by Stacy Juba
"Me too. What's he gonna do with all those pictures? Make a shrine?" Cassidy elbowed past him. She passed DeCosta poking around her mother's bedroom and ignored his sympathetic glance.
Detective Pierce waited at the kitchen counter in a camel sports coat and chinos, a camera, flashlight and feather duster spread out in front of him. Bo lingered beside him as if they were Sherlock Holmes and Watson, scrutinizing the equipment. Her mother and Glenn sat at the table in silence.
The detective broke the hush. "Hello, Cassidy. Your stepfather tells me you'll be moving in with him. That's a wise decision."
"It’s temporary," she said. "Do you think this guy will come after me?"
"There can be three stages of stalking. Miles is in the flowers and candy stage. If we're lucky, he'll stay there and lose interest, but some stalkers get possessive and bitter if their fantasy doesn't play out. Their letters may take on a harsher tone." Detective Pierce picked up the flashlight and turned it over in his palm. "Finally, they can become violent."
Blood hammered in her ears, pounding to a thunderous roar. Zach touched the back of her neck, the light pressure snapping her back to reality.
"How long before that happens?" Cassidy asked.
"Hard to say," Detective Pierce answered. "He could fluctuate, going from possessiveness back to gifts. It could take weeks to culminate in a violent act, years, or never."
Glenn's broad shoulders slumped. "Years? Detective, in your experience, what do you think this guy will do?"
Detective Pierce gazed at each of them in turn. "I wish I could tell you. I just don't know."
Chapter Twelve
Cassidy worked at Glenn’s kitchen table the next afternoon between shifts at the gym, the phone tucked between her ear and shoulders. She launched into her cover story with studied nonchalance. Cassidy had lost track of how many calls she’d made, but knew one thing for sure. She was developing a disturbing knack for lying.
"Mrs. Tochar? This is Lynn from Sensational Seas Cruise Lines. We're casting for a commercial and I'm trying to track down a little girl who attended our ship preview. Unfortunately, we don't know her name."
"I have a little girl," Mrs. Tochar piped up.
Without much hope, Cassidy scribbled a check mark on the guest list print-out. She had phoned Lynn from Marketing/PR after the break-in and reminded her to e-mail the names. "Could you tell me what she looks like?"
"She's beautiful. Thick chestnut hair to her waist, naturally curly. She's the prettiest eight-year-old you've ever seen."
"This girl was younger with long blonde hair pulled to the side. She was wearing a pink shirt and blue jeans. Did you see a child who fits that description?"
"No, I didn't. You don't know what you're missing with Amber. She's the star of her ballet class." Annoyance chilled Mrs. Tochar's voice.
"Thank you. We'll keep her in mind." Cassidy replaced the receiver, grimacing at her list of crossed-out names. Justine, Emily and Heather had also been star material, according to their mothers. Not one child matched Zach's description.
Cassidy had retried the same numbers all day, persisting until she spoke to a person rather than an answering machine. To confirm names and addresses, she’d pored over Internet white pages and local resident directories that Zach borrowed from the newsroom. Not one child matched Zach's description.
Her cell phone shrilled. Cassidy snagged it out of her purse, her adrenaline pumping. She didn’t recognize the incoming number. "Hello."
"My editor heard your mother’s house was broken into," Alison said. "It was in the police log. I didn’t tell her about the stalker, but she’s pressuring me to report the break-in."
Cassidy released her pent-up breath. It was just Alison. Miles was still a voiceless, faceless ghost.
"Was it your stalker?" Alison asked.
"No comment," Cassidy said. "Off the record, we don’t know. Listen to me, Alison, I don’t want publicity encouraging this guy. Detective Pierce promised he wouldn’t elaborate to the media, so you won’t get anything from him, either."
"All right, I’ll hold back on the stalker angle, but I have to report what’s in the police log," Alison said. "It’s pretty bare bones, though, so you don’t have to worry too much. Remember our deal, okay?"
"As soon as he comes after me with an ax, you’ll be the first to know." Cassidy got off the phone, downed two Advil and sprawled on Glenn’s futon.
She slept for an hour and awoke to Glenn rummaging through the cabinets in the adjoining kitchen. She hadn’t even heard him come home. Luckily it hadn’t been Miles.
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," Glenn called. "You doing okay?"
"I guess." Cassidy reached onto the coffee table for a science fiction novel.
Paperbacks crammed the wooden bookshelves; still more accumulated in piles near the coffee table. Glenn had encouraged her love of reading over the years. Not that she had much time, but Cassidy cherished the occasions when she delved into a good book.
She flipped open the novel, but after reading the opening page three times, she gave up. No concentration. Cassidy zipped through channels with the remote control instead, and paused at a leukemia telethon on cable. Whoa. Felicia Fowler cradled the microphone in a demure plum blazer and skirt set. Blonde hair tamed into a neat braid, Felicia made an earnest plea for donations in a voice lacking its usual sultriness.
"Is that Felicia Fowler?" Glenn aligned vanilla ice cream, milk and chocolate syrup on the counter as he squinted at the television from the kitchen.
"Yeah, I've never seen her look so ... non-slutty," Cassidy said. "She actually sounds sincere."
"Maybe she believes in the charity."
"Either that, or she's getting paid big bucks. No, scratch the big bucks. Felicia isn't a good enough actress to be that convincing. I didn't think she cared about anyone but herself."
Glenn uncapped the blender. "There might be more to her than you thought. I'm making frappes. Whole milk. I don't have skim. Can you handle the fat content?"
"I’ll let it slide this once," Cassidy said, propping herself up on her elbow.
As Felicia introduced a couple with a sick child, Cassidy's head throbbed at the familiar grinding and scraping of the milkshake preparation. Glenn had developed a precise repetition of stir, blend and stop to gain the perfect consistency.
He carried over two frothy glasses with straws immersed in the cream, handed her one and plumped onto a recliner. "It's thick, the way you like it. You could almost use a spoon."
"Thanks." Cassidy switched off the television. She’d had enough of Felicia the do-gooder.
Sipping the frappe, Glenn riffled through the Garrett Daily News and halted at the sports section. "Zach took a nice shot of a summer league baseball game. He seems like a good guy. I think he's interested in you."
"You do?" Cassidy rubbed the cool glass, trying not to sound too smitten. If Zach liked her, he could be a temporary distraction from the stalker. That was all.
"I can tell by the way he looks at you. Are you interested in him?"
"He's easy on the eyes."
Glenn twirled a straw through his frappe, creating a milky path. "Don’t give up on this one so fast. Something meaningful could develop if you gave it a chance. I know it hurt you when your dad left, but most men aren’t like that."
Cassidy pressed her lips against the straw and let the chocolate ice cream drink slide down her throat. Was she really as gun-shy as Glenn believed? She’d stopped seeing her past boyfriends after a handful of dates, but knew the chemistry wasn’t right. It might have been different with Josh, but he was engaged. A startling realization fell over her. Perhaps that had been part of the attraction – that he was attached and no threat to her status quo.
Who could blame her for being cautious after observing her mother’s track record? Cassidy lowered her glass onto the coffee table and sat back. "I’m not ruling out a couple dates with Zach, but I'm too busy for a serious relationship. Anyway, how can you be so optimis
tic after what you went through with Mom? You put in fifteen years and it fell apart."
"There were good times, too. I got two great kids out of it."
"And a lot of heartache," Cassidy muttered.
The phone shrilled and she stiffened as her stepfather answered it. Glenn listened a moment, expression unreadable behind his beard. What now? She doubted it was Miles since he preferred skulking around, but he was permeating every other aspect of her life. Was she about to hear that he’d violated her in some other way?
Glenn cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. "It's Pat Jenkins."
Heart rhythm falling back into place, Cassidy took the call. Her neighbor probably wanted to check on her. She was one of the few people who knew Cassidy’s whereabouts. "Hey, Pat."
"Strange people have been hanging around the building," her neighbor began. "That cowboy was parked in front for a half hour this afternoon. Tonight, you had a surprise visitor camped out in the parking lot for three hours. I finally knocked on his window and confronted him."
It lightened Cassidy’s heart to know Zach was concerned about her, but she didn’t like the sound of the second guy. "Zach, the cowboy, was probably watching for anything suspicious. Who was the other person?"
"That young man from your show. The creepy one who was the first to walk the plank."
Cassidy dropped into a chair, shock rippling through her, yet everything made horrible sense. All the stares when he'd thought she wasn't looking. With his low point total, he had gone home way before the letters started. Reggie had tormented him. Now Reggie was dead.
Two seemingly unrelated events now shared one giant connection.
"I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier," Cassidy murmured. "Adam Horton."
Chapter Thirteen
The next afternoon, Cassidy crouched beside Mitch Searles. He lay flat on his soft stomach, chin pressed down into the mat. Mitch elevated one arm and the opposite leg, his movements slow and controlled as she had taught him. His crisp Red Sox tee-shirt hung over a pair of nylon shorts.
"Very good." She watched the front entrance, more aware of the parking lot than the number of Mitch's reps. Her firearms instructor had advised facing the door in public places.
What had Adam Horton been doing outside her building? He hadn't left a message on her answering machine, however when she checked it remotely, there were four hang-ups. Cassidy straightened and rested her back against the mirror. Goosebumps prickled her bare arms.
She'd researched Adam's background on the Internet with little success. He had inspired no fan web sites. According to the network biography, he lived in Oregon and worked as assistant manager in a grocery store. The article hadn't mentioned a girlfriend, siblings or parents. Could he really be Miles?
Cassidy rubbed her forehead, the drone of treadmills, bikes and stair machines buzzing in her ears. Mitch rolled on his side and sat up. He grinned, the cleft in his chin deepening. Sweat gleamed in the dark stubble of his five-o'clock shadow.
"It's tough to get old," he said.
She forced her gaze away from the door. Mitch had dropped a few pounds since his initial appointment. Her clients’ achievements used to gratify her, but today Cassidy could barely focus. "You're aging pretty well."
"Thanks. I enjoyed the article in the paper. My daughter thinks I’m a celebrity."
"I’m glad. Thanks for doing that."
"Sure, no problem."
Cassidy turned back to the entrance. Deanna Lowry waved as her father flashed his membership card to the receptionist. A flowered bathing suit topped her denim cutoffs, her braceless back freed for swimming laps. Cassidy had given her the promised water exercise lesson the other day and the girl was a genuine fish. Cassidy started to wave back, then her hand froze in midair.
Through the glass door, she spotted Adam Horton crossing the half-empty parking lot toward the building.
Her jaw clenched. Cassidy excused herself to Mitch and strode toward the front door. Adam stepped into the entranceway, breaking into that thin spooky smile. His clean soapy scent triggered ice cubes down her spine. Cassidy had often smelled him before she noticed him gawking. He looked like a military wannabe in his khaki ranger vest, olive drab shorts and combat boots.
"Hi, Cassidy," Adam said. "Surprise."
"What do you think you’re doing here?" she asked. "First you wait outside my building, now you show up where I work?"
A crimson flush slashed his cheeks. "I'm visiting my cousins in New Hampshire. I knew you lived in Massachusetts and I wanted to visit you, too."
Her gaze dropped to his zippered vest pockets, deep enough to conceal a weapon. Instinctively, Cassidy cupped the canister of pepper spray inside her shorts pocket. She stared at him hard, from his sharp nose and blond goatee to his pale skinny legs jammed into leather army boots.
"Don't you mean stalk me, Adam? Or should I say Miles?"
Adam shifted his weight and slanted an uneasy look at the observers in the background. Silence deadened around them.
The teenage receptionist leaned over the front desk, elbows digging into the counter. Deanna and her father Ned lingered on the stairs, feigning interest in a club newsletter pinned to the bulletin board.
"I don't understand," Adam said. "I thought you'd want to see me. We went through a unique experience together. We’re connected forever."
"If it’s just an innocent visit, what were you doing sitting in my parking lot?" Cassidy shot back.
"I wanted to surprise you."
"Give me your cousins’ address."
Emotions flitted across his angular face. Adam's crooked teeth gnashed into a snarl and his eyes snapped with feral brightness. "Why should I? Why are you treating me like this? What have I ever done to you?"
"You tell me."
Ned Lowry muscled between them and clamped a protective hand on Cassidy's shoulder. He nodded toward Adam. "This guy giving you a problem?"
"He was just about to leave," she said.
"You're the one with the problem. I thought you were different." Adam pivoted on his heel and steamrolled out the door.
Cassidy raced to the window, just in time to catch Adam kicking the front fender of a brown sedan. He climbed into it and gunned the engine. All the times he had tolerated Reggie's cruel remarks, he had masked a temper. Had Adam’s post-SOS goals been to murder his enemy and lure her into being his girlfriend? Were she and Reggie some kind of deranged consolation prize?
Ned straightened the knot of his silk tie. "Are you okay?"
Cassidy looked up into his friendly mustached face, forcing her mind off Adam and back onto her surroundings. "I'm fine. Thanks for your help."
Nibbling a fingernail, Deanna scooted over and squeezed her father's hand. Freckles sprinkled her milky complexion like nutmeg. "That was Adam Horton from SOS, wasn't it? He creeps me out."
"Don't worry," Cassidy said. "I can handle him."
"If there's anything I can do to help, please let me know," Ned said. "Do you have a boyfriend, someone to help you keep that guy away?"
"It’s okay, I've got the police on my side." Cassidy jotted the license number onto an aerobics schedule as Adam's sedan squealed out of the lot.
She was supposed to act polite if she met her stalker. So much for that idea. Now she may have provoked him. Maybe Adam did have cousins nearby and one had been the little girl on the ship. His family might not know how demented he was.
She'd ask Detective Pierce to track down Adam's employer, see if he had an alibi for Reggie's murder and determine whether he was working in Oregon the days her letters were postmarked from Anaheim.
Cassidy stumbled behind the counter and held her head in her sweaty hands. Building a case could take time. Meanwhile, Adam could storm into the club with a shotgun, endangering her as well as all the members. A stray bullet could strike an innocent bystander, like Deanna.
"Hey, Novak," Spike called, striding over. "What do you think you're doing, making a scene in my gym? Have
your disputes on your own time."
"Tell it to somebody who works for you." Cassidy’s voice sounded stripped of life even to her own ears.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I quit."
Spike squirmed. "Listen, we can work this out."
"You can send my last check here." She scrawled her mother's address on a corner of the aerobics schedule, ripped it off and pushed the paper under his nostrils.
"You can't do this to me. What'll I tell everyone?" Spike paced over to Jill the receptionist, who scurried to answer a phone that hadn't rung.
"That I have a lot on my plate right now. I’m sorry, Spike. I really am." Cassidy retrieved her purse from a cabinet and yanked her keys out of her pocket.
She flung one last glance around the gym. She knew everything from which machines squeaked, to the amount of chlorine needed in the whirlpool, to which members had shared romantic interludes.
But she had to quit. Cassidy needed time to do detective work. If Adam was Miles, then she had to compile evidence against him – and if he wasn’t her stalker, then she was back to square one. She had to find and stop Miles, if she ever wanted a normal life without fear.
Rhonda Sue skipped to the desk in a SOS tee-shirt and black leggings. "Cassidy, can you spot me on the bench press?" she chirped.
"I just quit."
"You must be joking. Tell me you're joking." Rhonda Sue's glasses skated down her nose. She eyeballed Cassidy, cheeks coloring the shade of her dyed cherry red hair.
"There are plenty of other trainers who can help you," Cassidy said with a shrug.
"Trainer? We’re friends! You can't leave me like this."
Cassidy maintained a cool tone despite her fluttering stomach. She'd known this girl was obsessive, but what a fruitcake. "Actually, I can. If you'll excuse me, I have to go."
Her lithe body coiled, Rhonda Sue spun around to Spike. "Stop her. Why do you think I joined this gym?"
"Come on, Cass, I'll give you another raise," Spike wheedled. "Let's talk."
"I’m sorry," she told him again.
