No Hope for Gomez! (10 page)

23.

Blog entry: Shows how much I know. I stood up and yelled, “Hey, man! I can see you over there!”

For some reason I’d gotten it into my head that this would startle the stalker, make him turn and bow his head in shame. He’d say something like, “Oh man, you got me!” And that would be it.

I have no idea why I thought this. We weren’t playing hide and seek here. I hadn’t outwitted the guy. There wasn’t going to be a mad dash for the finish line at which point he’d concede his loss and leave it at that.

This was the real world, the realm of grownups. The land of violence. The dark shape did turn, but in a slow and menacing manner. And no part of it bowed in shame. Still not clearly visible, an outline of an arm detached itself and moved to take something from a pocket. An angry spark flared up from an object that moved toward the figure’s face. As the light intensified, I made out some features. They were strangely mangled.

I suddenly realized the mistake I’d made. I had no idea what kind of subculture I was meddling with. Now I was caught up in the middle of a potentially dangerous situation.

The spark lit a cigarette and the stalker took a long, deliberating drag. Then he started toward me.

“Better get out of here,” I heard myself say. It was an unexpected sound, as if part of me hadn’t been notified I was actually getting ready to run away. It said the words out loud but couldn’t get the conviction-muscles of my larynx to back it up. The warning ended up sounding like a question.

The stalker, meanwhile, stepped into the road. Didn’t even check for traffic. There wasn’t any, but something told me this was lucky for traffic rather than the stalker. A distant streetlight caught his face for a second and I could see his gaze locking onto me with fierce intensity.

He reached the curb.

“Better not come any closer,” I warned. “You don’t want to mess with me, man. You really don’t…”

I must’ve been getting nervous. I must’ve been trying to bluff my way out. Shock and fearful curiosity, however, kept me transfixed. The paralyzing emotions intensified at the sight of the stalker stepping right into the giant rosebushes that separated us.

I could hear his jacket rip, his jeans getting shredded. I could see needle sharp thorns slice deep, red lines across his face.

He didn’t even flinch.

Blog entry: At about a thumbnail’s distance from my face, he stopped. I could now easily make out what was wrong with his features; his nose was too long and was slightly bent, his eyebrows were dyed different colors, and a ragged old scar ran down his temple. Separately, these features would make anybody worthy of pity. Together, they created an oddly fearsome appearance. And combined with a menacingly cold stare and a single thorn still piercing his skin just below his eye, it completely justified my discomfort.

“So you’re the guy…” he said. “You’re the rat bastard who’s been stalking my girl!”

His voice was cold. The kind of cold you’d associate with the ability to rip people apart with bare hands, just to have something to do.

“At least
I
had her permission,” I said, fighting to keep my voice level.

His expression grew colder.

“I wasn’t actually stalking
any
girl,” I continued, wanting to keep the misguided notion that Dr. Hargrove was in any way related to the concept of ‘his girl’, out of the discussion. “I was stalking
you
. I’m Dr. Hargrove’s stalker-stalker. I have her permission to stalk her stalker!”

I decided it was time to stop talking. The more I said, the more the stalker seemed to make up his mind to hurt me now rather than later.

“You don’t know her,” he growled. “You have no idea what she’s capable of, what kind of research she’s involved in.”

“I do, as a matter of fact.” I tried to look smug, pressing my shoulders back, lifting my head. “I know all about that. I’m part of the trial, as it happens.”

The stalker inched up an eyebrow. “Really…” he said. “And do you also know she’s already killed one of her test subjects?” He gazed back at the house, took another slow drag of his cigarette. “I’m not
stalking
her,” he said, “I’m gathering evidence. She’ll keep on killing until she gets the results she needs for that big company of hers. She’ll make it all look like harmless little accidents. Every last one of you if needed.” He shook his head, dropped his cigarette and stomped it out. “That woman’s got to be stopped,” he said. He turned his gaze back on me. “And I’m gonna be the one to stop her.”

Blog entry: He was feeding me a story of course. He had to be, he was the bad guy after all. You didn’t expect the bad guy to just come clean and tell you what he was up to. That’d make no sense. So I paid no attention to his words, even though they sounded convincing, played to my worst fears, and explained away many of my questions about the trial.

I told him, “You’d better get out of here!” Then, when he failed to move, I added, “I called the police just before you came over. They should be here any minute.” I held up my cell as proof of the call I’d been too naïve to make. “Go! Before they throw you in jail!”

Those were the perfect words. Exactly what’d scare him away. It was just the delivery (and
only
the delivery) that made me sound like a twelve-year-old girl with pee running down her leg.

I felt dirty and stupid.

The stalker shrugged. He stomped on his cigarette some more, turned, and walked away.

I tried not to hear the hand-sized thorns scraping over his jacket, his boots, the serrated skin of his face. Without turning, he said, “This isn’t over.” An ominous silence hung in the air for a second, then he added, “But you interfere with my investigation again, and
you
will be!”

Not a single part of my brain contemplated pointing out the mixed metaphor.

24.

Blog entry: Long day at the store. Hicks called in sick so I was alone with my thoughts throughout. This was bad, as I kept going over the events of the previous night. The stalker’s words haunted me, even though I’d tried to block them out.

Dr. Hargrove wasn’t a killer, of course, and my life wasn’t in danger.

I told myself this over and over.

I was pretty sure I could believe this, it was just a matter of dedication.

Hicks couldn’t have chosen a worse day to give in to his neuroses.

Blog entry: 11 a.m., closed up and went home. There was nothing to do in my apartment so I started cleaning. Used a cloth and hot water, no chemicals. After doing the windows and the kitchen cabinets, I moved on to the bathroom, which was in dire need of attention. When it was finally done, I did some dusting and hovering.

None of it helped me to stop thinking about the stalker.

Blog entry: 5:30 pm, made my way to the clinic and I sat in the waiting room. I’d forgotten to bring my laptop but I had no time to worry about that. I still had to come up with a way to break the news to Dr. Hargrove. How did I tell her that her stalker was the worst person imaginable? A person so hard and fearless, he didn’t even notice a giant thorn sticking into his face? A person with a scar so deep it almost showed bone? On top of that, I’d have to explain why I didn’t know the first thing about him. Who he was, where he lived, what he wanted. I’d been too shocked to follow him home, had completely neglected to stalk-stalk him. All I could share with Dr. Hargrove was a vague and worrying description.

I had no idea how to put all that into words, and was fairly sure no words existed to put them in that would have her thanking me profusely and generously.

My plan had failed. Completely and utterly.

No Hope for Gomez!

Blog entry: Sat and waited and thought. Took out my cell to call Detective Moran. Decided I could do with some information that’d clear Dr. Hargrove once and for all. It’d take a huge weight off my mind and that would help me think clearly. I scanned the call history for his number but then put my cell away. I shouldn’t allow myself to doubt Dr. Hargrove. I loved her. I didn’t need any external confirmation of her virtue.

Stared at the wall and willed my leg to stop jittering.

Realized I would probably need to call Detective Moran later, on an unrelated matter.

Blog entry: Greeted my predecessor as he emerged from Dr. Hargrove’s office. He looked well. He smiled and appeared relaxed, had even lost that wild, hunted look. He sat down to re-tie his shoe and I asked him how he was doing. He answered cordially. I inquired whether he hadn’t meant to say ‘over my dead body’ instead of ‘over my fat body,’ one of the previous times we met.

(See earlier blog)

A short but pleasant conversation followed. Dr. Hargrove popped her head out of her office and called me in.

Blog entry: “How are you today, Gomez?” She smiled warmly. “Everything going well?”

I shrugged noncommittally.

Dr. Hargrove studied my face. “Something wrong? You usually seem happier.”

I toyed with the idea of making up a story. When I looked into her eyes, though, I realized I couldn’t lie. I told her, “It’s the stalker. I think I’ve found him.”

Dr. Hargrove’s smile broadened. “That’s great news, Gomez! Well done! So there actually
was
a stalker!”

“There was, yes.”

“I’m so happy.” She put a hand to her chest. “For a while there I thought I was starting to see things.” She shook her head. “I can’t tell you what a relief this is. So tell me, what does he want, why is he stalking me?”

I decided to ignore her questions and start with what little I did know. “He’s about our age,” I said. “My height, likes to wear leather jackets, takes care of his hair, especially his eyebrows, has a somewhat crooked nose, and, well, he has a bit of a blemish on the right side of his face.”

“A blemish?”

“His skin was damaged at some point, I believe.”

Dr. Hargrove frowned. “Are you telling me he has a scar?”

“A little one, yes.” I thought of adding that he might’ve acquired it rescuing baby seals from forest cutters, but decided not to push my luck. “It probably looks worse than it is,” I said. “Many people have scars. Some for very innocent reasons.”

Dr. Hargrove waved it away. “Does it run down his right temple?”

“It does, yes.”

“Great!” She took out her cell and browsed for a number. It took her a while to find it, when she did, she gave me a conspiratorial wink while dialing. The call was picked up almost immediately. “It’s me,” she said. She listened for a moment, then said, “What do you mean, ‘you didn’t think you’d hear from me again’?” She rolled her eyes at something and said, “I have it on good authority that you’ve been stalking me.” She gave me a thumbs up. “Never mind that,” she said. “It was one little date. One cup of tea. Get a grip. No, as a matter of fact, I
don’t
think we’d be perfect for each other. That’s what it means when a girl doesn’t return your calls; she doesn’t want to see you again. No, I don’t think I’d like you if I got to know you better. Why? You’re asking me why? Well for one thing, you’ve been stalking me! Never mind that. Never mind that, either. No, it has nothing to do with him. He was just doing me a favor. What does it matter whether he’s Swedish or not? Well, if you hadn’t been stalking me, I wouldn’t need that favor, would I?” She listened for a bit, then cut the stalker off. “Listen,” she said, “you’re not stalking me anymore. Do you hear me? Not ever! I so much as see you in the distance and I’m coming to your apartment to shave off your eyebrows while you sleep!”

With that she hung up.

I took a moment to replay Dr. Hargrove’s side of the conversation in my mind. When I had a clear picture of what was going on, I said, “So, you know the guy?”

“That was Harry,” she said, putting her cell away. “He’s harmless. Bit of a bore, really. We went on one little date but he did something weird. Don’t worry, though,” she said, “he won’t be bothering me again.”

Curiosity got the better of me. “That’s good news, but, if you don’t mind me asking, what did he do?”

“I didn’t like the way he stirred his tea.”

“What?”

“He made circles to the left instead of to the right.” She cringed. “Who does that?”

“Not me.”

“Nobody does that. No sane person, anyway.” She shook her head. “Well,” she said, “turned out my intuition was right, the guy’s not to be trusted.”

Blog entry: We did the questionnaire, then Dr. Hargrove gave me my pills. Throughout the remainder of our visit she was in high spirits, but not once did she thank me either profusely or generously. It seemed she’d settled the matter and so it was forgotten.

Blog entry: Late that evening Hicks called to let me know he was still feeling a bit under the weather. He probably wouldn’t be in the next day.

Got Angry. Hung up. Put Hicks up for auction on eBay.