Outsiders

by Lynn Ames

I pretend to be looking through some papers in case anybody notices that my car is unfamiliar, though I’d be surprised if that happened. Because of the comings and goings I mentioned earlier, the turnover in places like this is pretty high, and many people aren’t around long enough to recognize those living in the same building. I watch peripherally as Rebecca slides her key into her mailbox and retrieves the contents. She must be feeling secure since she’s getting mail here at her apartment complex, rather than at the PO box Hayley mentioned. As I subtly keep watch, Rebecca’s pale brows knit together as she studies one piece, then slices the plain white envelope open with a finger. Her face drains of color before my eyes, and her head snaps up, her gaze darting around, landing on me for an extra second, then scanning the rest of the vicinity. She crumples the paper and throws it angrily into the garbage can that’s tucked into the corner of the little pavilion. With quick, staccato steps—her head up and continuing to scan—she heads back toward her apartment as fast as she can go without actually running.

  I watch in my mirrors until she turns the corner, and I notice nobody following her. When she’s completely out of my sight, I exit my car and pull the crumpled paper from the garbage. It’s simple, plain white notebook paper, and the message is written in letters cut out of newspapers or magazines, so cliché that I roll my eyes. The message itself, though, sends a chill up my spine:

  See you soon.

  No wonder she freaked. Like any stalker worth his salt, Todd Bennett probably lets Rebecca settle into her new place. He probably leaves her alone for a certain length of time, allows her to drop her guard and maybe even start to feel safe. And once she does…once she starts to think, “Hey, you know, I may finally be okay now,” that is when he strikes, effectively tearing down any progress she feels she’s made in her life, taking away any confidence in her own safety, making it clear to her that she can never, ever get away from him. It’s brutal and it’s cruel and it does the job.

  Have I mentioned how much I hate stalker cases?

  I pull out and drive back around to where Rebecca’s front door is, passing just in time to see her enter. The parking lot is lined with units on both sides, cars parked facing the doors, and I decide that it’s too open for me to park and sit here. Somebody could notice. All it takes is one neighborhood busybody to find my car suspicious, and I could waste precious time talking my way out of a police inquiry. No, the office lot overlooking the back is going to be a much better place for my stakeout, and I’ve worked enough of these cases to understand that Todd Bennett will probably feel the same way.

  I noticed during my first drive-through of the office parking area that there are two CPA firms in the building, and I thank my lucky stars. That means, of course, that there will be people working late, which means cars will remain in the lot after hours, which means I won’t look so conspicuous sitting there all alone. It’s a hard decision, but I finally find a spot two rows back from where I’d park if I wanted to look directly onto the back of Rebecca’s unit. I do this because I have the sneaking suspicion that Todd Bennett will show up tonight, and this is the most likely place for him to park his stalker ass. Just the idea of the way he’ll watch her, spy on her, record her every movement, makes my skin crawl, and I have to take a deep breath and force myself to remain calm, to do things in an orderly fashion, to not let myself get too emotional about it. Hayley’s boyfriend stalked her in a way. Yes, they were a couple, but he still kept tabs on her, monitored her every move, approved of or disapproved of any shopping trips she took or time she tried to spend with friends—some of the same things a stalker does—only she’d let him into her life willingly which made it worse for her.

  I shift my focus and concentrate on getting a pineapple Life Saver out of the packaging and into my mouth, consciously unclenching my jaw. I tend to tighten it, grind my molars together, whenever I get to thinking about how badly Brant Collier mistreated Hayley. Visions of strangling somebody with your bare hands will do that to you.

  Dusk will settle within the next half hour or so, and I hunker down in my seat, feeling less obvious as the light fades and the sky goes from bright blue to soft indigo to near black. I plug in my earpiece and give Hayley a call.

  “Are you slouched in your seat in a dark parking lot?” she asks as a greeting.

  “Your psychic abilities never cease to amaze me.”

  “I was just going to call you, babe. How’s it going?”

  I fill her in on the note and the set-up of the complex.

  “Wow,” she says when I finish. “Some pretty amazing timing on her name showing up, huh?”

  “I’ll say. I wish the Fates or the Universe or whatever wouldn’t cut it so close.” It’s happened before, the name showing up on my nightstand within a day or two of when the person is in desperate need of help. I haven’t always been on time.

  “Todd Bennett drives a navy blue Ford Ranger pickup.”

  “Dark, nondescript, perfect for going unnoticed.”

  “Exactly. Megan says the only record of employment she can find is a part-time job with Time Warner. He barely makes enough money to cover his rent.”

  “Ugh. That doesn’t bode well.” I’ve learned from experience that when a stalker begins to pare down things that need his attention, like work and home, it most likely means he’s focusing all that attention on his victim. Not good news for Rebecca Cassidy.

  “I thought the same thing.” The tone of Hayley’s voice has changed, and I can picture the little divot that appears between her eyebrows when she’s concerned about something. “Norah, please be careful. I’ve got a bad feeling about this guy.”

  “I will, sweetie, I promise.” I don’t tell her I have the same bad feeling.

  After a little flirting and a tongue-in-cheek offer of phone sex to keep me awake, we say our I-love-yous and hang up. I hunker down in my seat once again and wait, my mind drifting to my past cases.

  In the years I’ve been doing…what I do, I’ve had three other stalker cases, not including Hayley’s. I only count one of them a success, the one in which I was able to reason with the stalker and get him to back off with the promise that if he ever harassed his victim again, I’d be back and it would be very, very unpleasant. Luckily, he was a bit of a Poindexter, not at all a tough-ass like most of them. I do keep tabs on him, and he’s currently living four states away from his victim and, from what I can tell, he doesn’t have a new one. So, he’s my Stalker Success Story.

  The other two, I don’t like to think about, but at times like this, my mind doesn’t listen. Kara Bonavilla from Wichita stabbed her stalker to death with a letter opener as he tried to rape her. Thank God she wasn’t charged, and it was ruled self-defense, but killing somebody will scar you for life, and I wish I could have spared her that. I could have if I’d shown up three minutes sooner than I did.

  Jennifer Meyers was raped and murdered by her stalker twenty-four hours after her name showed up on my nightstand. I took the first flight the next morning, got lost in downtown Houston, and by the time I arrived at her apartment, the police were already there, wheeling her out in a body bag. I threw up in the bushes when I realized I’d failed. I was inconsolable. It was my first mark in the loss column since Janine Barber, and I did not handle it well; it still makes me nauseous to think about it. The only upside to the whole thing was that her stalker was caught and is sitting in jail with a life sentence. After that case, I started booking the very next available flight to wherever the note sends me. So far, so good.

  Of course, not every one of my cases is life or death, and thank God for that or I’d have gone insane long, long ago. Some of them have had very happy endings, and some have actually been almost fun. There was Pam Easton in Allentown, Pennsylvania. She was a high school senior who needed to be in the top ten of her graduating class in order to get a scholarship, which was the only way she could afford to go to college. She was number eleven when her name appeared on my nightstand. It didn’t take long for Megan to he
lp me figure out that the number six guy was hacking the school’s computer system and fixing his own grades. Pam ended up number ten of ten and should graduate from college magna cum laude next year. Then there was Carla Cavanaugh in Bangor, Maine, single mother of two who’d been laid off. She looked for work for six months and was in danger of being evicted from her apartment with her kids and nothing else. She was well qualified for the jobs for which she’d applied, but her timing was lousy, and she always seemed to be “a day late and a dollar short,” as my Uncle Skip used to say. A quick after-hours trip to a particular office that was looking for a receptionist was all it took to move Carla’s application and resume to the top of the pile. She was hired three days after my visit and two days before her time ran out on her living arrangements. Melanie Taylor in Atlanta worked in a law firm and was being sexually harassed by one of the lawyers. When she spoke up about it, she was summarily fired, and honestly, had a good case for a lawsuit. Of course, who has the balls, or the money, to sue a lawyer, let alone a firm of them? So Melanie left it alone and went looking for other work, but continued to receive harassing e-mail and phone calls from the lawyer, so much so that she began to worry about her career and whether she’d be able to find another job in the field, never mind find relief from the constant pestering. That’s when I received her name. A well-placed phone call to a friend of my father’s at the Georgia State Bar, along with copies of the threatening e-mails the lawyer had been stupid enough to send, was all it took to put an end to that. Last time I checked, the lawyer was under investigation and in danger of being disbarred, and Melanie happily had a lucrative new job with a much bigger, much more successful firm.

  So, see? It’s not all bad. It’s not all life or death, and there are bright spots amid the darker times. Like I said, not every case is a stalker case.

  I pop another Life Saver into my mouth and notice Rebecca’s second floor light come on; it’s the only window I can see from my vantage point. A glance at my BlackBerry tells me it’s nearing nine o’clock. I know Todd will be showing up soon; I can feel it in my gut. That’s the thing about stalkers—I’ve learned this from experience—they think they’re in the right. They think what they’re doing is perfectly okay, and that it’s ridiculous for somebody to call them a stalker. They’re insulted by that term. The constant e-mails, nonstop phone calls, demands of time and acknowledgment, picture-taking that isn’t consented to, following on foot or by car, they think all that is perfectly acceptable, and they don’t understand why they creep people out. They don’t get that what they’re doing is wrong on so many levels. They can’t wrap their brains around the fact that the object of their desire has no interest in them, and that they need to just back the hell off.

  Sorry. I tend to get a little emotional about this subject. After all I’ve seen, I don’t care if it’s some kind of sickness that needs to be treated; I don’t care if therapy could possibly help. I see these men—and they are, overwhelmingly, men—as pimples on the face of society. They need to be squeezed out and gotten rid of. I know, I know. There are laws in place for this sort of thing, and you think maybe I’m being a bit harsh. But you know what I’ve found doing what I do? That a stalker doesn’t give a shit about laws. He doesn’t care that he’s breaking them, that he’s got no right to each and every minute detail of his victim’s life. He does not care. His focus is on one thing and one thing only: her. And he will stop at nothing until he possesses her, or kills her so nobody else can.

  I sigh, irritated at my train of thought. Just as I’m trying to come up with something else to occupy my brain, a dark pickup pulls quietly and slowly into a parking spot exactly where I predicted, two rows up, right where he can watch the back of Rebecca’s townhouse. Point for me.

  I’m slouched down enough where I’m pretty sure he won’t see me. Not that he’s interested in his surroundings. He’s all about Rebecca. By looking at him through my binoculars, I can see that he’s looking through his, focused on the bedroom window. I smile when the mini blinds flip closed. Because my spot is a bit raised, I’m looking slightly down on him and I can see that he’s jotting notes. I don’t like that at all—notes usually signify plans—but there’s not a lot I can do right now other than watch him and make sure he doesn’t make any moves beyond spying.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  Chapter Five

  Turns out Todd Bennett isn’t nearly as adept at stakeouts as I am because by four-thirty in the morning, he’s sound asleep in his truck. I can tell by the angle of his head, which is tipped backwards against the seat’s headrest, as well as by the fact that, using my binoculars, I can see his wide-open mouth in the truck’s side mirror. I give a little fist pump of thanks for the golden opportunity. I suspect Rebecca will be getting up for work before long, and I don’t know what kind of time Todd normally spends ogling, but I assume he’d want to bail before the day’s employees begin populating this parking lot. But I’ve got to get to his place and see what I’m dealing with in order to plot a course of action. I need to know where his mind’s at, where he is on the danger scale.

  I reach into my knapsack where I’ve stashed the supplies I purchased earlier, and I pull out the brand new hunting knife, still in its leather sheath. The polished pear-wood handle is cool and smooth, and my fingers slip into the grooves as if the damn thing was made for my hand. The four-inch, stainless-steel blade gleams in the dim light of the parking lot, and for a moment, I’m mesmerized by it.

  No, I’m not going to kill him. What kind of person do you think I am?

  I slip out of my car as quietly as I can, not closing the door all the way to avoid any noise, and I slither along the asphalt like a reptile, staying low and out of sight. My gaze is riveted to the back window of the truck, looking for any sign of movement, but there is none. Todd Bennett is out like a light.

  He’ll be in for a treat when he does wake up. The blade of my knife pushes through the sidewall of Todd’s rear tire like a shark fin through water, silently and effectively. I give the other rear tire the same treatment, as I want to keep him here longer than a quick change, and I’m betting he doesn’t have twospare tires.

  Back in my rented Toyota, I leave the headlights off, start up, and pull out. Seeing no movement, I assume Todd Bennett is a heavy sleeper. I grab my notebook, look up his address, and head that way.

  Todd’s complex is owned by the same management company as Rebecca’s, and they look weirdly similar. The difference looks to be that Todd’s is mostly apartments rather than townhomes, so the buildings are three story and have small balconies with white railings. The lot is quiet, but well lit, which makes me a little nervous. I find his unit, then cruise back out and park my car down the street, returning on foot with a small pack over my shoulder.

  The Universe is smiling on me for a change—it often doesn’t when I’m on a case. Todd’s apartment is on the ground floor, and his lock is a cheap piece of crap that I pick open in about fifteen seconds. I scoot inside, unsurprised to find no dog and no alarm system. Stalkers are kind of stupid that way. Their focus is so intent on their victim that they fail to think about protecting themselves. I guess that’s a good thing.

  As I stand still and allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness, the first thought to hit me is that it smells like a single man lives here. Sweat and pizza and unwashed socks are the main players in the aroma, reminding me of what Porter’s room smelled like when we were teenagers. I think about how women smell so much better, and my sense memory reminds me of the peaches-and-cream scent of Hayley’s hair. With a quiet sigh, I extract a small Maglite from my pack, click it on, and wave it discreetly around the tiny apartment.

  My blood runs cold.

  There’s very little furniture; an old, beat-up recliner in front of a modest television set sits in the middle of the living room. Next to it is a cheap, pressboard TV tray with a dirty paper plate and three empty beer bottles. The white wall the chair faces is papered—literally papered—wit
h pictures of Rebecca Cassidy. None of them show her posing or smiling at the camera, so it’s glaringly obvious to me that they were taken without her knowledge. Many of them are grainy, telling me they were shot with a telephoto lens of some kind. The beam from the flashlight confirms my suspicions as it illuminates the rickety table standing below the pictures. Various lenses and camera equipment litter the surface. My stomach rolls sourly as I scan the photos again, notice the variety of locations, of activities. Walking, riding her bike, in her car, at a restaurant, in the grocery store, on a beach, everywhere. I notice the changes in her hair style and the maturing of her face and comprehend with a sick, sinking feeling that he’s been following her, photographing her, for years. Years.It was probably years before she even realized it, before she got scared and called the cops and filed the restraining orders. I wonder how long he followed her before he actually made contact, because it’s the contact that brought in the police; I have no doubt about that. I wonder if he’s kicking himself now, if he’s angry for not being able to resist.

  I make my way through the rest of the apartment, and my question is answered when I get to the bedroom.

  The room resembles the Spartan style of the living room, with only a double mattress on the floor, draped with rumpled, probably unwashed, sheets. A trail of wrinkled clothes leads, like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs, to an overflowing laundry basket in the corner.

  The walls are bare; I scan each of them with my flashlight and notice the closet door is ajar. When I open it, I’m stunned.

  Inside is covered with images of Rebecca—side walls, rear wall, back of the door—but these are different. This is where the anger lives, hidden away in the closet where only Todd Bennett can access it.

  There is red everywhere. Across her face in many of the photos, livid red slashes slicing her image. Her eyes are gouged out of several, literally gouged, as if he used his fingernails to do it. A handful of them are torn, ripped or lacerated, and I have a sudden vision of him standing here with a knife, hacking at them, hacking at her, his anger and emotions completely out of his control.