The Follower

by Jason Starr

  He had seen before how easily love could turn to hate. It had happened with his mother. One day, she was the greatest woman in the world; the next he couldn’t stand the sight of her and knew he couldn’t be happy until she was dead. He hadn’t expected such a dramatic turn to happen with Katie, but he couldn’t deny it, either.

  Then Peter sprang into action. Katie’s leaving New York altered the situation, but it didn’t change it permanently. Or at least it didn’t have to.

  Peter searched the Web on his cell phone for a rental car place. He found the closest one, a Budget on First Avenue and Ninety-fifth Street. He rented a Ford Taurus and in twenty minutes he was heading through the Park on Ninety-sixth Street toward the West Side.

  He had a great plan, but in order for the plan to work, he had to beat the Porters to their house in Massachusetts; he had to be waiting there for them when they arrived. He knew the fastest route was to take the Taconic Expressway. He had no way of knowing if the Porters would take the Taconic or not, but he figured if they did, they’d probably stop someplace to eat and use the bathroom. There was also a chance they would take a different, slower route. Route 22 to Route 7 was technically more direct, but the roads wound through small New York and Connecticut towns. If they went that way, Peter would beat them easily.

  Peter was convinced that, one way or another, he would get to the house before they did. He was careful, though, to avoid getting pulled over for speeding. As badly as he wanted to floor it, he drove at the speed limit. He kept a lookout for the Porters, in case he passed them, but he didn’t see them. This worried him a little. He hoped it meant that he had simply missed them on the road, or that they’d taken a different route, not that they were traveling faster than he was.

  His tension remained high until he arrived in Lenox and approached the Porters’ two-story Colonial house on East Street and didn’t see their car parked in front. He drove up the road a bit, past the house, and parked the car in the lot at the middle school. The school didn’t exactly bring back fond memories. He had been tormented as a teenager; those assholes had made his life hell. But there was no use thinking about the past, letting that negativity seep in. He reminded himself of an article he’d read somewhere about how the body’s cells changed every seven years. That meant that the unhappy teenager in his memories wasn’t even him.

  He walked back to the Porters’ house. Okay, now it was a matter of finding a way inside. It was dark out, nearly pitch-black. The cool, crisp mountain air reminded him of how much he missed the country. Maybe he could convince Katie to leave the city, move upstate. Maybe she was getting tired of the whole city thing; maybe she wanted to return to her roots. He could see it clearly—he and Katie hiking in the woods, getting into bike riding and winter sports.

  As he approached along the driveway, he hesitated, remembering that the Porters used to have a German shepherd. Peter wasn’t good with dogs; he sucked with them, actually. When he was a kid, he was chased by a big black dog on the way home from school one day, and it seemed like dogs had hated him ever since. Trying to make as little noise as possible, he went alongside the house, toward the backyard. He figured they didn’t have a dog anymore—maybe the mutt had died—or it would’ve been making a racket.

  He looked around, trying to find a way in. It wasn’t difficult. In Lenox a lot of people still left their doors unlocked, and the only people who had alarm systems were “summer people” who were fearful of break-ins when they closed up their houses for the winter. Toward the back of the house, Peter found a window that was partway open. He opened it all the way, pushed up the screen and voilà; he lifted himself up and over, and he was inside.

  But, a moment later, he heard the clatter of clawed feet approaching on the hardwood floor. He panicked, was about to scream. Then his whole body relaxed when a fluffy tabby entered the room and came over and sniffed him a few times and started rubbing its head against his pants leg. He and cats had always gotten along beautifully. He bent down, petted the cat, and said, “Thatta, girl, thatta, girl,” and the Tabby started purring, snuggling up against him.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Riding in the backseat of her parents’ car, Katie was finally able to get hold of herself. Calling her mom and dad and leaving New York had definitely been the right move. If she had had to stay in the city any longer, she would’ve lost her mind.

  In the car, she told her parents, in general, what had been going on with Peter since Andy had been killed. But still not wanting to get them all freaked out, she downplayed most of it, saying things like “he kept buying me stuff” and “he got kind of clingy,” instead of telling them the truth, that he had been stalking her and harassing her, and had bought her an apartment and a ring, and, oh yeah, might have even murdered a couple of her friends. She also didn’t tell them anything about the connections she’d made between Peter and Heather’s suicide, knowing that would be way too much for them to handle.

  Her mother, of course, couldn’t restrain herself from getting jabs in, like “I told you to stay away from Peter Wells,” and “Next time maybe you’ll listen to your mother.” Katie didn’t want to get into it and gave in, saying, “I know, you were obviously right, Mom.”

  At a Burger King in Pawling, they stopped for some dinner to take away and to use the bathroom. Katie couldn’t help feeling like a kid, in the backseat of her parents’ car, eating a Whopper with cheese and sipping a chocolate milkshake. But the childlike thing was comforting; it was starting to grow on her. The familiarity of her parents’ bickering and the staticky radio—her dad refused to go twenty-first century and subscribe to satellite—brought her back to a time in her life when everything was simple, when she didn’t have serious worries about anything. For short periods, she even managed to forget all about Peter and what had happened to Andy and Will.

  When they crossed the Massachusetts border, it was around seven o’clock, past sunset. After a deer darted across the road about twenty yards in front of them, her mother insisted that her father drive slower the rest of the way, and they did, going about thirty miles per hour until they reached the less windy Route 7.

  They arrived at the house in Lenox at a little before eight o’clock. They parked in the driveway and then Katie got out of the car first and walked to the backyard, away from the porch light. Then, in pitch-darkness, she tilted her head back and looked up at the sky. She’d missed seeing so many stars. In Manhattan, on a clear night, you could see about three or four of the brightest stars, and that was it. If she ever moved back to the country, she promised herself that she’d look at the stars every night, not take little things like that for granted.

  Her parents had gone into the house. Katie remained in the backyard for a while longer, enjoying the aloneness, then she strolled back to the front of the house, kicking up gravel in the driveway like a kid.

  In the house, her mom, in the kitchen, unloading the dishwasher, said, “There’s leftover salad and chicken from last night.”

  “That’s okay, Ma. The Burger King filled me up.”

  “How about some ice cream or cookies?”

  Katie thought about the weight she’d put on lately—three pounds, according to the last time she’d weighed herself—and she felt like she’d put on more since then. But the idea of sitting in front of the TV at her parents’ house, stuffing her face, appealed to her in a cozy way, and after everything she’d been through lately, she deserved to treat herself. Besides, she wasn’t dating anyone and didn’t plan to for a long time, so what difference did it make if she gained a little more weight?

  “Okay, I’ll have a couple of cookies, but just a couple.”

  A half hour later, she was sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching some dumb movie on Lifetime, the bag of Double Stuf Oreos about one-third eaten. Sitting on the chair next to her, her mom was eating Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia straight from the container. Her dad stayed up for a while, reading on the screened-in porch, but at around ten o’clock, he went ups
tairs. When the Lifetime movie ended, her mom said good night, first telling her how great it was to have her home and kissing her two times on the top of her head.

  Katie remained in the living room, watching TV and eating Oreos. She finally hit her nausea threshold as the calorie guilt set in. She’d have to go bike riding tomorrow to make up for it.

  At around eleven, she crashed from the sugar high and was suddenly exhausted. She shut off all the lights downstairs and went upstairs to her bedroom.

  John Himoto was calling Katie’s home number, still getting no answer. Her voice mail was picking up right away on her cell so she’d probably turned it off. Finally he decided to stop fucking around and got in his car and went to her apartment.

  She wasn’t home—or she wasn’t answering the buzzer. He didn’t like this at all. Barasco had spoken to her around noon and she hadn’t mentioned anything to him about going to her parents’ in Massachusetts or anywhere else. John waited, hoping she was just out shopping or something.

  A half hour, then forty-five minutes went by. John called Barasco again, couldn’t reach him, but got through to his partner, Martinelli.

  “Any word on Peter Wells?”

  “Nada,” Martinelli said.

  “Shit,” John said. “What about Katie Porter?”

  “The girl? What about her?”

  “Where the hell is she?”

  “Home, I guess,” Martinelli said.

  “Yeah, well, I’n at her home and she’s not here, so guess again.”

  “Look,” Martinelli said, “I’n real busy right now and—”

  “Listen to me,” John said. “I have reason to believe that Katie Porter is in serious danger, and we have to do everything we can to make sure that Peter Wells doesn’t come into contact with her.”

  “We’re doing everything we can.”

  “Yeah, everything except finding him.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” Martinelli said.

  “Did Katie tell you anything about leaving town?”

  “Nick told her to stay in the city and she said she would. Look, I gotta go. If Nick even knew I was talking to you, he’d be pissed off as all hell.”

  “Yeah, like I give a shit,” John said and clicked off.

  He tried Katie’s numbers again and still couldn’t get through. Okay, he had to think, put himself in her place. She was scared so she might have panicked—maybe she didn’t leave town, but she could’ve gone to stay with a friend. Taking a shot, John called Katie’s friend Amanda, the girl he’d met with the other day. Unfortunately Amanda claimed she had no idea where Katie was, and John believed her.

  He decided there was nothing he could do now except stick around and wait. She could have gone to a movie or out to dinner. He had to hope anyway.

  He sat on the stoop, waiting for her to come home, occasionally calling her numbers and not getting through. It was frustrating, but he didn’t know what else to do. He kept thinking about what he’d told Katie when he’d seen her last—I promise you, everything’s going to be okay. If something happened to her, he knew those words would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  At ten o’clock, there was still no sign of her. He called Barasco again—the fuck wouldn’t pick up—and he couldn’t get through to Martinelli, either. At eleven thirty, John was still sitting on the stoop when Katie’s roommate and a guy, probably her boyfriend, arrived.

  John stood right away and said, “Excuse me, you live with Katie Porter, right? Your name’s Sharon, right?”

  “Susan. What happened? What’s wrong?”

  “Is Katie okay?” the guy asked.

  “I don’t know,” John said.

  “What do you mean?” Susan said. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know, and it’s extremely important that I find her right away. Did she tell you she was going anywhere?”

  “No, but why is—”

  “I don’t have time to explain. Can we go upstairs? Maybe she left a note or something.”

  John went up with them to the apartment. Sure enough, there was a note on the dining table.

  Hey, my parents picked me up and I’n going home. I’ll call you, Katie.

  “Goddammit,” John said, feeling like he’d wasted the past three hours. Hoping it wasn’t too late, he said to Susan, “Where do her parents live?”

  “Katie’s parents?” Susan asked.

  “Yes.” John wanted to grab her, shake the words out of her.

  “They live in, urn, Massachusetts.”

  “I know that. But where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think.”

  “I am thinking. I don’t know. She never told me.”

  “Does she have an address book?”

  “I’n not sure.”

  John went into Katie’s room, started looking around, checking drawers, but couldn’t find an address book. Maybe she had the address or phone number on her computer somewhere, or maybe he could find the info online, or by contacting her work or college, but that could take hours and he didn’t have hours. Hell, he might not even have minutes.

  Then he had an idea.

  He went out to the living room and said to Susan, “Does your phone have a log?”

  “A what?”

  “Does it log calls? Does it keep a list of last calls, calls made…”

  “Oh, yeah, of course.”

  “Check it right now.”

  Susan checked the incoming numbers and saw there was a recent call from a 413 area code. John dialed the number. It rang four times, then a woman answered.

  “Mrs. Porter?”

  “Yes?” She sounded suspicious.

  “Himoto, NYPD. Is your daughter Katie with you?”

  “Yes, she’s here.”

  “Thank God,” John said.

  “What’s this about? What’s going on?”

  “Just listen to me,” John said. “Call the police right now, dial nine-one-one. Tell them that you think someone’s breaking into your house.”

  “But no one’s breaking in.”

  “Doesn’t matter—that’ll get ’em over there immediately. Then have them stay with you until you hear from me. Or, even better, have them call me, or you call me as soon as they arrive. I’ll give you my number, okay?”

  “It’s the police,” Mrs. Porter said to someone.

  Then John heard a man’s muffled voice, probably Katie’s father’s, but he couldn’t make out what the guy was saying.

  “The New York police,” Mrs. Porter said to the guy. “He won’t say.”

  “Mrs. Porter, are you there?” John said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Don’t waste any more time. Call nine-one-one immediately, okay? Or have your husband call from another line.”

  “Oh, okay,” she said, sounding frazzled. “But maybe I should wake Katie up and tell her.”

  “I thought Katie was with you,” John said.

  “She’s with us in the house, but she’s sleeping,” Mrs. Porter said. “We were sleeping, too, till you called.”

  “Go wake her up right now,” John said. “Then all of you stay together until the police get there and make sure the doors are locked.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Just go,” John said, nearly screaming.

  It got quiet on the line for ten, twenty seconds, maybe longer. Then he heard Mrs. Porter calling, “Katie?…Katie?” Then louder, “Katie?…Katie?!”

  A few seconds later she got back on and said, “She’s not here!”

  “Are you sure?” John said. “Did you—”

  “She’s not in her room, she’s not anywhere. Oh my God, she’s gone!”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Katie washed up, then went into her bedroom, closed the door, and put on her comfy PJs. Her room was still decorated the way it had been in high school, with the same pink girly furniture and, of course, a big Backstreet Boys poster above her bed.

  In a suddenly nost
algic mood, she started searching the CD rack for her Backstreet’s Back CD. She stopped searching when she thought she heard something behind her, in the closet. She stared at the closet door, then half smiled, remembering the times she and Heather would be home alone and scare the crap out of each other with ghost stories. Knowing the noise she’d heard was either the house settling or something shifting by itself, she resumed searching for the CD. Finally she found it—it had been misplaced in a Creed CD case—and put it in the stereo.

  As the Backstreet Boys started crooning, she was instantly transported back to ninth grade, when she was convinced that she was going to marry Nick Carter someday and have his babies. She wanted to crank the song, but didn’t want to wake her parents, so she put on a headset and then upped the volume. She lay in bed with her eyes closed, singing along, but not too loud.

  When the song ended, she lowered the volume and dimmed the light.

  The next time she opened her eyes, Peter Wells was looking down at her. Before she could process what was happening, his hand came down over her face and he said something. She couldn’t hear what he’d said with the music going. Then she saw that in his other hand he was holding a large knife.

  She tried to scream, but he was pressing his hand down over her mouth so hard it hurt. Then, with the hand holding the knife, he managed to lift the headset off her ears and he whispered, “I won’t hurt you. I swear to God, I won’t hurt you.”

  She was trembling, thinking, This can’t possibly be happening. This has to be a fucking nightmare.

  “Just relax,” he said. “Calm down. It’ll be okay, I promise. I didn’t want to do it this way, I really didn’t. But what choice did I have? You wouldn’t take my calls, you wouldn’t answer the door, and then you ran away up here. This isn’t the way it was supposed to happen. You were supposed to stay in New York and fall in love with me there. But you know what? I’n not angry at you.”