Indian Foot Lake Love Story

by Johns, Samantha

  On a plain piece of copy paper, the following words had been pasted from magazine clippings: “STAY AWAY.”

  Sylvia shivered with a creepy feeling that ran throughout her body. Who could have done this? she wondered. Who would know where she had gone and why? They knew where she lived, and they were in St. Louis. Her heart was pounding. She didn't feel safe here anymore.

  As she slithered into her favorite chair, weak in the knees and breathless, her phone rang. Sylvia was almost afraid to answer it, but the caller ID showed an area code from the lake area. It was Sheriff Caywood.

  “Miss Marshall,” he began, “I hate to do this to you. I'm sure that you undoubtedly just arrived home, but I need you to come back here and look at some photos.”

  “Everything in me wants to turn around right now and come back,” she told him hurriedly. “I have something I should tell you, too.”

  Sheriff Caywood was astounded at the news about the note. He wanted her to put it and the envelope into a plastic zip-lock bag and bring it to him as soon as possible. She had explained that she would need to pack some clothes, make arrangements to take a few days vacation from her job, and get her laptop which she had forgotten to take with her in all her excitement about taking off for the lake.

  To save time, she convinced Sheriff Caywood to email her the pictures he wanted her to see. Her anxiety was too great for her to think about what he wanted to show her throughout an entire drive back to Pevely, where she planned to get a motel room rather than impose on the Devines. Of course, the lumpy sofa was also part of her consideration.

  She fastened the chain lock across her door, then scurried around the apartment packing clothes and gathering books and papers she thought she might need while the computer warmed up. It was an older laptop, and she just dreaded the expense of buying a new one. Such frugality was what enabled her to save enough money to have a future at Indian Foot Lake. She considered with amusement how ironic it was that the very note which was supposed to keep her from the lake was the reason she wanted more than ever to leave St. Louis. Whoever put the note there was here, she thought, not there.

  Slowly, the picture file opened showing a gruesome face, a picture from a driver's license, and another photo from a police file, one from the Fifth District St. Louis Police Department. It was a mug shot. Based on the information Sheriff Caywood had obtained using the fingerprints in the cabin, the man who had leased her family's clubhouse was Arthur Caplan. He had been arrested for stealing in 1990, but he did not look familiar at all. Why was Sheriff Caywood so sure she might recognize him? Well, the man was from St. Louis. People in small towns, because they know everyone, think that you should know everyone from the town where you live too.

  Sylvia had an idea that someone might have seen the person who put the envelope under her door. But her cord would not reach to the door, and with only a dial-up connection, she could not take her computer to the neighbors’ doorways to ask if they'd seen him. She didn't own a printer and always emailed her documents to work so she could print them there. She saved every which way she could. Why should she buy a printer when she could use one for free?

  She called the library director, Faye Chapman, and explained that she had some personal business to take care of and needed a few days off.

  “Sylvia, you know that you have over a month vacation time coming. You never use the time coming to you. More than once you've accumulated so many days we've had to force you to take time off. And you never take sick leave, either. Take the week if you need it,” Faye said, almost scolding her for sounding guilty about asking. “Believe it or not,” she added at the end of their conversation, “the rest of us can manage without you. And, don't worry, we'll not touch any of your space.”

  Sylvia wondered if everyone at the library thought of her as some kind of work-a-holic. Another topic to bring up to a therapist someday, she thought.

  Beginning to feel anxious to get on the road, she decided to just ask the neighbors if they had seen anyone at all lurking around the building. Even without a picture, the guy was very distinctive in a weird way. Someone had to have let him in. A separate key is required at the lobby entrance, but many times people have been known to sneak in when someone else is coming or going. It has happened more than it should have.

  As she gathered her things by the door, she turned and took a long look at her tiny space. She couldn't help feeling an urgency to dust the horses, but she would not give in to the feeling. What is the matter with me? she thought. Someday, I need to seek therapy for this problem. But, the truth was that she was afraid, with good reason, that a therapist would cure her, and she would have to get rid of the horses. That's what happens to all those hoarders on the TV shows, she thought to herself. They lose their stuff. I want my horses, and I don't want to lose them.

  She carried her stuff, making three trips—with suitcases, book-bag, and laptop—to her car parked on the street. Then, before she locked up her apartment, she knocked on the door across the hallway.

  “Sorry to bother you Beverly, but I was wondering if you happened to see anyone strange hanging around the building,” she asked. She repeated the routine at every door in the building, all eight of them. Most of them said they saw nothing or no one. Only at apartment 3B did she receive any kind of response that was helpful.

  “Well, I didn't see anyone,” said the tall, black man in his undershirt, “but let me ask my wife.” He disappeared as Sylvia watched from the open door. She instantly came running from the kitchen.

  “Yes, I did see a strange man,” she said in an excited voice. “He gave me a creepy feeling, but he seemed to be with someone on one of the lower floors, holding a bag for that older lady next to you. He seemed to be standing behind her while she unlocked her door. I kept watching him because I was afraid she had just been too trusting and let some stranger help her in with her groceries. He didn't like me watching him, so he put the bag down on the floor, tipped his hat to me, and walked toward the exit. He gave me the creeps, I'll tell you that. And, I didn't stand there long enough to see if he actually went out the door. Later, I felt like I should have made sure he was gone, so I peeked out my doorway. He was gone, as far as I could tell. But, of course, we're on the third floor. He could have been anywhere. To tell you the truth, I was afraid to go out into the hallway thinking that he could be there lurking somewhere. Don't tell me he's done something terrible to someone in our building,” she gasped.

  “Someone put a note under my door,” she said, “that's all. Nothing bad has happened, really. I just don't know who it was.”

  “A note?” her neighbor asked. “Was it a good note or a bad note?”

  “Well, it was bad,” Sylvia admitted, “but it was just a note. I need to go out of town again, and I was hoping maybe you and the other neighbors could keep an eye out.”

  “You should call the police,” the lady protested. “We could all be in danger.”

  “Actually, I have spoken to the police about it,” Sylvia said honestly. “They are aware of the incident. So, I'm sorry if I bothered you. Just be careful, though.”

  “Okay, we will keep an eye out, like you said,” the neighbor, who seemed relieved by the possibility of police involvement, replied in a friendlier manner.

  Sylvia sped off from the curb, suddenly aware of how late it was getting, and headed toward the Interstate. She didn't like driving at night, but it was something she could do if need be. She felt uneasy now, and she couldn't help but ponder all the possible explanations of why anyone would not want her to go to the lake or be involved with the people there. Then she remembered what she did for a living.

  She swerved across the lanes to the next u-turn exit on the highway and headed back to the apartment. Once inside, she grabbed the basement key from her kitchen drawer and headed for her storage locker down there. While foraging through the stacks of boxes and old spare pieces of furniture, she finally located the cardboard box marked “Mom's Things.” It contained all
the papers her mother had left behind which included papers related to her father's death. She had only glanced through them in 1999 when her mother died and she was left to dispose of her estate. There was a folder marked “Joe's Death,” and she had never really looked at them. There was no reason, but now it seemed there might be something there that could shed some light on her situation now. This break-in at the cabin appears to have happened right after he died.

  She took the box, locked the gate behind her, and headed back up to the street where her car waited. After putting the box in her trunk, which was in the front of her car instead of the back, she went back to replace the basement key in her kitchen drawer and make sure her apartment was locked up tight. She felt like someone was watching her all the way back and forth to the car, but by this time her nerves were really on edge, and she assumed that she was imagining spooks in the twilight hours of the night which had crept up on her faster than she though possible.

  But, as she headed back toward the highway, she thought that headlights behind her were following at every turn she made. The traffic, for a Sunday night, was considerable. So, she told herself not to be concerned until she was further out from the city. Then, if the same car seemed to be trailing her, she would allow herself to be frightened.

  By the time she passed the exit for Lemay Ferry Road, it was obvious that the person in that car was not heading for the shopping mall. Someone was definitely following her.

  # # #

  The Stalker

  Sylvia tried slowing down to an almost illegal pace, and the car behind her matched her speed to keep several lengths distance between them. She did this several times before it became an unmistakable fact that she was indeed being followed. She strained her eyes in the darkness and the glare of the headlights from passing cars. But she couldn't see the driver's face. It seemed like the windshield could have been tinted as well, but she wasn't sure of that, or anything else. When she pressed on the gas pedal harder, bringing her old VW to its limit, her rear view mirror showed the mystery car staying with her, gaining and slowing to her own speed. Sylvia passed a big Freightliner truck and then swerved in front of it. The driver understandably upset, blared his horn at her. It must have scared him to death—the thought of squashing a “bug” on the highway. She had another half hour of Interstate driving, and then it would really be frightening on Highway Z which was only a two-lane county road with no lighting whatsoever and lots of barren wooded areas on both sides. Her idea of going to a motel in Pevely was out of the question. It wouldn't be safe. She dialed her cell phone, realizing it was already past ten. Greg and his father would surely have turned in for the night. She felt she had no choice but to call.

  “Greg,” she began when he answered the phone. “I'm on my way there. Sorry to be arriving so unexpectedly and so late.”

  Greg had not known about Sheriff Caywood asking her to return, and she quickly explained everything—the note under the door, the pictures he emailed her, the comments of her neighbor, and the fact that she was being followed.

  “Okay, now listen carefully, Sylvie,” he said calmly. “Do exactly as I tell you.”

  He assumed that she wouldn't dare stray from his explicit instructions. Did he not know her at all? Although she agreed that she should not go to a motel under these circumstances, but come to the Devine home instead, Sylvia did not do exactly as Greg had told her. She did intend to do so, but there is a saying about good intentions. In spite of her actions, she did feel better just knowing that she had someone who cared about her also knew what to do in emergency situations.

  Sylvia watched for an exit that had a large, well-lit, fairly busy, gas station. She turned onto the exit, swerved into the lot, and parked directly in front of the concession area. Sitting there, she spotted the dark late model SUV slowly circling around and then parking on the far end of the lot. She had seen a car recently like that one in town, but she couldn't remember where. Never good at knowing auto brands and models, Sylvia was lucky if she could tell a sedan from a coupe. It wasn't a sure thing that she always could.

  That's what she liked about her set of wheels. It was very distinctive in its shape, great on gas mileage, and did not involve loans or payments. She had bought it from the son of a friend at work. He was a teenage whiz kid when it came to mechanics. Every nut and bolt had been tightened with loving care. It ran like gang-busters, and she only regretted not having air-conditioning, not that it would have been impossible to install by someone who understood the characteristics of the VW Beetle—the old ones. She was seriously considering hiring Kenny, her friend's son, to do the work for her, but she would have to be without a vehicle for several weeks as he worked her into his school schedule. Now that it was almost summer vacation time, she thought she would inquire about the possibility.

  Hesitating in her car, feeling safe in the bright lights and being in the presence of passers-by, Sylvia had been waiting for the courage to approach the cashier and tell him to go over and check on the car while she called the police. It only seemed logical to her that once she went inside the culprit would speed away before the authorities arrived. She thought about pretending to buy something and slipping the attendant a note. Surely he was watching her from over there in the dark. No, she did not want to let him get away. Instead, she waited there until a couple of young men walked by her car. Greg wouldn't be happy that she hadn't followed his instructions, but it would work out fine if they could catch this guy.

  “Excuse me,” she said to them rolling down the car window, “could you guys help me out for a second? Someone has been following me, and I would appreciate it if you could walk with me over to that car on the edge of the lot.”

  “Whoa man,” said the taller one. “What if he has a gun? I think you should just call the police, lady. Don't you have a cell phone?”

  “I could do that,” she said. “But, I'm afraid he'll be gone if he hears the sirens or sees me getting help. He probably sees me talking to you. It may be too late already. Never mind.”

  “Wait a minute,” said the short, stocky one. “Isn't that what you want? For him to go away?”

  “Not when he can find me again on the highway and follow me the rest of the way home. Besides, it's more complicated than I can explain. It might be someone I know, so I really need to know for sure who it is that is in that car. I'm sorry I bothered you boys,” she said. “I'll be okay. I'll figure out something to do. Thanks anyway,” she told them.

  “If you wait long enough, the police will be showing up for donuts,” the taller, smart-mouthed one said jovially. Sylvia decided she didn't like him about the time the other one spoke again.

  “C'mon, lady,” he said. “Let's go check out that car. You just wait here, scaredy cat,” he said, addressing his friend.

  Insulted, the taller one decided that he did not want to be left out, so he followed along a step or two behind Sylvia and her brave rescuer. The fact that there appeared to be no movement as they approached the vehicle filled them all with fear. Why wouldn't the stalker at least roll down the window and ask what they wanted? That would have been a logical response to the situation. The braver one knocked rapidly on the window. They heard a startled scream, and then the window slowly opened a crack.

  “What do you want?” Said a woman's voice. “Go away or I'll scream. I'm dialing the police right now.”

  “Go ahead, dial the police,” yelled Sylvia, “and explain to them why you were following me.”

  “What? Is that you, Miss Marshall?” said the voice, as she rolled down the window all the way.

  “Ms. Avery, why were you following me? What were you doing in St. Louis?” asked Sylvia.

  “Well, you were right, Ma'am,” said the tall cowardly one, “It was someone you know, all right.”

  The two boys walked back to their car leaving Sylvia alone with her predatory acquaintance.

  Ms. Avery's explanation was that she had gone to St. Louis for a real estate convention and was headi
ng home. It was her custom never to pass anyone because she was dreadfully afraid of the left lanes on a multiple lane highway. She grew up in a town where all roads were only two-lanes. These were extremely dangerous on which to pass because it was necessary to face oncoming traffic. Accidents, often fatal ones, were commonplace. Ms. Avery never learned how to properly pass a car in front of her, and she did not want to learn. So, when it happened that she had inadvertently found herself behind Sylvia's vehicle, she automatically slowed and speeded up as need be to stay behind her. At times when Sylvia maneuvered to put a vehicle between them, eventually it would exit the highway or decide to pass Sylvia. So it continued making Ms. Avery remain behind her. Eventually, Ms. Avery became tired and decided to pull over for a nap. It happened that the only suitable service station for miles around had been the one they had both chosen.

  Sylvia marched back to the concession area and purchased a super large black coffee. It was only another half hour at best ahead of her, but she didn't care if it kept her awake all night. She needed a good, strong cup of coffee in her. She did not find Ms. Avery's story completely believable. Perhaps, she just did not care for the woman. It wasn't like her to feel dislike easily without provocation, but Ms. Avery had been not only rude to her, but weird. It surely seemed evident that the woman was not interested in selling the lake property to her. Could it have been that she was just having a bad day? Did she not consider her interest legitimate? Or, did she not want outsiders moving into the area? It could have been a combination of any of those things. Perhaps she should cut Ms. Avery some slack. After all, she and Greg might be asking for her cooperation in the near future.