes. I almost hit him.”
“He pulled out in front of you?” Officer Wells asked, jotting something down. He looked at Phil, waiting for an answer.
“Well, yeah. He pulled out in front of us. He could’ve killed us. But then he was driving real slow.”
Officer Wells just nodded.
“It was like he was going slow on purpose,” Phil said. “I had to pass him.”
“When this pickup truck pulled out in front of you, did you honk your horn at him? Flash you bright lights?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Officer Wells waited patiently for Phil’s answer.
“Yes,” Phil sighed. “I got a little angry. He could’ve hurt us. He could’ve killed us.”
Officer Wells jotted down something else in his notebook.
“So, what are you going to do now?” Phil asked the police officer.
“Did you get the tag number of this truck, Mr. Stanton?”
Phil felt his stomach sink a little. “No. It was a Florida tag, I remember that.”
“Can you give me a description of the vehicle?”
“It was an older truck. I’m not sure what year. A Chevy. I saw the Chevy emblem on the tailgate. There were seven or eight bumper stickers on the back. There was a gun rack in the back window. There was one of those metal toolbox things in the back. Big tires on the back. It sounded powerful.”
Officer Wells just nodded and Phil could read the expression in the man’s eyes: That describes a lot of work trucks in this area.
“What about the driver?” Officer Wells asked. “Did you get a look at him? Was there anyone else in the truck?”
“Just the driver, I think, and no, I didn’t get a good look at him. The windows were tinted.” Phil was getting more of a sinking feeling in his stomach now.
Officer Wells snapped his small notebook shut and tucked it away.
“So, there’s not much you can do,” Phil said.
“I’m afraid not.”
“So, that’s it? Somebody follows us all the way home and there’s nothing you can do about it?”
“Mr. Stanton, have you been drinking tonight?”
Phil felt his stomach drop again. “I . . . I don’t see what that has to . . . uh, yeah. I made a drink when I got home.”
“That’s it? You weren’t drinking earlier? When you were driving? When this man in the pickup truck pulled out in front of you?”
“What kind of question is that? No. Of course not. I don’t drink and drive. I haven’t had anything to drink in quite a while, but after tonight, after what happened, I made a drink when I got home. I can’t help it I’m a little rattled because that guy followed us all the way home and now he knows where we live.”
“Okay,” Officer Wells said, seemingly satisfied. He looked like he was about to walk away.
“That’s it?” Phil asked.
“I’m afraid that’s all I can do right now. If you see the truck again—”
“I know, dial 911.”
“You have a pleasant night, Mr. Stanton.”
“Actually, it’s Dr.”
Officer Wells started to walk through Phil’s front lawn to his police cruiser that was parked out in the street, but he turned around and looked at Phil. He gave a curt nod. “Sorry. Dr. Stanton.”
And then the officer was gone, walking to his squad car.
What if the guy in the pickup truck comes back later tonight? Phil wondered, but he didn’t bother asking the police officer.
THREE
Phil
Two hours and two drinks later Phil got ready for bed.
Phil paced the bedroom with his fourth drink of the night in his hand, his head swimming a little
. “So that’s what I get for my tax dollars?”
Cathy rubbed some lotion on her hands as she walked to the bed. “What’s he supposed to do? Drive around and look for an old white pickup truck?”
“You don’t seem too concerned about this,” Phil said and then inwardly winced at the harshness of his words. The whiskey was talking, making him blurt things out before thinking about them.
“I am concerned,” Cathy said before Phil could apologize for how accusatory his words might have sounded. She didn’t seem offended. She sat on the bed and tilted her head to the side just slightly as she looked at him, almost an expression of pity. “I was scared tonight, just like you were. But I really think it’s over. I think it was just some—”
“I know, it was just some drunk guy trying to scare us.”
Phil let it go for now. He was still a little tense, but the whiskey was helping him relax. But he still couldn’t get rid of that nagging certainty that their stalker was going to come back later tonight. He couldn’t shake that ominous feeling that all of this was far from over. He felt jittery, like he needed to pace, like he needed to do something to burn off this excess energy that buzzed inside of him.
“Come to bed,” Cathy said.
Cathy was the one being practical right now, and he should think that way, too. She was right, it probably was some guy trying to scare them, some guy who had pushed things too far and then turned around at the last minute when he realized that Phil was calling the police. But Phil hadn’t had his cell phone in his hand when he’d gotten out of the car. But maybe the driver of the truck had assumed that they had called the police by then. Maybe the driver of the truck had seen them using the phone—God knew his headlights had been bright enough to light up the interior of their car.
It didn’t matter. It was over now. He was just going to have to push this oppressive cloud of fear away that was hanging over him.
He swallowed down the rest of his drink and started walking towards the bedroom door.
“Where are you going?” Cathy asked.
“Just putting the glass away,” he told her. He almost added that he wasn’t getting another drink, but he didn’t.
He took the empty glass to the kitchen. He really did want another one, but he didn’t pour one. It wasn’t just the look he’d gotten from Cathy, but he also knew it was a sign that he was getting beyond buzzed and heading towards being drunk when he craved another drink even though he’d definitely had enough.
Instead of making another drink, he checked down the hall off of the kitchen. Megan’s light was still on underneath her door. She would probably be up for a few more hours, playing on her computer or watching a movie or listening to music. It was Saturday night, and she was allowed to stay up as late as she wanted when it wasn’t a school night. He thought for a moment about knocking on her door and apologizing for snapping at her earlier, but then he thought of her standing at the edge of the front porch and staring at them with that confused, deer-like stare, and the thought of it made him angry again. Why couldn’t she just listen to him?
Because she was a teenager.
Didn’t she understand how dangerous the world could be?
Phil decided he was too buzzed to try to talk to Megan tonight. He would sleep on it, and he would definitely apologize to her in the morning when he got up, or more likely the afternoon. He remembered Cathy saying something about her and Megan going shopping tomorrow morning for some early birthday presents. Megan had gotten to the age where she wanted to pick out her own presents.
Back in the kitchen, he checked the door that led out to the garage. Then he made his rounds of the house, checking windows and doors again. He peeked out the front windows at the dark street and the even darker plots of land beyond it that might never have houses built on them. He left the porch and landscaping lights on, the light spilling halfway across their front lawn. He checked the alarm system for probably the third time tonight and then headed to the bedroom.
In the bedroom, Cathy was already under the sheets on her side of the bed. Phil slipped on a pair of shorts and changed into a T-shirt. He brushed his teeth and then turned off the lights. The glow from the landscaping lights outside illuminated their bedroom with just enough light to see in the dark. He crept to the bed and lay down on his side, rolling over to face away from Cathy.
If she had thought about making love tonight, she wasn’t making the first move. Maybe she wasn’t in the mood for it—and he wasn’t, either. Maybe she was just as worn out as he was from their harrowing experience tonight. Maybe the best thing was to go to sleep and start over in the morning. The alcohol had done its trick, lulling him to sleep. He closed his eyes, breathing deeper. He thought he was going to have a difficult time sleeping, but before he knew it he was out . . . and he was dreaming.
• • •
In Phil’s dream, he saw the face of a young woman, a teenager really, maybe a girl about Megan’s age. He could only see her face and part of her body, a shirt that was speckled with blood. She also had smears of blood on her face. Her eyes were wide and she was breathing hard, panting. She might be going into shock. She was lying down, her hair spilled out underneath her. It was dark and Phil didn’t know where they were, but he was right beside the girl. It felt like they were floating in a void somewhere, everything else around them blotted out in impenetrable darkness.
He didn’t know this girl . . . but at the same time he did. He knew her from somewhere. He knew her name was Dolores.
Dolores’ mouth was open halfway, and she was trying to say something, moving her jaw up and down, her tongue lolling around inside as she tried to form words. Her split lips were trembling. Tears flowed out of her eyes, mixing in with the splatters of blood all over her face. Her wide eyes stared up at him as she struggled to speak. She needed to tell him something . . . something very important.
• • •
Phil awoke from the nightmare. He didn’t sit up in bed or even jump up. He just opened his eyes, lying there and staring into the darkness of their bedroom, listening to his heart thudding in his chest. He glanced at the alarm clock on the table next to the bed; the red digital numbers seemed to float in the darkness. It was almost three o’clock in the morning.
He knew the dream had woken him up . . . but there was something else.
A sound.
And then he heard it—a rumbling sound coming from outside.
He lay there for a moment, very still, just listening, making sure that the noise was real.
It was real. It was coming from outside. And he knew what that sound was because he’d heard it earlier tonight . . . it was the rumbling motor of the white pickup truck.
Phil jumped out of bed and darted to their bedroom window that looked out onto the front lawn.
Cathy rolled over and murmured something that he couldn’t make out.
He peeked through the blinds and saw the white pickup truck parked on the street in front of their home. The headlights were on, the engine rumbling. Smoke drifted up from the dual exhaust pipes, creating a ghostly mist in the glow of the taillights. The driver’s window was black.
Phil’s heart seemed to freeze in his chest for a moment as he stared at the truck, and then his heart thumped and began to beat rapidly again, like it was trying to get back into a rhythm. He ran to the end table with the alarm clock on it and grabbed the cordless phone.
Cathy was wide awake now, sitting up in bed. “What’s wrong?”
Phil didn’t answer her. He dialed 911 on the phone.
The 911 operator picked up on the second ring. “911. What’s your emergency?”
“What are you doing, Phil?” Cathy asked.
“I need the police,” Phil said, walking away from the bed with the phone up to his ear. He felt a little groggy from the four whiskeys he’d had earlier, but there was also an energy buzzing through his body.
“Phil?” Cathy snapped. She got out of bed, her silky nightgown clinging to her shapely body.
“My name is Dr. Phil Stanton,” Phil told the operator in a rush of words. He needed to slow down. “I called earlier about a pickup truck that followed us home. An Officer Wells came out to talk to us. That truck is back. It’s parked in front of our house right now.”
Cathy inhaled a sharp breath of air.
Phil was at the window. “Our address is 912 Winding Oak Way.”
“I’m sending a unit out to you right now,” the operator said. “Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”
“No, thanks.” Phil hung up. He felt better knowing the police were on their way. He peeked out at the truck again . . . the headlights were still on, the truck’s engine still rumbling, exhaust still drifting up from the tailpipe.
Cathy sat on the edge of the bed. She was fumbling with the lamp.
“Cathy, no,” Phil said as he hurried back to her. “Don’t turn on the lights. I don’t want him to know we spotted him.”
“That truck is out there?” she asked.
“Yes. The police are on their way.”
Cathy stood up. She looked like an apparition with her silky white nightgown in the darkness.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to see.”
“I don’t want him to see us looking out the window. I want him to wait right there so the police can catch him this time.”
Cathy stood there for a moment beside the bed, and then she went to the chair near the closet to grab her robe that was tossed over the back of it.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to check on Megan.”
“Shit,” Phil whispered. He hadn’t even thought of Megan—she might have heard the noise outside. She might be turning on her bedroom light and looking out her window, or hell, she might be opening the front door right now and walking out to the edge of the porch.
He followed Cathy out of their bedroom and into the living room. His eyes darted to the front door. It was closed, and the alarm system keypad near it was on, that reassuring green glow shining in the darkness.
Cathy hurried down the hall to Megan’s room. The strip underneath the door was dark, her bedroom light off. Phil waited a few feet back as Cathy opened Megan’s door and peeked inside. She stood there for a few seconds, and then she closed the door almost all the way. She crept back to Phil and they went to the kitchen.
