by Stuart Woods
But the basin of the Mississippi is the Body of the Nation. All the other parts are but members, important in themselves, yet more important in their relations to this. Exclusive of the Lake basin and of 300,000 square miles in Texas and New Mexico, which in many aspects form a part of it, this basin contains about 1,250,000 square miles.
What was this? A geography course? Never mind, listen.
In extent it is the second great valley of the world, being exceeded only by that of the Amazon. The valley of the frozen Obi approaches it in extent; that of the La Plata comes in next in space, and probably in habitable capacity, having about eight-ninths of its area; then comes that of the Yenisei, with about seven-ninths; the Lena, Amoor, Hang-ho, Yang-tse-kiang, and Nile, five-ninths; the Ganges, less than one-half; the Indus, less than one-third; the Euphrates, one-fifth; the Rhine, one-fifteenth. It exceeds in extent the whole of Europe, exclusive of Russia, Norway, and Sweden. It would contain Austria four times, Germany or Spain five times, France six times, the British Islands or Italy ten times.
Chris tried to imagine the Mississippi Valley set down in Europe; she sighed and began to relax a little.
Conceptions formed from the river-basins of Western Europe are rudely shocked when we consider the extent of the valley of the Mississippi; nor are those formed from the sterile basins of the great rivers of Siberia, the lofty plateaus of Central Asia, or the mighty sweep of the swampy Amazon more adequate. Latitude, elevation, and rainfall all combine to render every part of the Mississippi Valley capable of supporting a dense population. As a dwelling-place for civilized man it is by far the first upon our globe.
She had it now: Mark Twain—Life on the Mississippi. She dozed.
Larsen had stayed at the station house long enough to speak to the new watch, with the watch sergeant’s permission. He had fidgeted while the sergeant had read lists of stolen cars, given the descriptions of two muggers on Sunset, and had generally exhorted his watch to vigilance. Finally, the sergeant nodded to Larsen.
“I need your help on a stalker,” Larsen said to them. “The victim is up Stone Canyon, here…” he pointed to the place on the neighborhood map “…and we think he may come calling tonight. I don’t think he’ll come right up the street, so don’t make any special passes there. But stop and question any male on foot—don’t forget to get his ID—and any lone male apparently cruising the neighborhood in a car or even a bicycle. We don’t have a make on the guy, and we need one. Questions?”
“You have a profile on the guy?” a policewoman in the front row asked.
“Nothing. He could be anybody.”
She nodded, and there were no other questions.
Larsen hurried from the station and drove up Sunset to Stone Canyon. He parked his car in the parking lot of the Bel Air Hotel, crossed the street, and continued on foot. He couldn’t just drive up to Chris’s house, but he had found he could get there by way of an unused bridle path. He entered a wooded area, making his way slowly through the overgrowth, trying not to use his pocket flashlight.
The moment we were under way I began to prowl about the great steamer and fill myself with joy. She was as clean and as dainty as a drawing-room; when I looked down her long, gilded saloon it was like gazing through a splendid tunnel; she had an oil-picture, by some gifted sign-painter, on every stateroom door; she glittered with no end of prism-fringed chandeliers; the clerk’s office was elegant, the bar was marvelous, and the barkeeper had been barbered and upholstered at incredible cost.
Someone switched off the cassette player.
The going was easier for Larsen now. He turned down his handheld police radio, so that transmissions would not give away his presence, and walked faster. He was less than a hundred yards from the back garden of the house when, perhaps thirty yards ahead, a man came from out of the woods and onto the bridle path. Larsen began to run.
Chris didn’t move, didn’t let an eyelid flutter. Something had wakened her, not a noise, but a feeling. She sat upright in the wing chair, her head resting lightly against the tweed upholstery, and tried not to scream. After a moment’s silence, she heard someone sit down in the other wing chair, opposite her. She still did not move.
Larsen hit the astonished man low, the way he had not done since high-school football. Then they were on the ground and struggling. The man had recovered from his surprise now and was fighting for all he was worth. It was dark in the woods, but Larsen managed to get his left forearm across his opponent’s throat, and his gun into his right hand. He pressed it to the man’s temple.
“Freeze! Police!” Larsen shouted, and the man suddenly stopped struggling.
The whisper began, low and sibilant “Chrissychrissychrissychrissychrissy.” It grew louder, then stopped.
Chris raised her head and opened her eyes. “Who are you and what do you want?” was all she could think of to say.
“I want everyone to know you’re mine,” the voice whispered.
She started to rise, but she was pushed back into the chair by a heavy weight, and her left wrist was seized in an incredibly strong grip. He was sitting on her, pressing her back into the upholstery, and there was a buzzing noise in the room. Now there was a stinging sensation on the back of her left hand, which did not go away. Chris struggled to hit at him with her right hand, but she could move her arm very little because of the weight pinning her. She tried to scream, but his back was pushed into her face, and when she turned her head, the upholstery muffled the sound.
They were locked together for several minutes, it seemed to her; then, suddenly, she was released.
Larsen handcuffed the man, then dragged him to his feet and, holding on to the cuffs, marched him toward Chris’s house. With his free hand he found the little radio. “Officer needs assistance, suspect in custody. This is Larsen; I need a squad car at the Stone Canyon house.”
“Now you are mine, and everyone will know it,” the voice whispered. “Start getting rid of all these people in your life—the queer, the secretary, the cop. You won’t need them anymore.”
Chris bolted. Secure in her knowledge of her house, she sprang from the chair and sprinted toward the front door. She had it open and was down the steps and running down the long lawn to the road before she tripped and fell headlong down the hill.
Larsen shoved his suspect through the back door of the house and found the study. “Chris?” he called. Then he heard the siren as the squad car approached. “Come on, buddy,” he said, shoving the man before him toward the front door.
When they were on the front steps, he looked down the lawn and saw Chris, on her feet, swinging wildly at the cop and his woman partner, who were trying to calm her.
CHAPTER
14
“I want to know what this is about,” the man said angrily. He was sitting in one of the two wing chairs in Chris’s study, rubbing his wrists. It was the first time he had spoken.
Chris was sitting in the chair opposite; she recognized his voice. “Detective Larsen will explain everything,” she said shakily. “Jon, this is Warren Perle; he’s a neighbor of mine. I’m sure he has nothing to do with this.”
“Mr. Perle, I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Larsen said.
“Inconvenience!” the man sputtered. “You attacked me and handcuffed me like I was a criminal or something! You pointed a gun at me!”
“Can you tell me what you were doing on the old bridle path?” Larsen asked.
“I was taking a goddamned walk, that’s what I was doing! Is that against the goddamned law?”
“Mr. Perle, please let me explain. Miss Callaway has been the victim of a stalker, someone who has lavished unwanted attention on her. We expected someone to try and enter her house tonight, and I mistook you for that person.”
“Oh,” Perle said, a little deflated. “Chris, I’m awfully sorry you’re having this problem. Is there anything I can do?”
Chris tried to speak and failed. Her heart was still pounding, and her breathing was shallow
.
“You can let me know if you see anyone in the neighborhood who looks out of place,” Larsen said, handing Perle his card.
“Of course, I’ll be glad to,” Perle replied accepting the card.
“I’m very sorry for the case of mistaken identity this evening,” Larsen said. “I’ll have someone drive you home in a squad car.”
“Oh, Christ, no!” Perle said. “If the old lady across the street saw me getting out of a police car I’d never hear the end of it.”
“Would you please walk along the street, instead of the back way?” Larsen asked. “My people are still searching the woods.”
“Of course,” Perle said, rising.
“If anyone stops you just refer them to me,” Larsen said, offering the man his hand.
“Thank you,” Perle said. He shook Larsen’s hand, then left.
Larsen sat down across from Chris. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Chris took a deep breath. “I think so; but he sure scared the hell out of me.” She felt drained, listless; she hurt all over.
“I’m sorry. I was delayed in getting here, and then I ran into Warren Perle in the woods. Are you sure he could have nothing to do with this?”
“He has a production deal at Warner Brothers; he wouldn’t have the time or the inclination.”
“Tell me exactly what happened tonight,” Larsen said.
Calming herself, Chris related the events of a few minutes before.
“He sat on you?” Larsen asked.
“Yes. He seemed to want my left hand. It stung for a while; in fact, it still stings.” She felt Larsen take her hand.
He made a small noise of disgust.
“What’s the matter?” Chris asked, alarmed. “What did he do to my hand?”
Larsen sighed. “He…” He rubbed the back of her hand. “It looks as though he made a sort of crude tattoo on it.”
Chris snatched back her hand and held it to her breast. “What? What kind of a tattoo?”
“It’s a little crude, but it appears to be a rose.”
“He’s tattooed a rose on my hand? Will it come off?”
“Tell me, did you hear anything while he was doing this?”
“Yes, there was a kind of buzzing noise.”
“I think you’ll probably have to see a dermatologist to have it removed,” Larsen said. “Admirer apparently used an electric tattoo needle.”
Chris began to cry, moved by anger and shame. Branded, she had been branded by this bastard, as if she were an animal.
“Please don’t,” Larsen said, putting his hand on hers. “You’re not hurt, and the tattoo will come off. I’ll find somebody to do it for you, if you like.”
“I’m just so…mad!” she said. “Why is he doing this to me? Have I done something to deserve this?”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Larsen said. “It’s not your fault; it’s nothing to do with you, really; it’s his obsession, not yours. You were just unlucky enough to come to his attention at the wrong moment, and he’s latched on to you.”
“Well, I want him to unlatch. I don’t think I can take any more of this.”
“I want you to know I’ll do everything I can to stop him.”
“Well, that’s not a hell of a lot, is it?” she said bitterly.
“I’m sorry about tonight.”
“I’m sorry, too; I know it’s not your fault.”
“Chris, I have to ask you something.”
“Okay, ask.”
“Do you own a gun?”
“No, I don’t.
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Because it’s a dangerous thing to have around; you’d be as likely to hurt yourself as someone else.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“It has nothing to do with a lack of confidence in you, believe me.”
Danny burst into the room “Are you all right? What happened?”
Larsen patiently took him through the events of the evening, then took his leave. “I don’t think you’ll have any more problems tonight, now that Danny’s here,” he said, “and I’ve removed the telephone taps.”
“Thank you, Jon,” Chris replied. “I appreciate everything you did tonight, and I’m sure I’ll be all right now.”
When the police had cleared out, Danny made them a cup of tea, and they sat in the study together.
Suddenly, Chris began to cry. She wept as she had not done since she was a child, and she couldn’t seem to stop.
Danny took her in his arms and stroked her hair. “You go right ahead, baby,” he said. “Get it all out.”
Finally, when she was able to get control of herself, she looked up at her friend. “Danny,” she said, “I want you to do something for me.”
“Sure, Sweets, anything,” Danny said.
“I want you to buy me a gun.”
CHAPTER
15
Larsen found the note on his desk when he arrived for work. “See me.” It was signed in the familiar scrawl of Bob Herrera, Chief of Detectives. Larsen didn’t like seeing Herrera, and he didn’t hurry to respond to the note. The two men had been rookie detectives together, and they had once served on a homicide task force together. Larsen had made the bust—a famous one—and Herrera had never forgiven him for it. But Herrera was the better politician and had climbed the department ladder faster.
He checked through his messages to make sure there was nothing from Chris Callaway, then he trudged down the hall to the corner office. Herrera was reading something; he motioned Larsen to a chair and took his time finishing. Finally, he looked up.
“Tell me about this brouhaha on Stone Canyon yesterday.”
“One of my stalker cases,” Larsen answered. It wasn’t good enough.
“Go on,” Herrera said irritably.
“I had a chance for a setup on the guy; he got there before I was ready.”
“And you tackled some citizen in the process?”
Larsen reddened. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I extended my apologies, and he seemed to understand.”
“This is an active case?” Herrera asked.
Herrera had imposed strict terms on what could and could not be on the active list. Larsen was well aware that his chief thought of stalker cases as nothing but a nuisance—that the only reason he was assigned to the task was just in case one resulted in a murder; then the chief’s ass would be covered. “I put it on the active list yesterday,” Larsen said.
“If it’s so important, why the delay?”
“I’ve been waiting for a criminal act, as you’ve specified.”
“And what act has this stalker committed?”
“Illegal wiretap, for a start.” Larsen told him about the bugs in the Callaway house.
“Sounds like the tabloids to me. Can you connect the taps to the stalker with something material?”
“He knew the unlisted number of a new line I had installed within hours.”
“Come on, Larsen, hundreds of people in this town can get hold of an unlisted number. Hell, there are services selling that information. What else have you got on the guy?”
“Aggravated battery.”
“Has he harmed her?”
“Not exactly.”
“Now what the fuck does that mean?”
Larsen told him about the tattoo.
Herrera convulsed with laughter.
Larsen tried not to sound angry. “He sat on her, held her down, and tattooed the back of her hand with an electric needle.”
“Aggravated battery with a tattoo needle,” Herrera chuckled. “It’s original, I’ll give you that. Can she identify him?”
“She’s…Her vision is impaired.”
“How impaired?”
“Better than ninety percent,” Larsen admitted.
“Any other way to identify him? Prints on the scene?”
“Nothing; he’s slick.”
“What about the computer profile on sta
lkers?”
“We have no information for the profile; there are twenty-four questions on the list, and we can’t answer a single one.”
“That’s just terrific, Larsen. How much time have you spent on this one?”
“A few hours.”
“How many hours?”
“Twelve, fifteen.”
“Are you sure he exists?”
“What?”
“Maybe he’s a figment of Ms. Callaway’s imagination.”
“She’s blind and hardly capable of rigging all this.”
“Cute?”
“She’s a well-known actress.” That should help; Herrera was a sucker for movie stars.
“A star?”
“Not quite; she’s getting there.”
“What does that mean?”
“She’s had a number of featured roles and gotten good reviews. She was supposed to star with Jason Quinn in a big one at Centurion, but she lost her sight in a fall. She wants to keep her blindness quiet.”
“You think she’s in any danger?”
Larsen hesitated. “This guy worries me.”
Now it was Herrera’s turn to hesitate. Larsen knew he was weighing the embarrassment of the girl getting hurt against the pleasure of yanking him off the assignment.
“Give it a few days,” Herrera said finally. “Then, unless you can demonstrate a clear and present danger, she goes back on the inactive list.”
Larsen rose without speaking.
“Do you read me, Larsen?”
“Yes, chief.” He hated knuckling under to the man.
“Good. Now get out of here.”
Larsen trudged back to his desk, his ears burning, like a schoolboy scolded by his principal. He sank into his chair and reviewed his position. It was not good. So far, Admirer was ahead of him all the way. Larsen didn’t like playing catch-up.
CHAPTER
16
When the phone rang Chris forced herself to answer it. Admirer had been calling daily and she was sick of him, but she wouldn’t hide from him. It was Sunday.