by Stacy Juba
"Unbelievable," she whispered to Zach. "He blew off the cruise ship activities to go have the picture printed."
"Maybe he's our guy." Zach motioned for her to follow him forward a few feet and held up the camera. "How about a photo with Cassidy for the paper?"
The kid's spacey eyes grew large. Thin blond fuzz haloed his chin. "Cool, man. Hey, Cassidy, sorry about what I said before. I got carried away, you know?"
Zach pushed a pen into her hands. Reluctantly, Cassidy scrawled her signature as Zach clicked a picture. He lifted a small pad from his back pocket. "Can I have your name and hometown for the paper?"
"Billy Wilton. W-I-L-T-O-N. I’m from Garrett." Grinning, Billy cradled the autographed 5 x 7 to his chest.
"Nice to meet you, Billy," Cassidy said with forced politeness.
She pivoted toward the limo waiting at the curb.
She should have known not to board another stupid ship.
Chapter Eight
Cassidy and Zack huddled before the computer in her apartment, his shoulder brushing hers as they surveyed one shot after another. No little girl with long blonde hair fastened to the side, wearing a pink shirt and jeans
"Sorry," Zach said as they examined the last image. "Not much help, am I?There were so many people on the ship. I got a small percentage."
Cassidy pinched the pressure between her eyebrows. She hadn’t expected the news photographer to sound as frustrated as she felt and Cassidy made a lame attempt to cheer him up. "You didn’t get the girl, but you helped in other ways. My neighbor said some kid was asking if I lived in the building. Now I can show her the Billy Wilton photo, just in case it was him. Who knows, maybe you even got a picture of the stalker and we don’t know it yet."
Zach rolled back the swivel chair and took a seat on the couch. He pulled off his Stetson, grasped the hat by the edges in his lap. "Yeah, I guess if you notice anybody hanging around, you can check to see if they’re in the photos. But I take pretty tight shots, of people who stand out at me, not the ones who blend into the background."
"I wonder if the girl was with Miles, or if he approached her when her parents weren’t around."
"For her sake, I hope they weren’t together. He doesn’t seem like a great role model."
Cassidy abandoned her folding chair and relocated to an Indian-style position on the floor. She had changed into a tank top and denim cutoffs. Zach's blue shirt and jeans were as fresh as they'd been that morning. Her gaze drifted back toward her computer. Part of her wanted him to leave so she could go on-line and research handguns.
The other part of her dreaded an empty apartment.
She reached over and tapped the brim of his hat. "You can solve one mystery for me. What's the deal with the Clint Eastwood look?"
"I grew up on a ranch in western Texas. I wanted to take something with me, and figured my wardrobe was easier than my horse, Dolly. She’s with my parents."
"Dolly? That sounds like a pig."
Zach tossed off a grin. "That's my horse you're insulting, lady."
"Massachusetts is a long way from Texas."
"I wanted to travel so I've been freelancing my way across the country. Figured I'd come out here to be near my grandmother. She just moved into an assisted living center out in Springfield and isn't happy about it."
Hmm, cute and a devoted grandson. Cassidy found herself pushing her stalker problem to the back of her mind so she could learn more about Zach.
"Freelancing? You’re not full-time at the paper?" she asked.
"Nope, just a stringer, but I’m there all the time. How about you? Once when Alison and I were shooting photos of your family, your mom mentioned that you’re starting some kind of business?"
Cassidy debated whether to give him the long or short version, and decided on long. She loved talking about her dream and he seemed genuinely interested. "Yeah, but it’s not as easy as she thinks. I’d like to open a national chain of personalized wellness centers where clients work out with their trainers in small groups."
He was nodding so she pressed on, "Most people don’t stick to exercise programs because the gym is too crowded, they don’t know what they’re doing and are afraid to ask for help, or because they feel embarrassed that they’re not ‘buff’ or in shape. At my center, it would be by appointment only so just a small group would work out at one time. Everyone would be comfortable and receive personalized attention."
He hitched up his left eyebrow. "Sounds neat, but expensive for the client. Are you talking about an upscale place?"
Cassidy hurried to correct his misconception. She didn’t know why Zach’s opinion mattered to her, but it did. "No way, my target audience is the average person who wants to be healthy and would rather not have the congested, social atmosphere of a typical gym. Since we’d only have 7-10 people working out at one time, I wouldn’t need the equipment, maintenance and staffing that a regular club has, so I’d save money there and put it toward quality trainers. The membership fee would be equivalent to a club like Spike’s Muscle Madness, but you’d get a lot more individualized attention. We’d have educational workshops and classes, possibly for an additional fee, but it would still be affordable."
Color rushed into Cassidy’s cheeks as she awaited his reaction. She’d never shared her vision with anyone outside her family and hoped Zach didn’t think she was a dreamer lacking business sense. She knew her concept could work and catch on, and that the numbers would be profitable. All Cassidy needed was the resources to pursue it and promote it.
"If you want to lounge in the whirlpool or flirt with hot-bodies in the weight room, then my center isn’t for you," she added on impulse. "It’s not for everyone, but neither are standard health clubs. I’ve known countless people who came for a few weeks, then wasted the rest of their membership and didn’t renew."
Zach regarded her with an undisguised mix of thoughtfulness and amusement.
"What?" she demanded.
"Nothing. It sounds great. I’d like to join a club like that myself. It’s just that most people would be satisfied with one or two sites, not a nationwide string of them."
"I’ve always been an overachiever," she said with a shrug. "I’m hoping I’ll get some endorsements and deals that will help with my finances, and keep me in the public eye so people will want to check out my clubs."
"You don’t plan to sleep much, huh? Well, good luck. Your parents must be proud."
"I guess." Cassidy followed his gaze to her corner end table with its framed photographs of her family and high school friends.
"Like I was saying, I met your mom and brother when I was out with Alison," Zach went on. "I know you have a stepdad. Does your real father live around here?"
Her spine went rigid. Cassidy hated discussing her father. She had fuzzy memories of a broad-shouldered redhead drinking beer and shouting at her mother. Occasionally, he tucked her into bed and read her stories. On the rare nights he didn’t stink of alcohol, she'd snuggle under the covers and he would peel them back to tickle her feet.
One Saturday morning, as Cassidy was at the breakfast table eating corn flakes, her mother told her that he was gone. He had left a scrawled note: ‘Sorry. I’m not cut out to be a family man.’ Her mother snorted, "That’s for sure" and told her daughter they were better off without him. Cassidy dragged Raggedy Ann around all week, certain her dad would miss tickling her and come home.
He never did, and after a couple years, she stuffed Raggedy Ann into the attic.
Cassidy filled the silence. "My real father was a jerk. He ran out on us when I was four and skipped off paying child support. Haven't heard from him since."
"You’re kidding. Do you ever wonder if he saw the show?" Zach joined her on the floor, leaving his cowboy hat on the couch. Sympathy filled his eyes, sympathy she didn’t want or need.
"Of course," she said bitterly. "I hope he is keeping tabs, then he’ll see that I’m a success despite having him as my biological father."
Za
ch laid a hand on her arm. It felt callused, strong, as if he used his hands for more than snapping photos. Cassidy gazed at his square jaw, tempted to brush her fingertips against his chin stubble.
What had come over her? Her raw nerves must be seeking comfort. And why had she spilled out all that personal information? Zach might be a nice guy, but he was a member of the media. Anything she said could wind up in the newspaper. Cassidy had worked hard on her strong competent image, then in one breath, she’d hinted the truth to Zach, that she was an insecure mess with a chip on her shoulder.
She pulled away from his electric touch and rose to her feet. "I don't want to keep you. Thanks for coming over and showing me the pictures."
His eyes flickered. With disappointment? She didn’t look long enough to find out and walked toward the door.
Zach gathered up his belongings and accompanied her into the kitchen. "I know you must be shaken by this stalker. If you're ever nervous here alone, call me on my cell. I’d be happy to come over and keep you company." He stopped at the table and jotted a number on his reporter’s steno notepad.
Cassidy accepted the torn-off sheet, but said, "I'll be fine. I've learned to take care of myself. Thanks for the offer just the same."
She opened the front door. Zach hesitated, shuffling in his leather boots. He was wearing the Stetson again, looking like a gentlemanly wrangler off the ranch next door, here to lend support. At least, that’s what he portrayed on the outside. How did she know he wasn’t a media vulture?
"Guess I’ll see you on our next photo shoot then," he said with his hand on the knob.
"Yeah. See you."
"Take care." With a tight smile and half-wave, he ducked out into the hallway.
Cassidy leaned her head against the door, listening to his firm footsteps until they faded into the distance. As the reality of his absence set in, loneliness engulfed her. There had been something comforting about his warm drawl and easy mannerisms. She’d felt more like herself for the first time in months.
That was dangerous, because the old Cassidy Novak hadn’t accomplished much. She had to work on the new Cassidy Novak, celebrity and budding fitness expert/entrepreneur. Nothing, not Zach, her stalker, nor being runner-up to a dead person, would stand in her way.
***
A few minutes later, Cassidy glared at her computer. Buying a gun in Massachusetts wasn't as easy as she'd hoped. First she'd have to pass a state certified course, then apply for a license to carry firearms. The Garrett Police would forward her fingerprints to the State Police for a mental health check. The whole licensing process could take 35-40 days, if she was lucky. That was before she got to the gun store.
Cassidy browsed the web sites of local firearms schools and sportsmen clubs. One nearby school offered a basic pistol class every Tuesday. She left a message on the answering machine, asking if she could enroll as soon as possible. Cassidy hung up and tunneled her fingers through her hair.
When had her life spun out of control? How could she fit in a gun class and shooting practice between her promotion at the gym, growing list of personal training clients, media interviews and public appearances?
Cassidy shut down the computer and moved onto her next task, visiting her neighbor Julia with a printed-out photograph of Billy Wilton. Julia answered her knock in a tee-shirt and shorts, ash blonde hair threaded back into a loose braid. Over one shoulder, she cradled an infant in a pink onesie.
Julia’s weary expression energized itself. "Wow. It's you."
"I don't think we've met. I'm Cassidy. Mind if I come in for a minute?"
"Yeah, sure." Julia ushered her into the apartment, past remnants of a tater tot and drumstick supper. They wove around piles of folded laundry, rattles, picture books and dolls in the living room.
Julia strapped the baby into an electric swing and moved a headless Barbie and a Winnie the Pooh pop-up book off the sofa. Shrieking in the bedroom, a pre-school girl danced around to Sesame Street music. Cassidy distinguished a blur of blonde curls through the open doorway as Kermit chimed about being green.
She lowered herself onto a sagging couch. Julia’s apartment had a sweet coziness, the disheveled disarray that accompanied the wake of young children. Cassidy doubted she’d ever have time to experience motherhood herself, although the idea of missing out pierced her with regret. Fortunately, she didn’t expect the future to bring her many spare minutes to reflect on it.
Her neighbor rummaged through the kitchen cabinets and withdrew a package of vanilla cream cakes decked out in red, white and blue sprinkles, apparently leftover from the Fourth of July. "Want a snack? All I have is kids' food."
"No thanks. You're probably wondering why I'm here."
"Does it have something to do with all the questions Pat was asking me?" Julia perched onto a rocking chair and rested her sandaled feet on the bottom rung.
Cassidy passed her the photo of Billy Wilton. "Yes. Is this the guy who asked about me?"
Biting her bottom lip, Julia brought the picture closer to her narrow face, then further away. "Nope. The boy I saw was heavier and had dark hair. After I talked to Pat, I remembered more. He was with a group of teenagers. They must've seen me heading to my car. They were just kids."
A rock of disappointment hardened in Cassidy’s chest. She had checked the phone book, and William Wilton, Sr. lived in Garrett. Billy must be his son, and was probably what he seemed, an eager fan.
"Thanks anyway," Cassidy said.
"I didn't tell him you lived here. I pretended I was new to the building and didn't know. Figured you'd want privacy." Julia fastened her eyes on the baby dozing in the gently rocking swing. "Do you think the tenants are safe?"
"It's not the tenants he's after," Cassidy said.
Chapter Nine
Cassidy clipped an 8.5" by 11" paper target to the hanger in the indoor firing range and wheeled the overhead crank. The bullseye sailed down the wire, traveling toward walls splintered with bullet holes. Her instructor had explained that beyond the wooden back board, a steel plate directed bullets into sand pits. Overhead, fans circulated cold air to diminish the burning gunpowder stench.
She stopped cranking around ten feet on the fifty foot range and adjusted the safety glasses positioned beneath the brim of her Boston Red Sox cap. By some miracle, the firearms school had squeezed Cassidy into its next all-day class. Cassidy made up a story about a magazine interview to get the day off from Spike, and managed to reschedule her personal training clients on short notice. She’d pay for the time off later, but Cassidy knew playing hooky was worthwhile after five minutes on the range.
Cassidy joined her classmates in retrieving brass cases from the dusty floor and dumping them into a Maxwell House coffee can mounted on the wall. Firing a gun empowered her, transformed her into a real life Charlie’s Angel. It relieved her stress similar to the way exercise did, surprising as Cassidy had always disapproved of guns. That is, until she needed one herself.
She was rapidly concluding that they weren’t scary, as long as the individual was careful. And caution was being drilled into her – she and the other three students, all men, hadn’t gotten near a gun until finishing an entire morning of classroom lectures. Cassidy lingered before the bulletproof window overlooking the clubhouse. Lusterless trophies crammed glass cabinets and used ash trays littered a scratched folding table. She’d definitely come back to the club for practice.
"Hey, Cassidy, you’re sure there’s no secret cameras here taping us?" one of the guys kidded. "We’re not on one of those Candid Camera shows?"
"Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m just here to learn like you," she said with a grin.
Her instructor, A.J., lined up rows of guns and ammunition on tables, his fingers blackened. Liver spots marked his hands, but he was the toughest retiree she had ever met. He would have held his own on Sink or Swim.
"Load them up," he barked.
Cassidy took her place on the firing line, replacing the hearing plugs and bulk
y ear protectors she’d removed during the break. She grabbed five cartridges out of the box, pushed them into the rear of the magazine and inserted the device into the semi-automatic. As she’d been taught, Cassidy retracted the slide and released it.
A.J. loomed behind the table, at her elbow. "Let's see you shoot. Like you mean it. Like your life is at stake."
He’d been giving her more attention than her male counterparts, perhaps because they were pursuing a license for recreation and she from circumstance. Or maybe it was just that they’d all shot before and she hadn’t, unless you counted the rifle gallery at the video arcade. Whatever the reason, Cassidy appreciated any feedback she could get.
She positioned herself, feet shoulder length apart, body weight distributed evenly, arms extended. Cassidy brought the pistol up to eye level, pointing down range. She moved the V of her thumb and index finger higher on the back strap.
Cassidy fixed on her target dangling in the left lane, beneath the slanted ceiling beams. Tuning out the shots of her classmates in the other alleys, Cassidy aligned the top of the front sight and centered it in the notch of the rear sight. She steadied her aim in the middle of the gray-shaded bullseye.
"Go ahead. Do it." A.J. sounded faraway from behind the earmuffs.
Cassidy squeezed the trigger straight to the rear. She froze, waiting for the cartridge to leave the barrel.
Bang!
"Great shot! Look where you hit!" he called.
She lowered the gun and saw the hole cut clean in the middle of the bullseye. Cassidy released the breath she'd been holding. Her best shot of the afternoon. She raised the pistol, aligned her sights and fired again. Cassidy flinched involuntarily as a brass shell glanced off her shoulder. Once she had spent all five bullets, Cassidy discharged the magazine, locked back the slide and set down the gun on the table.
A.J. slapped her on the back and spoke with a trace of relief in his tone. "Good job, Kid. You're on your way."
She nodded, her gaze glued to the holes splicing the bullseye. Despite her strong performance, doubt preyed in her mind. Could she be this accurate if challenged by a human target? A moving target? Cassidy raised her aching arm and reached up to crank the pulley. The target slid further down range, to twenty-five feet.
