
The Stalker
Al Blanchard
Al Blanchard's short fiction has appeared in Murderous
Intent Mystery Magazine, Pirate Writings, The Edge,
Futures and numerous other magazines. Salvo
Press published his first novel "Murder At Walden
Pond" last year. Koenisha Publications will publish
his second novel "The Iscariot Conspiracy" in
November. Besides writing, Al is a noted squirrel
mimic and the inventor of non-stick glue. He enjoys
going for long rides and can be reached at
www.alblanchard.com
©Copyright 2001
Al Blanchard
Dusk settled over Boston's skyline giving the scudding clouds a pinkish tinge. It was a sour-smelling, balmy, summer evening. Night was a scant few minutes away. Darkness was when William Macklin did his best work.
The red mustang coupe was double-parked in front of the 7-Eleven. The woman was thirtiesh with black hair cut in a no nonsense wedge. William had watched her enter the store and as she emerged gripping a pack of cigarettes her muscular calves visible beneath her knee length dark skirt excited him. She was perfect.
She glanced at his BMW 540, a slow longing look he'd seen in so many of their eyes. He knew she couldn't see him behind the tinted glass and had no idea she'd been selected.
The Mustang's engine roared to life and it pulled out into the traffic. William waited a beat, then pulled in a few car lengths behind. Tailing had become his specialty. His sweaty fingers gripped the wheel. The pursuit always excited him, the chance he might be spotted or worse. But, so what? He hadn't done anything wrong.
Yet. As president of his own computer firm he was connected. Cops wouldn't dare mess with him.
Trees whizzed by as the Mustang entered the Southeast Expressway. The car sprung into the passing lane pushing seventy.
William pumped his accelerator. He liked her already. She'd be a wild one.
He punched on the CD player. Chopin drifted through the seven speakers. He hummed along.
He stayed a few car lengths back, settled into his leather seat and thought about the randomness of life. He'd met his ex-wife, Becky, at the Museum of Fine Arts. It had been pure chance. Their ten-year marriage had been strained, but when she left him nine months ago, taking their eight-year-old son, Shaun, it shocked him. She claimed he spent too much time at work, ignored his family and was acting strange. Shaun needed a real father, she had said, and a parent will do anything to help their child. She'd see at the custody trial what a father would do to regain control of his boy.
He kept his eyes locked on the Mustang. Was it Becky that brought him to this? Was he trying to pay her back for deserting him?
The first time he targeted a woman was right after she left. He was bored, troubled and felt adrift without his family. Work had become a dull routine and didn't challenge him anymore. He'd picked a woman at random and followed her just to have something to do. It surprised him how exhilarating the chase was.
As weeks went by his tracking increased. His pursuits developed a pattern. The same pick-up spot, always flashy cars and attractive women. The quest gave him an incredible buzz and added new meaning to his life. He was in control. He had the power.
Now he couldn't stop.
When he got custody of Shaun, his life would have a new purpose, but until then he needed this diversion.
He was several car lengths behind, on Route Three, when the Mustang's directional flickered and the car exited into Marshfield.
He followed creating a life for the Mustang woman like he'd done for all the others. Her hair and tailored clothes labeled her as a businesswoman, maybe an accountant. Yes, that was it. He pictured her squinting at her computer making sure the figures balanced. A boring life and she had no idea he'd selected her out of all the women in Boston this night. She was special.
The tricky part of the chase was about to begin. The streets became less traveled and soon they'd enter her neighborhood. He prided himself on not being spotted. He was like a chameleon, always blending in.
The Mustang slowed and turned onto a tree-lined street. A new development of big houses, large yards and lavish lawns and shrubs. A half mile up she turned into the driveway of an enormous colonial with lights blazing in every window.
He idled the BMW and watched as she got out and headed toward the front door. She never glanced his way.
The let down set in, the point when the real fun ended. He'd never approach his target. The exhilaration of the chase and his fantasies were enough. Becky would have called it testosteroneladen watchfulness. In a few minutes he'd drive home to his empty apartment and think about the Mustang woman. Maybe some night he'd come back to her house to see how she was doing.
The front door opened as she reached the top step and a heavyset man with dark close-cropped hair was visible in the outside light. He jabbed a finger at her and spoke loudly. Then he slapped her hard. Once, twice, a full handed slap. The woman's head snapped back. He grabbed her hair and pulled her into the house slamming the door.
William opened his window a crack. Three beats of silence, then a loud scream.
He stared at the house. It was none of his business. Go back home and forget it. Then he thought of the randomness that led him to this place. Maybe life wasn't so arbitrary. Maybe God had brought him here to save this woman.
Instinct forced him out of the car. His arms pumped as he ran up the driveway. Bushes blocked the front windows so he circled to the back.
Another scream, then silence.
He crouched and scanned the back of the house. Through a rear window he had a clear view into the living room. What he saw cut through him like lightning. His head buzzed and throbbed.
The woman was stretched out on the rug. Her legs splayed at odd angles, her skirt bunched to her waist. Blood oozed from a wound on her forehead. William couldn't tell if she was breathing.
Where was the heavyset man? Then he saw him walking into the room and dragging a sheet across the floor. He draped it over the woman and bent, tucking the folds completely around her body. A death shroud. The man straightened and stood frozen as if sensing he was being watched.
William's gut screamed for him to break in the door and avenge the woman, but his brain told him to get help. He couldn't let this man get away with murder. Without thinking he raced back to his car and punched nine-one-one into his cell phone.
"Help is on the way," the dispatcher said.
William eyed the house and thought about leaving. How could he explain his presence to the cops? He leaned against his car fender.
Sweat dripped down his chest and moistened his shirt. He'd been the only witness to the murder and needed to be sure the man didn't get away. He'd stay and take his chances. He'd always been able to talk his way out of tight situations.
Minutes later three police cruisers, lights flashing sped up the street screeching to a halt in front of the house.
"In there. Hurry." William said as the cops exited. Two went to the rear, while two others approached the front door. A tall officer walked toward him.
"He hit her," William said. "Blood was coming out of her forehead. He wrapped her in a sheet."
The cop glanced at the house. The front door opened and the heavyset man talked to the police. Then they went inside.
William sighed deeply. He'd done the right thing.
The cop refocused on him. "You saw all of that from here?"
"No. No. He hit her on the front steps, but I saw him wrap her in a sheet through the back window."
"Back window? Maybe you better start from the beginning, buddy."
"I was driving by, saw what happened and wanted to help."
"A good citizen, huh? You live in the neighborhood?"
"No." William hesitated. He knew it would come out anyway.
"I'm from Boston."
The cop's eyebrows shot up a notch. "A little far from home, aren't you? What brought you to this neighborhood?"
"I was just driving. Sometimes I like to take a ride. It relaxes me."
The cop stared at him for an instant. "Wait right here." He headed toward the house.
The front door opened and the heavy set man followed the cops out into the yard. William searched for handcuffs, but didn't see any. Then he looked in the doorway and his mind tumbled. The dark haired woman, the one he'd seen dead moments before, was talking to a cop. Then she pointed at William.
William scanned her face for signs of blood. From the distance he couldn't make out any, but he knew what he had seen.
The cops huddled for a few minutes. Then the tall one quick stepped toward him. "Don't know what kind of game you're trying to pull. There's no body, no head wound, no bloody sheet.
According to Mrs. Eaton." The cop hitched his thumb toward the woman on the porch. "You followed her from Boston. Then you sat out here and watched the house. She was about to call us when we showed up. She wants to press charges against you for stalking.
We're taking you down to the station. You've got a lot of explaining to do."
Two weeks later at the child custody hearing William listened to Becky's lawyer's rant. William was a stalker who tailed women in his car, he said. He's delusional and sees things that never happened. He's not a fit father. By the time the lawyer was through William questioned his own sanity and knew he didn't have any chance of getting custody of Shaun.
He left the courthouse and watched Becky standing on the sidewalk talking. She slipped an envelope out of her purse and handed it to a lady. William's eyes widened as the Mustang woman took the envelope, slipped it into her jacket and walked away.
Becky glanced up and gave him a knowing smile. Everything clicked into place at once. Becky had set him up. She'd hired someone to follow him. The stalker had been stalked and outsmarted. Thing was, he'd never be able to prove it. Becky's words echoed in his brain, "A parent will do anything to help their child."

