by Mark Lukens
“She’s okay,” Cathy whispered. “Sleeping.”
Phil sighed in relief.
Cathy left the kitchen. She marched right to the living room windows that looked out onto the front porch.
“Cathy,” Phil said, catching up to her.
“I don’t care if he sees me,” Cathy hissed as she got to the window. “We need to see what he’s doing.”
Phil waited as Cathy turned the wooden stick and opened the wood blinds just enough for her to see out through them. She stared out the window for a few seconds and then looked back at Phil with a confused expression. “No one’s out there.”
Phil rushed over to the window next to hers and opened the blinds all the way.
The truck was gone.
He looked up and down the street as far as he could through the window, but the pickup truck wasn’t there anymore.
“I saw the truck,” Phil said. “It was parked right there just a few seconds ago.”
Cathy stared at him.
“I swear I saw it.”
FOUR
Phil
Officer Wells stood on the front porch as Phil opened the front door and stepped outside. He closed the door softly. This felt like a replay of their conversation a few hours earlier.
Officer Wells’ expression was neutral, but Phil swore he saw just the trace of annoyance in the cop’s face. “Hello again, Dr. Stanton,” he said, emphasizing the word doctor.
“The pickup truck. It was here. Just a few minutes ago.”
“Okay. You’re sure this was the same vehicle?”
“Yes. An older truck. White. Or maybe light gray. It’s hard to tell in the dark. Bigger tires on the back than on the front. No extended cab.” He shook his head—he didn’t know what else to say.
“Still only the driver inside? No one else in the truck?”
“I think it was only the driver, but I don’t know. The windows are tinted, and it was hard to see.”
“How about the license plate?”
Phil shook his head slowly. “I only saw the truck from the driver’s side.”
Officer Wells nodded.
“I know I’m not being too helpful here,” Phil said. “But this is serious. I don’t think this is just some guy trying to scare us. I think he might be checking our place out, stalking us. Like he’s casing the house or something.”
“I’ll turn in the information that I have.”
“That’s it?”
“I’ll see if I can get a squad car to do a few extra patrols around the streets here over the next few nights. But no promises.”
“And if I see the truck again, just call 911,” Phil said, and he realized that it had come out sounding sarcastic.
“Do you have a security system?” Officer Wells asked. If he’d been offended by Phil’s statement, he wasn’t showing it.
“Yes.”
“Make sure it’s turned on at all times.”
Phil nodded, but he didn’t say anything.
“You have a good night, Dr. Stanton,” Officer Wells said, and then he started walking back to his squad car.
Phil was going to ask the police officer how he was supposed to have a good night when there was some guy in a pickup truck stalking them. But he remained silent and watched as Officer Wells got into his car.
• • •
Phil closed and locked the front door. He punched in the code on the keypad and watched as the little screen read: ALL SYSTEMS ON.
Cathy sat on the couch, on the edge of the cushion, hunched forward, watching Phil. “Well?”
“He said there wasn’t much he could do.”
“Phil, are you sure you saw that truck out there?”
Phil wasn’t surprised by his wife’s question; he figured that the thought had crossed her mind. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“I know you got a little freaked out earlier when that guy followed us home. Maybe you had a nightmare. Maybe you were half-awake when you looked out the bedroom window.”
“You think I dreamed this?”
“It could be possible. You were mumbling in your sleep earlier, tossing and turning a little, like you were having a nightmare.”
An image of the girl’s bloody face he’d seen in the dream flashed in his mind. He pushed it away. “I wasn’t half-asleep. I saw the truck out there. I heard it. You didn’t hear the truck out there? You didn’t hear the engine rumbling?”
Cathy shook her head. “No.”
“So you think I dreamed this?” Phil asked, his voice rising.
“Sshh. You’ll wake Megan up.”
Phil forced himself to calm down. He took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. He took another breath. It was one of the breathing exercises that he taught his patients how to do. He walked towards Cathy, but he didn’t sit down on the couch beside her. “I saw it.”
Cathy nodded and stood up. “I believe you. Let’s go back to bed.”
Phil sat down on the couch as she stood up.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m sleeping out here.”
“Phil . . .”
“I . . . I’d just feel better sleeping out here for the rest of the night.” But he knew he wouldn’t be going back to sleep any time soon.
And Cathy knew it, too. She stared at him for a moment, and then she walked away.
Phil remained on the couch. He looked at the front door and the front windows. He could imagine that pickup truck turning onto their street now. Or maybe the man had parked it on another block of empty lots, its lights off, just waiting until Officer Wells left. And now he was coming back, maybe walking up the street this time, a lone figure in the darkness.
Cathy came back with a bedsheet and a pillow. She handed them to him.
“Cathy, I’m sorry . . .”
“It’s okay,” she said. “You’re just upset. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
She bent down and pecked him on the cheek, but he didn’t feel any real emotion in her kiss. She seemed tired, like she just wanted to get back to sleep. She walked away.
“Thanks for understanding,” he told her, not masking the sarcasm.
But she was gone.
Phil got up and made his “bed” on the couch. Then he walked to the front windows and peeked out through the blinds again. He thought about leaving them open, but decided against it. He stood there in the darkness for a moment, and then went into the kitchen. He turned on the light over the stove.
He needed proof if this guy came back.
He’d take a photo with his cell phone . . . it’s what he should’ve done earlier.
Phil grabbed his cell phone, and a small digital camera from one of the drawers in the kitchen as a backup. He also grabbed a pad and a pen to write down the license plate number. And one more drink wouldn’t hurt, just one more to help him relax.
He set his phone, camera, the tablet, pen, and his glass of whiskey down on the coffee table, and then he sat down on the edge of the couch. He’d left the light on in the kitchen and the soft glow allowed him enough light to see by. He sipped the whiskey and then lay down on the couch, facing the window and the front door.
The world was still silent out there.
His eyes began to close.
FIVE
Phil
Sunday
Phil jumped awake from a pounding on the front door.
He sat up. It was daylight. He glanced at the coffee table, at the empty whiskey glass, his phone, the pad and pen. The bedsheet was crumpled up at the end of the couch, his pillow bunched up at the other end of the couch where his head had been seconds ago.
Another series of knocks on the front door—someone was pounding on it.
Phil got to his feet, stumbling a few steps away from the couch. His legs were weak, his mind groggy. He hurried to the front windows and peeked out through the blinds of the farthest window.
The white pickup truck was parked out in the street. It looked like the engine was off.
> More pounding at the door.
Phil looked to the left to see who was at the door, but he couldn’t see anyone from where he was. It was like the driver of the truck was purposely keeping to the other side of the door to stay out of view.
Phil’s heart pounded in his chest. He backed away from the window as an unreal feeling washed over him. The guy had come back. He was out there right now.
He ran to the table to grab his cell phone.
A rattling noise from the front door startled him. The door handle was jiggling violently like the guy was trying to turn it.
But it was locked.
Wasn’t it?
And then he saw the lock on the door handle slowly turn. Then the deadbolt knob clicked to the unlocked position with a loud thud.
How . . .?
The door handle was turning now, the door opening.
“Cathy!” Phil screamed as he grabbed his cell phone. “Megan!”
No answer. Where were they?
The door flew open.
Phil turned back to the doorway and saw the girl from his dream standing there, blood all over her face, one eye swollen shut. Her split lips were trembling as she tried to speak, trying to tell him something important . . .
. . . and then he snapped awake, sitting bolt-upright on the couch. He stared at the front windows, and then at the front door. The door was still closed, the deadbolt still locked, the keypad near the door still lit up.
He let out a slow breath. It had just been a dream. He was shaky, his skin clammy and hot. The bedsheet was balled up at the other end of the couch and his pillow bunched up at the other end just like in the dream.
He got up on shaky legs and walked past the coffee table littered with his stuff from last night. He went into the kitchen and saw a piece of paper on the fridge, held there by a touristy magnet they’d gotten in Key West a few years ago on vacation. He pulled the paper off the fridge and read the note Cathy had left for him.
We went shopping. Love you, Cathy and Megan.
He laid the note down on the granite countertop and rubbed at his face. He felt the day’s growth of stubble there. His hair was spiky with sweat from his fitful sleep on the couch. He still felt jittery and weak.
“What time is it?” he whispered to himself.
The clock on the stove read: 10:31 a.m.
He opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. He unscrewed the plastic cap and chugged the water down. So thirsty. He stood in front of the open refrigerator for a moment, the cool air refreshing on his skin.
The pounding at the door was just a nightmare—he knew that. The image of the bloody girl still bothered him. But the pickup truck he’d seen parked out in front of their home last night, that hadn’t been a dream—he was sure of it.
Phil closed the refrigerator door and went to his bedroom to get dressed.
He put on a pair of jeans, a fresh T-shirt, and some socks. He slipped his feet into a pair of sneakers and half-assed combed his hair. He brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth with mouthwash, and then went to the front door.
At the front door, he hesitated for just a moment, his fingers on the buttons to turn off the alarm. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadowy man from the pickup truck might be right on the other side of the door.
Come on, he told himself. The guy’s not out there.
Phil turned the alarm off and unlocked the front door. He yanked the door open.
No one there.
He stepped out onto the front porch. The day was bright and already hot, the sky a deep blue with a few wispy clouds drifting by. Those wispy clouds would build into thunderstorm clouds later, like they did practically every afternoon at this time of year.
He stepped off the front porch down onto the concrete path, and then he walked across the deep, spongy St. Augustine grass to the road. He felt a little strange, his skin buzzing with energy, scared and excited at the same time . . . a strange combination. Of course the wonderful hangover could be affecting him, too—it had been a while since he’d had one. His head was throbbing with a dull ache, throbbing with each heartbeat.
He’d been hesitant to go outside, hesitant to even open the door. Maybe this was how a panic disorder started, the first steps to hiding away in his home after a trauma. But he was a psychologist. He knew the signs, and he knew how to fight against them. And one of the first steps in fighting anxiety was to face one’s fears.
There were no cars or trucks in sight. The only other house in view was Barbara’s house over on the next block. If houses were ever built across the street one day, they would completely block her house from his view, but he could see it now with nothing in the way. Barbara’s home was large, the second story rising above a wood fence constructed around it. Attached to the back of the house was a screened enclosure built around the pool.
Phil walked a little ways down the road in front of their home, towards the spot where he’d seen the pickup truck parked last night. There was a dark spot on the road. He crouched down to get a closer look. He touched the dark spot with his finger, and then looked at the brown smudge on the tip of his finger. Oil? Probably. Maybe the guy’s truck had a slight oil leak.
He thought about combing the area for other clues. Maybe he would find a cigarette butt or something. Maybe he would find some kind of clues that he could show Officer Wells if he had to call him back out again.
“Hey, Phil.”
Phil jumped to his feet, his heart pounding.
Barbara, his neighbor from the next block, stood there in her workout clothes, out for her morning walk. She was probably in her mid-fifties and dedicated to her exercise routine. She had her usual radiant smile of perfect teeth. She lived alone. Phil wasn’t sure if she’d been single for a long time or if she’d gotten divorced. Maybe her husband had died. Cathy would probably know; she and Barbara had gotten to be good friends over the last year and a half since she was their only neighbor within a mile. They joked that they were going to form their own little HOA for this part of the neighborhood, the Forgotten Phase, as Cathy liked to call it. Barbara didn’t have any kids living with her; he remembered Cathy saying that both of Barbara’s kids were grown and living in their own homes with their own families.
“Hey, Barbara,” Phil said, breathing out the words in relief.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said, smiling.
“No . . . it’s okay.” He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly embarrassed about his overreaction. How had he not seen her moments ago when he’d been crouched down to investigate the oil spot? How long had he been staring at that spot of oil on his finger?
“You lose something?” Barbara asked. She was slightly out-of-breath. Maybe she had been running, or at least walking at a fast pace.
“No. It’s nothing.” He wanted to change the subject as he wiped the tip of his finger off on his pants leg. “How have you been?”
“Great,” she answered, nodding, that big smile still on her face. “Everything’s fine. I was just out for my morning walk. It’s such a beautiful morning.”
Already hot, Phil almost said, but he didn’t want to sound like he was complaining. Instead, he said: “Yes, it is.”
“Well,” Barbara said and then let the word linger.
Phil could tell that they had run out of pleasantries and were venturing into awkwardness now.
“I better get going,” Barbara finally said. “Tell Cathy and Megan I said hi.”
“I will.”
“And tell Cathy to give me a call,” Barbara said, turning around as she began walking away.
“Will do.”
Phil watched her walk away for a moment, and then he called her name. “Barbara.”
She stopped and turned around, an expectant look on her face, her smile still there. She was the kind of person that wanted to do anything to help others. Cathy said she was always doing volunteer work. “Yes?”
He walked up to her, not sure how to phrase the question, so he j
ust spit it out. “I know this is going to sound a little strange, but have you seen an old pickup truck driving around here lately?”
Her smile slipped just a little. She cocked her head slightly in an exaggerated expression of thinking the question over. She shook her head slightly. “No. Why?”
“It’s nothing. I . . .” He thought about telling her what had happened, but then thought the better of it; he didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily if the guy in the truck was no longer a threat. “No reason. Forget I said anything. Sorry.”
But Phil could tell that Barbara had no intention of forgetting what he’d asked her. Her smile was back, but it looked a little forced now. “Have Cathy call me when she gets the chance.”
He nodded. He could imagine her asking Cathy why Phil was asking about an old pickup truck prowling the neighborhood, and why he was inspecting the road in front of their home. He had probably officially piqued her curiosity.
Barbara continued her fast-walk down the street, and Phil strolled back up to his house.
SIX
Cathy
Cathy and Megan had a great time shopping—Megan had gotten a few things she really liked, but the one thing she seemed to love the most was a bright pink hoodie.
Cathy had been a little preoccupied during their shopping adventure. She couldn’t help thinking about Phil and his little episode last night. She believed deep down that Phil had dreamed (or even imagined) that he’d seen the pickup truck parked in the street last night. He had probably been trapped in that half-asleep/half-awake world for just a moment when he’d seen the truck, that area between the dream world and the waking world where visions from his dreams overlapped into reality. Or maybe the trauma of being followed all the way home by a stranger had really gotten to him. It definitely concerned her, but what she really couldn’t get off of her mind was the woman’s name that Phil had muttered in his sleep.
Dolores.
